Merciless Number Ninety - ResurrectionistPerfectionist (2024)

Chapter 1: In Which Grillby Has To Save The Day

Chapter Text

Papyrus hates Grillby’s. Grillby doesn’t take offense to it, as Papyrus has explained his aversion to the greasy smell many times over. It just affects him differently and makes him ill instead of hungry. Grillby’s never asked how Papyrus tolerates the smell of Sans, around whom the greasy smell hangs like an aura. He just assumes that it’s a sibling thing, something you get used to over time.

Despite his proclaimed aversion to the restaurant, Papyrus comes to Grillby’s when he can’t find Sans. It’s a reflex now. If Sans can’t be found at his post, then he’s sitting at the bar, either drinking ketchup straight from the bottle or chatting up the bartender, completely at home in the dim restaurant. He teases the patrons, fixes the jukebox for short periods of time, and always laughs the loudest, up until the moment where he passes out just about anywhere and Grillby has to find the phone.

The patrons have bets on how long it’ll take Papyrus to come in and retrieve his wayward brother. Some, like the Dogi, can smell him coming from a mile away and so have amassed small fortunes from the practice. No matter what, whether it be on his own or summoned by Grillby, Papyrus always enters with an air of long-suffering affection. Some days, Sans would be asleep on his stool, head pillowed on his arms and covered with a blanket Grillby keeps on hand for this purpose. Other days, he’d be just awake enough to call a sleepy farewell to the bartender as his brother herded him out.

It’s not exasperation that brings Papyrus to Grillby’s today. Nor is it a call from the bartender.

This time, when the rangy skeleton slams open the front door, the bar is closed and silent. The bartender sits in one of the booths by the windows, watching a powerful snowstorm whirl about outside. Such storms are often made from an excess of magic in the air and are rare in sleepy little Snowdin. When Papyrus announces his presence, Grillby reluctantly looks away from the swirling frost patterns etched on his windows, reaching for the spectacles in his robe’s pocket. His every moment is calm and measured and oblivious to the horrors that the coming night will bring.

Papyrus is painfully aware of what is coming and so does not wait for Grillby to put on his spectacles. Instead he comes sliding in, covered in snow and ice, scrabbling for any handhold he can find. Grillby mourns the loss of his clean floor only a moment. He’s had worse than ice tracked in here anyway. No; it’s Papyrus that holds his attention now, his intense heat dying down to a curious sizzle as he waits for the skeleton to speak.

“S-SANS,” the boy stammers, hanging onto the corner of a booth as if it is a lifeline and he a drowning man.

At the word, spoken so desperately, Grillby stands.

It’s dangerous for a fire elemental to be out in a storm of this magnitude. He doesn’t care. He rams his spectacles onto his face with such force that one of the lenses cracks. Then he’s striding out the door, still wearing his favorite robe and his worn slippers.

His slippers begin to slide as soon as they step off the welcome mat outside. He kicks them off, trusting in the fact that his whole body has bristled against the cold, turning him into an inferno of white and gold and orange. Wherever he steps, the snow evaporates. Papyrus walks by his side, skipping a little in his haste, but Grillby does not run. Everything in him screams for him to do so, for him to run like his own life is in peril. He has to remind himself that he is of no use to Sans if he expends all his energy on the way there. Instead, he twists his fear into himself, then pushes it out before him. A sheet of flame plows through the snow leading to the skeletons’ home, where it joins its brothers and sisters.

The brothers’ house is enveloped in fire and he just has to see the color of it to understand. Hot enough to melt bone. Magic is streaming off the construct, like rats fleeing a sinking ship, and the storm whirls ever tighter around it, seeking sustenance. A crowd of locals stand at the storm’s edges, siphoning off the blistering winds and casting them to the farthest corners of the town.

Misha, one of the town’s two bear residents, tears a sizable chunk of storm off the whole and consumes it as if it is nothing but spun sugar, hissing the weakened energy out through his teeth. “Come here, son!” he calls when he sees Papyrus. And then, when he sees Grillby, “Help me make way for the fire elemental!” is roared over the howl of the wind.

Papyrus is at his side in a heartbeat and Grillby catches the scent of bubblegum full in the face as the skeleton rips a Grillby-shaped hole from the storm and crushes it between his gloves. “GO!” he commands and he does so, ducking into the eye of the storm.

All he can hear is fire now, licking the house and eating sheets of it in a feeding frenzy. The house’s brick frame is mostly unharmed, however, so Grillby rolls up the sleeves of his robe and walks under the blazing doorframe.

The house is a mess. Everything and anything the brothers took pride in must be a smoking mess by now, if not completely liquefied. He steps around the remains of the living room table, now ashes scattered in a haphazard pattern across the discolored brick. The awful striped carpet is long gone, but he has no time to rejoice in its demise. He rescues Sans’s pet rock from the ground, juggling it from hand to hand to cool it before slipping it into his pocket.

“Sans,” he calls, navigating the melting furniture with feet now blazing blue-white. His voice is soft from disuse and he has to try again in order to be heard over the fire. “Sans, what’s eating you?” The old-fashioned language slips in, a remnant of a childhood long gone. When they were young, Sans used to mimic Grillby’s strange slang, squawking ‘Oh my stars!’ whenever something startling happened and receiving an elbow to the ribcage for it.

There’s no response and he continues. “Sans, it’s me.” The words are unnecessary, as most words are. Sans knows who it is. Sans always knows.

“You’re frightening Papyrus. You’re frightening the whole town.” Stepping over what might have once been a book, Grillby ascends the carcass of the staircase, hand grazing the wall. Heat radiates from it, fire hiding in the walls. The reminder that the house could fall at any moment makes him jump the last few steps onto the landing. The floor looks to be absolutely coated in soot, just like the rest of the house, and he grimaces at the sight. “I’m adding this to your tab!” he declares. He cleans out his fireplaces for this exact reason, so he doesn’t get soot on his floors.

He raises his hand to tap at Papyrus’s door. Every single one of Papyrus’s signs has gone up in smoke and he can still see a ghost of blue magic over the door. It’s not enough to even sting now, so he knocks. At the touch of his hand, the door itself poofs into dust. The black soot clings to his bathrobe like snow, despite his gentle attempts to dislodge it. “Added: one burning house. And the cleaning costs of my best robe.” He doesn’t even try to make his voice sound jovial.

Papyrus’s room is untouched by heat. His collection of action figures stands guard on his bedside table, his skeleton banner hangs proudly on the wall. Grillby puts a few figures in his robe’s other pocket, to give to Papyrus if the house doesn’t make it. Papyrus has been collecting these since he was six and it would be a shame for him to have to start such a fine collection completely from scratch.

The bed is too low to the ground to conceal Sans underneath it, so Grillby opens the closet. Nothing in there but Papyrus’s clothes, all neatly hung up. When he turns to survey the room again, it clicks in his mind why it was warded. The bed has been stripped of its sheets and the pillow thrown to the floor. The corner of the carpet nearest the window is rumpled, the computer and desk facedown on the floor as far from the window as Papyrus could drag them. The window is open and, when Grillby looks out it, he can see the remains of a makeshift rope being steadily consumed by fire. It does not take a genius to understand what had happened.

There is only one other place in the house where Sans could be. As he walks along the upstairs hallway, Grillby looks over the shambles of the house. Sighing at the loss, he taps the bottom of Sans’s door with his toes. When it does not immediately crumble away like everything else, his temper, usually as placid as a child’s, flares. With a violent twist of his body, he slams his knee into the center of the door, creating twin holes in both the polished wood and the knee of his pants. He hits the door again, this time with a fist, and it gives, turning to dust on impact.

“Sans, I hate to do this,” he announces to the silent room. His statement reveals his deceit. Had he been apologetic, he would have said nothing at all. Without making a sound, Grillby moves to the center of the room, stepping over the silent treadmill and the remains of what was most likely Sans’s trash tornado, now still and scattered across the floor. He assesses the room, then drops to his knees, snakes an arm around the bureau, and catches a fibula. He yanks Sans out, intending to give him the worst of his angry stares. Instead, he is very nearly slammed into the corner of the bureau as Sans lunges back into the shadows. Despite being short, Sans is powerful and it is only Grillby’s reflexes that prevent him from breaking his face on the sturdy chest of drawers.

Realizing that perhaps force wasn’t the best way to go about this, Grillby inches around to the back of the bureau and squeezes himself into the space Sans has made behind it, ignoring the way that Papyrus’s action figures seem intent on puncturing his thigh. The skeleton himself is pressed into the corner of the wall, knees tucked up under his chin. Looking at him, Grillby thinks that he understands the meaning of the term ‘larger than life.’ When he’s talking, Sans can make anyone think that he’s big and tough and confident, but when his voice is slow in coming, when he’s curled up in the corner with his blue eye bubbling like tears, he’s so very small.

“Sans? What are you doing?” In his question is every question he has. Why are you doing this? What did you do to Papyrus? Are you trying to set the whole town on fire? and most importantly, the question he can’t ask: Are you okay? Because Sans is not okay. Sans has not been okay for a very long time and Grillby, like everyone else, is only realizing the extent of it now.

“eighty-nine,” the skeleton tells him in a dead voice, the black of his empty eye as dark as the pits of Hell. Every syllable of the number is charged with hate, hate that he’s only heard late at night when the skeleton has had too many bottles of ketchup and the excess magic is tipping him over an edge that no one can see.

“You’re not letting it become ninety,” Grillby says, hoping he’s saying the right thing when Sans is being so cryptic.

“damn right i’m not,” he snarls back, fingers digging at the edges of his eye sockets.

They sit there, almost nose to nose in Sans’s little pocket of safety. Sans is mostly unresponsive, his eye remaining hollow as the other runs over with blue. His magic is colder than it’s ever been and Grillby can only faintly smell the lavender of it, the Sans part of it. He doesn’t remember this Sans from when they were children. He remembers a loud and lovably excitable friend, almost as loud and lovable as Papyrus, not a hollow-voiced stranger who spouted numbers without context and magic without life.

“You’re frightening Papyr-“

“they killed him eighty-nine times,” Sans says quietly. “i’m not doing it again. i’m not letting him die.”

“He’s safe. He’s with Misha right now.” Grillby runs over the possible context for Sans’s statement. Papyrus dead is not an easy thought. The young skeleton is so exuberant, so full of life that it seems impossible to picture him as a heap of soft grey dust. But Sans is so disturbed that he seems insane with it. Grillby moves closer to him, hooking his fingers around his wrist and prizing it away from his eye socket. “He’s safe, Sans.”

Sans blinks at him and Grillby feels him shudder even as he hears the bones click against each other. The blue eye flickers, a candle almost guttered out. He releases his friend’s wrist and brings his palms together in a silent clap. “Now chill.”

He didn’t think it would work, but slowly the corners of Sans’s eyes narrow. Grillby smiles now, his whole body burning back to a deep orange out of relief. When the skeleton’s face is a shade of its smiley self, Grillby pats him on the shoulder and squeezes himself out from behind the bureau.

“You need a minute? You look a little burnt out.” These puns are terrible. Grillby isn’t the comedian in the friendship. But Sans is laughing, little wheezes of mirth that sound horribly painful and look even worse. After a while, these die out, leaving only the sound of Grillby’s flame and the roar of the ones outside the room.

He glances towards the doorframe, wondering how much time they have before the fire decides to invite itself in. When he looks back, he’s greeted by his friend’s grey-white eye lights, closer now. “grillbz, you need to turn up the heat on those puns. they’re pretty raw-ful. leave the burns to the master.”

Grillby holds out a hand and Sans, after a moment, takes it. Grillby feels the house cooling in the way that some can feel the change in air pressure. He would complain of a headache, but he’s too busy laughing in relief. He sounds like a woodstove and Sans sounds like smoke, faint and ready to disappear.

It’s almost funny how little the skeleton weighs. If Grillby had been the comedian, he would have made a joke, something about skin and bones. But he isn’t, so he just gets to his feet, drawing Sans up with him. “Keep your hood up,” he warns. Skeletons might not have lungs, but smoke inhalation is always a danger to souls. When Sans does as he’s told, Grillby leads him out of the room and into the ruined house.

They exit the wreck just as the storm dies down. Papyrus is there, scooping his brother up in a bone-crushing hug. Grillby acknowledges praise from onlookers before he too is added to the brothers’ embrace. He stands within it for a few moments, then feels uneasy and intrusive enough to duck back out of the ring of Papyrus’s arms.

The house is burnt nearly to a crisp, smoke rolling in waves off the remains of the roof. Grillby looks at the wreck with almost grief. That house had felt like a third parent to him, as odd as it sounds. He’d spent much of his childhood running through it, playing hide-and-go-seek with the two skeleton brothers, a game that turned into Monsters and Humans as Papyrus got older and recognized his dream of being a Royal Guard. Some days, they’d played in the kitchen, Grillby learning new recipes from…someone. Maybe a book. He doesn’t quite recall now, but he can remember asking if he could come back every day.

And now, now the old house is a shadow of itself, with the three people who loved it most standing outside in the snow instead of under its roof. As he watches, the upstairs collapses in on itself, the Snowdin Canine Unit throwing up a reflexive protection shield around the onlookers in order to divert possible shrapnel. When none is forthcoming, the shiny white wall dissipates, leaving only the pungent smell of wet dog and the slightly nutty scent of fresh-baked biscuits.

He turns from the house to the skeletons, who have been draped in blankets by Dogaressa and Dogamy. The rest of the dogs, loyal to a fault, come in for hugs and pets, even twitchy old Doggo. Their ancestors used to work with children before the need for a Guard came about and it’s nice to see that those instincts haven’t quite died out. Papyrus has his face buried in Greater Dog, who has wriggled out of his armor in search of affection, and Lesser Dog is patting Sans’s head in an interesting reversal of roles.

Doggo, never one to make too big a fuss, has dug up an umbrella, which he is holding over Grillby’s head. He can always see the bartender because fire never quite stops moving. Grillby gives the dog a thankful nod and takes the umbrella from him, resting it against his shoulder. His face stings now that he focuses on it and he realizes that the snowflakes have probably peppered him with the fire elemental equivalent of burns. It’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a swig of something flammable.

“Grillby? (Grillby?)” the canine couple says, wandering up to him with their tails wagging at half-mast. “We were wondering (not to impose upon you) but perhaps (we should all go back to the bar)?” Their method of speaking is disorienting, but their concern is impossible to mistake and their intentions are good. “The skeletons (poor pups), they may be in a state of shock. (Blankets can only do so much, you understand.)”

He nods briskly, turning on his heel and walking back to where Papyrus is holding both Greater Dog and Sans as he sits cross-legged in the snow. The older skeleton is dozing off, cuddled up against his brother’s ribcage, but the younger looks up and his eyes glint? Maybe? But it’s more probably just Grillby’s reflection along the polished bone around his eye sockets. Sans has said before that Papyrus has very little orange magic in him, definitely not enough for the glow that Sans can produce.

He reaches down and picks up Greater Dog, who squirms slightly in his grasp and makes a huffing sound of annoyance. He puts them back into their armor, then extends a free hand to Papyrus. “Coming?” he asks, making his voice gentle.

Papyrus gives him a trademark sunny smile, but it looks hollow, his gaze drifting back to the wreck of the house. Grillby taps the side of his skull to bring his attention back from the dark places it was most probably going. “I do know how to make pasta,” he continues, although food is the least of their worries. Already he is working on solutions for the other issues that the skeleton brothers’ current situation provokes.

The younger of the two nods briskly, wrapping his arms around his brother as if Sans is a stuffed toy. He stands up like a baby animal, ignoring the hand even as his knees wobble. Grillby reaches out and steadies him, patting his elbow when he’s sure that Papyrus can support himself, but is not quite surprised when the young skeleton leans on him. When he’d met the bone brothers, Papyrus stumbling over himself had been a common occurrence. At age eight, the skeleton had just hit his first growth spurt and when he wasn’t checking and rechecking his height, he was tripping. Grillby had gotten used to catching the little skeleton before he smashed against the ground. It is harder now that Papyrus is taller than him, but they manage somehow, walking back to the restaurant with most of Snowdin following.

He settles the two in a booth and darts around, turning up the lights. The dogs sit in booths around the brothers, growling like thunder at anyone who even tries to come near them. Doggo chews worriedly on the stub of his dog treat because Grillby most definitely will not let him light it inside. With good reason too. Grillby, like most fire elementals, smells like an autumn bonfire. Lit dog treats smell like someone’s burning rubber chickens and if everyone isn’t already sick from smoke inhalation, that will rile a few too many stomachs.

Satisfied that everyone is comfortable, he ducks into the kitchen and up the stairs to his apartment. It looks much like the bar downstairs, sans restaurant features and with a bed and a desk and a few books scattered around. He needs to pick those up. Sometime. For now, he goes to the closet and pulls blankets down from the higher shelves. As he walks back down the claustrophobic staircase, he runs his hands over each blanket, warming them just the slightest. People like being warm and he intends to make everyone relax.

The inhabitants of Snowdin are grateful for the blankets. At the dinosaur child’s behest, he uses a safety pin to fasten their blanket around their neck like a cape. The child scrambles back to their parents and sister, who sit in the Canine Unit’s normal place. The picture of peace is almost complete, but people still look a little shaken. He drums his fingers on the counter and alights on a solution.

“Doggo?” he calls.

The dog comes padding over, biting down hard on his dog treat as he grunts acknowledgement.

“Sorry, but could you fill some of the kettles with water for me?” He hates to ask, but it looks like the people will need tea and Grillby can’t get the water himself, no matter how hard he tries. He always manages to spill some and then he has to wrap his arms in bandages and wear longer sleeves and the whole thing just becomes one big mess.

Doggo’s used to being asked though and he just nods before slinking past him towards the kitchen.

Grillby crinkles his eyes gratefully at the dog’s retreating back before sliding into the bench across from the brothers. He hands his last bundle of blankets over to Papyrus, but his eyes are on Sans. The older skeleton is awake and toying with a napkin, fingers methodically shredding it into long strips. Even the low lighting, ideal for hiding, fails to conceal the dark circles under his eye sockets.

The bartender taps on the table. He has to do it a couple of times before Sans will look at him. Very softly, as to not draw more attention than they have already, Grillby says “Care to open your bone box and explain?”

Sans surprises him by nodding. “eighty-nine times,” he says very softly. “eighty-nine times i’ve seen this place empty, grillbz. cold and dark and quiet as death. in waterfall, that old music memorial, it’s shattered. there are pieces of it everywhere. the kid did that.”

“THE KID?” Papyrus prompts, when Sans grows silent. The smaller skeleton props his chin up on his fist and his mouth curves into a Cheshire grin that he doesn’t really mean.

“the human kid, paps. you haven’t met them yet. i don’t know why. maybe the lady’s giving ‘em a run for their money.” His head shifts so he’s staring at the tabletop, and his hands reach back to pull his hood over his face, kneading the plush inside with his knuckles.

“Got the water,” Doggo announces, appearing silently at the table. He has two kettles and his dog treat gripped so hard between his teeth that there is a vein pulsing in his throat. Grillby takes the teapots with another crinkle of his eyes and Doggo wags his tail back before wandering over to interfere with Lesser Dog’s poker game. He always helps them cheat and it never works out.

Grillby balances a teakettle on each palm, heating them slowly as he listens to the story unfold. And, stars, he almost wants to close his mind to it because the story Sans is telling, it’s true, all of it.

Chapter 2: The First Route

Chapter Text

Sans had met the door lady while on patrol. That was the official story, the story he’d told the first few times he’d tried to explain the events to them. In truth, he’d been looking for someone, someone he only half-remembered. When he couldn’t find them, he had kept on walking. The door had been just another landmark at first, somewhere to rest his tired bones for a minute. He’d sat down on the stones around the door, resting his skull against it with an audible thunk. It had been a nice thunk, one that had interested him enough to knock his knuckles against it. Some doors aren’t fit for knock-knock jokes, but this one was perfect, especially because no one was sighing over the sound of the knock loud enough to interrupt.

So, the knock-knock jokes were inevitable from the start, as was his quiet laughter at his own wordplay. The only thing he hadn’t expected was the woman’s voice, soft as silk and as deep as distant thunder. She had asked “Who is there?” with the hopeful expectation of a child and he hadn’t been able to disappoint her.

“dishes.”

“Dishes who?”

“dishes a very bad joke.” It most definitely wasn’t his best joke, and he had waited anxiously to hear her reply. The momentary silence had been broken by a loud snort, then a spat of bleating laughter. The door had rattled slightly as if she had fallen against it. “Geez, lady, that wasn’t even my best one. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Sorry!” the voice had gasped merrily. “It is just- you have no idea how long it has been since I have heard a good knock-knock joke! Oh, here! I have one for you!” She knocked on the door twice.

“who’s there?” he asked, hoping for a really good joke. If she was just interested in the ‘interrupting’ vein of jokes, he’d switch off his interest. Some of those could get really bizarre.

“Little old lady!”

He raised an eye ridge, shifting around until his cheekbone rested on the purple wood. “little old lady who?”

“Oh!” she said, sounding quite shocked. “I did not know you could yodel!” Then she lost it, laughing almost hysterically as she bleated “That is a wonderful talent you have!”

He burst into laughter, grinning up at the cavern ceiling. When his sides started to hurt and her giggling had turned into a happy silence, he had volunteered “knock knock.”

“Who is there?”

“peas.”

“Peas who?”

“peas to meet you, lady.”

“Peas to meet you too, sir!” she choked and then they were off again. When they had fallen into companionable silence and he finally managed to stop laughing long enough to stand up, they said their farewells. He had gone back to his sentry station and grinned through the entire day. Maybe he hadn’t found who he was looking for, but he found someone just as good.

So began a wonderful friendship. He would sneak away from guard duty every few days to talk to the lady at the door. She called him ‘sir,’ he called her ‘lady,’ and neither of them ever volunteered any more information about themselves. Sometimes, though, he’d tell her about Papyrus. He’d tell her how his brother was doing, of his latest hijinks. She’d tell him stories about years gone past or snail facts. As far as he could gather, she was much older than he was and she acted like Alphys’s mom, always making sure he was safe, was happy, was well-fed. She groaned when she heard about his eating habits and scolded him half-heartedly about the nutritional value of grease, while he made puns about bad taste.

No matter the topic of conversation, he could slip a pun or three or five in and to his delight, she started volunteering her own jokes. At first, she had no sense of timing, but he laughed anyway. After all, if he hadn’t been encouraged to continue, he might have never grown to become the sansational comedian he was today.

The door lady got better at her jokes until they were both in stitches after each one. He would say his goodbyes and laugh through the whole day at his guard station, befuddling Undyne and concerning Papyrus.

Unfortunately, this phase couldn’t last. One day, he ambled to the door, bursting with new jokes to tell her, and started cracking them out one after the other. She laughed, but not the kind of laugh he was looking for, as if she was distracted, and asked him questions about how he was doing between each one. When he’d confessed to a cold, her voice had become stern. “What are you doing out here when you should be at home in bed?”

“doing my job, what else?”

“You could catch a chill! Gracious! When you go home tonight, make yourself some soup, then go to bed. A cold is nothing to sneeze at!” She had tittered at her pun and Sans had laughed too, saying jokingly “yeah, okay, mom.”

All sound ceased on her side of the door. “lady?” he asked. “lady, what’s up?” He heard a breath hitch in her throat, as if she was about to cry, and, horrified, he pressed his skull to the door as if he could just fall through to her. “lady?” he tried again.

This time, she answered. “If a human ever comes through this door, could you please, please promise something?” He waited as she gathered herself. “Watch over them, and protect them, will you not?”

He hadn’t answered. He had kept quiet so long that she had started to shift, uncomfortable about asking. This woman wasn’t the type to ask for anything. She commanded sometimes, and he would tease her about it, but she never asked. What she wasn’t able to get, she had told him once, she went without. He didn’t even know her name, but he knew so much else. He knew that she wanted to be a teacher because once she had brought a few books down to the door and read to him her favorite facts. He knew that she practiced fire magic and she loved baking. And he knew that she loved awful, terrible, really bad jokes with all her heart.

“lady, i hate making promises.”

And that would have to be enough.

“but i promise. i’ll take care of the kid.”

He didn’t realize then how much he would lose to that promise. How much he would lose over and over and over again.

..

Sans has to pause his story here and his hands clench his hood so tightly that the fabric looks as if he’s about to tear it in two.

Grillby almost reaches for him, but the teakettles on his palms shriek and remind him just in time. Instead, he gets up, balancing the kettles expertly on his palms. Dogaressa has thoughtfully lined up the teacups on the bar and Dogamy has chosen a variety of teabags to go with each. Grillby makes the rounds, pouring everyone who wants one a cup of tea and apologizing for the fact that the bar won’t be open for some time due to the town’s recent events. Everyone is at least grudgingly accepting of this fact and some of the more understanding residents offer their condolences to be given to the skeletons.

When he comes back to them, the brothers have rearranged themselves. Sans is leaning almost sleepily against Papyrus, his feet up on the booth seating as he stares out the window. Still and stiff as he is, Sans almost looks like someone’s toy. The thought reminds Grillby and he puts the three cups on the table with a loud clink, rummaging through his pockets with his free hand. Papyrus watches curiously and, when the hand comes out six times with Sans’s pet rock and Papyrus’s action figures, he lights up. Grillby sets them on the table in front of Papyrus, then turns his attention to pouring the tea. Sans’s teabag is vanilla and chamomile to calm him down and Papyrus’s is sweet tea with honey for his sweet tooth.

With that taken care of, he pours his own tea and puts the teapot by his elbow. His fingers curl around his cup and he brings it to his face. Cinnamon. Heavenly. As he goes to take his first sip, Sans says, “she died.”

Grillby puts his tea back down and Papyrus shrinks into himself.

..

Sans had wandered into Snowdin Forest, again looking for someone he vaguely remembered. The dreams of something missing had persisted after the door lady had made him promise. His feet had brought him to the door, even though the door lady had stopped answering days ago. He was about to sit at its base, but something pulled him back. Then he heard the footsteps. In the blink of an eye, he was behind one of the trees. His breath caught in his throat as he heard the door open. That had never happened before. She had never even hinted that she would come out. He had pegged her as a homebody. Puns raced through his mind as he peered around the tree trunk.

The creature standing there was short and stubby with a ribbon tied loosely in their hair. He smiled to himself, strapping the whoopee cushion to his palm. Should he do the old ‘peas to meet you’ or would it be better to…to…oh.

There was dust billowing around their feet, smudged up the front of their sweater and gathered at the shoulders, as if someone had grabbed them before expiring. Their expression was simultaneously as blank as slate and as hard as stone.

This wasn’t the door lady, so it must have been her human. The one he had promised to protect. He mentally stumbled over this fact. Promise. That was such an unappealing word. It meant that he had a commitment to protect this thing. He couldn’t even call it a human. And where was the door lady?

His mind grazed an ugly possibility and he sank down behind his tree. Very slowly, pulling his hood over his head, he stood back up, squaring his jaw. The only way to find out was to introduce himself and figure it all out.

It was with extreme caution that he readied himself to meet the human, skulking behind them until they came to the bridge Papyrus had built. They stood there, looking at the spaces between the bars, and he took his chance, making the effort to emphasize his words. “Human. Don’t you know how to greet a new pal? Turn around. Shake my hand.”

Without hesitation, the creature turned around and clasped his outstretched hand in one of theirs. He laughed as the whoopee cushion reacted, but then he looked at the creature’s face. Their eyes were wide open and glazed over, staring in his general direction but not reacting. Their grip was grinding the bones in his hand against each other, as if they were about to hurl themself over the edge and drag him with them. The whole set-up just struck him as impossibly eerie, like they had been waiting for him. The lack of emotion in their face made it all the worse. Monsters are emotional, it’s just a side effect of being made entirely of magic. He still couldn’t imagine that this creature was human, but neither could he pretend that they were just a monster.

He heard himself laugh at his own joke and tease the creature as if they were Papyrus, all the while wishing that they had been the door lady. She would have definitely laughed. Instead of saying so, he introduced himself. “i’m sans. sans the skeleton. i’m actually supposed to be on watch for humans right now. but, y’know, i don’t really care about capturing anybody. now, my brother, papyrus…”

Here was his first inkling that something was wrong. The creature felt dangerous. They exuded emptiness, a sort of hungry feeling that put him on edge. The dust alone unnerved him. So why was he telling them about Papyrus’s job, or about him at all?

“i think that’s him over there.” No, no, no, no. “i have an idea,” the thing moving his mouth said mischievously, “go through this gate-thingy. yeah, right through. my bro made the bars too wide to stop anybody.”

They walked over to his vacant guard station, the silly lamp that Alphys had gotten him for Gyftmas one year standing watch out front. He realized with a horrible sinking feeling that it was shaped like the creature just a split second before his mouth said “quick, behind that conveniently-shaped lamp.”

The human turned towards the lamp, then back towards him. He ground his teeth against the voice and said “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” If Papyrus captured this thing, thinking it was human, that would be good. Undyne said they needed a soul. Something not monster had to be human. They could just take their soul and be done with the whole situation before it escalated.

His relief about this resolution turned into fear when Papyrus came striding in. “SANS!” he boomed in his big happy voice. “HAVE YOU FOUND A HUMAN YET?”

“yeah,” he lied, his eyes flitting to the human standing in front of him and then back to his brother questioningly.

Papyrus’s volume only got louder as he got more excited. “REALLY? WOWIE!” Sans could hear the extra exclamation points in there. “GUESS THAT’S SETTLED!” With that, he turned right around and clomped away in his big boots.

Sans stood there for a moment, aghast, before he said “that worked out, didn’t it?” He had meant to put a ‘for you anyway’ in there, but it wouldn’t come out.

He watched the human walk after his brother, the worry in his stomach feeling like lead. Before they could go out of sight, he found that his mouth was his own. “well, i’ll be straight-forward with you. my brother’d really like to see a human. so, y’know, it’d really help me out…” He let them wait for it before putting everything he had into his next words. They came out soaked in his fear and hate, oozing anger like poisonous slugs. “If you kept pretending to be one.” With that he turned around and left, head high and steps even.

As soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run, racing for the door. It was still ajar and he squeezed through the gap, bursting into some sort of stone tunnel. “Door lady!” he called, as the next door, also ajar, came into sight. He slammed through and was suddenly skidding. Dust, soft and grey, flew up around his face and he coughed, even as his mind was screaming. He had just walked through someone’s remains and his bones rattled in disgust and horror.

The dust was everywhere now, settling on his sweatshirt, in his eye sockets. He jumped, trying to brush it off, to get the smell of it out of his nose. She smelled like butterscotch and cinnamon, he realized, just before his magic revolted and his eye turned blue. A fragment of his vision went dark, cutting off sight in his right eye. “oh, stars,” he mumbled, before he turned and ran back through the long dark tunnel. His magic made the tunnel longer, then shorter, turning it into a shortcut, waiting for him to decide where he needed to be. Papyrus, he had to get to Papyrus before the creature did. He had to get there before they got to him. His right eye pulsed and he was suddenly slipping over a patch of ice in Snowdin Forest.

Papyrus turned to him, pleasantly surprised. “SO SANS! WHEN’S THE HUMAN SHOWING UP?” Sans stopped in front of him, about to open his mouth and plead for his little brother to run and get Undyne. Then he caught brown in his peripheral vision. His eye had stopped glowing as soon as he’d seen Papyrus, restoring his sight.

As Papyrus went on about wanting to look his best for them, Sans interrupted. “say, why don’t you look over there?”

Papyrus turned and his jaw went slack. Sans turned to look at the human himself, only to notice Papyrus looking at him instead, concern etched into his face. Sans directed his attention to his brother, but Papyrus had already turned to observe the human, pretending to be concerned about them. They went on like this for a bit before they turned their backs to them to confer. “SANS. OH MY GOD. I’M DIZZY. WHAT AM I LOOKING AT?”

Sans’s heart sank. There wasn’t going to be any Papyrus rushing off to get Undyne and he sure as hell didn’t want to leave his little brother alone with this thing. “behold,” he said numbly.

Papyrus regarded the creature again and Sans followed his lead, all the while trying to find a way to alert Papyrus to the danger they were in.

“OH MY GOD!” Papyrus shrieked suddenly and Sans hoped beyond all hope that he was going to scream about getting Undyne, alerting the Guard, something about his hopes and dreams. “WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME TO LOOK AT A ROCK.”

He wondered briefly if screaming was an option for him before disregarding it. It would hurt his voice box anyway. “hey,” he started instead, “what’s that in front of the rock?”

“OH MY GOD! I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT IS.” Papyrus beamed, waiting for Sans to illuminate exactly what that was. It had worked when Papyrus had no idea what a shrubbery was. Sans had been able to explain it to him in great detail, even if he had made some stuff up on the spot.

“uh. well, it’s not a rock.”

“NOT A ROCK?” Papyrus mused, bringing up a hand to rub at his chin. For him, this was a guessing game. His eyes brightened and he flailed his arms. “OH NO! BY PROCESS OF ELIMINATION! THAT MEANS-“ he paused to strike a pose Sans was certain Undyne had taught him “-IT’S A HUMAN!”

He looked straight at the creature, clearing his throat. “Ahem. HUMAN! PREPARE YOURSELF! FOR HIGH JINKS!” He stood taller. “FOR LOW JINKS!” Here he gestured at Sans, who was looking at him with all the disbelief he could muster. Papyrus went on about what exactly the creature could expect ahead of them. When his brother ran off laughing, as if it was all one big game of high-stakes tag, Sans looked at the creature. It gazed back at him woodenly. Instead of saying anything, he wrenched himself away and after Papyrus, catching the end of his scarf and stopping him in his tracks.

“bro, how about we just go to undyne. no puzzles, no capturing.”

Papyrus twitched his scarf out of Sans’s fingers and bent nearly in half to make eye contact with him. “ARE YOU SICK?” he asked, shucking a glove to splay his fingers on Sans’s forehead. “NO.” He put his glove back on and eyed him as a terrible possibility entered his mind. “YOU’RE MAKING EXCUSES BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T CALIBRATE YOUR PUZZLES, IS THAT IT?” He stomped his foot angrily. “YOU’RE SO LAZY! YOU WERE NAPPING ALL NIGHT!”

Sans looked up at him, dumbstruck. “i think that’s called sleeping.” Before he could argue his case, Papyrus was yelling again, blocking him out.

“EXCUSES, EXCUSES!”

The creature appeared at the edge of the forest and walked right through the electrical maze, shutting Papyrus up even as he tried to explain it. It stared up at him, waiting for them to move onwards. It ignored all of Papyrus’s further attempts at puzzles too. Some puzzles were even solved before they got there, something that rang a distant bell in the farthest reaches of Sans’s mind.

He finally gave up on getting Papyrus to fetch Undyne and just started shoving him towards the bridge. The human followed, but got sidetracked somewhere. “look, pap, they’ll love the gauntlet. i pro- i swear.”

He stood there, watching as Papyrus checked the bonds of the weaponry involved. There was something in him, hissing and pushing for him to see this all the way through. It was there in the way he had teased the human into following them, and in the way he wanted to go find his real puzzles but had to suffer through watching them toss aside all the goofy tricks he’d put down to mess with Papyrus. He was beginning to think that it had something to do with the door lady, with the promise. It was like she’d cursed him.

The human caught up to them, standing somewhere in the middle of the bridge as Papyrus spun out his speech. The weapons emerged, held in place by strings of Papyrus’s magic and ready to fire at any moment. This puzzle was the hardest to outmaneuver. The human wouldn’t be able to dodge all of them without practice. And Sans wasn’t intending to let them practice.

He stared them down from across the bridge as Papyrus finished speaking. Waited. Waited. Papyrus hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t even tried to activate the Gauntlet and Sans knew that it would work this time. “what’s the holdup?”

“HOLDUP?” Papyrus huffed, turning away from the human. “WHAT HOLDUP? I’M-I’M ABOUT TO ACTIVATE IT NOW!” He had the look on his face, the same look he’d had when the Snowdin Shopkeeper had run out of spaghetti.

Sans tried to be funny even through the cold finger of fear on his neck. “that, uh, doesn’t look very activated.” He gave Papyrus a grin, praying.

“THEY’RE PROBABLY GOING TO WALK THROUGH IT,” Papyrus finally whined. “AND IT WON’T BE ANY FUN AT ALL.”

Sans considered laying down in the snow and letting the human finish him off after all at that point. It was only the force putting pressure on his skull that made him comment “so this human thing was a bust, huh?” He itched to activate the Gauntlet himself, to spear the human through, to blast them off the bridge, but he couldn’t do it. The promise held him fast.

They exchanged some banter, but Sans was barely paying attention, ribbing his brother in all the right places while keeping an eye on the strangely silent human. Papyrus ran off to ready himself for a fight, having decided that that was the only way to capture the human.

The creature began to shamble after him, but Sans walked right into its path, sizing it up with his best menacing air. “So, you’re about to fight my brother. Here’s some friendly advice for you.” He moved forward, shifting them back onto the bridge. For the first time, he caught a glint of emotion on their face as he made his eye sockets blank. It wasn’t the emotion he was looking for. The ‘don’t’ died in his throat as he realized that the look in their awful green eyes was glee. It was his turn to take a step back, staring. They stepped forward, the glove on their hand coming up as if they were about to punch him with it. In what would be his worst moment, he fled through a shortcut rather than face what they had in mind.

The next time he saw them, Papyrus’s scarf was tucked in his pocket and there was nowhere left to run.

Chapter 3: The One Where Frisk Actually Shows Up

Chapter Text

The playhouse was tucked carefully between two trees. There was a pretty little path made out of artificially blue and pink rocks leading up to the door, which was adorned with a sign saying Keep Out! in a child’s sloppy handwriting. The paint was peeling off its walls and weeds grew over the flowerbeds that lined the path, which was faded from sunlight. To the casual observer, it looked like just another casualty of a long-gone childhood.

It wasn’t abandoned.

Six teenagers sprawled about inside, laughing and talking and cheering. The object of their interest was one of their own, a tall girl with her legs tucked up beneath her. They had pulled their beanbags around her in a circle in order to better view her laptop screen. Stark against the black of the fight screen, a small skeleton darted around, avoiding her attacks and retaliating with a few of his own. The laptop speakers were blasting his signature theme music as she made the little heart character leap up and down and all around to avoid dragon heads and flying bones.

“C’mon, Jax!” yelled one of her friends, pumping the fist that held a lime green stopwatch. “Get the little creep!”

“Shut up, Mer!” complained another, pulling on the timekeeper’s nose ring gently. “She’s gonna beat your record and you’re cheering for her, stupid.”

“Sansy’s going down!” the tall girl crowed as the skeleton onscreen sweated and tried to appeal to her good side.

“Go join your dumbass brother!” shrieked Meredith at the skeleton character, squirming to avoid the handful of popcorn thrown at him.

“Wow, rude,” deadpanned a girl in a deep voice, trying to mimic the character’s voice grunts. Her friends shoved her good-naturedly and she laughed, burring her voice again to make it clunky and deep.

“Aw, is he gonna cry?” asked the youngest teen, peering over at the screen worriedly.

“Don’t be stupid, Jules. It’s just a game,” an older boy, Lewis, said, just as the music cut off.

“Whoa, sh*t,” Jax said, alarmed. “I think he is crying.”

At her words, Lewis checked his notebook. It was crammed full of dialogue, almost entirely written in a style lacking in capitalization. “You’re kidding.” He looked over her shoulder to see the skeleton use a sprite they’d never seen, rubbing the heel of his palm against his glowing eye. He looked back to his notebook, flipping through to a blank page and scribbling down a note. “How many plays is this?”

“Thirty-two,” Meredith said immediately.

“Maybe it’s dialogue unique to the plus thirty-second time playing. Sans supposedly remembers all the resets, remember?” Lewis twirled his pencil between his fingers. “The creators probably factored for this sort of thing. Jax gets two minutes off her time for finding a new reaction.”

The other teens booed and hissed noisily for a moment before the music started back up again, slower this time. They returned their attention to the screen, where the skeleton had resumed his maddening dodging and usual dialogue. At that very moment, he was saying but that’s ridiculous, right? yeah, you’re the type of person who won’t EVER be happy.

“Suppose we’ll just have to check on the next turn,” said Meredith, grinning at the skeleton character. The music stopped again as the character cut himself off, looking at the screen aggressively, his speech bubble unfinished. you’ll keep consuming timelines over and over, until-

“sh*t! Is it crashing?” Jax yelled, mashing her up button furiously.

“No, he’s time traveling early,” noted Lewis, smiling as he jotted this down. Jax’s screeching heralded her onscreen death and the music of the hateful ‘Game Over’ screen began chiming.

“Little bastard!” she sneered. “I’m going to rip his fat head off for that!”

..

As Sans begins to describe dying, Papyrus abruptly stands up and strides away, leaving his action figures posed in varied fighting scenes around the table. The front door slams as he leaves. Almost immediately, Sans is following, slipping out of the booth and chasing his brother out into the snow. “paps! wait!”

The light in the Snowdin sky is dimming in preparation for the night and the light from houses’ windows glints off Papyrus’s battle body as he walks away. “paps, don’t do this.” The taller skeleton’s hands clamp around his skull in an effort to block him out. “c’mon, papyrus.” He jumps and catches the end of his brother’s scarf.

Instead of stopping, Papyrus jerks away from him and walks faster. The cold feeling in Sans’s stomach suggests that Papyrus is doing what he should have done a long time ago. That his tireless little brother is giving up. That he’s being abandoned. “papyrus! don’t walk away from me!” he yells.

Papyrus stops, but doesn’t turn around. Sans leaps from boot print to boot print, trying to ignore the snow soaking through his shorts. As he gets close, Papyrus takes another step forward. He can see the ‘Welcome to Snowdin’ sign in the distance and he panics. Papyrus is leaving him now that he knows. Now that Grillby and everyone know. He’s going to be left alone because they’re going to find the human and try to kill them, but the human’s so much stronger than they think. “papyrus!” He leaps through a shortcut in an effort to reach him, and twists, landing on his stomach in the snow. Pain shoots through his chest, like the blade of a phantom knife.

His little brother whirls around, scarf spraying snow. “WHAT?” he barks. “WHAT, SANS?” His eyes, usually button-black and cheery, are glinting a hard poisonous orange. A tendril of magic wafts off the left one and his entire face looks somehow sharper with fury. Then he sees him in the snow and hurries back to right him. “ARE YOU OKAY? SANS?”

“where are you going?” he asks, shivering as the snow melts into his jacket. He doesn’t have the time to pay attention to that, not when Papyrus is going to go confront the human.

“I DON’T KNOW. I JUST DIDN’T WANT TO SIT THERE AND HEAR IT. I’M A ROYAL GUARD, SANS! I MEAN, I’M NOT YET, BUT I’M GOING TO BE, AND I DIDN’T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT HOW I COULDN’T PROTECT ANYONE!” Papyrus kneels down in front of him, the only way they can be eye-to-eye nowadays. “SANS, WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME BEFORE EVERYTHING JUST-“ He mimes an explosion.

He spreads his hands out in the universal gesture for uncertainty, ignoring the memories of telling Papyrus before and Papyrus going out to talk the human down instead of listening to Sans. Instead of evacuating with everyone else and letting Sans handle this, please. “dunno. i didn’t want you to be angry, i guess.”

“SANS! HOW COULD I EVER BE ANGRY? YOU WERE TRYING TO SAVE THE KING! YOU WERE DOING YOUR CIVIC DUTY!” Papyrus flails his arms to express his excitement. “I’M UPSET, YES, AND A LITTLE AFFRONTED THAT YOU LOCKED ME IN MY OWN ROOM, BUT CERTAINLY NOT ANGRY! I FEEL UPSET BECAUSE I’M SUPPOSED TO PROTECT YOU! AND THAT YOU DIDN’T INCLUDE ME IN YOUR COOL NOBLE DEEDS”

“it wasn’t that noble,” he replies, crossing his arms and hoping that Papyrus doesn’t notice him shaking. Adrenaline and fear make him move like a jumping bean, twitching all over the place. But he’s not being abandoned, he’s not hated, now if his body could just recognize that, it would be nice.

“I’M THE SOON-TO-BE ROYAL GUARDSMAN HERE! AND I SAY IT WAS VERY NOBLE! YOU’RE ALMOST AS COOL AS ME, SANS! AND I’M THE GREAT PAPYRUS! YOU WERE RIGHT TO FIGHT, JUST WRONG NOT TO TELL ME! I COULD HAVE HELPED!” Papyrus stands, puffing out his chest instinctively and striking another pose straight from one of Undyne’s sparring sessions.

“yeah, but i’m your big brother,” he counters. “i’m supposed to take care of you.”

Papyrus takes a few steps forward with his long legs and suddenly, Sans is thrown over his brother’s shoulder. Papyrus’s laugh shakes them both as he comments, “FROM HERE, IT SEEMS AS THOUGH YOU ARE MY SMALL BROTHER.”

Sans would complain about Papyrus being way too literal, but he’s too busy laughing like he hasn’t in what feels like months.

…

Frisk wakes up on a bed of flowers, hands clenching their stick like a lifeline. Their ragged breathing, so noisy in the soft silence of the Ruins, wakes up the voice in their head. Chara releases a sound of complete despair and starts babbling. ”I’m so sorry, Frisk, I had to, you wouldn’t stop. I was scared. And now we’re back here and I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Frisk cringes as they remember the bones bursting through their body. Chara had wrenched for control at the precise moment, right when Frisk had decided to give up. When Sans had finally speared them, Frisk had wanted to die, but Chara had held on, pulling Frisk away from the final light and back, back, back into the golden light filtering down on the flowers, back to their heavy tired body.

Frisk feels the tears begin to bubble up and inhales sharply. Chara stops talking and starts sending out reassuring feelings instead, even if the core of the feeling is horror. “Aw, Frisky, it’s not your fault. C’mon, don’t cry. It’s those creepy creeps and their stupid voices.” Chara’s voice dies away for a moment, then comes back. “They’re not here.” Their voice is a mix of bewilderment and apprehensive delight, as if the torrent of voices will come pouring back in at any second.

For a moment, they are both silent, listening for the voices who will command them to get up, to explore, to kill. There is nothing but Frisk’s breathing, somewhat echoing. Frisk pushes themself to a standing position, trying to crush as few of the golden flowers as possible. They’ve started to nurture a soft spot for the cheery blossoms.

“Do you think they’re gone?” Chara questions, giving off the mental equivalent of wringing their hands. “Do you think we did it?”

Frisk wants to shrug, but they’re too afraid of drawing attention to themself. What if the voices are just lurking somewhere, waiting? What if Frisk does something they don’t like and suddenly they’re not in charge anymore, imprisoned in their head while their body kills?

“No. Stop that right now,” Chara scolds gently. “We’re free for now. Don’t think like that, Frisk.”

‘Okay,’ Frisk thinks back, taking their stick in their hands and holding it straight out in front of them. Chara begins to laugh when they realize what Frisk is doing and the snapping of the stick is quiet in comparison to the sound of Chara’s wild laughter.

“Take that, you stupid stick! Useless!” Chara’s mirth is contagious and Frisk laughs along silently, shoulders shaking. It doesn’t take long for the shoulders shaking to signify something else though and the child tries consoling them again. “Frisk, aw, no, shush. You’re freaking me out. Fuh-Frisk, s-stoppit.” Suddenly they’re both crying, Frisk silently and Chara messily.

‘I wanna go home,” Frisk wails and Chara grabs onto their mental presence tightly, trying to hold them together.

“Sh-sh, I kn-know, Frisk. Shhh,” Chara cups the back of their head and they can almost feel their touch. It makes them cry even more because no one’s touched them except to hurt them for so long and Chara’s trying, but it can’t work because Chara’s not real yet.

They don’t expect the soft footsteps coming towards them, or the furry hand that reaches down to dab at their face. Toriel isn’t supposed to be here. She’s supposed to save them from Flowey and then lead them through the Ruins and then they’re supposed to… Neither of them can finish that sentence and when Toriel begins to speak, Chara throws their body into her arms. She must be so surprised, but she hugs them anyway, humming soft words as they sob into the front of her robe. She’s real, she’s here, she smells like cinnamon toast and she’s holding them so gently, crouched to their level to hold them better.

When their tears turn into sniffles, they look up at her and Chara mouths ‘Mom’ as Frisk looks pleadingly out of reddened eyes.

Toriel’s eyes shine as she starts to say a line they’ve heard over and over, but they make fists around folds of her robe and stare into her eyes. Chara worms their way into Frisk’s control over their face and Frisk backs off just the slightest to allow them control. Chara musters up their best creepy face, knowing that Toriel would remember something like that.

“Chara?” the woman breathes, putting her hands on their shoulders and pushing them away from her so she can look at them. “My child, my heart, is that you?”

Chara nods wildly, throwing themself back into her arms. Frisk can hear them, whimpering “Mommy, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it” in the depths of their mind, but with Frisk’s non-verbal body, all they can do is cry.

This reunion has been long in coming and when Toriel picks them up, cradling their body and pressing their cheek to hers, Frisk wraps their arms around her neck and buries their face in the soft white fur of her throat. She starts walking and, lulled by the motion, first Frisk, then Chara, drop off to sleep. Frisk doesn’t dream and if Chara does, they don’t say.

They wake up in a little bed and Toriel is there, swooping down to kiss their face and holding a plate of butterscotch-cinnamon pie. They’ve somehow skipped the entire Ruins to Home.

Chara’s joy is impossible to avoid and Frisk finds themself smiling too as Toriel sits on the bedroom floor and eats pie with them. The thick gummy filling preoccupies them for a while, the spectacle of Toriel eating even more so. The fact that she has fur and still manages to avoid getting sticky at all is amazing.

When they finish, Toriel hands them a pad and pencil in exchange for their plate. “My child, please. Tell me how this happened.”

Frisk looks at the pad and shakes their head. They don’t want to tell her. They don’t want to jeopardize this. They’re scared. If they write it, what if the voices come back? What if it all becomes real again? What if they write it and they’re suddenly standing at the doorway again and she has to die? Tears roll down their nose, big fat drops that blot the creamy paper.

“Oh, child. You do not have to write it down, not if it hurts you.” She takes the pad and pencil back, offering a hug instead. Gratefully, they nestle into her warmth. “Understand, my child, that I would never leave you of my own will,” she says into Frisk’s hair. “You do not have to hold me so tightly.”

Frisk relaxes their hold, but only a little.

“Mom doesn’t lie, Frisky,” Chara says, reaching for the pad with sticky fingers. Frisk hesitates, then lets Chara have control. They sit in Toriel’s lap and she reads over their shoulder as they write, switching from Chara’s right hand to Frisk’s left every so often. And the story is told, every grisly bit of it, Chara summoning up pieces Frisk didn’t even remember and laying them out in their chicken-scratch handwriting.

Toriel learns about the resets and the save points. She learns about the voices, who controlled their body with invisible hands and hurt people. Tears drip from their face as they shakily describe killing her and killing others. They tell her the gross parts, like the way they could sometimes eat the dust if it was fresh enough because of all the magic it held. They tell her about how scared they were, about the nightmares they had every time they somehow fell asleep and how they were even more scared that all those nightmares were just memories. By the time they’re done, they’ve filled three pages of the notepad and gone through a box of tissues. Toriel is halfway through another box of tissues, dabbing at her reddened eyes and nose.

When they set down the pencil, choking on their horror, Toriel hands them another tissue. “Chara, my heart, I am sorry. I did not know you were present when I took you with me. Frisk, child, I am sorry for what has been done to you.”

Frisk bows their head shamefully, knowing that in little ways that it was their fault all along, only for Toriel to lift their chin up with a finger and kiss their forehead. They smile involuntarily at the fuzzy kiss. “You are very strong, my child,” she says, and their heart spills over with love for the woman.

Her reddish eyes shine as they hug her again. “I will help you this time. Everything will be alright.”

Chapter 4: Sans Is So Desensitized To Homicide By Now

Chapter Text

Toriel is fun. They spend the day chasing snails, testing puzzles, and eating different types of pies. Frisk cedes control of the taste buds to Chara when Toriel makes snail pie for lunch ‘as a treat.’ Chara munches and crunches their way through three slices, all the while trying to convince Frisk to just have a taste. Frisk refuses and digs into the butterscotch-cinnamon pie when it comes, trying to distract themself from the slimy feeling of escargot slipping down their throat. They can only manage a thin slice before they have to go lay down and get their stomach to settle. Snails. They can ruin your digestive system, especially if you’re not Chara. Chara can eat anything.

At her behest to learn Frisk’s language, Frisk teaches Toriel the signs for ‘child,’ and ‘heart,’ and she uses them liberally, sprinkling every conversation with two pats to an imaginary child’s head or a tap of her finger to her heart. It’s nowhere near enough knowledge for them to have a proper conversation, but they manage with a pad and pencil and occasional charades when they don’t know how to properly spell something.

When Frisk has sufficiently recovered from the snail pie, Toriel is clearing the table while Frisk and Chara share a chocolate bar. It had been a delightful surprise when Toriel had brought it out for them, chilled nicely from so many years in the fridge. While Chara munches happily, sharing the taste buds so Frisk can enjoy it too, Frisk draws a clumsy picture of a house and a child with closed eyes and a striped shirt. Hesitantly, they start another, taller, person beside them, with a bushy mane of brown hair and brown dots for eyes.

“Who is that, Frisk? Is that your mother?” Toriel asks, drifting over to look as Frisk links the figures’ hands. Toriel’s voice isn’t sad, just curious, and Frisk wants to smile at her. She has been very understanding about the fact that Frisk is hesitant to call her ‘mother.’ Chara, of course, has no qualms about it, but Frisk is new to the Underground and they’re uncertain of her beyond the fact that she is Chara’s mother and that she is fun. Admittedly, they’d been thinking of her like a fun babysitter.

Frisk shakes their head, making Chara put down their chocolate bar so they can sign. Chara grumbles a little, but allows them access to the hands. Their fingers spell a name and then again when Toriel doesn’t understand. When the goat woman merely looks puzzled, Frisk writes it down above the second figure’s head. Then they clarify with another word.

“Your brother?” asks Toriel, in unison with Chara, the latter releasing a feeling of hurt. In all their time together, Frisk had never once even suggested that they had a brother. Frisk points out that they were too busy fighting for their life and Chara relents.

To Toriel, Frisk nods eagerly, hands flying into motion as they start talking. “His name’s Lee. He’s big and really smart and he’s sixteen years older than me and he’s super cool and-“ Their hands falter just before Frisk releases control and retreats into the back of their head.

Physically, Chara takes another bite of chocolate and shrugs at Toriel. Mentally, they cast a line back into the shared comfortable darkness of their mind, probing for their headmate. “Frisk? Frisky, where you going?” They receive a sharp feeling of anger for their troubles, anger wrapped around confusion, like a hard chocolate shell around a cherry. “No, Frisk, I don’t keep secrets from you. That’s not how this headspace works.”

‘I want to go home.’

When Chara gets the answer, their shield goes up, blocking their thoughts from their headmate. In the physical world, their shoulders hunch as they stare at the remains of their chocolate. Carefully, their hands wrap up the last few squares in the shiny wrapper. Drumming their fingers on the table’s surface, they wait. And when all their thoughts are neatly arranged the way they want them to be presented, they lower their shield again. “Okay.”

‘Okay?’ Frisk sends out a questioning feeling. They both know how much Chara wants to stay, how much they’d like to grow up in the Ruins and get the childhood that they had been robbed of. But it wouldn’t be fair.

Chara reaches out to poke Frisk’s memories. Frisk lets them in and they get a feeling of warm arms, the smell of lemon soap, silent laughter as the swing at the playground goes higher and higher. The feeling of a happy Frisk. A happy Frisk that they’d be destroying if they stayed.

They want to throw a tantrum right at the table, scream, kick their feet, break something. They want to accuse Frisk of lying or of being a stupid crybaby. Of trying to ruin this for them. But the feeling of happiness from Frisk’s memories. The kid has never felt like that in all the time Chara’s been taking up space in their head. And it’s their head, not Chara’s. Chara doesn’t have a right to anything anymore. They gave that up.

Frisk questions them again, trying to find a reason for that thought, but Chara only casts a glance towards the kitchen, where they can hear Toriel washing dishes. They should go help her, but this has to be resolved first. “Just another hour. Then we’ll go.” Frisk perks up, releasing the sunny vibrations of a mental smile. Underneath the smile though, Chara can feel them shiver, thinking of the color blue in a golden space.

“He’s not gonna get us, Frisk. Not this time. I promise.” Chara slips off the chair and wanders into the kitchen, using their unoccupied hand to tug at Toriel’s robe. She removes her hands from the soap suds to retrieve another dish and smiles at them. Chara feels their stomach sink, biting the inside of their cheek. But Frisk has never asked anything of them before, which makes this important. So they plow on.

When they tell Toriel of their decision, her expression changes. They’ve only ever seen that expression on Undyne before and it gives them chills. She looks determined.

…

Sans and Papyrus sit at the bar, hunched over their tea as Grillby spins around them, serving food and drinks. He’s in the middle of rush hour, five o’clock on the nose. All the regulars have wandered in, asking about their house. With every question, Sans retreats more into himself, reluctant to explain that yes, he’d lost control, and yes, he had burned the place down. He has no idea how he’s going to explain himself to Undyne when she hears, and she’s going to hear one way or another. If Alphys hasn’t yet caught sight of the wreckage on one of her cameras, she needs to upgrade her surveillance system, and Papyrus has his own rose-tinted view of the situation, which will make it very difficult to convince him to keep quiet about it.

He takes a gulp of his lukewarm tea, listening to Papyrus make soft ‘pew pew’ noises as he plays with his action figures. He’s being very quiet out of consideration for the other monsters, though Sans doubts anyone can hear him over Crazy Bun’s wailing about the town’s shortage of hot guys. Sounds like someone’s had just enough to drink.

“They haven’t even taken a sip of booze yet,” Grillby laughs when Sans says as much to him while he’s mixing drinks. “They’re rather dotty anyway, the drinks just calm them down.”

“An’ I’ve tried online dating, but noooobody wants ta chat!” bellows the rabbit in question, slamming their fist on the table. Lesser Dog lets out a shrill yip of surprise, diving under a chair, and the rabbit immediately apologizes. No one wants to be on the wrong side of the Canine Unit, even though they’re pleasant enough to people in trouble.

Grillby gives the rabbit a quelling glare, then asks pleasantly “So, how did you wind up lighting the place up? Your magic doesn’t work like that if I recall correctly. And you’re certainly not the type to take any wooden nickels.” Grillby shakes the co*cktail shaker as if he’s having a seizure, but his face is steady as he waits for an answer.

“i’m not. and it doesn’t. it doesn’t work like that. that’s the problem.” Sans lowers his voice when Papyrus shifts in his seat. “i was trying to lock the place down, not light it up.”

…

Sans had woken up by falling out of his bed. His breathing had faltered in his chest as he searched for an open wound. Instead, he found the fabric of his t-shirt and the ribs beneath it, both undamaged and whole. Sighing, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets and tried to remember this time. He remembered leaping and twisting and pain and the taste of his own dust in his mouth, but nothing more. He could remember the first time almost perfectly, but subsequent resets were too difficult, the details slipping through his fingers. He remembered a few words, threats he’d made from the sound of them, but that was all.

When he trudged into the kitchen, Papyrus was humming around in his favorite apron, making breakfast. Sans checked the clock. A very late breakfast. For him then. He peeked up over the counter at the inside of the pan and wondered f he could fake being sick. Papyrus liked to stay home when Sans was sick, plus he followed Sans’s recipes rather than Undyne’s. Contrary to popular belief, enthusiasm did not make the food taste better, but it did help when you knew what kind of charcoal you were expected to eat. Grilled cheese charcoal is a vast improvement on soup charcoal.

He wandered out of the kitchen before Papyrus could greet him. Sinking onto the green couch and grabbing his book, Sans decided against it. Papyrus was smart enough to tell whether Sans was sick or not and Sans wasn’t sure he could handle the disappointed look he would get if Papyrus figured out his ruse. And Papyrus had figured it out before and the disappointed look was the last one Sans had been given before Papyrus confronted the human.

“GOOD AFTERNOON, SANS!” chirped the brother in question as he spun into the room. Balanced precariously on his forearms were two plates, one smothered in ketchup, the other plain. Sans took his plate and the proffered fork, holding them up to keep from spilling as Papyrus plunked himself down beside him. He must have had his own late start. Sans felt himself perk up a little at this. It was different. Different was good.

It was with this mindset that he stuck a forkful of charcoal in his mouth and suppressed the shiver that wracked his body. He frowned with his eyes at the handle of the fork. Some things weren’t different. Yet. Papyrus had vastly improved since he’d started cooking lessons, but it still wasn’t quite edible. Given the quality of Undyne’s cooking, Sans was surprised it was as good as it was.

Papyrus, who sometimes seemed unnaturally perceptive of others’ unhappiness, paused with his own fork halfway to his mouth. “Sans?” he asked, a mite quieter than his usual happy shout. “Are you alright?”

“nope,” he mumbled in reply, chewing gingerly. Papyrus may have had teeth of steel, but Sans certainly hadn’t inherited those.

“UM.” Papyrus put his fork down, drumming the handle against his plate. “DO YOU WANT TO COME ON PATROL WITH ME?”

“Looks like there’s going to be a blizzard today. You could freeze. I could freeze.” He said these things breezily, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Papyrus’s offer was a warning sign. Every time Sans had woken up to another start of the child’s killing spree, Papyrus had asked him that. His reply tended to differ, but Papyrus’s next sentence never varied.

The taller skeleton looked up at the ceiling, made a swallowing sound like a cartoon character, steeled himself. Sans felt his hand curling into a fist in the couch cushions. Don't, he thought fiercely. Papyrus, don’t. The sight dripped out of his right eye.

“BUT IT WILL BE SNOW FUN ALONE!” Papyrus spat, mouth blooming back into its toothy grin after the accursed pun was out. The grin dropped as his soul turned blue. “SANS? SANS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” The fear ramped his voice up back to its normal levels as he was yanked off the couch by an invisible force.

Sans unfolded his legs and slid off the couch into a standing position. “sorry, papyrus,” he droned in his monotone voice, the only way he could save face. “you’ll thank me later.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? SANS, THIS ISN’T FUNNY! PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!” Papyrus kicked his legs out as Sans forced him further into the air. For a split second, his panicked eyes flashed orange, but the light died as quickly as it had come, Papyrus wrestling his natural instincts down into submission. The sight pained him, even though he couldn’t remember why. Papyrus had always had trouble with his orange magic. It was why Sans had taught him blue instead.

Papyrus floated behind him like a noisy misshapen balloon as he climbed the stairs. He wouldn’t respond to the questions asked of him, focused on one thing only: keeping Papyrus safe. If that meant his little brother would never trust him again, so be it. As long as he wasn’t dust in the middle of the forest, as long as Sans didn’t have to wear his scarf in remembrance. The human couldn’t get through locked doors. He would have to lock the front door and spell Papyrus’s. If they got past Sans and into Snowdin, they wouldn’t be able to get at anyone.

“SANS, THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU! LET’S CALL UNDYNE! SHE’LL KNOW WHAT TO DO!” Sans pushed open Papyrus’s bedroom door, dropping his brother carefully on the racecar bed, but keeping his heart blue to increase his gravity.

“look, bro, promise me you’ll stay in here.” His face scrunched involuntarily at ‘promise,’ cringing away from holding his brother to the words he might say. What if something went wrong? What if the kid got through the door? What if the kid got through the door and Papyrus was stuck pacing his own room, a sitting duck? “swear to me that you’ll stay here.”

“SANS, WHAT’S WRONG?”

“S W E A R T O M E ,” he snarled, flashing his glowing eye in a way meant to close the conversation.

Papyrus looked terrified, but his training and his natural courage prevailed. He pushed himself into a standing position on the bed and pointed a commanding finger at him. “SANS, YOU ARE NOT TAKING ME CAPTIVE. RELEASE ME THIS INSTANT.”

“i’m saving your life!” he snapped. “you are not going to die as long as you just stay in here. please, papyrus!” For a split second, he thought Papyrus would agree.

But Papyrus drew himself to his full height, stomped his foot like a child, and yelled “NO!” in the loudest, most defiant voice he could muster.

“fine!” He slammed the door closed and opened his blue eye. His right eye went dark instantly, robbing him of his vision. He carefully spelled a line of bones across the doorframe, then a series of them over the door itself. Papyrus was smart. He’d see the bars and retreat back into his room. To assuage the voice that was shrieking that this was abuse, not protection, he called “i’ll come get you when it’s over!”

There was a very loud slam of some heavy object against the wall in response. Most likely Papyrus was throwing a nonverbal tantrum.

Sans crossed to his own door and went to turn the doorknob. He caught his warped reflection in the polished metal, a flash of blue among the white of his face. Uneasily, he willed the blue eye away, watching his reflection in the doorknob. It didn’t change. The right side of his face itched and his eye in the reflection seemed to swell instead. He grabbed for it, feeling the heat pulsing off his eye socket in a panic. It felt like his face was on fire.

There was a hiss and a pop and flames burst out of the old couch. Even standing on the upstairs floor, Sans felt the sudden heat wash over him like a tidal wave. It couldn’t come close to warming the cold pit of fear he felt forming in his stomach though.

It had finally happened. His magic was going out of control. He had read accounts of it happening. Monsters would snap from enormous amounts of stress and lose control of their magic before it killed them. Many veterans of the war between monsters and humans had died this way, mistaking family members for foe and expending all their energy on destroying them.

He was not about to be like them. Papyrus was all he had. Furiously, he wrested a modicum of control from his magic and spelled a barrier around his brother’s room, covering any entrance for the fire with a flameproof shield. When Sans was dead, the fire would burn out. Hopefully the human would have come and gone by then, so when Papyrus came out, he’d be able to join the evacuation himself without going off on some crazy suicide mission to ‘reform’ the human.

The ceiling groaned ominously and Sans flew into his room just in time to dodge a falling beam. While he’d been working his spell, the fire had crept along the ceiling to him. As he watched, horrified, his magic pulsated again and his door swung shut, a film of blue coating it from the inside and giving off an overpowering smell of lavender and, underneath that, the smell of rot.

Pulling the collar of his hoodie up to his nose, Sans slammed his fist into the door. The magic skin covering the wood was rubbery and threw his blow back at him, knocking him onto the floor. He bit off a swear before it could rear its ugly head and tried again. This time, the blowback hurled him through his trash tornado and bodily onto his mattress, crunching the ball of blankets underneath his weight.

Outside the door, the flames roared into life and Sans heard Papyrus yell, but whether it was in shock or pain, he couldn’t tell. He leapt to his feet on his bed and hooked his fingers under the window, trying to lift it and get out. Before it could slide an inch, something bit at his fingertips. He jerked backwards to see a nest of tiny serpentine creatures, made entirely of green sparks, snarling at him with the human’s gleeful face.

He yelled his brother’s name until his voice died in his throat. But nobody came.

…

“so i figured he was dead and i was going to burn to death, so i just kind of gave up.” Sans glances over the rim of his mug at Grillby, whose flames have died down so much that he can almost see the fire elemental’s inner shell. He’s left so much out of the story that Grillby has to be suspicious of something. He didn’t say anything about his magic working on its own, just that he managed to lose control of it. Sometime during his tale, Papyrus had gone to play cards with Lesser Dog, which made lying a little easier. Granted, the guilt was still killing him like a knife to the chest. He gulps down the dregs of his tea to soothe the ache, narrowly avoiding swallowing the teabag, before saying “i never once thought papyrus would jump out the window.”

The bartender takes to the change of topic too easily. “Really? It seems like the obvious conclusion. You read him enough adventure stories.” Grillby cleans a glass with one hand and, with the other, sends a frothy green shake down to the hamster boy by the jukebox. The teenager nods and raises a hand to the bartender in acknowledgement.

“but i usually read fluffy bunny and advanced puzzle theory,” he points out.

“Ah, but who could forget the cowardly pirate of Candlewick Cay?” the bartender asks, stretching his arm out on the bar with the fingers splayed and leaning on his other hand. “As far as I remember, Papyrus was especially interested in Perry’s escape attempts.”

“he was eight, grillbz, he had his nose in everything. besides, i think he was more interested in the skeleton. you know, up until the guy started skinning kids.” Sans rolls his eyes. “skeletons are always the bad guys in human books.”

Grillby took his chin off his hand long enough to wave it dismissively in a circle, then returned to his former position. “But your version of him was fairly charming up until that point. I enjoyed the voice you did.”

“i was twelve. i thought he was supposed to be charming. he had a top hat.” Sans points to the top of his skull, then tries to pass it off as an itch.

“Oh, do dry up. I’m paying you a compliment. Just take it, would you please?” His outstretched arm catches the mug the hamster boy sent flying back. In the warm glow of the restaurant, his eyes gleam a little, softening words that might have been harsh coming from other monsters. “Just relax.” He transfers the mug to a tray of used dishes and hefts it up on the palm of his hand, using the other to tap Sans’s knuckles.

“sorry. little hard to be lax about all this.”

The bartender makes a sound of agreement and picks up Sans’s mug with his free hand. “More tea?”

“ugh, no. any more and you’ll tea me floating away.” Sans drops his chin onto the polished counter.

“It’s soothing tea. For your nerves.” Grillby makes a show out of looking him up and down. “And you look like you need it.”

“stop mothering me, grillbz.” As Grillby walks into the kitchen, Sans sits up straight, calling after him “don’t you dare refill that mug, mcfrye! i won’t drink it! grillby mcfrye!” The fire exit door swings shut behind him and Sans flops back onto the counter. Grillby’s going to refill the mug and Sans is most probably going to drink it, out of loyalty to his friend. “loyal-tea,” he mumbles into his sleeve, smiling as he drifts off.

One of the Dogi barks suddenly, waking him from his doze. “A new smell! (New smell!)” call Dogamy and Dogaressa. “Intruder in Snowdin? (Let’s see!)” They bounce off their stools on route to the door, but Sans is faster. Papyrus’s head shoots up as Sans rushes by.

Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, he plunges out into the street, looking towards the sign. He can barely just make out the speck approaching in the darkness, but as they pass the welcoming board, the lights catch on their sweater and their hair.

A memory bubbles up unbidden, of fighting the human. His limbs heavy with fatigue, his head aching, Papyrus’s scarf trailing from where he’d tied it around his throat. He remembers having to stop talking and rub a palm against his eye. It was the only time he’d lost face in front of them, too slow to swallow back all his fear and sorrow and blistering anger. He saw that moment of weakness every time he saw the faces in their eyes, peering out delightedly from the human’s pupils and waiting for him to break again. He’s done breaking. He’s changing the rules around this time, taking his turn first.

When the human is close enough that he can see their shape huddled against the cold, he moves.

The human’s strangled gasp of pain chokes off into a burble of confusion. He drops their limp body on the ground, grimly examining his handiwork as the world fades at the edges. Even through the approaching grey, he can see the steadily growing pool of red on the white snow. “SANS?” He turns and sees Papyrus, staring in horror at the little corpse on the ground. The horror is suddenly transferred from the corpse to Sans himself and Papyrus starts to back away.

Papyrus doesn’t get it. He believes in honorable battle, all of monsterkind believes in honorable battle. What Sans just did was the farthest thing from honorable that he could have possibly done, but it was all he could have done. Right? He looks down at the blood on his hands and reaches out with his red-stained fingers. “papyrus, wait!”

His brother runs.

And then the world resets.

“i guess i lost control of it,” he finds himself saying, in just as flat a tone as he had used the first time he’d said it. Before Grillby can say anything else, Sans puts his head down on the counter. He’s never before felt so glad to know that the human’s still alive. What just happened, that was the second most terrible way that possibly could have gone and he’d never seen that happen before. For Papyrus to see that, to see him kill without even pulling the human’s soul out, it must have cemented the story in his mind.

He twists on his seat, looking over to the Dogs’ table. Papyrus throws down an ace and yells “GO FISH,” thoroughly confusing Lesser, who stares at his cards like they’re hiding some sort of conspiracy from him. Grillby’s hand on his arm is so warm that it almost burns. “Sans?”

Fishing around for any other topic of conversation, Sans alights on the one that he knows will completely distract his friend. “speaking of strange but interesting happenings, how often do ya practice knocking down doors?” As he thought it would, the comment makes Grillby flare almost white. Sans chuckles. “do you practice in the mirror?”

“We weren’t even talking about-“ Grillby realizes what he’s saying and snaps “Hush!” The cloth in his hand scrubs at the counter as if he’s trying to clean Sans’s reflection right out of the wood.

“i bet you do. you could be a spy with that sorta talent." Sans rocks back in his seat and spreads his hands wide in the air, making a marquee out of them. “grillby mcfrye, secret agent. all the monsters think he’s hot stuff.” He hasn’t bothered to lower his voice and most of the patrons have turned their attention to where the bartender appears to be having a fit of some sort.

“Sans, shut your bone box! You are going to ruin my life!” Grillby grabs for him, trying to muffle the laughter. Sans evades his arms and the bartender tries a different tactic, attempting to throw his cleaning cloth at him. The cloth doesn’t go very far though, and drops down behind the counter. Grillby follows it and doesn’t stand up again.

Minutes pass with the other patrons staring and Sans finally stands up on his stool to check on him. “you okay down there?”

The reply is very quiet and Sans can see the firelight flickering on the very polished floor. “I am considering living down here, where I’ll never have to deal with you again. I will be the counter hermit.”

“nah, you’d get bored as the counter hermit. there are no exciting books on being a counter hermit. besides, you’d miss all my great jokes. and i’m just getting fired up.”

Grillby’s despairing moan makes him laugh even harder, to the point where he almost falls right off his seat. At some point, Grillby chuckles too, then his laugh is like a roaring fire, warm and washing over everything and making the world just a bit brighter.

Papyrus looks up momentarily, rolling his eyes when he sees Sans mid-laugh. He’d learned that particular trick when he was seventeen, a little old for it maybe, but he uses it often enough on Sans to make up for the late start. As always though, the eye roll is followed by a big goofy grin, one that he gladly returns.

Grillby finally pops back up when something in the kitchen dings aggressively. Grillby is the king of pushy appliances though and takes it in stride, giving the counter another wipe and Sans another swat before heading through the fire exit.

He sits alone, trying to stop laughing, but every time he thinks he’s calmed down, “Grillby McFrye, secret agent” is announced in his head by a radio voice, followed by appropriately sneaky music. Or, his favorite, Grillby’s gloomy voice musing “I could be the counter hermit.”

The bartender returns, smiling in his mouthless way as he balances a tray of burgers and fries. His hand sneaks out and taps Sans’s knuckles as he passes.

He stops laughing at the gesture. Sometimes things carry over along with his memory. Grillby has now touched his hand like that twice, in the same exact spot. Little things like that, they make him wonder if other monsters remember more than they let on. Sometimes Papyrus asks if he knows the human, if he’s seen them before.

His mind returns to the human in the snow. They must have saved close by. The thought is like someone’s dropped a lead weight on his shoulders. They’ll be coming back. They have to if they want to get to the king. There’s only one way through the Underground: through its five major provinces; the Ruins, Snowdin, Waterfall, Hotland, and New Home.

Chapter 5: Raspberry Nice Cream, Among Other Things

Chapter Text

Once they’ve announced their intention to leave, they expect Toriel to attack. They expect her to go down into the basem*nt and wait for them to try and pass through. Instead, she plies them with sweaters and clean underwear and socks, asking them only to wait a little while so she can wash some shirts. Chara, swinging their legs as they sit atop the rattling dryer, notes that most of these clothes are theirs, but some are Asriel’s. No matter their previous owner, all articles go into the green knapsack the goat woman has dug up for them. Toriel moves the operation into the kitchen, setting them on the counter. She makes them a sandwich with the crusts cut off and wraps up a slice of pie and cuts up some vegetables graciously donated by the Vegetoids.

By the time she’s finished, Frisk’s foot is jiggling so hard that they’re rattling the silverware. Toriel fastens the knapsack’s flap and holds out the straps for Frisk to put their arms in. Then, as if they’re slipping into an itchy sweater, Chara crawls into control of one hand and reaches up to Toriel. They hold hands going down the stairs and through the cold stone tunnels.

Frisk is frightened, but any time they try to make a comment, Chara snarls at them to be quiet. They’re straining to memorize every curve in the tunnel, every hair on Toriel’s head, intent on remembering this if they lose everything to the voices again. Frisk lets it be, drawing comfort instead from the feeling of safety Toriel radiates when she’s not trying to keep them hostage in the Ruins. She understands this time. She’s helping them.

They reach the door that leads into Snowdin Forest and Frisk can feel their chest beginning to constrict. They take a great gulp of air. Chara stops memorizing. Their presence wraps around Frisk like a security blanket, breathing out evenly. Frisk takes another breath and yet again Chara releases it. “Let’s get going before I change my mind.”

Frisk looks up at the heavy doors and then to Toriel, expectant.

She doesn’t move at first, staring at the door herself. Frisk tenses, their free hand curling into a fist, just in case she decides to attack them anyway. Instead of launching into her spiel about having to protect them, or conjuring up a fireball, Toriel kneels in order to be face to face with them. There’s a trace of a smile on her lips, but her eyes are so sad. “Frisk, Chara, can you ‘save’ here? This way, if you run into trouble, you will be able to tell me of it when you return.” They nod and her smile stretches up, trying to banish the concern in her eyes. “Oh! And this!” She pulls a small cell phone from the folds of her robe and closes their hand around it. “Call me when you reach Snowdin, understand? The last time I was there, a few monsters understood hand signals. Do not be afraid to ask one of them to translate.”

Chara releases a wave of pride. “My mom’s pretty smart, huh, Frisky?”

Frisk assents, both to Chara’s comment and to Toriel’s question. They cast about for something to lash their Determination to. The strength of the doors? Nope. The height of the walls. That’s also a no. Frisk turns in a full circle, searching for something. Their eyes fall on Toriel and, while they can’t save using a person, they get an idea.

*The feeling of someone who loves you both so dearly and without reason.

*It fills you with Determination.

…

Frisk is thankful for the extra sweaters as soon as they’re a few steps into Snowdin Forest. The cold bites at them like a vicious little dog, nipping at any exposed area it can find. Frisk dons a sweater, pulling out the front a bit so they can look at the daisy pattern sewn into it.

“Asriel’s,” Chara explains. “He and Dad really loved the flowers. Where d’you think he is right now?” A child’s laugh peals in their head, faded around the edges and somehow softened by age. Asriel’s laugh. “Do you think he’s scared?”

Frisk envisions a small battered flower cowering before them, wearing the face of a dead boy. They don’t really want to know where Asriel is. He probably won’t want to see them anyhow. They don’t want to scare him any more than they already have. He’s a coward and Flowey’s a bully.

“He’s a crybaby too. But, Frisk, if he’s following us around, he might freeze to death. And he can’t reset anymore.” Chara’s worry reminds Frisk of the way Lee would sound when they were running a temperature; equally doting and horrified, as if a cold could kill them. But Chara’s concern is worse. Flowers aren’t made to survive in cold weather.

They take a few steps forward and swivel back to stare down the path to the door. No glimpse of yellow dropping into the snow to hide. Maybe he’s not following them. Maybe he’s doing something else.

“Like what, Frisk? He’s bored and he’s twelve. He’s going to follow us around because we’re interesting.”

Frisk had thought he was eight. Chara must be older than twelve then, much older than Frisk. They decide not to bring that up for fear of another of Chara’s tangents on how they’re older than old itself, instead walking forward in big confident strides, arms swinging. Chara sings a marching song in their high reedy voice, laughing at every note they miss and every time their voice cracks. Energized by the complete lack of consequences so far, Frisk flaps their arms out to their sides and breaks into a run. This turns into a happy dance before long, up until they trip over something half-buried in the snow.

Frisk sneezes snow off their face, licking at the wet droplets around their mouth, and Chara picks them back up, looking for the object that tripped them. It’s a stick, thicker than their arm. It’s too heavy to lift and too heavy to break. That last statement rattles around in their head for a minute, then Frisk freezes. They’ve seen this stick broken.

Chara grabs for control of the legs and they’re pelting down the snowy path as fast as they can, arms and legs churning the air. They fly between the bars of the bridge, past the conveniently-shaped lamp, and back into the woods. Frisk howls for Chara to stop, to calm down but Chara’s beyond hearing. They push everything they have into getting their attention and Chara screams without understanding what they’re saying.

“I promised that he wasn’t gonna get us, Frisk! I promised!”

‘I didn’t hear the branch snap!’ They always hear the branch snap when he steps on it. It’s loud, like the crack of ice on a frozen lake, a herald of something terrible to come.

“We were running really fast, we probably just didn’t hear it.” Their body is panting like a dog as Chara pushes it further.

‘Chara, that’s enough!’ Frisk shouts, accompanying their precise words with a lightning strike feeling of imperiousness. The two coupled shock Chara enough so that Frisk can grab hold of the legs. Their body staggers as the two chase each other’s control around, Chara inflicting little shocks like bites to Frisk’s mind to slow them down. But Frisk is dominant and cuts them off, confining them to the headspace.

Frisk sinks into the snow, shivering and panting. Their body starts to cough, lungs scratchy in the dry air. In the knapsack is a bottle of water, warmed by fire magic. They fumble in twisting the cap off and drops of liquid sizzle and bounce as they meet the frozen ground. Taking small sips from the bottle soothes their frenzied heart and frenzied mind alike and they continue drinking even after their body has calmed.

“C-Chara?” comes a small voice from beside them. Chara begins to shriek “I was right, I was right!” even before Frisk can turn around, identifying the visitor as none other than the golden flower. He stares at them from a distance, eyes wide enough to rival dinner plates.

They cap the water bottle and stash it back in the bag. Frisk rips the smaller notepad out of their pocket and scribbles on it with their pencil, showing the page to Flowey before they question him. He squints at their handwriting, deciphering the question, then he shakes his head, petals rustling. “N-no one’s fuh-fuh-following you but m-m-m-m-“ His stuttering sounds painful. It’s been getting worse with every reset, Frisk remembers.

‘But you?’ they write on the page. He scowls when they show it to him.

“I c-can do it m-m-“ He cuts himself off, angry now. “You’re n-n-not C-Chara. Ch-Chuh-Chara h-has d-d-d- has different h-hands-writing”

‘I’m Frisk, actually,' they write. Flowey looks furious, so they hasten to add ‘Chara’s up here too. So technically, I’m both!’

“Y-you s-sp-spelled ‘t-t-t-technically’ wrong. It-it’s got an ‘h,’ n-n-n-not a ‘k,’” Flowey corrects absently, furrowing his face as he tries to decide whether or not to believe them.

“Spelling champ of New Home Elementary,” Chara remembers, with no small amount of pride.

'And also kind of rude.' But Frisk, trying to remain polite, writes ‘Chara says hi and that you were the spelling champ of your elementary school.'

Flowey blinks. “Hi, Chuh-Chuh-Chuh-Chara.” The spelling champion mention must have gotten him. After all, they've never seen a trophy or anything for that, so there's no way they could have known it before.

‘Are you cold?’ Frisk writes next, underlining the last word with a measure of concern.

The flower blinks at them, curious, then suspicious. “You’re trying to trick m-m-m-“ He lets out a yowl of frustration, face contorting into that of the shark-toothed monstrosity that tried to kill them in their first few runs. Chara laughs when Frisk jumps a little. Flowey’s lips move without sound. “Ah-Aren’t y-you c-c-c-cold? Yuh-You’re s-s-sitting in the- in the snow!”

Frisk wants to smile, but he’s so defensive that they’re almost scared of what will happen if they do. Flowey hasn’t hurt them in a while, but he has the upper hand in this situation, even if he doesn’t know it yet. They redouble their efforts. ‘It’s not a trick. Toriel gave us scarves. You can have one.’ When the flower abruptly pulls himself back underground, Frisk sighs.

“You can’t save everyone, Frisk,” Chara says, equally disappointed. “Maybe he’ll-“

Whatever Chara thinks Flowey might do is lost for all time due to the flower’s interruption. “Thuh-throw it over huh-here,” he commands. He’s looking at them from a few feet away. “N-n-no f-f-funny buh-buh-buh-business.” The words coming out of his mouth sound so wrong, like he’s a mishmash of frightened twelve-year-old Asriel and bitter, angry Flowey. Frisk has to bite the inside of their cheek to keep Chara’s smile from coming out. Swinging the knapsack off their shoulder, Frisk roots around inside with one hand. Their fingers make contact with soft fabric and they pull out a green-and-gold scarf, twisting it in their fingers.

“H-hey!” Flowey says, surprised. “Th-th-th-that’s m-“ He checks himself at the ‘m’ and tries again. “Asriel h-had th-that.”

Frisk gestures towards him with it and he nods. In a single motion, they throw it over and he strains up to catch it in his teeth. The scarf flops onto his face and while he struggles with it, Chara sneaks up on him. Carefully, they unwind it from his face and resettle it around his stem. While they’re this close, he goes completely still and his petals look as if they blanch a little. When finished, Chara steps back to admire their handiwork. Flowey’s mouth opens and closes and produces a series of sounds instead of words, each new noise frustrating him more than the one before, until he’s red in the face and gnashing his teeth.

“Guh-get aw-awah-away fr-from m-m-m-m-“ He lets loose a horrifying shriek of anger, churning the ground around him with the thick vines he hides under the frozen earth. Frisk retreats hurriedly, holding their hands up.

“It’s okay! I’m not going to hurt you!” they sign, crouching down to his level. It’s a stupid move, but they’d seen programs before where people made themselves smaller in order to calm wildlife. If it worked for a frightened dog, chances were it would work for a frightened goat-flower-thing.

“Yeah r-r-r-r-right!” he roars.

Frisk is so startled that they fall onto their butt in the snow. “Can you understand me?” They have to say it a few times before Flowey stops throwing clods of earth.

He nods and they prod for more information. Sullenly, he answers, without really answering anything, “I h-h-had l-loads of t-t-t-time be-be-before you.” Then he gives a funny little twist, like a shrug without shoulders, as if to dismiss the fact that he took the time to learn a whole language. “D-d-don’t guh-get any- any st-stupid ideas!”

Frisk laughs in delight and takes a step forward. Flowey instantly disappears below the snow, leaving no indication that he was ever there. The child winces. They had only meant to hug him. They don’t know if any monsters in the Underground know sign because Toriel’s information might be a little dated and even if the sole exception is rude aggressive Flowey, they’re pleased by his comprehension.

“You said it yourself. He’s a big coward.” Chara sounds less enthused by that than they normally are. “He’s a mess too. His petals were frayed. Frisk, he’s terrified of us.” Their mental voice sounds so sad. Frisk hadn’t realized how much they had been counting on talking with their brother, but now that they hear it, they understand.

Sensing Frisk’s sympathy, Chara hurriedly changes the topic, jumping straight into “At least we know Ol’ Smiley isn’t following us.”

That is a plus. Unfortunately, Frisk can see the bad side of this too. When they point it out, Chara laughs, a short brittle sound, as they pick up the backpack. “Well, maybe he’s given up. Eighty-nine is a lot of times to die. I only died the once and that was hard enough.”

Frisk shudders, aghast. ‘Eighty-nine?’ they ask, horrorstruck. ‘We’ve done this eighty-nine times?’

“No, stupid. We’ve only just started our adventure.” Chara gives their essence a friendly shove.

Frisk gathers their courage and puts a spring in their step as they continue along the snowy path. ‘That’s right!’ they say. ‘We're going to fix everything!’

“That’s the spirit!” Chara shouts and they move as if they’re playing hopscotch; one foot hop, one foot hop, two feet, one again, until Frisk starts to laugh at the absurdity. They’re still laughing when they walk into a cloud of smog. Frisk just about chokes on the breath they’d been in the process of taking. ‘What is that?’ they ask, conveying disgust with a relay of the stench to Chara.

“Dog treats. Definitely dog treats. Ugh. Smells like someone set fire to a bicycle tire.” Chara’s voice takes on a nasal quality, as if they’re pinching their nose. “Nope, doesn’t help. Hey, if those are the dog treats, where’s the dog?” Frisk glances over their shoulder at the empty sentry station. They had walked past it without a second thought. Usually they’d have been stopped by Doggo in his pursuit to keep things from moving. Now they double back and ring the bell, looking for him. No dog comes rising up from the depths to investigate, although Chara does get a kick out of the bell’s angry little chime. They rock forward, half-lifting themself in order to get a better look at the inside of the construct. A worn blue cushion is scooting around on the floor, propelled by what looks like a motor and wheels. Other than that and a few boxes of dog treats, the station is completely empty.

‘Where is everybody?’ Frisk wonders uneasily. The silence in the forest isn’t their fault this time. They haven’t laid a hand on anyone. In fact, besides Flowey and Toriel, they haven’t even seen anyone.

“It doesn’t matter. Maybe they’re slacking off. Yeah. I bet they don’t have unions down here,” Chara says breezily, maneuvering Frisk’s feet into a brisk trot, one that gives way to an energized swishing as they skate across the icy path. As they go flying by, Chara reaches out a hand and slaps the navigation sign until it swings on its post.

The ice gives way to snow again and Frisk slows them down to a meandering wander, kicking chunks of snow up into the air. Before they can get too invested in making it seem like its snowing, Chara yells “Whoa, Frisk, who’s this guy?”

Chara runs forward, Frisk’s arms flailing wildly, then Chara seizes them and slams the flats of their palms against a red and grey cart, rattling the umbrella in its tray. The rabbit-like monster standing beside it makes a little surprised sound that sounds a lot like “yerp.” When he sees that it’s only Chara, peeking up over the icy metal at him, his face breaks into a buck-toothed grin. “Hey there! Who’re you, little fellow?”

Chara just blinks at him and rather rudely tries to shake the cart, listening in order to guess its contents. In response to Frisk’s scolding, they just point out that it’s really not like he’ll understand Frisk’s signs anyway. Frisk signs their name and points to themself.

“You want to know what’s in the cart?” the rabbit guesses. He’s not wrong, but Frisk gives up on signing. Chara nods. “Why, Nice Cream! The frozen treat that warms your heart! Now only fifteen gold! Want some?”

Chara doesn’t even dignify that with a response, plopping their knapsack to the ground as they wonder “Did Mom give us any money?”

‘We are not about to be robbed by your sweet tooth, Chara!’ Frisk wrestles for control of one hand, but Chara has already found a small pouch that rattles enticingly when shaken. They hold up one finger and drop a handful of coins on the cart, looking expectantly at the Nice Cream man. He doesn’t even count the coins as he reaches into the cart’s compartment. Frisk mimes tearing their hair out.

The Nice Cream they receive is covered in a green wrapper. Shucking it, Chara sticks the tip of the frozen treat into their mouth and goes to give the Nice Cream man the discarded wrapper. Instead of taking it, he presses their fingers around it. “Each Nice Cream has something nice written inside. That’s the ‘warm your heart’ bit.”

Frisk notes that they’ve gotten this far. Might as well finish it. Chara fingers the wrapping open and looks at the inside. “Love yourself because I love you!” it proclaims in a goofy spiral writing. They smile crookedly as they suck on their Nice Cream and tuck the wrapper into Frisk’s shorts’ pocket, ignoring the whines that it was going to get sticky and gross in there.

Sulkily, Frisk throws a signed thank you at the Nice Cream Guy with the hand they were able to take control of. Chara, perhaps feeling guilty, allows them access to the taste buds. Yum, raspberry.

They see a big snowball on a patch of ice, raising their eyebrows. They don’t remember this puzzle. Scampering forward, they heave a mighty kick, sending the snowball bouncing around the ice.

“Go, Frisky, go!” calls Chara, biting into their Nice Cream in excitement. Frisk dribbles the snowball, then kicks it sharply and accurately into the hole. A red flag comes shooting up out of the ground. Chara reads what is written on it with pride and in a deep television announcer voice. “Bravery. Justice. Integrity. Kindness. Perseverance. Patience. Using these, you were able to win at ‘Ball Game.’” They drop their fake voice and yell “Yeah, Frisky!” as a pile of gold spills out from the hole.

Frisk gathers it up, patiently beginning to count. Before they can get too far, Chara informs them that there are fifty gold pieces in the pile and that they would very much like another Nice Cream with some of that money, please and thank you.

‘How’d you do that?’

Putting on their deep voice again, Chara recites “Hunger. Knowledge. Math. Intelligence. Charm. Good Looks. Using these, you were able to count all the coins super fast and your wonderful headmate decided to reward you with more Nice Cream.”

‘No. You’ve still got some. We don’t need more.’ Frisk closes their mind’s door to Chara’s whining and heads forward. Sulking, Chara digs around in their pockets, discovering the sticker sheet Frisk had left in there. They decorate Frisk’s skin with stars and detached body parts, like big red lips and a mustache. They enter the next room looking like something out of a Picasso painting.

This cavern is empty too. Frisk thinks that they remember Sans and Papyrus being here. Arguing about a puzzle. They move onto the next room feeling even more disquieted. There’s the frozen spaghetti and the microwave. Frisk doesn’t stop to save though, sticking to Toriel’s plan.

The spike puzzle has been solved. Frisk goes to check the switch, finding it depressed with vines. ‘Flowey?’ they ask, just as Chara smirks.

“Flowey,” they confirm.

He’s gone ahead and gotten rid of almost all the puzzles for them. He’s left them the one that Frisk now considers the hardest though. As they skid over the ice, trying to scrabble their way over the X switches, Frisk decides that they’d much prefer a nice crossword. Chara seems to be having fun though, laughing every time they fall, even though they’re covering the nerve endings and so must be getting awfully scraped up. Just before they can complete the puzzle, they go spinning off the edge. For one terrible second, they’re falling.

They land heavily on a pile of snow, but other than losing the breath in their lungs, they seem unharmed. Plus, they’ve still got their Nice Cream, something that pleases Chara to no end. Chara sticks the treat back into their mouth as they get up, brushing snow off their sweater. In plucking a few crystals off their cuff, Frisk sees something red flapping out of the corner of their eye. They glance up.

A snow effigy of Papyrus, with complete with impossible muscle structure, looms over them. Frisk gets up and walks around the back of it. Papyrus must have gone over this with a chisel or something to get all the details in. When they come full-circle, they spot the object they’d fallen on and the red lettering across it. Chara all but cackles. “It’s perfect!” they shriek. Their mirth, like many of their emotions, is infectious and Frisk laughs too as they walk onward, leaving the little mound of snow behind.

Their Nice Cream finally runs out as they fall into their first encounter. Gyftrot stumbles into their path, growling angrily. Its head is bowed by the weight of the objects hanging from its antlers.

Frisk instinctively pulls their soul back into their chest, crossing their arms over it. “Nice spare sign,” Chara says approvingly as they wrangle the eager soul. When their soul is safely back in their chest, they look at the monster anew.

“He’s a little weighted down and it irritates him.” Chara, inspecting the sticker sheet, suggests sticking googly eyes onto the poor thing. “It’ll be hilarious,” they plead, snigg*ring a little themself.

Frisk shakes their head firmly and reaches towards the monster. They untangle sticky candy canes and tinsel and some ornaments, most of which Chara puts in their pockets. One of the candy canes goes in their mouth. It has a good flavor. When they step back to view the Gyftrot, something squirms in the small trees in its antlers. Once more their hands go searching, but this time they emerge holding a small white dog. They have to adjust their grip to avoid dropping it because the dog is wriggling like a worm on a hook. Then it nips them, hard enough to draw blood.

Frisk drops the animal with a yelp and Chara raises their uninjured hand to give the little animal a hearty whack. Before they can do anything rash, Frisk stops them. ‘He’s just nervous, Chara. It’s okay.’

The dog is indeed nervous, looking around as if something might attack it at any minute. When Frisk takes a step forward, the dog skedaddles out of the encounter. Chara sends a withering glare after it. “Yeah, you better run.”

Frisk pulls out the chocolate bar and offers a segment of it to Gyftrot, a peace offering. The deer-creature accepts it, munching happily even as Chara screeches.

‘Calm down. It needs it more than you do.’

“Traitor!” Chara howls melodramatically as Frisk rewraps what is left of the chocolate bar. The Gyftrot eats the Nice Cream stick too (‘Come on, Chara, you can’t even eat that.’) and then wishes them a pleasant journey. Frisk pulls another scarf out of the bag as Gyftrot ambles away, wrapping it around their hand.

They enter the field of snow poffs and immediately begin petting each one, looking for the silly Greater Dog. It had been their favorite monster and their least favorite to encounter… before. But now, marching to the beat of their own drummer, Frisk looks forward to seeing the silly creature and petting it as they’d longed to do. There’s no dog in the snow poffs, but they leave the field thirty gold pieces heavier and maybe a little more concerned. At this rate, they’re going to be rich and lonely. Chara sends them a silly image of swimming in money and they’re chuckling when they reach the bridge.

They can see clear through to the other side, but past that, it looks as though Snowdin’s experiencing some odd weather. The town itself is concealed by great gusts of snow whipping around its parameters. They can just barely see the blinking lights of the ‘Welcome to Snowdin!’ sign. Frowning, Frisk leaps lightly onto the first plank of the bridge. As usual, it is incredibly stable, not once rocking or shaking as they venture across it. At about the part where Sans and Papyrus would appear, they turn and look back to the other side. Flowey is halfway out of the snow, watching them go. When he realizes he’s been spotted, he starts and dives back into the ground, his long scarf streaming behind him.

“Do you think he hits his head if the ground is too frozen?” Chara muses.

Frisk has to wonder about this for a minute before deciding that, if the answer’s yes, they would not like to be a flower in the snow. They wouldn’t really like to be a flower at all.

“I think I’d be a pretty cool flower if it had been me instead of Azzy. Maybe I’d be a Venus flytrap. And I’d eat bugs like grah, roar, chomp, chomp.”

Sending the body hopping the last few paces off the bridge, Frisk asks what they would be as a flower, if Chara was assigning them all plants.

“A daisy,” Chara blurts. “And Mom would be a chrysanthemum, get it?” When Frisk doesn’t laugh, Chara heaves a big gusty sigh through their headspace. “Chrysanthe-MUM. Like, a mom flower.”

‘Really? Then what’s Asriel?’

“Duh! A sunflower!”

‘I don’t get it.’

Chara sputters, stomping around the mental space incredulously. Frisk keeps a straight face a moment longer before they laugh. Chara sends them a feeling of mock outrage as they shift into control over the legs. “I get it now. You were punking me, huh, punk? Huh? You’re worse than Mom.”

‘You’re the one punning,’ Frisk points out, walking the last few steps to Snowdin. The temperature drops about twenty degrees and the wind hits them hard.

“Gah! Frisk, get some more scarves out!” With frozen fingers, Frisk fumbles for the knapsack’s latch. There are a few panicked seconds where they’re terrified that their fingers are going to snap off rather than the latch, but then it clicks open. They plunge their hands into its depths, hoping that they’ll thaw.

Every article of clothing they touch is warm and soft and they blindly put almost everything on, praying that this was indeed a hat and not a pair of underwear. Toriel has thoughtfully packed them a pair of grey gloves, stuffed on the inside with fake white fur. Or maybe real white fur. It’s hard to tell with monsters.

Fortified against the cold, Frisk puffs out their chest, proud at having handled the situation. Then a particularly harsh gust of wind just about bowls them over and they have to scrunch themself back into defensive Frisk position.

“C’mon, Frisk, maybe the Inn’s open.” A warm bed sounds absolutely great right about now. They struggle past the sign, catching the dazzle of its red and green lights on their clothes and hair. The snow’s piled really high today and it reaches their waist.

They pass the little shop attached to the inn and for a split second, they are bathed in golden light.

Frisk remembers smiling as if someone had the corners of their mouth pinched between their fingers and was pulling hard in two opposite directions. Chara remembers holding the knife so inexpertly and tightly that little trails of blood had snaked their way down their fingers from the places where the knife bit into Frisk’s hands. Together, they remember him stepping out of thin air. Together, they remember the ducking and jumping and being thrown so hard into things that their skin would split like an overripe fruit on impact. They remember the instant where an attack didn’t come, when Sans had stopped and rubbed at his eye, and they had hoped that he would just let them go, that he would just run and leave them with one less sin.

Then Chara’s screaming and swearing and Frisk gasps. There’s a horrible dull feeling spreading from the center of their chest and strong arms holding them up. Stringy ropes of blood and saliva drip from their mouth to the snow and when they cough, their mouth is painted red. They whimper questioningly before their assailant drops them face-first into the snow. “SANS?” asks a familiar voice, but then they’ve lost their grip on reality and it spins away like an unwoven tapestry.

Chara’s voice starts to fade and Frisk can ever so dimly feel them sending out tendrils, reaching desperately for something to hold onto, reaching for Frisk, as some unknown force pulls them apart. With a horrible wrench, Frisk seizes upon Chara’s voice and anchors themself in the world. Together, they latch upon the single bright spark in an all-encompassing void and push themselves forward into it.

They fall back into their body so hard that it drops them to their knees. Toriel’s gasp of shock fades quickly as she runs her hands over them, checking for wounds. She won’t find any. They always return to the body they saved in, taking nothing with them but the memories and the ghost of pain.

Chara calls Sans all the filthy names in their vocabulary and some Frisk thinks that they just made up on the spot. Toriel has crouched to their level and pulled them close to her and now she rocks gently back and forth. Frisk realizes that they are signing frantically, snot running out of their nose. They’re dripping on her robe again, but she doesn’t mind.

“My child, my heart, what ails you? What happened?”

Chara takes control of the mouth and mouths ‘died.’ After a moment of thought they add ‘Murdered.’

Toriel is quite adept at reading lips, which makes Frisk wonder what her children were like before they fell. Her eyes flash and her body heats up. The scent of cinnamon fills the air, and it’s no longer sugar-sweet. It’s overwhelming and hot, making their eyes stream. They see that determined expression on her face again as she says “Come back to the house with me, children. I will need to retrieve a few things.”

Chara takes her hand immediately and they have to take two strides for every one of hers to keep up. Toriel’s almost running for the house, which worries Frisk a lot. They fish their notebook out of their shorts pocket and scribble a question. ‘For what?’ She gives the notebook a glance, tossing back an unruffled response, even though the cinnamon scent of her magic is so powerful that it hurts. The answer to their question makes them pause in the middle of the hallway as Toriel hurries towards the stairs.

“Why, I am coming with you, of course.”

Chapter 6: Nobody Likes A Glyde (But Jerry's Even Worse)

Chapter Text

Safe once more in Toriel’s house, Chara seems to have completely disregarded the danger awaiting them in Snowdin. Frisk keeps replaying Toriel’s words, hoping to get a rise out of them, hoping for them to see sense, but Chara refuses to protest. Instead they sip at their hot chocolate, one hand curled over their stomach where they had been speared. Time and time again, they say “Mom can take care of herself, Frisk” and “She’ll beat him up and then we can keep going.” They swing their feet back and forth under the table, their heels nudging the knapsack, which has been tucked under their chair.

Frisk knows that Chara’s only supporting Toriel because she’s their mom and that frustrates them beyond belief. Toriel’s been sheltered! She’s been living in the Ruins for gosh knows how long and she never lasted long against them during their bad times, so why the hell is Chara supporting this? Frisk sends Chara a spiteful little image of Toriel speared by bones in order to make their point and their hand shakes around their mug, but they don’t respond, which only makes Frisk angrier. They’re determined to make Chara understand the danger for once, but Chara’s evading their attempts with a grim naivety that they no longer possess.

‘She’ll get hurt! He’ll kill her and then us and we’ll never get out! Chara, she’s your mom!’

“Stars above, Frisk, don’t you think I know that? Here, tell her if you want to. But tell her yourself.” Chara hops off their chair and pads down the hall to Toriel’s room, nudging open the door with their forehead as their hands take out the notepad and pencil.

Toriel is bent over her bed, folding clothing neatly into a satchel. Beside the satchel is a stack of items. In goes her book on snail facts, her glasses case, several containers of food, glittering at the corners with light. She must have spelled them closed in order to protect the clothing.

Chara knocks at the door with their knuckles and the woman turns to look at them. Her eyes are sparkling with excitement and they feel that if they could see her cheeks, that they would be flushed pink with newfound adventurous spirit. “Ah, my child, is this not exciting? I have packed for all kinds of environments. Hotland’s heat, Snowdin’s snow, the marshes of Waterfall, and I believe I even have something fitting the fashions of New Home.” Her expression falters a little as Chara raises an eyebrow, mouthing ‘muu-muu?’

Her laugh is rueful, like there’s an inside joke hidden there that Frisk is not privy to. “No. Not the muu-muu, my child. I do not believe I even know where that is anymore.” Toriel furrows her brow, trying to locate that particular dress for a few moments in her mind. She crosses to the wardrobe and opens its doors, looking as though she expects the dreaded clothing item to launch itself at her with the intent to kill. As she does that, Chara sidles over to the bed and sticks their head into her satchel. It smells like her, like warmth and fur and fire in all the best ways. They breathe in and Frisk breathes out. Chara breathes in. Frisk breathes out.

When they take their head out of the bag, it’s Frisk in control. ‘Toriel, I don’t want you to come with us,’ they write, tapping their foot to make her look at them.

She glances at the notepad, but her expression of peace and quiet thought doesn’t change. Frisk underlines the words and taps their pencil on the pad again to draw her attention, more insistently this time. Her voice is serene as she says “I saw it, Frisk, child.”

Frisk stamps their foot petulantly and scratches out a new sentence. ‘Why are you still packing?’

“Because I am coming with you whether you like it or not.” She folds a sundress into an impossibly tiny square, then turns to face them. “Because Chara is my child and they are in danger. Because you are a child, if not mine, then someone else’s. I have a responsibility to keep you safe.” Her eyes burn like the fire that her soft hands hide. Chara calls up memories of a woman calm in the face of danger, a woman who led her people and her family with a careful, but stern hand. Chara shows Frisk who their mother really is and Frisk stands before the Queen of the Underground, Queen Toriel Dreemurr.

They sag. There is no question of whether or not she is coming anymore. Frisk may be stubborn, but they are unable to argue her down and, truth be told, they don’t even want to try anymore. Ever since they were small, they had been taught to respect their elders and really, who was more their elder than the ageless queen?

So, they grumble and complain, but they do it quietly in the back of their mind, while Chara blooms in the forefront. They watch them scamper to and fro alongside their mother, writing down words in their chicken scratch and slipping their hand into hers whenever she had one free. It is as if everything is upside down. Chara is light and sunshine and everything good on the surface of the world, while Frisk stews in the back of their combined head, seething with darkness and misery.

This isn’t right, says the voice in their head, the one that is entirely them, all their worries, their fears. Toriel is supposed to be afraid of leaving the Ruins, afraid of and angry at the world that had stolen her children. Chara is supposed to be trapped with Frisk, crying and clawing uselessly at the barrier that kept them from interfering. The first time they’d fallen, the first time they’d killed Toriel, Chara had cried all the way to Waterfall. Then they’d attacked.

Chara has not always been Frisk’s friend. Frisk’s soul bears the scars of their anger, each filled in with the black tar that is Chara themself. They are united forever by Chara’s aggression and Frisk’s pacifism. One half without the other is unable to exist.

“Frisk? You ready?” asks Chara, radiating joy into all Frisk’s dark thoughts. Frisk taps into their senses and realizes that they’re standing before the doors, one hand engulfed in Toriel’s paw, the other wrapped around the strap of the knapsack on their shoulders. They slide into control alongside Chara and the other child pokes them playfully. “Where ya been, Frisky?”

‘Thinking,’ they respond, practically inviting Chara to look into their mind. When the other child ignores them in favor of beaming up at Toriel with Frisk’s mouth, Frisk turns their attention instead to the doors. ‘Did we tell Toriel about Flowey?’ they ask.

Chara’s hope lights up. “Do you think we’ll see him?” They shift the knapsack on their shoulders, biting their lip. “When we reset, we took his scarf.”

Frisk placates them with the promise that they’ll definitely give him a scarf next time they see him. A hat too. Anything to keep Chara from picturing the shivering flower alone in Snowdin Forest, waiting outside the doors for any indication that they’ll come out. Chara cheers up.

Toriel squeezes their hand and they hear her breathing quicken. “It’s exciting, is it not?” the woman asks, staring up at the big door. “I’ve been here so long, I believe I’ve quite forgotten how the world outside operates.” She turns her big rust-red eyes on them, smiling. “The student will have to become the teacher.”

They both nod, giving her Chara’s lopsided grin. Yup, Chara has definitely said absolutely nothing about Flowriel. Fine. They’ll deal with that obstacle when they come to it then.

The smell of cinnamon rises in the air as Toriel lifts her hand. She is not showy in her movements, but Frisk feels a rush of awe all the same. Chara’s mother manages to make pants and a grandmotherly sweater look intimidating. They thank their lucky stars that she is not fighting them this time.

The door makes a click as if it has been locked only by a common latch until now. Toriel releases Frisk’s hand to give it a gentle pull and the huge purple door swings towards them, letting in questing fingers of icy air. The woman shivers, smiling brightly. “I am ready. Are you, Frisk, Chara?”

*A new adventure begins. It fills you with Determination.

Frisk looks up from where they’ve just saved. ‘Coming!’ they mouth. As Toriel pulls the door open wider, they glance around the Ruins. It’s a little damp, a little gloomy, and, as Chara points out, not much like home. But, it’s where everything started. They commit the tunnels to memory as they pass through them and under the archway. As the last set of doors swings open, they run into the snow, Chara snagging Toriel’s hand and pulling her forward. The woman laughs like a child herself, picking them up and spinning them around.

It’s almost like nothing can hurt them now.

…

The stick breaks, but that’s because Toriel stepped on it by accident. She apologized quickly for startling them and they forgave her, even though their souls had turned to ice in that split second. They have to pause so she can pluck splinters from her paw pads. Monsters don’t really wear shoes and Toriel especially does not wear shoes because no shoe is big enough.

The monsters come rushing out now, to attack the creature they think is holding another monster captive. Every time, Toriel slips into the fight perfectly, having Frisk act for her, but dodging the attacks herself. Frisk steals hats and laughs at terrible snow puns and Chara has to grab Toriel’s hand to keep her from spending all day chuckling appreciatively at Snowdrake, who gains more enthusiasm the more she laughs. When they finally get her away, Snowdrake looks as if he might follow them, but instead Chilldrake comes wandering out and takes Snowy under his wing, guiding him back into the shadow of the trees.

Toriel wants to explore all the paths. She’s as curious as a cat, but a cat who comments “Well, I don’t remember this being here,” in a puzzled voice, almost alarmed that the world has gone on without her in it.

Frisk becomes used to the heavy weight of her paw in their hand as she pulls them off the beaten track to explore new routes. They find a fishing rod this way and while it’s been bolted to the ground and rendered useless, they still get quite a kick out of the note attached to the line. Toriel’s still giggling when Chara drags her into the next area. “He needs a new line! He is never going to be able to bait a girl into courting him with that one! Oh dear!”

They introduce her to the snowman, who greets her genteelly, then requests that they take a piece of him around the Underground with them. Frisk hesitates, remembering with a shudder his anguished cries as they tore him to little pieces, pieces which they later ate without even tasting in order to heal. Their stomach roils uncomfortably and if they had eaten anything other than monster food in the last few days, they would have lost it right there in the snow.

Toriel, impossibly generous Toriel, accepts the monster’s request, tucking the fragment of his body into her satchel pocket. While the snowman watches, she rearranges it so it will be exposed ever so slightly to the elements. His coal smile seems a little brighter at her attention.

Remembering their greed, Chara smiles thinly at their mother’s care and takes her hand. With a single tug, they remind her of their mission to continue on. She bids the snowman a polite goodbye and Frisk spares them a wave. They turn the corner into another area and the children have almost relaxed, but their heart beats like it’s attempting to escape their chest by means of their throat. Toriel drops their hand to fix the snowman piece in her bag as they step into the next area, and so she doesn’t immediately respond when Frisk freezes.

The field isn’t quite empty. Standing at the opposite side of the area is Papyrus, holding a silver ball in his red gloves. Chara reacts as Frisk nearly stops breathing. His head is missing. In its place is a bubbling seething mess of green numbers, casting a sickly light over the snow around him. This mutilation is bad enough, but the sense of wrongness that emanates from it is worse. This is not Papyrus, but a cheap copy someone shoved into his place, something that never should have been given life. It is a reminder of what they have done.

Frisk whimpers and at that, Toriel’s hand find its way into theirs and squeezes. Biting the inside of their cheek, they look up at her. Her jaw is stiff, her eyes molten. The venomous light barely grazes her white fur, but even that touch seems too much. In its light, she looks thinner, more weary. If not for her obvious anger, they would have thought her on death’s doorstep.

The monstrosity takes a step forward and Frisk sees that its boots don’t even go through the snow. Instead, it steps through air and each movement makes their body shiver in response. The silver ball is held out as if it intends to push it into their hands. They can hear electricity crackling off it and green sparks wink in and out of existence around it like drops of poison. They squeeze Toriel’s hand harder and harder until they must be hurting her, but she doesn’t make a sound.

Suddenly, she prizes her paw loose of their grip and pats their head twice. “Child,” the sign says. They grab for her hand as she steps forward. She can’t possibly fight it, their mind screams. But then, she blazes. The air heats up so quickly that any moisture in their mouth dries up. The snow around her paws retreats into mud and then dries into dirt until even that cracks under the heat. Every step she takes sends up tiny whirlwinds of dust.

Her mouth tightens into a thin line as the thing draws nearer. “Enough. You are not welcome here,” she commands. It comes to a pause, bones rubbing against each other with the unmistakable sound of static. It’s nothing even resembling a skeleton, they realize as they see it up close. Every bone is outlined in numbers, which spike out at unforgiving angles. Even the scarf around its neck is too sharp. The strands of thread coming out of it look more like wire. Then it keeps walking, insisting on delivering the lethal orb into Frisk’s hands.

When it doesn’t stop moving, Chara says that Toriel is going to kill it. Frisk protests that there has to be another way, even while they know there isn’t. This thing isn’t alive, not really. It’s something else entirely, something that ripped its wicked way out of a nightmare and took someone else’s skin.

Toriel gestures with one hand and it goes up in a cinnamon blaze. The mass of numbers shifts ever so slightly within the inferno. Their very essence shivers as they become aware of something alien and vast gazing upon them. Then the fire burns out and the monstrosity is gone.

Chara’s mother shakes her hands briskly, but even the motion cannot hide her tremors. “That is that, my child,” she says, reaching out to them.

It is Chara that reaches back with Frisk’s arms, but it is the both of them that Toriel envelops in a hug. Her murmured reassurances comfort the useless part of them that does nothing but shake and think over and over again that it would be them that she would burn next. Chara does their part too, showing Frisk little snippets of memory, like the time Toriel built a blanket fort with them and they lived out of it for an entire hour while Asriel and Asgore worked in the garden. “She’s my mom, Frisk. Not a murderer.”

Frisk is unsure, their heart racing and their soul aching as if it had been them in the firestorm. Still, they allow themself to be led into the next cavern. And that is when they discover something.

Toriel likes puzzles. She likes them even more if she’s never encountered them before and so solving Papyrus’s puzzles quickly becomes her new favorite pastime. Chara holds her Nice Cream for her as she leaps around the Xs in an effort to turn them all to Os.

Frisk bites thoughtfully into their own Nice Cream, blueberry this time. Too bitter for Chara, but sweet enough for Frisk ‘Flowey hasn’t shown up yet,’ they comment. The switch that would remove the spikes in the previous area had been untouched by vines, much to Chara’s disappointment.

“Don’t remind me,” Chara mumbles, screwing up their face at the tart taste of blueberry. “Little coward’s probably in hiding from Mom. She hurt him a lot, remember?”

‘She’ll be so upset about that when she finds out.’ Frisk remembers all too well Toriel’s face when she accidentally killed them and they swallow their chunk of Nice Cream, turning their attention to the wrapper. It features an illustration of a hug, carefully drawn in marker. The drawing is just as rounded and cuddly-looking as the Nice Cream Guy’s handwriting. It makes them smile.

Chara rules that they keep it and so Frisk uses snow to rub the worst of the stickiness off before folding it up and putting it in their shorts pocket for safekeeping.

Toriel comes puffing up to them, readjusting her sweater and smiling brightly. Frisk hands her the Nice Cream, which she takes a hearty bite out of and outright grins. “Vanilla,” she explains. “With a cinnamon swirl inside.” Then she gestures to the puzzle. “It’s rudimentary, but very clever. I would very much like to meet its creator if we ever have the time. Come now, Chara, Frisk, I’ll show you the trick to it.”

She demonstrates it for them and then skips back to the beginning, flipping the switch that resets it. Sweat beads on Frisk’s forehead as they stare at the confusing Xs and Os, taking a tentative step onto the first. It changes to a green O, so they move onto the next. With encouragement from both Chara and Toriel, Frisk completes the puzzle in one try, then flips the switch to do it again, waiting smugly for Toriel.

A few minutes are taken up by Toriel, trying different and new ways to do the puzzle. She finally gets through and they move onto the next area, where the spectacle of two figures leaping and twirling on the snow is repeated. The puzzle after that involves ice and Frisk is put to shame by Toriel’s grace. The big monster dances across the ice as if she is nothing more than a snowflake herself. Frisk copies her movements clumsily before Chara becomes impatient and takes over.

Suddenly, Frisk feels the fluidity of someone who’s done this several times. Chara executes a graceful bow to Toriel, who curtsies playfully. The dance begins and Frisk is left awestruck. While not particularly fast, Chara is stylish. In every moment not spent being swung over stones to the next icy path, Chara is moving like water, bending in ways Frisk didn’t know they could. The problem comes when Chara tries to leap. They twirl in midair and Frisk can see the move’s perfect conclusion in their mind, Chara landing the body lightly on one foot and sinking to the ice in a powerful conclusion. In mid-air, something goes wrong. Chara has overestimated the strength of Frisk’s legs. Chara had strong legs and using those legs, they would have been able to gain enough height to straighten themself out in time. Instead, Chara falls, catching their knee on a rock and slamming to the ice on all fours.

Frisk winces, even though Chara’s the one tapped into the pain receptors. The cut on their knee is bubbling and the roughness of the ice has similarly scraped their palms. Red drips onto the ice, blossoming into a crimson flower on its surface. Their eyes brim with Chara’s angry tears, which curve down their perspiring face.

“Oh, my child.” Toriel reaches for them and Chara curls around their injuries protectively, a hedgehog with all their spines up.

“I could do it before,” Frisk hears them spit. Their angry thoughts billow through their headspace like smoke. “This body’s clumsy. It’s stupid. I hate it. It’s clunky and wrong and I hate it.” With the thoughts comes a strange feeling, one that Frisk has every day, but laced with Chara this time. It’s the feeling of being awkward and the shame of falling. Attached to this feeling is the sense of hateful familiarity. Chara hates feeling awkward. Hates being clumsy. Hates the fact that this body is not truly theirs. Frisk is used to being clumsy, is used to picking themself back up and continuing. Chara is not. Chara was grace, Chara was hard-earned skill.

Frisk reaches out for control and Chara practically hurls it at them, retreating into themself. As their conscious passes, Frisk feels a terrible tendril of self-loathing and they snag it, smashing the odious thing with the awe they had felt while watching. Chara gives them a reassuring feeling in exchange and ventures away into the deeper part of their mind.

The sting of ice and dirt in their palms is their first experience after tapping into the body’s senses. Uncurling, they hold out their hands to Toriel, who presses her thumbs into the wounds. They taste soft cinnamon, like a weak tea, as the magic sinks into their skin, popping out the dirt and ice shards as if the muscle underneath is spitting them out and sealing the skin back over. Toriel transfers her hands to their knee and when the healing is done, she scoops them into her arms. Their hands clasp instinctively behind her neck.

“Would you like to find a town, my child?” she asks, crouching once more to pick up their hat, which they must have lost in Chara’s mad dance. She plops it onto their head, which shakes from side to side. They want to keep exploring now that she’s fixed them up. She chuckles as they bury their face in her sweater. “All right, my heart. Let us look around.”

She makes as if to go right, but slips. Frisk’s heart flies into the roof of their mouth, but they laugh when they land, safe in Toriel’s arms. She is also unharmed, although she has to pick snow out of her fur. It’s the snow sculpture room! They point enthusiastically at Papyrus’s snow skeleton and then at Sans’s snow pile. Toriel looks for a long time at both, assessing them. Frisk writes on their pad ‘That’s the guy who made the puzzles! He’s a skeleton! His name’s Papyrus!’

“Frisk, child, this is a sculpture. It is snow skeleton.” Toriel giggles as Frisk sighs loudly, rolling their eyes. “Do not give me the cold shoulder, my child.” She presses her nose to their ear and snuffles in it. They snort, batting at her face.

Laughing, she sets them down and they run back to the ice and slide through the trees. Toriel follows. They both wind up with powdery snow decorating their heads. Frisk’s is in the shape of a house and Toriel’s is in the shape of the dog they rescued. When Frisk reaches up to pet it, it crumbles down her face. She sneezes and keeps sneezing as they run down a path they haven’t explored before. Toriel’s enthusiasm for adventure seems to be infectious, something that Chara must have inherited from her.

They discover a small cave. To Frisk’s amusem*nt, they wind up meeting a small colony of creatures called Glydes, each vying for Toriel’s attention. Before it can get out of hand, Frisk claps their hands. The applause seems to calm them all down and their tricks become a little more sedate.

“Hey, lady, check out this freakadacious flip!” crows one, twirling a little in the air. Its excitement riles up the rest again, only for Toriel to clap this time.

They spend a few minutes like this before Frisk gets bored. The Glydes become near frantic when Frisk and Toriel don’t clap for their new stunts and give the impression that they might follow them out into the snow to beg for attention. Instead, just as a particularly chilly breeze roars in, the Glydes en masse decide to seek attention elsewhere.

Frisk pokes their head over Toriel’s shoulder to wave goodbye and spots someone standing at the cave entrance. When they see Frisk, they jump a little, but pale white hands come up anyway, gesturing. As Toriel walks farther away, the figure fades, their message complete.

‘Chara?’ Frisk asks, knocking on their headmate’s shield.

“I saw it.” The child’s voice is hushed, even though no one could possibly be listening in their head.

‘Those were signs.’ Chara expresses agreement and interest and so Frisk translates what they saw, listening to it resound through their mind, an echoing warning. The mental space twists the sound, turning it from Frisk’s internal voice to a very different one, hollow and menacing.

‘The Darkness Keeps Growing. Be Wary, Child.’

Chapter 7: It Was Always Burning Since The World's Been Turning

Chapter Text

The storm around Snowdin is calmer than it had been before, which Frisk chalks up to the fact that they took a lot longer this time around. Still, Toriel surveys the clouded town with dismay before wrapping a scarf more snugly around her neck and crowning Frisk with a pair of earmuffs. “Someone is having a hail of a time in that town,” she murmurs, then colors when she realizes Frisk heard that one, clearing her throat loudly. “I apologize for that joke. It was in bad taste. Obviously, a monster within that town has yet to calm their magic. We make the weather underground ourselves, you understand.”

Frisk shakes their head as they stick their arm as far into her satchel as it will go. They can’t seem to find the bottom. They pooch out their bottom lip in frustration. The bag seems to disobey all laws of physics. Before they can stick their entire head into it, Toriel picks them up under the arms like an errant puppy and settles them against her chest. “Magic can shape the weather. We can only work with what we have though, which limits our choices. I do miss thunderstorms. They were so enlightening.”

Frisk throws their arms up in the air in mock frustration, giggling fit to burst. Toriel laughs too, but grows distant. “This is where you reset, is it not?”

They nod and flinch when a gust of wind threatens to take the skin off their nose. Seeking refuge the only way they can, they curl up against Toriel, hiding their face in her sweater. As she walks into the town, the vicious wind buffets her more and more harshly, trying to drive her back. She is strong and stubborn however, and when her free hand reaches out, it wraps around the door handle of Grillby’s.

She ducks inside and slams the door behind her, pressing her head against it. Frisk listens to her breathing, heavy and strained, and pats her face sympathetically. She brings her head back to regard them, then nuzzles their face gently. “That was not so bad, was it, my child?” she whispers, smiling when they shake their head. “One might say that it was a breeze.”

“Mom, oh my god,” Chara moans. “That’s the third pun in thirty minutes. Stop before you hurt yourself.” They give Frisk a nod of acknowledgement, then settle into the senses in order to look around.

Their feet tap on the wood floor when she puts them down and her gloved hand takes their mittened one. They examine the interior of the restaurant with some interest. The color scheme is dark enough to make it cozy, but light enough to make it warm, even without much natural light. Every previous time they’d been here, it had been dark and cold, evacuated.

From behind the bar, a flaming man raises his hand. This must be the eponymous Grillby. Frisk waves back with their free hand. They like this, seeing the place all lit up and full of people. The smell of greasy food makes their mouth water and Chara makes a noise similar to thunder, trying to trick Frisk into eating. “Listen to that! We need food! We’re starving to death! How’s about we start with fries and then maybe a burger or two and then we could get a milkshake or-“

‘We just had Nice Cream,’ Frisk retorts. ‘You’re such a black hole.’

Chara scoffs as Frisk wanders about the restaurant area, but doesn't deny it. Toriel stays by the door, picking ice out of her paw pads. Frisk reaches out and trails their hand along the polished wood grain of the booths, pausing every so often to look out the windows at Snowdin’s sparkling lights. Chara twirls the body in a circle, breathing in the food smells, and when Frisk’s eyes open again, they land on a group of canine monsters playing cards. They light up at the sight of the dogs and go running over. Lesser Dog looks up from its game of cards, yapping happily as Frisk buries their hands in its fur. It’s just as soft as they’d thought it would be, even if it does stink vaguely of wet dog. Under their hands, its neck begins to extend and they would have stepped back in alarm if someone hadn’t picked them up first.

Doggo spins them around so that they’re sitting in the crook of his elbow. “Keep moving, kid,” he says gruffly and they comply, remembering his startled face when they had killed him all those times. It wasn’t fair to attack something that couldn’t see you. So they sway from side to side in his arms and his muzzle breaks into something resembling a smile. “Hey there. Nice sweater.”

Frisk shoots him with a jittery finger gun and clicks their tongue. Doggo dodges the imaginary bullet. When they point to Lesser and tilt their head, the dog laughs a raspy laugh. “Sorry, kid, I had to grab you. Otherwise, ol’ Lesser’s head woulda gone straight through the roof.”

Together they turn and look speculatively at Lesser Dog, whose tongue lolls out happily from a point at least three feet higher than it had been previously. At their attention, Lesser slurps its tongue back into its mouth and tilts its head. Chara makes a goofy barking sound of “baroo?”, mocking the dog’s silly look. Frisk gives them the mental equivalent of a playful shove, then gasps as Doggo shifts and Greater Dog’s armor comes into view, sitting on a chair. They pat Doggo’s arms and he lets them down.

Excited, they scramble over to climb up on the armor’s knees and peek inside. No dog. Their face scrunches into a frown and they lean back, looking around for the dog.

“Frisk, what are you doing?” Chara asks, amused, as they peek under the chair.

‘I was promised a dog,’ Frisk mumbles back, shifting their body to look under the table. Still no dog. Frustrated, they heave a sigh and sit back on their knees. A little black nose pokes their own. They look up, alarmed. A fluffy dog, only about as big as them and as white as snow, is lying on top of the table. They must have missed it in their pursuit of Greater Dog. It’s only when it gives them a silly doggish smile that they recognize it as the Greater Dog itself.

The animal leaps eagerly into their arms in search of affection and Frisk hugs it, laughing their silent laugh. In their mind, Chara smiles too, listening to a bubbly, if odd, laugh resonate around them. Frisk is unused to hearing themself in the headspace and usually their voice is fairly quiet to reflect that. But whenever they get too excited, Chara can hear them, really hear them. “Personally, I like cats,” they remark. “If you find any of those, tell me. Until then, get me some fries, kid!”

Frisk rolls their eyes, burying their face in Greater Dog’s soft ruff. A hand lands on their shoulder. Beaming, they look up, only for Chara to scream like a stuck rabbit. Frisk looks into a pair of grey eyes and squeezes Greater Dog to their chest, hunching protectively around the animal. The dog yips in pain, curling a pink tongue around Frisk’s wrist to alert them of its discomfort. They’re too frightened to make their fingers move to accommodate it because they recognize those horrible eyes.

“Put him down,” Sans growls.

Chara leaps into control and straightens to face Sans, switching their hold on the small animal until it’s cradled in the crook of their arm like a hairy baby. ‘Or what?’ they mouth defiantly. When Frisk screams, Chara reaches out to sooth them. “Frisk, listen-“

‘He’ll kill them too!’ Frisk wails, interrupting them and trying to push at their hands to release the little animal. In their terror, they seem to have forgotten their own mentality, that everyone is good if given the chance, even Chara. Even Sans.

Admittedly, that makes Chara feel a little better about their own paranoia, but still. Frisk is dominant. If they go to pieces, so does Chara, and somebody has to be the sane man in Bedlam. “Frisk, he can’t hurt us. Frisk, stop it.” When Frisk continues to shove for control, Chara gets quieter. “Frisky. Frisky Frisk, come on.”

Frisk pushes a little more, but their attention is caught by Chara’s calm. Chara takes advantage of that. “Look at him.” Frisk reluctantly does. Over his usual blue jacket, he’s got a red blanket draped across his shoulders. That must be why “we didn’t recognize him, right. And do you smell that?” Frisk sniffs. “Smoke. Right. There’s ash on his cheekbone and on his fingers. The guy’s a mess. I don’t think he’s in the best condition to hurt us. Especially not with so many monsters around. Monsters believe in honorable combat, honorable defeat, honorable death. It’s a damn honor fest around here. What they don’t believe in is the harming of innocents.”

Frisk’s eyes dip to the white furball in their arms. “Elementary, my dear Watson. As long as we’ve got the dog, he won’t touch us.” Chara co*cks their head and gives Sans a languid smile, even as their throat clenches. Frisk’s mind might be convinced, but the body is still running off leftover adrenaline.

The skeleton’s irises disappear into the hollows of his skull and he just about snarls at them. “Put him down now.”

The dogs shift at their table, especially Doggo. “Hey now, bonebag,” the scruffy canine says, genuinely concerned. “Whaddya saying to them?” Chara catches Toriel looking askance at the whole scene from where she’s wiping her feet on the mat. Then, ding. Light bulb. “Mom can distract him. Watch this, Frisky.” They bury their face in Greater Dog again and shake their shoulders as if laughing. Toriel will come over to check on them and they’ll claim to have just told simply the best joke. Unfortunately, the body starts to cry instead and Chara starts to hiccup when they try to swallow the tears. “sh*t.”

Sans’s fingers start to squeeze the meat of their shoulder in his fury and his voice is dangerously low. “Listen here, you little freak-“ he starts. Then the weight of his hand is gone and a tremor runs through the floorboards. Papyrus shrieks and someone else yells, but rising above that is Toriel’s voice, loud and deep as a thunder crash and absolutely furious.

“Never, ever, lay a hand on my children!”

“Double sh*t.” Chara sighs. “Why’s he have to be such a damn bully?” When they glance up, their mouth twitches at the corners, despite the tears still coursing steadily down their cheeks. Sans's spine is pressed against the bar, bent nearly backwards, with Toriel’s large fingers wrapped almost entirely around his skull. The restaurant smells like cinnamon because she’s seething, but there are distinct undertones of other magic, as everyone has been put on edge. Even the bartender is an off shade of white at seeing one of his patrons threatened. Sans is staring up at Toriel through the gaps between her fingers, eyes as wide as they’ll go, and Papyrus has both his hands wrapped around Toriel’s upper arm, trying in vain to pull her away. The tall skeleton looks like a midget beside the woman and his efforts are doing nothing but threatening to detach his lower arms from his elbows.

“Frisk, would you look at these idiots? Never try to mess with Mom.” Chara laughs, but Frisk does not. Thrown a little off-balance by this, Chara sends out a questioning tendril, joking “Well, Mom did distract him.”

Angrily, Frisk rebuffs the tendril then throws them both into a memory. Memories in the mental space are all-encompassing so Chara finds themself on the edge of Snowdin Town. Frisk stands in front of them, shoulders tensed and body tight as if they’re a few seconds away from exploding. “Whoa, hey, Frisk, calm down,” they say, stepping forward and rubbing Frisk’s shoulder.

Another Frisk steps into the area and suddenly the wind whips up a storm. Not before Chara can see their eyes however, which are glazed green. Not before Chara can see the dusty gloves on their hands. Then they’re gone from view, but Chara can still hear them moving, feet crunching the snow like hundreds of little bones beneath their feet. They have a terrible feeling about this. “Frisk! What are you trying to say?”

Papyrus’s voice comes out of the blizzard, bizarrely hopeful. Chara doesn’t even have to listen. They’ve memorized what he says by now. Impossible not to when they’ve heard it eighty-nine times. The snow dies down just in time for Chara to see the memory Frisk charging the skeleton. They leap into the air as if yanked by the collar of their sweater and kick him in the chest, gaining enough height from that to swipe off his head. “God, they were crazy.” This doesn’t seem to be what Frisk wants, so they poke them again, looking for elaboration.

Frisk wrenches their attention down a golden corridor. At its far end stands Sans and he’s walking closer. For a second, he looks like he’s bleeding from a knife wound, then Chara realizes that he’s holding Papyrus’s scarf to his chest. Frisk focuses their mental strength on this image. For a moment nothing happens, but Frisk is determined, and Sans’s face starts to melt and twist, the scarf in his hands bubbling. Chara finds themself looking at Asriel the way he looks in Toriel’s photograph, who holds their body with as much fear and horror and grief as Sans clutched that damn scarf. Asriel looks back at them, holding out that body the way he would bring dying flowers to Dad, asking if he could make them better.

Chara decides that enough is enough and exercises their own mental strength, shattering the memory around them with a shake of their head. In the real world, the dogs are standing around them, all talking at once and trying to cover for Sans. “Frisk, what do you want?”

‘I’m scared of him, but I shouldn’t be scared of him.’

“You’re crazy. He’s terrifying.”

‘Because we made him like that! We’re apologizing! Or we’re at least getting Toriel to back off.’ Frisk is stern and unfortunately, theirs is the dominant will in the body, which takes a few steps towards the bar. Toriel has entered full on lecture mode and that, coupled with her fearsome glare, seems to have stricken Sans mute. Chara doesn’t even fight the urge to stick their tongue out at him, but Frisk tugs on Toriel’s sweater hem and Chara has to fold their tongue back into their mouth really quickly to avoid getting one of her disappointed glares themself.

Toriel pauses in her tirade to smile comfortingly at them. Frisk sets Greater Dog on the floor and beckons for Chara to explain themself. Chara points at Sans and flexes their hand. Then they make a sad face. Frisk tells them, with no room to evade the poorly-hidden command, that they can do better than that. Chara pulls out the notepad. ‘Mom, he’s fragile. Don’t break him.’ Before she can explain her attack, they continue. ‘In fact, it was our fault. We squeezed the dog too hard and he came over to tell us we were hurting it.’ They sniff and realize that they have to explain the tears too. ‘We got a little freaked out because we didn’t see him coming. That’s all, Mom.’

Toriel doesn’t look convinced, but she sits Sans back on his chair, treating him as if he’s made of china now. “I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you were hurting my child.” There is definite suspicion in her eyes and her voice is still gruff. She knows more than she’s saying. “However, I would warn against frightening them in the future.”

Sans has an odd smile on his face, but he’s always smiling. It shouldn’t mean anything so why is Frisk so interested? Chara pays attention as well. “i get where you’re coming from. you’d sweater believe that if someone made my brother cry, i’d do the exact same thing.”

Toriel stares at him a moment, before her nostrils flare into a wildly undistinguished snort, destroying any chance she had at being threatening at all. She claps her hand over her face, and as Papyrus starts to wail in disgust, she lets loose the loudest and most embarrassing bout of bleating Frisk and Chara have ever witnessed. Chara actually shrinks in second-hand embarrassment, covering their face with their hands as Frisk shrieks with laughter. Their shoulders shake with mirth. “Too many terrible puns,” Chara moans. “I can’t go on. Send help.”

“i knew it! you’re the door lady!” Sans exclaims, Frisk and Chara forgotten. “i thought they’d killed you!”

Toriel glances back at them, but when she turns to face Sans again she’s smiling so widely that Frisk worries her face will split. “My child would never kill me of their own will. After all, I am their momster.”

Now it’s Sans’s turn to look at Chara, who shrugs at him as they mop at their face with their sweater. The mistrust in his eyes doesn’t lessen, but his smile gets a little bigger and they can’t really see any malicious intent in it. Now, if they can just figure out what is going on. “sorry, door lady,” the skeleton says.

Toriel laughs as if he’s just paid her a compliment. “Call me Toriel, please.” She bends her knees to simulate the sort of sweeping curtsey she performed as a queen.

His eyes widen in surprise and he makes a funny little bow in return. “i’m sans.”

“I must tell you, Sans, your sans of humor is wonderful.” They laugh again and this time, the Dogi join in, yipping and growling appreciatively over Papyrus’s groans. “Still, your manners could use some work.” Chara snigg*rs a little before they wander around Toriel to pat Papyrus on the leg, making sure that this Papyrus is solid. Chara involuntarily blinks up an image of the creepy Papyrus, but the one before them looks down and smiles before they can creep themselves out too much. He still has his head at least.

“GREETINGS! ARE YOU THE HUMAN?” he asks, leaning down to pick them up. Frisk instinctively cuddles into his hands. Skeletons are surprisingly warm to the touch, or at least, this one is. He sets them on the counter in front of him, careful not to move any of his toys. He has a nice collection all set up, playing out what looks like a love story. Or maybe a fight scene.

“YOU LOOK LIKE A HUMAN.” Tentatively, he pokes their cheek and Frisk giggles, poking him back. His face is dry to the touch and as warm as his hands. In fact, it feels exactly like how they thought bones would feel. They pat his cheekbones a few times, then indicate the dolls.

“THOSE ARE MY ACTION FIGURES,” he answers. “I HAD MORE, BUT SANS SET FIRE TO THE HOUSE THIS MORNING AND THEY’RE PROBABLY ALL MELTED.” He seems a little saddened by this. Frisk pictures Toriel’s house, or their own home going up in flames and understands. Papyrus is homeless now. Guilt washes over them like a tsunami.

“What? We didn’t start the fire,” Chara points out.

‘But Sans has never done that before. We were probably the reason he did it.’

“Well, that’s stupid.”

Papyrus is talking again, so Frisk tunes back in. He’s telling him about his collection. “THEY’RE REALLY GREAT FOR ACTING OUT BATTLE SCENARIOS. SANS FOUND ME MY FIRST ONE WHEN I WAS JUST A BABYBONES. HE FOUND IT IN THE GARBAGE DUMP. IT TURNS INTO A CAR!” He picks up a vaguely humanoid shape hand-painted in a myriad of metallic colors. “I’VE NAMED THEM BLUE.”

Frisk looks at the toy for a moment before patting its head, hoping that’s what Papyrus wants. ‘It’s a good name!’ they say defensively while Chara giggles. ‘Very sturdy.’

“He names things like Dad.”

Papyrus presses Blue, who actually looks like an Optimus Prime figurine now that they really look at it, into their hand and introduces them to the rest of his action figures. One of them is a very recognizable box on wheels. Frisk points at it, hoping for more elaboration. “THAT’S MY METTATON FIGURINE! HE WAS SPECIAL EDITION! SANTA GAVE HIM TO ME. HE GAVE SANS A BOTTLE OF KETCHUP AND A LOT OF PAPERS.” Here Papyrus looks very fed-up. “HE LEFT PAPERS ALL OVER THE HOUSE FOR A MONTH. I THINK SANTA ACTUALLY WANTED HIM TO KETCHUP ON HIS WORK! NYEH-HEH-HEH!”

Frisk laughs so hard that they fall off the counter. Before they have time to even feel frightened about the approaching floor, Papyrus grabs them, wrapping his gloved hands around their waist. As he holds them up, the ground shakes and the bar goes silent.

Toriel has stopped mid-laugh at something Sans has said and Frisk glances over to spy a strange scene. She is caught in an odd position, head thrown back, ears flying forward as if caught in some permanent breeze. Sans looks up at her questioningly, then whips around to stare at them, eyes narrowing.

They shake their head violently at his unasked question. As they look around the bar, they get a creeping feeling in their stomach and a smell invades their nostrils that reminds them of unfinished basem*nts and slime. Carefully, as to not alarm or enrage Sans, they prize themself out of Papyrus’s hands, wiggling so that they can drop to the ground. The sound of their shoes on the wood floor seems altogether too loud in the sudden quiet. Sans comes toward them, hands in his pockets. “You sure this isn’t you, kid?”

They take a step back, then shake their head as Chara says no, it’s not them, it’s something worse. Frisk fishes out their notebook and scribbles down their encounter with the creepy Papyrus. Luckily for them, Sans is a fast reader and seems more concerned about what’s going on than what had once been. He glances back to his Papyrus, who is still smiling at empty air, stuck in a past moment, and sighs. “Kid, this reeks of timeline shenanigans. and- what is that?” He apparently can smell the rotting too and, judging by his panicked expression, it means a lot more to him than it does to them.

His eye flares cyan as he comes closer and Frisk backs away. Their chest is constricting, the room’s spinning. Chara reaches up as Frisk falls down, unable to get enough air, unable to move. In their head, their voice is babbling because the blue is bad the blue is bad oh god oh god Chara Chara help he’ll kill us I was right Chara please Frisky Chara shush I can’t move please help I’ve got us I promised Chara Chara please!

I’m here, Frisk. You can let go.

Chapter 8: Do You Know The Rotting Man?

Chapter Text

When Frisk becomes aware of themself again, they see two faces looking down at them. Chara smiles uneasily. They rock back on their heels as Frisk sits up. They are surrounded by the light grey of their headspace, which is simultaneously upsetting and soothing. They might be safe in here, but it’s always so shamefully weak. They have to be stronger if they want to save everyone. Chara, feeling the shame burning from them, asks “You gonna be okay, Frisk?”

Frisk nods and looks over at the extra face, squinting at it when the features blur instead of coming into focus. They can make out a fanged smile, but otherwise, they can’t figure it out. ‘What’s that?’ they question, looking back to Chara.

Chara waves a hand and Frisk feels a breeze as the extra figure dissipates. “Instinct and stupidity,” they say, reaching out a hand. Sitting in their palm is a heart-shaped locket, Chara’s interpretation of control.

Relief floods Frisk’s manifestation of their body and they lay back down. Chara’s got the control of the body. It’s okay. ‘Can I just wait a few more minutes?’ they ask tiredly, pushing Chara’s offer of control back to them.

Chara shrugs and slips the chain of the locket around their neck, tucking the charm under the collar of their sweater. “Okay. I’ve been keeping us alert. Old Smiley keeps on yammering at us though. The mouth on that guy, I swear. He still thinks we’re responsible for the world freezing. I’m going to strangle him if he asks me again.”

‘Where are we?’ The fact that Chara’s allowing the body to stay near Sans suggests either negligence or trust and Frisk doesn’t take either one lightly.

“Sitting on a bar stool, eating fries,” Chara says promptly. Now that they mention it, Frisk can taste salt and vinegar and ketchup and they wince.

‘Whose fries?’

Chara shrugs. “Who cares? Mine now.” At Frisk’s glare, they relent. “Fine. I’ll stop.” Their resentment at being made to part with their snack rumbles through the headspace. “By the way, I stuck around to make sure he didn’t attack Mom. I don’t trust him.”

Frisk makes an apologetic face. ‘Where is he?’ An apology in full can wait until whatever is going on has been resolved. Unlike Chara, Frisk can’t multitask in the headspace very well.

“Sans? Sniffing for clues, like a good dog,” Chara sneers. Their reddish eyes go a shade lighter as they tap back into the body’s senses. “He’s gone into the back right now. Through the fire exit. Weird that he can just go in. He’s not made of fire.”

Frisk laughs hollowly at the tired joke. Chara had made it on one of their runs, when they and Frisk had just started to become close. They had been able to see the heat waves pouring out of the dark kitchen even in the low light and knew that going through the door without sufficient protection would have cooked them. So Chara had made a joke instead as the body was steered out the door and Frisk had laughed, not much more amused than they are now.

Chara’s eyes resume their normal color and they glance over at Frisk, grinning tiredly. As the secondary soul, it takes them a lot of energy to pilot alone. Frisk can see the legs of their sensible brown pants beginning to melt together, forming a kind of skirt at the ankles. They know that if they let Chara pilot for much longer, their pants and sweater will turn into a ratty nightshirt. Then their face will grow gaunt and gain a sickly pallor. Chara’s explained that it has something to do with how they died, but they’ve never offered any other details and Frisk thinks it would be rude to ask.

Frisk holds out their hand as they sit up again and Chara unclasps the locket. As it lands in Frisk’s palm, it turns into a crown of yellow flower buds. Chara twists their mouth at the sight of it, no doubt thinking of Asriel. Frisk places the crown on their head and vanishes, the flowers bursting into bloom.

They sit on a vacant stool at the bar, a couple chairs away from Papyrus. The rotting smell is much more pronounced now. Sans comes trudging out of the kitchen, hands jammed into his pockets. His eye is no longer glowing, Frisk is relieved to see, but they scoot away anyway. They’re rather embarrassed about their attack now that they think about it and Chara nudges them comfortingly. “I got you as soon as it started,” they soothe. “Old Smiley’s got no idea that you were even gone. He’s been ignoring us actually.”

Frisk regards the small skeleton with renewed interest. This would have been the perfect time to kill them. They wonder why it hasn’t crossed his mind. Despite his appearance, they know the skeleton is in possession of more brains than most of the monsters in the Underground have put together. Perhaps he wants something from them.

Catching their stare, Sans scowls as much as he can through his permanent smile. Chara rolls their eyes at him, but doesn’t do much more and Frisk is intensely grateful for that. When he looks away, still scowling and silent, and starts walking for the door, Frisk leaps off their stool and signs at him. “Where are you going?”

He must catch a glimpse of them for he turns around. Frisk repeats themself. He doesn’t sign back, but apparently he understands. “I’m going to figure this out.” His eyes flick towards Papyrus and then back to them. “You’re coming with me.”

Chara sends Frisk the feeling of a smirk. “Why not?” they say when Frisk shakes their head. “If he hasn’t killed us yet, he’s probably not going to.”

“Why?” Frisk signs instead, tilting their head to further convey their confusion.

“Because I don’t want to come back here and find piles of dust. That’s dust not my idea of a good time.”

Frisk smiles tentatively at the pun, hoping it means that he’s not as angry. He never made puns when they were fighting him. “You and Toriel seem to like each other,” they try.

Sans looks over at the woman. “She asked me to protect you.” There’s an emotion in his voice that they’ve only heard once before. They have no time to identify it before his face goes dark. “She obviously didn’t know how much of a freak you’d become.”

‘Rude,’ Chara mouths, folding their arms. To Frisk, they say “I think we should go. I mean, he’ll just drag us with him if we don’t.”

Frisk unfolds their arms and asks “How do I know you won’t kill us?” Quickly, they amend the last word to “me,” but Sans doesn’t seem to have noticed their slip.

“I made her a promise and I keep my promises, whether or not I want to. Quit asking questions and let’s go.” Sans shoulders open the door and braces himself for a blast of wind that doesn’t come. Curious, Frisk pads to the door and pokes their head out. Snowdin itself is frozen in time. The snowflakes hang in the air like dozens of tiny ornaments on invisible strings. Frisk touches one with an ungloved finger and it melts, but the water droplet remains suspended in the air. The rotting smell is worse out here.

Frisk goes to leave Toriel a text message on their cell phone, but realizes exactly how old the thing is just in time. Instead, they run back inside to scribble a quick note on a napkin and tuck it into her hand, before trudging back through the door. To combat the smell of rot, they yank their scarf up over their nose. It helps a little.

Sans just pulls his hood up and starts walking, past the tree where the bear monster is in the middle of arranging gifts, paw stopped reaching to straighten a crooked bow. Frisk adjusts it as they pass.

The Welcome sign comes into view and Frisk frowns. The lights are wrong. There’s no red anymore, just green. Something moves and they freeze in place, Sans stopping just a moment after.

It’s another freakish monster. This one looks like one of the dogs. It’s wearing the same robes as Dogamy and Dogaressa, but these are sharp instead of soft and warm-looking. Its hood is up, but there’s just enough light coming from the sign to illuminate the sheen of slime on its big black teeth. It’s staring at the sign, drool dripping from its hood to splash and hiss against the snow. They can feel the vibrations from it even from a sizable distance, as though its presence is shaking them to pieces.

The smell is almost unbearable now and Frisk claps their hand over their mouth just as a ghostly hand rams into the dog thing. The creature makes no sound as it’s thrown to the ground, although Frisk can see its hackles rising even from here. Sans takes a step back just as something massive lunges over the sign and lands on the snow.

At first, Frisk thinks it’s just a slime monster, then Chara points out the mask. It looks almost like it’s made from porcelain and been left exposed to the ravages of time. There are three long jagged cuts in it, each one dripping black. Frisk has no more time to observe because the first creature attacks and they’re suddenly more concerned with how close they’re standing.

A limb reaches out from its robes to swipe at the second monster. Frisk can’t identify the protuberance because it looks so wrong, like a spider instead of a hand or a foot. Blades shoot out of the tips and Chara shrieks. “It’s a paw! Like a cat!” Despite their earlier profession of love for felines, they don’t seem too inclined to touch it and Frisk can see why. The ‘paw’ is more like three paws molded together, one on top of each other and all tipped with razor-like claws. It is grotesque and looks rather like someone grew tired of their clay creation and squashed it all together.

The second monster squeals in pain as it slithers away. Frisk finds their hands packing a snowball. Chara works steadily, scooping shards of ice into the projectile. As the doggish creature advances on the slime monster, with nothing but malicious intent written in its body language, Chara winds up and throws.

The iceball hits and the dog whips its head around. The hood drops off its face and Frisk recoils. Its face is a mess of teeth and skin. There is nothing about it that could be characterized as doggish. Its head is entirely teeth. It comes after them now. They back up, but Sans isn’t moving. He isn’t making a sound either and Frisk realizes that whatever had frozen the whole town has finally gotten to him too.

Before they can do anything, like grab his arm and yank him back, a wall of black slime appears in front of him. The slime monster has thrown itself in front of him, arms spread out to either side. It hisses and the sound is pure static, if static was long and low and furiously angry. More disembodied hands pop into existence with the shrill sound of feedback. The smell of rot is so heavy now that Chara gags and pushes Frisk’s feet back another step.

As the slime monster lowers its arms, disembodied hands surround the fake dog, creating a cage of sorts. The masked slime monster shivers, tremors running through its entire body, then it makes a soft sound. The hands close in, seizing the creature by the throat and squeezing. Chills run up Frisk’s spine as the creature turns its head. Even without eyes, it gives off the impression of staring directly at them. The horrible teeth part, and then it blinks out of existence, with not even a pile of dust to mark its passing.

With the immediate threat destroyed, the slime monster appears to gather itself, turning the mask towards the town. Frisk shudders violently as it looks at them, realizing as two of the slits widen that it is not a mask after all, that it is a ruined face, pale against the thick black that makes up the rest of its body. Despite their fear, they find themself taking a step forward, and then another, careful not to brush against Sans as they pass him. He doesn’t move, frozen in the stillness of the night, but his eyes dart around like fish in a fishbowl.

The monster observes their approach with wide eyes. One eye is already a hellish hole in its face, but the other is a drooping slit in almost the shape of a crescent moon. Its body shivers again as pale hands emerge. The fingers of each hand interlink and the gesture is so anxiously like a monster that Frisk regains some courage. “Greetings,” they sign as they take another step forward. “My name is Frisk.”

“Hello, Frisk,” the monster replies, its hands trembling as it makes the familiar signs. It curls into itself as Frisk gets closer so Frisk stops. They can almost pretend that the goop that makes up its body is just a heavy cloak. It must be hunching its shoulders, worried. When its hands sign again, Frisk understands. “Are You Afraid Of Me?”

Frisk shakes their head, finding that they aren’t, not really, and extends a hand to it. Hesitantly, a sleeve of goo reaches out, capped with one of those long hands. The palm of that hand, warm and dry and as solid as stone, brushes against Frisk’s open palm, the long fingers wrapping gently around their wrist, then retreats back into itself. The horizontal crack on the creature’s face angles upwards at each of its corners. “Hello, Frisk,” it signs again, with an expression that can only be described as pleasantly surprised.

“Hello, Mx. Goop,” Frisk answers, smiling as the monster throws its head back in a crackling painful laugh. The earth shakes and the monster stops laughing. It examines the snow around it, hands shaking like trees in a tornado. It reaches out a hand to them again, this time seizing on their wrist immediately. The fingers squeeze once and then it is gone.

Frisk feels snow touch their face and the wind starts up again, just as vicious as before. They yank their hat down over their ears when the wind threatens to steal it and their wrist brushes their nose. Through the main stink of rot, they can smell mint.

…

When they reenter Grilby’s, Toriel looks askance at the two of them. She’s not the only one. Behind the bar, Grillby sets down a glass and narrows his eyes. It’s not the most intense glare Sans has ever received from him, but it’s certainly in the top ten, meaning that Grillby’d thought he’d shortcutted himself and the kid. Frisk.

Sans shrugs at him as the kid scrambles back to Toriel. Papyrus is already talking to them when Sans walks behind the bar, excited by their sudden disappearance.

“What happened?” Grillby asks, addressing the drink he’s mixing. He disapproves of shortcuts in his bar, claims that they make the other patrons uncomfortable and also says that they’re unforgivably rude.

“i didn’t do anything, grillbz,” Sans says, trying to placate him.

The fire elemental sets down a glass with a little more force than strictly necessary. “Are they the kid?” His voice is pitched low as to not attract attention from the woman conversing with Sans’s brother.

Sans hesitates. He doesn’t know. The kid from before looked the same, but that was all. Their behavior’s completely different and even if he still doesn’t trust them as far as he can throw them physically, he’s unsure if his mistrust is unfounded or not. They hadn’t tried to kill him out there, even though they’d had plenty of chances. They hadn’t killed Toriel either. And she loves them a lot, it seems.

His hesitation is all Grillby needs to relax. “Don’t go threatening random kids, Sans,” he teases. “That woman was going to kick your gigglemug into Tuesday.”

Sans grins half-heartedly. “don’t remind me. i think i saw my life flash before my eyes. and a skele-ton of mistakes too.”

Grillby tsks and catches the glass the hamster sends sliding his way. “You’re exaggerating.”

They laugh a little, looking over the bar at the restaurant. Grillby’s carved out a nice little niche for himself here. He’s only been running the place for maybe six years, but it’s one of Snowdin’s best attractions. Good food, good drinks, good friends, good music if the jukebox is working (which it usually isn’t). Sans loves this place, but he can’t take any pleasure from it right now. He’s too confused and his confusion makes him wonder.

“grillby, what does the smell of mint remind you of?”

“Cooking,” the fire elemental says immediately, “at your house. Remember? We spilled that whole bottle of mint extract and it soaked into the tiles?”

Sans snickers. “papyrus thought that was such a cala-minty. we were in so much trouble.” The kitchen had smelled like mint for an entire week and the smell had made Sans so sick that he had refused to go into the kitchen until it went away.

“I don’t remember that. What, did Papyrus yell at us?” Grillby makes a face to point out how ridiculous the thought is. Papyrus had been only seven. He wouldn’t have dared yell at them unless it was for bad jokes. He had worshipped Sans and his friends because of their age difference and the fact that Grillby always included him in their games didn’t hurt either.

Sans rests his head on his arms. He remembers being in trouble, but he also remembers laughing hysterically at the mess they’d made of the kitchen and of each other. Grillby had been thirteen to Sans’s eleven and they’d both been covered in flour and chocolate despite their too-big aprons. He can remember so much, but he can’t remember exactly who yelled at them for the mint-soaked floor. It must have been Grillby’s mother. She must have heard the sound of the vial shattering.

“Why do you ask? Seems an odd question.” Grillby tosses a bottle up into the air with one hand and rummages through the drawers for a mug. Sans follows the bottle down with his eyes, back into Grillby’s hand as he pops the cork with a thumb and pours the mug half-full.

“that’s where the kid and i went. out to the sign and there was someone there. their magic smelled like mint. it was familiar. thought you’d know.” Grillby used to study magic before he decided that cooking was more rewarding and ditched the books for work as a dishwasher in the restaurant that would become his.

“What kind of mint?” There is an odd note in Grillby’s voice as he hands the mug to an unsteady Red, who wobbles back to where she is sitting by Crazy Buns. Sans glances up at his face, but the fire elemental is looking away from him, towards Papyrus.

“spearmint? maybe? it was mostly rot.”

“Rot,” Grillby says flatly. His hands curl into fists and he bends down until he and Sans are face to face over the bar. “Sans, stay away from them. Rot in magic, it’s not good and it means more that the wielder is ill in soul. People like that, they’re like ticking time bombs. Any second they could self-destruct.”

Sans flinches involuntarily, but he smiles widely enough to shrug it off as a twitch. “Gotcha. I’ll do my best, Grillbz.”

His thoughts fill with the smell of smoke and decaying lavender.

Chapter 9: Take A Break

Chapter Text

Toriel had decided to get them all a room at the inn. Frisk and Chara were tired from all the walking and the brightness in Toriel’s eyes was stemming more from exhaustion than excitement. Their dual encounters with the odd monsters and the one monster who spoke sign, as well as their anxiety attack, had drained them. Even Chara was sleepy, quieter than they had been before. They didn’t even clamor to ring the service bell at the desk, although they washed Frisk in a sense of satisfaction when they rang it.

“What a lovely day,” Toriel says now. They’re getting dressed for bed in the bathroom while Toriel is finding her nightgown in her bottomless bag. “I did not know that you knew Sans. You must have forgotten to mention him. He is a funny young man, is he not?”

“Young?” Chara scoffs as Frisk pushes their head through the neck of their nightshirt. The little spirit had woken up a little when Toriel had mentioned dinner. “The guy’s like forty, Mom.” Frisk pulls their hair out of the nightshirt. “Granted, Mom’s been around since before the war, so he probably looks like a babybones to her.”

“And his brother is such a clever puzzle maker! He invited us to visit sometime, did you know that?” Frisk plucks a little at the lace on the collar. It has little flower patterns stitched in it. Toriel’s knock on the door startles them. “Frisk? Dinner is ready if you are.”

Dinner is sandwiches and vegetables, eaten over a picnic blanket with both of them in their nightshirts. Frisk bites into a carrot and writes on their notepad ‘Eh, what’s up, Doc?’ The joke goes over both Chara and Toriel’s heads however, so it was a bit of a waste. Still, the carrot’s delicious, sweeter than sweet and very crunchy. In general, the food is wonderful. Frisk eats three sandwiches. Toriel eats four and they can hear the snail shells being crunched between her teeth, hardening their resolve to not eat any of the sandwiches she offers them from her side of the bag.

Together they brush their teeth and crawl under the covers. Toriel takes a book from her bag. “Children, would it bother you if I left the light on for a few moments? I had intended to read my book.”

Frisk shakes their head and rolls over, closing their eyes and opening the ones underneath.

Chara is sitting across from them, dressed in a white nightshirt and rubbing their eyes. “Whaddya want, Frisk?” they ask tiredly, but not unkindly.

‘Did you recognize either of those monsters?’ Frisk inquires.

Chara waggles their hand from side to side and a shadow of the slime monster rises up between them, only about as tall as Frisk’s bare foot. Chara is better at manipulating the mindscape and Frisk can only assume they learned the skill from the monsters. “I liked this one best,” they say, “but I didn’t know them.” They reach down and scoop up their projection, patting it with one finger. The little monster squeaks a higher version of its static screech and Frisk laughs.

‘Chara, stop that.’ The little monster nods decisively at Frisk’s words. It must be demeaning for it to be poked and prodded.

“Frisk, this isn’t the real guy,” Chara laughs. “This one’s part of me. I can do whatever I want to it. Doesn’t hurt the real monster.”

‘Still,’ Frisk protests, trying not to laugh when Chara snaps a bowtie onto the creature. ‘It’s mean.’

Chara throws their arms into the air in exasperation, hurling the tiny goop monster into the air, much to its surprise. “If you don’t like the way I run my side of the head, you should just go to sleep.”

Frisk catches the tiny monster and holds it to their chest protectively. ‘Was that person Asriel?’

“What are you talking about?” Chara’s immediately on the defensive. “Don’t be stupid. Neither of those things were Asriel.”

‘I mean the one with you when I woke up. The blurry one.’ The goop monster dissolves as Chara's control slips. Frisk has hit the nail on the head.

“Go to sleep, Frisk.” Chara’s wall goes up and no matter how much Frisk presses at it, it won’t give.

They return to the world just in time to feel Toriel brush a kiss against their forehead. “Good night, children.” Then everything gets a little darker.

Frisk dreams of sunlight.

…

When they wake up, Toriel is sorting through her bag, humming. They listen to her for a moment in the blissful quiet of their mind, then they surge upwards, shaking off the warm pressure of blankets.

Toriel hears them moving and looks over with a big smile. “Good morning, children!” she says, standing up and putting one knee on the bed so she can kiss their forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

Frisk nods and runs their fingers through their hair to settle it, grimacing when they hit a knot. Their hair is always impossible in the mornings, either fluffy or matted beyond reason. They remove their fingers and crawl to the edge of the bed. Toriel returns to looking through her bag and Frisk looks over her shoulder. Then they have to get off the bed and check that the bag isn’t bigger than it is. They recheck the contents of it. It simply doesn’t make sense.

“Since when does everything have to make sense?” Chara asks groggily, the tone of their voice making Frisk think of a cat stretching after a nap in the sun, long and languid and grumpy above all. Sleep was precious to the spirit and Frisk’s confusion had inadvertently woken them up. Their focus flits to Toriel’s bag, their interest piqued. “What’s for breakfast?”

Frisk groans quietly. They can’t even think about being awake right now, much less about breakfast. But their stomach is growling, as they’d had sandwiches and some pilfered fries for dinner some- they look at the clock- ten hours ago.

Chara’s mother must hear their stomach’s complaints, for she asks “What would you like for breakfast, children?”

Frisk makes note of their appreciation for the fact that she addresses them both before they turn their attention to breakfast. “Toast with jam,” they sign and mouth.

“I want strawberry jam,” Chara requests, although it’s more of a command.

“Strawberry jam?” Toriel questions, the corner of her mouth tilting up. She couldn’t have heard Chara, but she must have remembered from when they were alive.

Frisk nods and goes digging through their knapsack for their clothes. They had worn one of Chara’s nightshirts to bed and now they were going to put on one of Asriel’s big sweaters and a pair of Chara’s pants. All this stealing clothes from dead people is a little weird.

“’S not stealing. Me and Azzy can’t wear them anymore. Well, I can, but I don’t think he’ll fit in any of his clothes.”

Toriel goes downstairs to talk to the innkeeper and they change in record time, transferring their pocket treasures from the pocket of yesterday’s shorts to the pockets of today’s shorts. A quick knock on the door lets her know it’s okay to come back in, then they run and jump on the bed, giggling soundlessly.

She knocks back, then pokes her head around the door. “Children, I did not pack breakfast food. Shall we go over to the restaurant and see if they serve breakfast?”

Frisk bounces in agreement, then Chara reaches for control, hurling them off the bed and into Toriel with all the grace of a bullet. She stumbles, then lifts them into her arms, kissing their nose. “Good morning to you as well, Chara.”

It’s just as cold outside today as it was yesterday and Frisk practically drags Toriel across town and into the restaurant. Heat washes over them like a welcoming embrace. There’s a girl made of green fire whizzing around with plates balanced neatly on her forearms. “Hi!” she calls as they walk in. “Welcome to Grillby’s! Have a seat wherever you’d like and I’ll be with you in a moment!”

They sit in one of the booths, Chara leaning into the comfortable cushions with a sigh. The fire girl rolls up to them and Frisk realizes that she’s wearing roller skates. “Hi! My name is f*cku! Can I get you some drinks?” She passes them both menus and Toriel requests tea as soon as she sees it. Frisk orders hot chocolate by pointing at it, Chara wriggling with delight at the prospect of something nice and sweet with which to start their day.

“Gracious,” Toriel says as f*cku speeds away. “She’s so vibrant. What a lovely girl.” Frisk nods and scans their menu to find toast and then snags a strawberry jam packet from the table’s rack of them. Before Toriel can stop them, Chara’s spooned half the packet into their mouth and is grinning widely, the sticky sweetness decorating their mouth. Frisk complains briefly, but is then too interested in the flavor to protest more. All the food in the Underground seems more flavorful than that on the surface. They had noticed it with Toriel’s pies and the Nice Cream, but they had just assumed that it was her cooking or the trademark recipe, respectively. If something as simple as a jam packet was this good, they could see why Chara had an objective to eat everything.

Frisk enjoys the jam while Chara takes Toriel’s scolding, tuning in every once in a while so they could pretend to be listening as well. It is when the jam is almost gone that they hear Asriel’s name and they snap to attention. “Asriel never does this,” Toriel points out, unaware of her slip into present tense as she searches for a napkin. f*cku had given them silverware, but she must have forgotten that.

“Yeah, right. Azzy used to eat butter. Like, with a spoon. At least my way is more normal,” Chara scoffs, making Frisk laugh.

f*cku comes zooming by, dropping off their drinks and a stack of rumpled but clean napkins en route to the next table. Toriel uses one of the napkins to dab up a few drops of hot chocolate, then snags Frisk’s hands as Chara reaches for their chocolate. Only when they’re free of jam does she release them, Chara just about shrieking for their drink. Luckily, Frisk steadies them before their greedy headmate knocks the mug straight off the table.

They’re so focused on the rich flavor of their drink that they almost don’t notice Papyrus until he’s right beside the table. “HUMAN!” With a greeting like that, they spit their mouthful of chocolate right back into the mug, choking in surprise. A big hand pats their back, the enthusiasm in the touch telling them it certainly isn’t Toriel.

The tall skeleton is wearing his armor, as usual, but pinned to his scarf is a bowtie. Frisk is reminded of Chara’s antics and giggles into their mug. “HUMAN!” Papyrus shouts again. “MISS TORIEL! HELLO AND WELCOME TO GRILLBY’S! I’M THE GREAT PAPYRUS AND I’LL BE YOUR SERVER THIS MORNING! HAVE YOU MADE YOUR DECISION OF VICTUALS?” Here he whips out a small notepad and a stub of pencil, which he poises over the paper, waiting.

Frisk makes a few experimental hand signals, seeing if Papyrus has the same level of understanding as his brother. “Hello, Papyrus, how are you?”

“Greetings, Frisk!” he signs back, tucking his notepad under his arm. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“Toast, please.” If they weren’t already so inclined to like the skeleton, they’d adore him just for his willingness to sign.

“Coming right up!” He pulls his notepad back into his hands and turns to Toriel as he jots their order down. “AND FOR YOU, MISS TORIEL?” he booms.

Toriel contemplates her menu a moment more, then requests a snail substitute and mushroom omelet. Papyrus nods and beams before tucking their menus into the crook of his arm and bounding back into the kitchen.

Frisk props their head on their arm as Chara slurps some more hot chocolate. It had never occurred to them that people might have jobs other than the ones they’d seen previously. They’d thought that Papyrus and Sans were only part of the Guard. The idea that Papyrus is also a waiter is one that they’re going to have to think about.

When Papyrus comes leaping back, they ask “How long have you been working here?”

His big grin falters a bit. “THIS IS MY FIRST DAY. AM I NOT DOING A GOOD JOB?”

Toriel, who understood only Papyrus’s question, laughs and reaches out to administer a comforting pat to his arm as he puts their plates down. “Do not worry, my dear. You are doing a wonderful job.” She gives Frisk a warning look, suggesting that whatever they said to upset him needs to be taken back.

Frisk nods, giving the skeleton a big smile. “You’re doing great,” they sign encouragingly.

At their praise, his big smile returns full-force and he ruffles Frisk’s hair. “GENUINE COMPLIMENTS! THANK YOU, FRISK! THANK YOU, MISS TORIEL!” he booms. “ENJOY YOUR MEAL!” With that, he’s leaping off to the next table, whose occupants seem a little bewildered to find a skeleton bearing down upon them.

Frisk reaches for their plate and pauses. Papyrus has given them two plates of toast. They look up at Toriel and raise one eyebrow. She puts down her forkful of omelet and laughs. “Let us not bring it up, children. I will help you eat it if you wish.”

Chara shakes their head decisively and dumps another couple packets of jam over their triangles of toast. Frisk resigns themself to eating more than their stomach should rightfully be able to hold, but halts Chara a second before they can dig in.

Closing their eyes, they concentrate.

*The taste of good food with good friends.

*It fills you with Determination.

With that, they open their eyes and pounce ravenously on the food, suddenly starving.

…

When Sans wakes up, he has no idea where he is, or who is shaking him. His eye flares blue and his body bristles under the blanket. In return, he catches the scent of wood smoke and relaxes. “morning, grillbz,” he yawns, rolling onto his back. The fire elemental’s crouched over him, flickering face wearing an expression of amused exhaustion. He’s holding a chipped mug in one hand. The other hand is resting on Sans’s shoulder.

“You’re missing your shift, lazybones,” he says, bringing back his hand to rest his elbow on his knee.

“i’ll just call in sick,” he replies, closing his eyes again. He and Papyrus had spent the night at Grillby’s. It looked like they were going to spend a lot of nights at Grillby’s, in the apartment above the restaurant. Grillby had dragged out a bunch of blankets when they’d refused to take his bed and Papyrus had crafted a nest out of them and a few of the couch’s throw pillows.

Papyrus…

Sans sits up, nearly smacking heads with his friend, who reels back just in time. “where’s papyrus?”

“Downstairs, working. He’s a very good waiter.” Grillby rocks to his feet, straightening his tie. To look at him, you’d never reconcile the image of this dapper young monster with the one who, when in college, had possessed an unfortunate habit of forgetting to wear pants over his boxers when he was studying. Sans, who had been around for both phases, smirks at the thought.

“that’s what you mean by shift, huh?”

“Yes. As in if you don’t shift those bones of yours, I’m going to be short a server.”

“what? f*cku’s already gone?” Grillby’s little sister liked working in the restaurant in her spare time and sometimes she brought her friends. Apparently, having a big brother who owns a bar gives her high school social status a massive boost.

“Mam has been emphasizing the importance of education since my cousin dropped out. Besides, she’s got a date tonight and if the school calls again, she’ll be too grounded to go.”

Sans props himself up on his elbows. “technically, we’re all grounded.”

“Keep that up and you don’t get this cup of joe that I have lovingly crafted especially for you.” Grillby wiggles the mug a little and Sans hears a muddy sloshing.

“ketchup added?”

“Of course, you oddball.”

“give.” Sans accepts the mug Grilby’s handing him and a long strip of black fabric, which turns out to be a tie when he shakes it out. “when did i sign up for this?”

“Last night.” Grillby rocks back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind him. “You were telling me that you owed me and I tried to tell you that it was fine, but nope, you insisted. So here we are.”

“well, if i insisted.” Sans puts his coffee down and stands, crouching to pick it back up once he’s free of the blankets.

Grillby outright beams, which, for Grillby, is when his eyes turn into white slits in his face and his flame blazes yellow. “See you downstairs.” He strides across the room to the stairs, which from Sans’s point of view, are concealed by the half-wall. He watches Grillby’s head go bobbing down and then pop up again as the fire elemental walks back up. “Don’t go back to sleep, Sans.”

Sans splays a hand across his chest and looks wounded. “who, me?” Grillby knows his tricks and stares at him until he raises his hand. “sentry’s honor, i won’t go back to sleep.”

Grillby is waiting for him in the kitchen when he finally trudges down the stairs. Papyrus comes flying in, the door swinging behind him. “GRILLBY, TABLE SEVEN WANTS SOUP FOR BREAKFAST!” His exasperation indicates that he’s tried to tell Table Seven that they don’t serve soup for breakfast.

“That’s George, right?” When Papyrus nods sulkily, Grillby elbows him in the shoulder, careful not to touch him with his dough-covered hands. “Don’t worry your head about it, Papyrus. I’ll make him some biscuits. He knows the drill. He’s just trying to dissolve societal norms again.”

Papyrus’s jaw goes slack in outrage for a moment, realizing that the bear monster must have been messing with him. “WELL!” he exclaims, drawing himself up in an indignant rage. He’s been practicing those so Undyne will take him more seriously. Before Sans can poke fun at him, he’s marching back out into the restaurant’s main area, ready to give George a piece of his mind. Sans knows he won’t. Papyrus is all bark and no bite, a better policy for a tree than an aspiring Guard. Besides, Misha would most likely tell off his political-minded husband before Papyrus even got there.

When he comes flying back in, Sans is tying his tie around his neck and tucking the better part of it under his sweatshirt. It is only when Papyrus shouts his name that he looks up and nearly chokes on his mouthful of coffee. The human is hanging from Papyrus’s neck, laughing silently into the back of his skull.

His first instinct is to rip them away from his brother. But Papyrus is laughing too, juking and jiving around and making sounds that resemble a horse. And Sans doesn’t think that his brother would take too kindly to Sans killing his new friend. “SANS! I REQUIRE ASSISTANCE!”

“sorry, paps, i’m all tied up,” he apologizes, indicating his fingers all wound up with fabric.

Papyrus gives a shriek of rage as he dances around the kitchen, the human’s stubby legs flying out behind them like Papyrus’s scarf in a windstorm. Grillby, whose hands are once more deep in the biscuit dough, watches with amusem*nt. “GRILLBY, ASSISTANCE!”

“I’m in the middle of a sticky situation, Papyrus.” Sans clicks his fingers at Grillby, who winks back at him.

“THE TWO OF YOU ARE VERY FIRED!”

The kitchen door swings open again and Toriel stands in the doorway. When she sees all of them, she raps her knuckles twice on the door.

“who’s there?” Sans says, more out of habit than anything else, but her eyes light up as if he’s doing it just for her.

She hums a bit and then says, “Orange.”

“orange who?” he answers, falling into the act as easily as if there had never been a reset.

“Orange you glad we’re not stuck talking through a door anymore?” she manages, just before bursting into uncontrollable giggles. This lady. She acts like every joke is the best one and she means it.

Papyrus throws himself onto a table and moans in exasperation. Grillby hooks a foot around his spine and pushes him gently off, but not before the human has pushed off Papyrus’s shoulders and onto the table surface themself. They’re careful to keep their feet off the polished surface, but they’re still curiously scooting over to Grillby’s side, examining the mass of dough. He raises one floury hand to wave at them and gestures to the dough.

The kid makes a quick couple of hand gestures that Sans understands, even if he doesn’t know how to move his own hands that way: “Can I help?”

Grillby extracts his other hand from the dough with an unpleasant slurp. “Certainly,” he signs back. “Wash your hands first.” Out loud, he says “Papyrus, can you go manage the front please? Sans, you too?”

Sans grimaces and leaves reluctantly. The next hour is a blur of taking orders from monsters who are definitely not morning people, as well as wiping down tables. There’s a reason he doesn’t like working for Grillby and it is comprised of two words: health codes. A house can be as filthy as its inhabitants desire as long as they don’t have children. Sans is the king of untidy and this constant cleaning is against all his principles.

When he next sees the kid, they’re carrying out a tray of golden biscuits, Papyrus imitating a triumphant trumpet as he follows. Grillby exits the kitchen door next, carrying a second tray, while Toriel has a third. This strange little procession winds its way around the restaurant, Frisk dishing out piping hot biscuits to whomever they pass, including Sans himself, although the child makes sure not to touch him. The final plate of biscuits is placed in front of George, the bear in the very orange jacket.

He picks up his spoon, scoops up the top biscuit, and takes a bite out of it. He chews thoughtfully, his husband staring at him the entire time. “This is wonderful soup,” he announces to the restaurant. They burst into applause. The kid punches the air in their excitement and leaps into Papyrus’s waiting arms. He hoists them above his head, seating them on his shoulders. It would be astonishing, the amount of trust Papyrus has already put into this tiny human, but it isn’t. That’s just how Papyrus is. No matter what happens, he believes the best of people.

Sans bites into the biscuit, holding it between his teeth as he scrubs at the surface of an already shiny table. He catches a glimpse of his reflection and rolls his eyes at it. His tie is slipping. With a finger, he pushes the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and chews as he fixes the knot. The knot he finishes with would put the Gordian knot to shame. He picks up the cleaning cloth again and swipes at his reflection, calling on a little magic to do the same to the chairs with the extra cloths. When he finishes, flicking the used cloths into the garbage can with a stretch of his fingers, the side of his face begins to itch and burn and he sees flashing cyan and gleaming gold in his reflection, warped to a massive size. The cloth in his hand drops to the floor, but he doesn’t notice, already halfway out the door.

He stumbles around to the back of the restaurant and into the forest behind it, walking as far as possible. His path is marked by blue droplets sizzling holes through the snow, and by his unsteady footprints. Murmurs seem to dog his every movement, as if the trees are calling his name. When he deems himself far enough away to not be dangerous anymore, he sits down with his back to a tree and closes his eyes. A word comes unbidden, a word he doesn’t recognize. He uses it, calling it into the darkness behind his eyelids.

And there is the monster from last night, standing before him in the middle of the dark.

Chapter 10: For He Knows You, You See

Chapter Text

The monster comes forward, holding its hands in the x-shape over its chest. In monster tradition, the gesture means mercy, a wish to refrain from battle. Sans doesn’t want to fight either. For a moment, they just stare at each other, the slime monster looking more than a little desperate. Then, Sans returns the gesture, crossing one arm over his chest. It occurs to him as he does this that the sign is in the same shape of the knife cut and he lowers his arm more than a little hurriedly.

The monster looks around, then sinks down as if it too is sitting, far enough away from him to be out of arms’ reach. It clicks out a hesitant hello with its fingers. When he doesn’t respond the same way, it falters. “You Called For Help,” it signs. “I Have Answered Your Call.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. “you might want to pick up the phone again and find another caller.”

“It Does Not Work That Way,” the slime monster says. “You Require Help. Do Not Be Stubborn.”

“sorry to disappoint, but stubborn’s my middle name.”

“Your Middle Name Is Serif. Do Not Be Ridiculous In An Attempt To Divert My Attention From Your Plight.” The slime monster folds its arms, then drops them entirely when Sans stares at it with his good eye.

“what.”

It hesitates, making Sans certain that he had seen his middle name signed on those spider-like hands, then says “Your Magic Is Reacting To Stimuli In Your Vicinity. Do You Know What It Is So That You Might Remove It?”

“i’m not even in my vicinity.”

“Kindly Refrain From Being Difficult.” He’s pretty sure that its mouth quirks, which only pisses him off all the more.

“ah, another one of the middle names i apparently don’t have. how the hell did you know my middle name?”

“I Know Everyone And Everything. I Believe That It Is The Consolation Prize That Comes With Being Physically Dead.” The slime monster spreads its hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. Its eyes flicker.

“you’re dead.”

“Indeed.” The monster inclines its head.

“dust dead?” he clarifies.

“Gracious, Is There An Echo In Here? I Am Hearing An Echo.”

“listen, you creep. if i wasn’t about to set fire to something already, this conversation would really burn me up.”

“True. This Exchange Is Getting Rather Heated. Are We Allowed To Start It Over Again?”

He’s unsure if the monster meant the pun, but he feels himself smirk a little, before he shuts it down. “no. try fixing it without a ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

“How About An Introduction Then? I Am Wingdings Gaster. And You Are?” A hand is held out to Sans, fingers first and palm up, waiting.

“not stubborn or difficult apparently, so i’ll have to be just sans.” He gives him- he’s fairly sure this monster’s male-presenting, something about the name- a cheeky smirk.

“It Is A Pleasure To See You Again, Just Sans. Would You Kindly Allow Me To Advise You On Your Current Problem?”

“guess i owe you after you saved my life. why not? not like i don’t trust you or anything. not like you didn’t just come out of f*cking nowhere.” He shrugs. “but hey, guess it’s all fine.”

Gaster bristles at the ill-concealed hostility in his tone. “If You Are Well Enough To Jest, I Am Assuming That You Are Well Enough To Keep A Civil Tongue In Your Head. Kindly Do So. You Called For Me, Might I Remind You.”

Sans considers sticking his tongue out in order to prove that he doesn’t have to do anything, but decides that the passive-aggressive back and forth has gone on for long enough. “i didn’t think i called for anyone.”

“I Apologize Then For My Assumption.” The monster gives him a mocking bow, then fidgets when he has nothing more to say. Sans isn’t fluent in slime expressions, but it looks like Gaster’s ill at ease with his own actions. Ooze begins to drip out of his left eye socket, combining with a stream of it from his ruined mouth and coursing down his face. He doesn’t notice it until a drop splashes on his hand, at which point, the long fingers reach up and examine the trail. “Goodness. You Must Think I Am Quite The Drip.”

Despite himself, Sans snorts approvingly and Gaster straightens somewhat. “I Mean, It Is Not As If I Have Any Right To Be Solvent These Problems For You.” His jokes seem like an apology, one Sans decides to take before either of them can make it any worse.

“i’m not boiling over with any ideas either, doc.” The title slips out and when he thinks about it, he remembers where he’s seen the name Gaster before. A name, almost completely erased, scrawled in a familiar hand on the corner of his map, the one he had when he worked in the capitol. The creator of the Core. Not quite the drippy looking monster sitting before him. “you’re, uh, doctor gaster.”

“I Went By That Once, Yes.” Gaster fidgets again, locking his fingers together.

“no offense, but i’m pretty sure you’re not the kind of doctor that could help with this.”

“No Offense Taken. I Simply Have A More Vested Interest In Helping You Than Another Doctor Would.”

“really. what’s that?”

Gaster glances around as if the answer will light up in big neon letters. When no such indicator of how to proceed shows up, he signs “The Simple And Selfish Reason That You Appear Able To Contact Me In The Void.”

“you want to help me because you’re lonely, is that it, doc?”

“If You Must Phrase It That Way, Then Yes.” Gaster shrugs, looking a little relieved that the answer is that easy.

“that’s fine. i think i can handle it. it’s not going to dust me just yet.” His eye actually seems to be soothing itself at a much quicker pace than it had the first time, although it’s still really warm.

“Are You Certain?”

“well, the first time this happened, i got over it. uh, you know what that thing last night was?”

“I Have My Theories, But, As Of Yet, None Of Them Are Wholly Plausible.”

“care to share them with the class?” Gaster throws him a very deadpan look.

“If They Are Not Wholly Plausible, Are You Certain You Even Wish To Hear Them? I Observed It Entering The Town And For The First Time In A Long Time, I Knew I Was Able To Fight It Back. I Chose To Defend This Town.”

“big city guy like you defending this place, huh?”

Gaster bristles. “Something Along Those Lines.”

“okay, what’s it like being dead?”

“I Am Not Completely Dead. I Am Physically Dead. My Soul Still Beats, I Still Think, I Am Still Fully Magical. I Am Alive In Nearly Every Sense Of The Word. I Am Simply Absent.”

“dead’s just a placeholder, huh?”

Gaster looks down at his hands. “Yes. Something Like That.”

The space between them glows, burning a soft yellow color, a saffron curtain that doesn’t quite obscure Gaster’s panic. He stands hurriedly. “Your Friend Has Come To Retrieve You. He Will Not Be Able To See Me. As Such, I Should Go.” His words don’t quite match his actions though, for even as the curtain grows brighter, he hovers at the edges of Sans’s vision. Just before the light consumes them both, he signs “Goodbye, Sans. I Hope To See You Again.”

“see you, doc.”

“Sans? Sans!” When he opens his eyes, Grillby burns from anxious yellow to relieved orange. “You scared the life out of me, you screwy skeleton! Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“nope.” He squirms a little to let Grillby know that he’s holding his shoulders a little tighter than is strictly necessary. The fire elemental gets the message, releasing him with an apologetic wisp of smoke.

“I look up for one minute and you’re bulling people out of the way. I thought you were-“ He cuts himself off, looking sheepish.

“thought i was going to explode?”

“Yes.” Grillby rubs at his neck under his collar, which must have flipped up somehow during his pursuit. “You collapsed out here and I just assumed the worst.”

“well, i got it under control, grillbz. it’s nothing.”

“But what happened?”

“i was cleaning some tables. maybe i’m allergic to work. it would explain a lot, huh?” He gives Grillby a cheeky grin, only for the smile to fall away completely when Grillby burns down to red. “whoa, hey, whatsa matter with you?”

“I don’t like this, Sans. Your magic has never done this.” Grillby reaches up and takes away the hand still cupped around Sans’s eye, wrapping his warm fingers around Sans’s wrist. “You’re burned. God, you’ve burned yourself.”

“what?” Sans flinches when Grillby touches the area just beneath his eye socket. “ow. you sure it’s not just from the fire?”

Acidly, the fire elemental says “I think I would have noticed it between now and then if it was. Hold still.” The smell of vanilla wreaths Sans’s head as Grillby summons up his healing magic. Grillby has very tricky healing magic, so his expression is one of fierce concentration, his flame temporarily yellow-orange as he works. Sans can’t count on one hand how many times Grillby has had to do something like this, especially when they were kids. Sans, who had been a tiny adult in all aspects of his life as a kid, had gotten into a lot of scraps with other kids, often on the matter of his own oddities or the fact that Papyrus seemed to have no magic at all, claiming later as Grillby tried to puzzle through fixing fractures or bruises that it was Sans’s responsibility to protect them both. As he had grown older, this fiery streak had died down a little, presumably because Papyrus demonstrated that he did indeed have a handle on magic, provided that it wasn’t orange, and that he was very good at controlling it.

Now Grillby rocks back onto his heels. The legs of his pants from the knees down are soaked in snow melt, a hazard for a fire elemental in any sort of cold. As he pulls Sans up onto his feet, Sans realizes that he’s in the same boat. The back of his jacket is soaked through, which is rather odd because skeletons don’t produce the same amount of heat as fire elementals. Still, any heat would melt snow if present for a long enough period of time and he dismisses it as Grillby starts weaving his way back through the woods.

“Sans?”

“mmhm?”

“Frisk wants to talk to you about something. They’re- they’re the human, aren’t they? The one that killed all of us.”

“yeah. i think so. they’re so different though. ‘s weird.” Sans tries to step exactly in his own footprints, retracing his steps. It’s easier to follow the old path than to make a completely new one. The kid’s worrying him a lot really. Everything seems to be important now and he can’t figure out what really matters in how the kid acts and what doesn’t.

Grillby enters the restaurant and Sans stands outside, staring up at the sign above the door, gathering the patience he’ll probably need to go inside. Just as he thinks he has all his wits about him, Papyrus careens through the doors and skids, sending up a fresh spray of snow. “SANS! HELLO! I AM GOING TO PATROL THE EDGES OF TOWN! UNDYNE SAYS THAT THEY NEED GUARDING AND THAT I AM JUST THE SKELETON FOR THE JOB!”

“did she now?”

“WELL, NO. SHE SIMPLY SAID THAT AN INFORMANT SPOTTED SOMETHING SHIFTY OUTSIDE OF TOWN AND THAT SHE NEEDED ME TO PASS ALONG THE MESSAGE TO THE GUARD! I DID THAT, BUT THEY SAY THAT THEY CAN’T SMELL ANYTHING STRANGE! SO I VOLUNTEERED MY EXPERT SERVICES!”

“okay, bro. betta get going before undyne gets impatient.”

Papyrus nods an affirmative and leaps into the snow. Halfway down the block, he screeches in realization that Sans’s advice was a pun and turns back. “SANS! I’M FURIOUS AT YOU!”

“aw, but look at that big smile!”

“STOP IT! I CAN’T HELP IT! A GOOD ROYAL GUARDSMAN MUST ALWAYS HAVE A WELCOMING SMILE!”

“love you, bro.”

“AW, I LOVE YOU TOO, SANS. I’M STILL MAD AT YOU, BUT I LOVE YOU TOO!” With that, Papyrus bounds away, a skeleton on a mission.

Sans shakes his head, smiling, then walks into the restaurant. “What’s going on in here?” At the mere sound of his voice, the kid jumps, hands pausing mid-sign, and their shoulders rise up towards their ears. Good, he finds himself thinking. They know what they’ve done and so does he. They don’t deserve to be in everyone’s good graces. They have no soul left to respond with. Even their appearance here shows that they can’t change. If they were any sort of good person, they would have left and never come back.

The kid’s sitting on a stool at the counter, the one the hamster kid would have taken had he not been in school. Grillby’s standing on the other side of the counter, hands folded. The bar is empty aside from the three of them, the breakfast rush done with. Toriel’s nowhere to be found and Sans has a thought, like a little itch at the back of his head, that they’ve killed her and stored the dust somewhere.

“Where’s Toriel, kid?”

“Store,” they answer, staring at their lap.

“Huh.” Sans sits down on his usual stool, folding his hands together on the counter. “Heard you wanted to talk.”

“I want to know what you know about that dog thing.”

“Not much.”

“That’s more than we know.”

“Okay. I know that it didn’t look like it had a goal. It didn’t go after you or me until you lobbed the snowball at it and it looks like G provoked it when he saw it coming in.”

“G?”

“Mister Goop, or whatever the hell you called the guy.”

“There was a monster there as well?” Grillby glances between the two of them. “I don’t think I’m quite caught up to the events of last night. Frisk said there was a doggish creature and that it was bad news.”

“Yup. There was a thing that was pretending to be a dog. Then G popped in and went to beat it back. It had a weird symbol on its robe.”

“So, it was dressed like Dogamy and Dogaressa?”

“Yes! And it had a bigger white spot on its front!”

“Looked like a pile of snow.”

Frisk nods, stopping immediately when Sans puts them in his direct line of vision. Grillby props his chin on his hand. “And time stopped when it entered Snowdin?” he asks. When they nod again, he says “Then something’s wrong.”

Startled, Sans looks up. “Wrong?” he asks, and he hears the way that his voice goes dangerously monotone. The kid must hear it too because out of the corner of his eye, he can see them recoil. Grillby is unruffled, but then, Grillby is rarely ruffled by anything, especially when it comes to the skeleton brothers.

Now, the bartender gestures vaguely with one hand. “Don’t play the fool, Sans. You know better than I do that time is a serious issue. Time stopped when you saw that creature, correct?”

“Before then.”

“We’re in quite a bit of trouble then. Between your errant magic and those creatures, something is rotten in the kingdom of the Underground.” Grillby smirks a little when Sans eyes him. He very distinctly remembers reading that line, in its original form, out loud one night when Grillby was cleaning the dining room and Sans was sitting on the bar with a book. The fire elemental had called him Horatio for a straight week.

“Magic can’t do those things. Magic can delay time, but not stop it entirely. It’s like the death clause. You know of the death clause, right?” When Frisk looks blank, Grillby continues. “There are around four hundred monsters in the Underground. The population sometimes grows, sometimes shrinks, but no monster has ever been born with the magic to stop death. We’ve had some fantastic healers, including your mother, the Queen. But no one can stop death entirely. To do so would go against nature. Every fire elemental has to burn out, every skeleton has to crumble to dust, every human has to die. Magic is a force of nature. It can’t oppose itself. If magic is doing this, then nature’s turned on itself down here.”

“How do we fix it?” Frisk signs and Sans feels a twinge of confusion. Frisk turns to him and though they’re biting their lip, they sign in big confident gestures “We want to help.”

This time, he’d be hard-pressed to miss the plural pronoun, although the first time they had used it, he’d dismissed it as a mistake. Either the kid’s become royalty, which, if Tori’s actually a queen, might be plausible, or there is more than one person on their side. Instinctively, he looks into the pupils of their big, unmistakably brown eyes, searching for those cold faces that had leered at him in his death throes time and time again. Instead he sees only himself, lit with the warm light of the bar and he wonders again if this time is somehow different.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “How do we fix it?” He puts a little stress on the ‘we’ and sees Frisk’s face blanch. It had been a slip-up then.

Grillby sighs. “First step’s done. We’re aware of the problem. From here on out, I don’t know the solution.”

Sans lets his chin hit the counter with an audible thump. Before he can really despair though, Frisk knocks on the table. He flicks his eyes over to them and they say carefully “If we can’t fix it, can we fix this?” They gesture around themself and Grillby looks offended on behalf of his interior decorating for a split second before they elaborate. “We get everyone out of the Underground. We set the monsters free.”

Chapter 11: Flowey Joins The Party!

Chapter Text

“Getting a little grandiose there, aren’t ya, Frisky?” Chara says as Sans raises his head from the counter to stare at them. Their voice is nervous, even through all that they’re doing to sound teasing. They have a reason to be anxious though; Frisk themself feels a little ball of lead drop into the pit of their stomach at the thought of navigating the Underground again. Still. What’s said is said and now they have to follow through.

“How do we break the Barrier?” they ask. The question is just a formality of course, but it would look odd if they already knew.

“Well, in order to break the Barrier, the king needs seven human souls. He’s got, what, six now?” Grillby directs the question to Sans, who shrugs. Grillby shrugs back, then continues. “The last one came through almost twenty years ago, which means everybody’s getting antsy again.” The fire elemental hesitates. “I think the king will understand. He- he likes kids. He’ll help you. You just have to follow the path to him. All roads lead to New Home, but the fastest is through the main areas of the Underground: Snowdin, Waterfall, and Hotland.”

“Well, one out of three isn’t bad. Thanks.” Frisk slithers off their stool and heads for the door, glad to have an excuse to exit Sans’s company and have their thoughts free of the unpleasant idea that he was about to tear them to bloody pieces. Asgore had never killed them, but now that they are fully themself, there is no way of knowing what will happen. Everything has changed from what they remember. They are going to get out of the Underground one way or another though. Chara tosses them the feeling of companionship, although it pales in comparison with the exuberance they’re radiating. “Dad’ll help us!” Frisk pictures the sad, almost wilted king with something like confusion and Chara swaps out the image for one of a laughing, powerful, gentle giant. They show them the King of the Underground, the brawn to Toriel’s brain.

As Frisk steps out into the snow, Toriel comes out of the little shop attached to the inn with a small parcel. Frisk inhales as she comes near and gives her a big grin when they catch a whiff of sugar and cinnamon, sensing Cinnamon Bunnies in their future. “Ah, no,” she interrupts, wagging a finger at them when they make grabby hand motions. “These are for dessert tonight. I thought we would stay here a few more days before moving on.”

Frisk lets their hands fall to their sides as they consider a new problem. Despite her love of adventure, Toriel does not like Asgore and will definitely not like the thought of moving further towards him. They recall the rooms in the Ruins and how they began to feel like a cage after a while. A cage that was charmed to keep Asgore out. Chara throws up the idea of the ‘Room Under Renovation’ signs almost hopefully, trying to pretend that there’s at least some reason that Toriel would still be in love with him. They cite little glimpses of their sickeningly sweet interactions when Chara was alive, but to no avail. ‘No,’ Frisk decides. ‘We have to get Toriel out of the way somehow.’ Almost immediately, they both cringe at their word choice and Frisk rephrases before they can linger too long on the thought of Toriel’s dusty face as she calls them evil. ‘We have to distract her somehow.’

“Do not make that face, child,” Toriel teases, unaware of the conflict raging behind the miserable expression. “In this weather, it will most likely freeze that way.” When they don’t even crack a smile, she takes their small hand between her larger ones and looks into their eyes. For the first time, Frisk wonders if she sees red eyes looking back at her instead of brown. “What is it, my heart?”

Chara reaches for control and Frisk surrenders it willingly. They hesitate to admit it, but Toriel unnerves them. A mother is a new concept and one Chara handles much better than they ever could. ‘Mom, we have to go,’ Chara mouths.

Toriel’s smile falters for a moment, even as she feigns incomprehension. “I am sorry, dear, I was unable to understand that.”

‘Mom. Frisk and I have to go.’ Chara wraps their hand around one of her fingers. ‘You can’t come with us. Please don’t be mad.’

“I- I am not angry, my child. I wish- I wish there was something I could do that would keep you with me, but your stories suggest that this would be foolish.” Toriel begins to walk for the town’s boundaries, still holding their hand so they have to scamper along beside her. “I believed that you would be safer with me along. I apologize for inserting myself into your adventure.”

Before she can continue blaming herself, Chara lets out a silent cry and pulls their hand from hers, scrabbling for their notebook. In their sloppy handwriting, they scrawl ‘We do want you along, Mom! But it’s too dangerous! We can come back over and over and over, but you can’t!'

Toriel seems to draw strength from this admission, apologizing for saying that sort of thing in the first place. “Is there something I am able to do to make your journey easier?” she inquires, although it seems to Frisk that it is more of a request. Toriel needs to be able to take care of someone. They almost want to get her a plant or something, but then they recall all the dead plants in the Ruins and wince. Maybe a pet rock would be a better fit for her black thumb.

Chara brushes off this suggestion and writes instead ‘Go talk to Dad.’ Frisk cringes. This is a bad idea.

When Toriel’s face hardens and they smell cinnamon, Frisk reevaluates their initial impression. This is actually a really bad idea. The smell of magic disappears as quickly as it had come though, leaving them only with the smell of pine that seemed to cover Snowdin Town like a blanket. Toriel is very self-disciplined. “Why would I need to do that, child?”

Chara notes that she isn’t saying no with no small amount of glee. ‘If you don’t tell him that I’m alive, he might kill us by accident when we get there.’ They pause, realize exactly how bad that sounds, and sigh, adding an addendum. ‘He’s falling apart, Mom.’

‘Get her to take care of him,’ Frisk murmurs, half to themself, half to Chara. What they’re doing is brilliant in a terrible way, setting Toriel up to leave, but also making sure that she’ll be there when they get to the capitol.

“Yeah, I know,” Chara says, but whether it is to Frisk’s suggestion or to their admission of Chara’s brilliance, Frisk can’t be sure.

‘I mean, Mom, he lost me and Azzy and then everyone needed him to be like their dad. How could he not? He needs someone to take care of. You might not love him anymore, but he’s trying to be the person the Underground needs. You remember that time we went to visit Hotland and when we came back, he was asleep at his desk? And we found out that he’d been working nonstop and hadn’t eaten since we left?’ Chara takes a deep breath. This is it, all or nothing. ‘That’s what this is. He can’t take care of himself, Mom. When we saw him, every time we saw him, he was tired and so sad. Sometimes, he’d offer to kill himself and give us his soul if we’d free the monsters, but then- then something would happen and he’d die anyway and we wouldn’t take his soul.’ They don’t dare to glance at her face, instead writing faster. ‘He’s all alone and you don’t have to love him or anything, but he needs to know about us and we have to free the monsters. We can’t just go to him without helping everyone. We have to fix what we broke.’

Toriel is quiet and they risk a glance up at her. She does not look happy, per se, and there is that little crease between her eyebrows, but she has still not said no. After a silence that makes Frisk squirm in their headspace, she heaves a great sigh. “I do not believe I will ever understand what made you so wise, my child.” She picks them up and settles them on her hip, touching her snout to their forehead. “I will go to see Asgore. I will tell him about you, but then I will come back for you. Is that understood? Be certain to call me every time you enter a new city. Brush your teeth every night if you can. Do not eat chocolate for every meal.”

She might have gone on forever had Frisk not steeled themself and kissed her cheek. She stops and looks at them, puzzled. Frisk feels themself blush. Was that not something to do to a mother? She kissed Chara all the time. Was it incorrect to return the favor? Frisk makes an agonized sound in the headspace and Chara laughs at their pain. “Cool it, Frisky. Mom’s just trying to figure out which one of us it was. You can kiss her. I do all the time. I don’t mind sharing my mom, if you want her to be your mom too. We’re like siblings anyway, you and me.”

Frisk expresses surprise and Chara laughs, trying to find words for what they want to say. But Toriel is laughing before they can say anything further, so they look back at her. “Frisk, was that you?” she asks and her goofy expression, so hopeful, makes Frisk nod their head yes. Tentatively, they touch their thumb under their lip, spreading their remaining fingers out like feathers. She won’t understand the gesture, but they do it anyway because it feels right.

Chara prods them for the definition of the sign, but they gently twist the wordless conversation around, praising the spirit for their quick thinking and clever tongue. Or hands. Instead of being pleased, Chara seems to slump. “I meant every word. Dad’s never been very good about taking care of himself. He’s dependent and it’s been so long since he’s had someone to remind him to relax. It’s been a hundred thirty nine years since I died, Frisk.”

Toriel sets them down and kisses them again, but Frisk barely feels it this time, hugging her on autopilot. They had no idea. It has only been two days since they fell down, not counting the resets, and they’re already so homesick that they’ve had to lock most of their memories up in a conjured chest. One hundred and thirty nine years is too much to even imagine. They know they won’t like the answer, but they ask anyway. ‘How long has it been since Toriel left him?’

“Dunno. She probably left early on though. Mom never really liked the castle. She wasn’t raised to be a queen either. She and Dad just met one day and they really liked each other. Look, she’s coming back.”

Toriel kneels down in the snow, placing their knapsack before them. “Frisk, Chara? Promise me that you will remain aware of your surroundings. I understand that you need to speak to each other, but standing outside without moving is not the best strategy. You could freeze to death.” She’s carrying her bottomless bag and Frisk almost matches Chara’s sadness with their own. Toriel’s leaving for New Home. At least they know she won’t be attacked. No one would jump a wandering Boss Monster if they valued their skin.

They both wrap their arms around Toriel’s neck and bury their face in her sweater. “Goodbye, Mom,” Chara breaths, letting go before Toriel pulls away, trying to save themself more heartache.

“Goodbye, Chara. Farewell, Frisk. I wish you luck on your adventure.” Then she is trudging away, bag knocking against her hip with every step she takes. They watch her figure fade into the snowstorm and one of them, maybe both of them, takes a step forward, reaching out a hand. And she’s gone.

Frisk grabs their bag, steering them both into the library so they can find somewhere to sit and talk to each other without attracting attention. However odd it was, Toriel’s advice is most probably good advice.

The library is quiet, as usual, although there are actually people here this time. Frisk avoids the table full of monsters and wanders over to the help desk. They ring the service bell.

“I know! I know! The sign’s misspelled!” cries a lizard monster as they pop up behind the desk. Frisk blinks at the venom in their voice.

“What, you didn’t notice?” Chara asks. “The sign says ‘Librarby.’ Pretty dumb for a place full of books, huh?”

Frisk makes an ‘excuse me’ motion to the librarian and steps back outside. They raise an eyebrow at the typo, grinning when Chara starts asking. “You’d think a library would have an editor, wouldn’t you? ‘Oh, construction worker, hi, that sign’s about to be misspelled.’ Or wait, maybe the construction workers were really, really drunk and forgot they put the B in already.”

They’re still giggling when they go back in, much to the Library Lizard’s consternation. The lizard seems to be blushing furiously, her green face even greener. “I know! It’s awful! But the workers tried so hard on it and I couldn’t say no!”

Frisk smiles comfortingly at the lizard when the monster works up the courage to look them in the eye. “Uh, I’m Lib. Welcome to the Snowdin Library. Can I help you find anything?”

“Uh, yes. We’d like King Asgore please,” Chara deadpans. “Would we find him in the biographies or in the gardening section?”

Smiling again, Frisk shakes their head and wanders over to the shelves. They intend to just snag a book and pretend to read it, but some of these titles are actually interesting. Being the Killer Robot, for example, which is apparently a series about Mettaton, by Mettaton, takes up half a shelf with its volumes. Frisk slides one of the volumes out and flips it open to a random page, coughing at the sudden cloud of perfume that wafts up from the book. Every page is written in an eye watering shade of pink. They pinch their nose a little and turn the page, only for something to slide out.

Chara catches it before it can hit the floor, holding it up to inspect it. The spirit releases an amused feeling as they realize that it’s a hand-drawn picture of Papyrus and Mettaton’s rectangular form holding hands. Judging by the odd angles Papyrus’s legs are bent at, they’re meant to be skipping. “Aw, so-o-meone’s got a cru-u-ush!” croons Chara, tracing a finger over the crudely drawn faces. There are other tiny sketches around it, all in the same hurried style: one of Papyrus himself, a hand over his chest, posing; one of Sans, this one rendered in color, talking to Grillby; and several of Undyne. She looks to be his favorite subject, although he put a lot more detail into drawing her armor than in drawing her face.

‘I had no idea you were such a romantic,’ Frisk teases, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the shelf. When Chara dithers to admit it, Frisk holds up a metaphorical finger. ‘Don’t try to deny it. We share a body. You trying to get together Toriel and Asgore again, and now Papyrus and Mettaton? Romantic.’

“C’mon, Frisky. Admit it. They’d be super cute together,” Chara wheedles, trying to get Frisk to join their side.

‘Mettaton loves himself,’ they argue. Frisk thinks about it, then adds ‘So does Papyrus.’

Chara nods eagerly. “Papyrus is so sweet and Mettaton’s…not. If we got them together, maybe Papyrus would make him nicer.”

‘We’re still talking about the killer robot, right?’ Frisk asks, waving the novel. They had noticed Chara’s suggestion that they get the two together, but it was being to sound more and more plausible with every minute. That’s what happens when you spend too much time with crazy people. They almost start to sound sane.

“Oh, come on, Frisky. You know I’m right. Killer Robot into Caring Robot! I like this idea! Maybe they’ll be so busy being boyfriends that Mettaton won’t go crazy on us!” They conjure up the image of the winged Mettaton and Frisk neatly shoves it away. They don’t want to look at him and think of how easy it had been to swing the frying pan or the stick or the toy knife, whatever they’d had in their hands at the moment.

‘He didn’t go crazy on us. We hurt him,’ Frisk corrects. Chara always seems to have a hard time recalling who is to blame for most of their encounters. If Frisk hadn’t been so sure that their heart’s in the right place, they might have been concerned.

“Right. Forgot that.” There is a momentary quiet that almost sounds like wind through trees before Chara speaks again. “Still though, if we see ol’ Sparky again, how’s about we drop him a line about a cute fan here in Snowdin?”

‘Sure. We’ll drop him a line.’ Frisk smiles at the drawing and folds it up, sliding it into their pocket along with the Nice Cream wrapper. They decide to give it to Papyrus the next time they see him. They turn the page, skimming through what looks like a ramble on how to care for machinery. ‘Chara?’

“What’s up, Frisky Frisk?” Chara floats around the headspace, looking rather like the Cheshire Cat as they bob along.

‘I’m sorry I made Toriel leave.’

Chara is quiet and, for a second, Frisk catches a glimpse of resentment. Then the little spirit flutters closer to their mind’s eye. “You were right. Mom would just make things harder. Besides, I came up with a great solution, didn’t I?” They wait for Frisk to agree, which Frisk does, of course, vociferously.

A peculiar sound reaches them in the middle of their Chara-bration, like someone typing on a typewriter. “Excuse me?” It’s the Library Lizard, clicking her claws together. “Sorry, dear, I just need to grab one of those above you.” They obligingly wriggle away, allowing her the space to grab a book, barely more than a bound essay, off the shelf. She settles it in her arms in the way someone would hold a baby. They give her another smile, bending back over their book.

“Yo!” Chara flinches and turns their head, Frisk giving a little ‘ow’ as their neck snaps unexpectedly. They recognize the striped sweater before they recognize anything else. It’s Kid, the little armless dinosaur monster. Frisk thinks they’re funny. They’ve never interacted with them on their own before. Certainly they’ve never seen them inside the library. Currently, the dinosaur monster is vibrating excitedly. “Yo! You’re a kid, right? I can tell because of the striped sweater.” They tug on their own sweater collar with their teeth. They’re wrapped up more warmly than usual, likely because of the intense weather Snowdin seems to be experiencing. It must be strange to be a cold-blooded monster in Snowdin.

“What’s your name? I’m Kid and this is my sister. Her name’s Liberty, but everybody calls her Lib.” Lib waves with the hand not holding the book. Frisk carefully fingerspells their name, wondering if Kid or Lib understands sign. Neither of them respond, beside Kid looking at Lib for clarity.

Frisk sighs and digs out the notepad while Chara pulls the pencil out from behind their ear. ‘I’m Frisk. I’m mute.’

Kid takes a minute longer to read it than Lib does. “Oh! Dude, that’s cool! Nice to meet you, Frisk! Want to read with me and Lib?”

Chara does not want to be read to. They put their foot down, even as Frisk nods yes. The spirit lets loose a low toneless moan as Frisk follows Lib and Kid behind the desk. They sit in a lopsided circle and Lib begins to read them a story, pausing every so often to show them the pictures at the bottom of each typed page and stuttering occasionally. Chara stops moaning once the main villain comes in, interested by their determination to succeed. By the time the hero has started off on their journey, Chara’s whispering little encouragements, unconscious of Frisk’s stifled mirth. Unfortunately, Lib closes the book just when the hero had met up with the villain’s first wave of goons. “That’s all for today, guys,” she says. “Thanks for listening.”

“Aw, c’mon, Libby!” whines Monster Kid.

“Nope. I have to catch up my reading group before we can continue. Sorry, bud.” Lib stands up and goes to return the book to its rightful place, leaving Kid and Frisk sitting behind the counter.

“She gets stage fright, yo. That’s why she likes reading to me. Like rehearsal. ‘S cool that you said yes too. Thanks.” Kid tilts their head and the extra fabric of their ribbon droops a little. “So, what kind of monster are you? Never seen your kind before.” When Frisk hesitates, Kid rushes on, saying “No offense or anything!”

‘I’m a human,’ Frisk answers. They chew on their eraser, before adding ‘Well, sort of.’

“You adopted too?” When Frisk can’t keep the expression of bewilderment off their face, Kid explains. “Me and Lib were in New Home’s orphanage for four years until Mom and Dad and Auntie A came and adopted us. We’re honorary rabbits now! So, were you adopted by humans or monsters or something like that, yo?”

“They’re taking this really well. Don’t they usually hate us?”

‘Maybe,’ Frisk answers, trying to remember Kid ever saying that they hated them. Then to Kid, ‘Something like that.’

“Uh, if you really are a human though, Undyne’s gonna want to fight you. She’s super cool though. She won’t hurt you if you’re an innocent. She’s great like that.” Kid rocks up to a standing position and offers them their tail as support.

Frisk accepts the help, mostly because they’re pretty sure they won’t be able to stand on their own. Undyne. They had barely thought about her, so eager were they to avoid Sans and make friends and eat new food. Suddenly she looms up in their mind’s eye, her hollow eye socket radiating power and her body melting away into nothingness. They can barely remember what she looked like without Determination shot through her body. She had killed them so many times and they’d deserved every single one.

“We’re as innocent as a lamb this time, Frisk. If Kid here is right, we’ll be okay.”

“Hey, you wanna play a game with me?” Kid isn’t aware they’re interrupting, but Chara throws up a wave of irritation anyway. Frisk nods firmly, wondering what Kid wants to play. At their consent, Kid brightens. “Um, how about you be Undyne and I’ll be, um, a royal guard! We can save the Underground! That sound good, yo?”

Playing pretend sounds great, actually. So they do. Lib agrees to be Asgore and orders them on quests around the library, sending them to retrieve books for various patrons or having them rearrange the shelves. Kid calls the former ‘missions’ and the latter ‘recalibrating puzzles.’ Frisk has fun actually. They’re much quieter than Kid and Chara lends them enough of their grace that they can duck and dodge around obstacles Lib puts in their way without bothering the visitors to the library. Chara is instrumental in playing pretend. They have a rich imagination, and the fact that they can easily illustrate it makes it even more fun. “You creep around the pillar. There it is: the treasure of King Krakom. It is so shiny that it makes your eyes hurt, but you’re on a mission from the king himself. Your loyal sidekick, Monster Kid, can retrieve it in their tail.”

“Captain Undyne!” Kid crows, wrapping their tail around a book. “I’ve captured a human! Let’s go bring them to Asgore and take their…” They seem to have forgotten Frisk’s own species, a fact that is soon remedied by Frisk’s horrified expression. “Yo, I didn’t- I’m sorry, dude, I just forgot.” Their tail lets the book fall to the ground and they step closer. Frisk doesn’t move as Kid gently bumps their foreheads together in apology.

‘I have to go. Royal Guard Kid, I order you to protect the people of Snowdin,’ they scratch, hand shaking only a little.

Kid lights up as they read it. “Yes, Captain! I can do that!” Frisk gives them a clipped nod and turns on their heel to walk outside, picking up their knapsack from an empty chair. The library had been quiet for a few hours now. It must be late. Lib waves as they leave, calling “Come back soon, okay, Frisk?”

Flowey is waiting for them outside, a bright splash of gold against the white snow across from the library. They spot him immediately, despite the pine branch he’s holding in his teeth for camouflage. He’s really ridiculously bad at spying.

He peers up at them as they walk forward. When they reach an area within five feet, he spits the pine branch at them. “Y-you guh-guh-got rid of the old l-lady, h-huh?” he asks, almost sullenly.

Without replying, Frisk takes the hat from their head and tosses it to him, kneeling down in the snow to look him in the eye. He avoids their gaze, instead using his teeth to wrestle the hat into a comfortable position. It’s too big on his tiny flower head, but that’s okay.

“How are you?” Frisk signs, happy to fall back into familiar signs. Their notebook is getting too full and they want to save the pages. They have a lot of monsters they have to talk to and the fewer pages they waste, the more they’ll be able to talk to the ones who don’t know sign.

“I h-hate it h-here. C-can you m-m-m-“ He bites off the ‘m’ and tries again. “When are you g-going to l-leave?”

“As soon as I’m done here. Want a scarf too?”

Flowey shrugs. As they look for one, he mutters “I saw you p-p-playing w-w-with K-k-kid.”

Ah. That would be the reason for the mood. “Someone’s jealous,” Chara mumbles. Like a rain cloud, Flowey’s bad mood has migrated to loom over Chara’s side of the headspace. Frisk wants to roll their eyes at the both of them.

“W-was that b-both of you?” Flowey probes. His stutter seems to be better. He seems to be less afraid too, as his face is turning into bad-tempered putty, a sure sign that he’s about to try and intimidate them.

“Just me.” It’s a lie, but one that works. Flowey’s face snaps back into a facsimile of its usual smile. Jealousy, fear, hatred, anger. It’s odd that all the emotions Flowey can feel are negative.

“Azzy was always crazy positive though. Maybe he tried to change that.” Frisk hopes not. Positivity is something they need more of right now, what with Frisk’s own worries and panic attacks and Chara’s fear.

“So, you g-going to g-go fight Undyne?” he challenges. Frisk pulls out a scarf, the same one they gave him before the reset. With a flick of their wrist, they throw it. Their throw is weak, but the end of the scarf is close enough that Flowey simply rolls his eyes and bites into it, dragging it over the snow and around his stem. They sit back to answer, feeling the déjà vu as Flowey pulls himself, hat, scarf, and all, underground again.

They sigh and stand up, jolting when his voice rings out again, from their left this time. “W-well? Are you?” His expression isn’t mean, just curious, one eyebrow-like ridge of flesh raised.

“I don’t want to, but yeah. Do you want to come with me?” Frisk hikes their knapsack up on their shoulder, hoping he says yes.

“It’ll be f-fun to s-s-see how this w-w-works out. S-sure.” He reaches up a vine from the snow and wraps it around their arm. Frisk realizes what he intends to do and reaches out to accommodate his shifting. With a quiet grunt, Flowey hauls himself out of the earth and coils around Frisk’s upper body. The vines curled around their throat are cold and limp, like dead flesh, and the feeling sends shivers down their back. When he is entirely settled like this, he rests his head on their shoulder. “D-don’t t-touch, g-get it?” he whispers in their ear, breath as cold as the rest of him. “If y-you try, I’ll t-tear y-your arm off.” Pointedly, he squeezes their arm.

“Yeah,” Frisk answers. “I’m glad you’re coming with us.” When Flowey says nothing, Frisk adds “Chara is too.”

Chara is, in fact, very happy. Their bad mood had evaporated like a rain cloud with the sun out. Frisk has to close their mind to avoid the wash of sepia-tinted memories. Still, one leaks in, of Asriel laughing as he bats at Chara with a pillow. “This is going to be so cool!” they shout, borrowing Monster Kid’s favorite word. “We’re brave adventurers, Frisky! You, me, and Azzy! Forge onwards!”

The flower remains silent as they wave to Kid, who is watching from the library window. Content that they made everything better, Frisk turns up the nearest path, smiling when they see the heavily muscled wolf hurling blocks of ice into the river. His ears turn towards them when he hears their footsteps, but he continues throwing ice into the river in the same precise rhythm. “Hello,” he rumbles.

They lift a hand, waving at him. Even though they don’t say anything, he tells them “I’m throwing ice to cool the Core up in Hotland. It’s an important job. One of these days though, I’m going to take a break.” Seizing a massive ice cube, he sends it flying into the icy water. Frisk applauds his great strength, then moves on. They hold a somewhat stunted conversation with a door and become rather involved in a game of Monsters and Humans with two young slime monsters before Flowey clears his throat and prompts them to move on.

When they turn to walk back into town, they catch something moving in their peripheral vision. A hooded figure stands on a boat, one that has just come drifting into view. This is new. Frisk runs over to speak to them, but the hooded figure speaks first. In a toneless voice, they sing “Tra la la, beware the green ones. Tra la la, beware the small and harmless.”

Flowey squeaks as the hooded figure turns to look at them. Underneath their hood rest five glittering eyes, all-seeing and the color of the dark river. “Tra. La. La. I am the riverman. Or am I the riverwoman? It doesn’t matter. I love to ride in my boat. Would you care to join me, children?”

There is something horribly sinister about the way they say this, and it is not only because they seem to be able to see Chara and Flowey. Once more they sing their strange refrain, and when Frisk doesn’t move, the boat starts to float away.

“Luh-let’s g-g-get out of here,” Flowey whispers as the riverperson’s song fades into the distance. “Th-they’re creepy.” Frisk can’t agree more.

When Frisk and company walk out of Snowdin, their collective mood tentatively begins to brighten. If they’re right, this next area will lead to a scuffle with Papyrus, which will be a cakewalk. They don’t want to hurt Papyrus and Papyrus doesn’t want to hurt them. They save, feeling Flowey huddle closer at the feeling of power running through them. Then they have left town.

*The responsibility of a mission and your vow to never hurt another monster.

*It fills you with Determination.

A short skeleton follows them from the cover of the trees. In his pockets, his hands ball into fists. He’ll wait for them to slip up and then he’ll end them. No one can change this easily, least of all a megalovaniac.

Chapter 12: How Many Pieces Do You Wish?

Chapter Text

Papyrus is waiting in the swirling snow. They can hear him breathing through the fog, little excited sounds like an eager puppy. It’s entirely unnecessary for him to breathe, but the fact that he does anyway doesn’t quite surprise them.

“HUMAN!” he calls and they ready themself for an attack, Frisk’s hands in the mindspace curling around Chara’s. Flowey snarls when they reach for him, so he must not want a hand to hold. Instead, his vines curl under the neck of their sweater and around the body underneath, concealing him almost entirely. They hear the skeleton clear his throat, as if embarrassed somehow by his own exuberance, then say in a voice a few decibels quieter than his usual volume, “HUMAN. ALLOW ME TO TELL YOU ABOUT SOME COMPLEX FEELINGS. FEELINGS LIKE THE CONFUSION OF FINDING SOMEONE WHO MAY BE DANGEROUS BUT DOES NOT SEEM SO. THE DESIRE TO HAVE A COOL, SMART PERSON THINK YOU ARE COOL AND SMART AS WELL. THE HOPE TO BECOME SOMEONE VERY GREAT. THESE FEELINGS…”

“Aw, he idolizes us,” coos Chara, a split second before Papyrus continues in his usual shriek:

“THEY MUST BE WHAT YOU ARE FEELING RIGHT NOW!” He somehow manages to make excitement feel twice as exciting. Frisk’s body twitches. They want to tussle. Not enough to hurt him, but just to play wrestle. Chara winces as they get the memory of a new bruise, but along with the recollection of hurt comes the feeling of giggling hard enough to fall over, of hands scooping them up and tickling their middle. Unable to contain that much eagerness, Frisk’s head bobbles in a nod, hoping he sees it.

“Do you really idolize him?” Chara asks, sending sunshine over to Frisk’s side of the body, running it through their veins. Frisk nods again, excited enough to hop around. Papyrus won’t hurt them. He wants to play at fighting. He never attacked them in their memory, so they know they’ll be able to spare him in one go. Or maybe, if he really wants a fight, they can have a snowball fight.

“I CAN HARDLY IMAGINE WHAT IT MUST BE LIKE TO FEEL THAT WAY. AFTER ALL, I AM VERY GREAT. I DON’T EVER WONDER WHAT HAVING LOTS OF FRIENDS MUST BE LIKE.”

“Did he even say anything about friends? Where is this crud coming from?” Chara wonders, their jaw shutting with an audible snap when Frisk shushes them. “Are you really listening to this drivel? Hug him and let’s go!”

“I PITY YOU…LONELY HUMAN..” His voice is heartbreakingly distant, as if he’s looking at a child, all alone in the world, one not unlike Frisk. It would be rude to start moving during his speech though, so Frisk waits for him to continue. This anticipation turns into delight with his next words. “WORRY NOT! YOU SHALL BE LONELY NO LONGER! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL BE YOUR-“

As Frisk readies themself to jump into his arms and accept the offer of friendship, Papyrus stops. “NO. NO, THIS IS ALL WRONG! I CAN’T BE YOUR FRIEND! YOU ARE A HUMAN!”

“Wow, talk about being species-ist,” Chara comments huffily over Papyrus’s argument with himself and Frisk’s own sounds of dejection. They start vocalizing over his subsequent declarations of his lifelong dream, so however hard Frisk tries to listen, all they hear is ‘The Song That Gets On Your Nerves,’ something Chara has snuck from Frisk’s memory of watching television shows about elementary schools.

They try to shush Chara and listen at the same time, but Papyrus has stopped talking. A feeling mounts in their chest, as if someone has just shoved an icicle through them. The feeling trickles into their throat and they feel as if they open their mouth, they’ll breathe frost crystals. They know this feeling. This is a real battle.

“Frisk, flee. Flee now.”

There’s no time. Their soul is tugged from their chest and they grab for it. The swirling snow clears, revealing their opponent, dressed in his usual battle body. Papyrus, poised to make another speech, pauses with his jaw open when he sees Frisk struggling with their soul, trying to hide it. “HUMAN?” he asks, lowering his eye ridges to seem concerned. “HUMAN, WE CANNOT FIGHT IF YOU DO NOT LET GO OF YOUR SOUL.”

Frisk wrestles with their soul a bit more, trying to summon enough Determination to smooth over the cracks in the thing. Despite anything Chara says to comfort them, they’re filled with revulsion at the sight of it; a misshapen heart that gives off a sore reddish glare, one that barely hides the tar-filled gouges running through it. It’s the gouges that show the wear and tear of carrying two souls through so many resets. Most are from Chara, when they were lashing out in an effort to escape. Others though, Frisk suspects that they made these themself. No matter whose fault the scars are, their soul is gruesome.

“Look, let’s just turn around. It doesn’t matter enough for us to fight him. We can come back later.”

‘We can’t,’ Frisk says wretchedly. They were Determined to start this fight and they have to finish what they started. Tears prickle at the corners of their eyes as they let go, revealing their deformed soul. The tall skeleton stares at it and Frisk sees the pity washing over his face. It’s mixed with some other emotion, revulsion maybe? Their own shame is only enhanced by Flowey’s sharp intake of breath. “Is that r-really your s-s-soul?” he whispers, as if it could be anything else.

Frisk nods, their cheek brushing against his petals, and he hisses through his teeth. Whether it’s from the unwanted contact or disgust, they don’t know, but they’re terrified that it’s the latter. They just bring their arms up to hide their face, thinking of the old childhood adage: ‘They can’t see you if you can’t see them.’ They can smell jam on their sleeves. The morning spent at Grillby’s seems as if it happened to some other Frisk, some other place. The world spins, the memory faltering. Chara seizes their arm before they can leave reality completely. They look into their friend’s eyes, at the freckles dotting their cheeks and chin. There is trust there, an unspoken message. They inhale.

Chara exhales.

Chara stands straight and proud, cracking their spine and rolling their head around on their neck. When everything pops accordingly, they crack their knuckles one by one. As they lower their arms, they look Papyrus straight in the eye with their best creepy face.

And they spare him.

Almost cautiously, he summons a bone attack, running them in ridges that tear up the thin layer of ice to expose crumbling clods of earth below. The smell of bubblegum fills the air with its cloying sweetness. They dodge away, trying a cartwheel in Frisk’s clumsy chubby body. To their delight, it works and they land elegantly, arms upraised as if saluting the sky. Again they spare him, waiting for the next attack. From here on out is uncharted territory. As soon as they spared him, they had started down a different path, one that they are Determined to see through to the end.

He’s talking again as he raises one arm. Chara watches it and tenses, readying themself for another line of bones. Instead, when his arm comes slicing down like a guillotine, their body becomes sluggish and heavy, their soul gleaming in Sans’s color. Chara can no longer spin from side to side as they usually would and their lip curls into a silent snarl. Papyrus is making this unnecessarily difficult.

As he sends another line of bones hurtling towards them, they try a different tack, leaping straight up. There should be no way that this works, that they can stay hovering in the air above the attack, but improbably it does. Chara walks up through the air as if there are invisible steps under Frisk’s sturdy boots. Flowey curls his vines tighter, pretending for both of them that he can somehow make them go higher. He can’t hold out against gravity, however. When they fall, they manage to avoid the last of the bones, making the spare signal as they hit the ground.

Despite Flowey’s reflexive cushioning of their side with his vines, Frisk’s shoulder aches from impact and Chara rotates it in its socket. A bruise is forming, but they have no time to nurse it. The bones moving towards them are blue now. Chara holds steady as the attack comes closer, shutting out Frisk’s panic. The bones whisper through their body without harm, then Chara is rocketing up into the air to avoid a row of white attacks, lined up like a picket fence.

This time when they land, Chara digs through the knapsack for some monster food. A little magic should patch up their bruise and dull the pained gleam of their soul. Their fingers crinkle through something and they pull out a still-warm paper bag. Inside is a Cinnamon Bunny. Ever merciful, Chara bites off its head, breaks off a piece for Flowey, then puts the remainder back in the bag, thanking Toriel for her foresight.

They barely have time to slip the fluffy pastry into the plant’s concealed mouth before Papyrus throws them another round of bones. This time, he talks just after they finish dodging. “YOU’RE THE HUMAN SANS WAS TALKING ABOUT, AREN’T YOU?”

Chara nods without a second thought. With Frisk’s help, they sign with their sticky fingers “We’re better now.”

Papyrus gives them an uncertain grin, then their soul returns to its usual ruddy color. “HUMAN, I LIKE YOU THE WAY YOU ARE RIGHT NOW. YOU WERE KIND TO GRILLBY AND MYSELF AND THE DOGS. IT IS POSSIBLE THAT YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO BAMBOOZLE US. HOWEVER, I DON’T THINK SO. I BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE BEING SINCERE, THAT YOU WOULD LIKE TO END THIS FIGHT. I HAVE TO CAPTURE YOU FOR UNDYNE AND FOR THE KING. BUT,” he looks at them and again, it seems as though he’s looking at someone else, “BUT YOU’RE JUST MISUNDERSTOOD.”

Chara makes the spare sign again, smiling. “Oh, sweetheart, if you only knew.” Frisk sends up a wisp of confusion and Flowey hisses his disapproval in their ear but they wave him away, crouching and twitching their fingers like a gunslinger in a shootout.

“YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU CAN CONTROL MINDS. AND THE GREAT PAPYRUS’S MIND IS SO GREAT AS TO BE IMPERVIOUS TO MIND CONTROL ANYWAY. AND MY UN-MIND CONTROLLED BRAIN SAYS THAT YOU’RE GOOD. MAYBE EVEN ALMOST AS GREAT AS ME.” Papyrus ponders his dilemma for a moment, then rattles his bones. “I KNOW,” he says. “IF YOU CAN WITHSTAND MY SPECIAL ATTACK, WE CAN LET ALL THIS GO.”

Chara bobs their head up and down in a nod, listening to Frisk shout agreement. After ducking and dodging Sans’s attacks, which are mostly sped up versions of Papyrus’s battle, Frisk feels that a special attack will be a piece of cake. It’s probably a skull blaster anyhow and those are simple enough.

“PREPARE YOURSELF THEN,” Papyrus says, in a voice nearly at a normal volume. He looks around anxiously. Chara looks around too, wondering what he’s hoping not to see. They see the water, the trees, and- their pulse hammers in their ears. Sans is leaning against a tree, where they’ll be the only ones able to see him. From Papyrus’s point of view, the edge of town is deserted. Papyrus snaps his fingers, Sans’s eyes widen.

That’s when their soul flares orange and they disappear, reappearing a few feet in the air on a conjured platform. Papyrus beams up at them. “HUMAN! ARE YOU READY FOR MY SPECIAL ATTACK?”

Chara makes an ‘okay’ sign. If ready is a synonym for ‘about to vomit because teleportation is the worst,’ then yes, they are very ready.

“You’re cr-cr-crazy!” Flowey whisper-screams. They can feel his face melting into one of his raging expressions. “I duh-duh-didn’t s-s-sign up to guh-guh- to g-get k-killed, you idiot!”

Chara glances over at him as subtly as they can with their best creepy face, hoping he’ll get the memo and shut his trap. Frisk is already upset and name-calling rarely ends in anything good. That’s why they’re distracted when Papyrus sends a bone attack rocketing their way. It grazes their hip and they inhale sharply, looking after it to check the color. Orange. When they snap their head back, it’s just in time. The platform has blinked them higher in the air and bones are ricocheting towards them, all gleaming orange. Papyrus’s eyes are burning with the same color, twin suns blistering the air around his eye sockets.

Chara exhales, Frisk inhales, they breathe together, and they move. Frisk slides in beside Chara and with one thought, they send their body racing through the bones, skidding to a halt just before the platform drops away into thin air. The bone barrage ceases.

It’s their turn now and they force themself to make the spare sign again, crossing their arms over their chest in an x formation that is as much protection against another attack as it is their intent to stop fighting. If Chara hadn’t known how easy it was to kill him, they might have retaliated a little, just enough to get the message across that he had hurt them and that they’re angry.

The next series of bones alternates in colors while the platform alternates in heights, which Chara deems even worse. Flowey curls himself around their throat, as if threatening to strangle them if they get them all killed. It seems rage has made him forget his fear of them as they twist and halt, twist and halt. Suddenly, the platform slams downwards, their heart crawls into their lungs, and they’re in the snow again with dozens of bone attacks advancing. Yeesh, if they didn’t know Papyrus was such a pacifist, they’d think he was trying to kill them. When the attack stops, they make the mercy sign once more as their legs shake with exhaustion.

It is rather surprising when Papyrus makes the sign back. The platform lurches under their feet and they wobble as it drifts forward. The surface dissipates and Papyrus catches them in his long arms as Chara falls forward. The smell of bubble gum disappears, replaced by that of tomato sauce and herbs. Chara inhales deeply to fill their lungs with that heady smell.

Frisk exhales only when their lungs feel as if they might burst. Papyrus adjusts his grip so that they are sitting up in his arms, able to look at something other than the underside of his jaw. “NYOO HOO HOO,” he whimpers. “I CAN’T EVEN CAPTURE ONE HUMAN. THE POWER OF MY PERSONALITY IS JUST TOO STRONG. UNDYNE’S GOING TO BE DISAPPOINTED IN ME. I’LL NEVER BECOME A ROYAL GUARD NOW. MY FRIEND QUANTITY WILL REMAIN STAGNANT!”

Frisk impulsively kisses his cheekbone, hoping to cheer him up. It worked with Toriel. He stutters for a moment, then cries “OH NO! HUMAN, ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH ME? I DON’T BELIEVE I CAN HANDLE A RELATIONSHIP AT THIS POINT IN TIME!”

They shake their head until their hair is flying out of place, trying not to laugh at his crestfallen expression. “I want to be your friend!”

Papyrus considers this proposition, then nods. “VERY WELL, FRISK! WE SHALL REMAIN IN THE FRIENDZONE UNTIL YOUR TRUE FEELINGS CAN BE ADDRESSED.”

Frisk decides that they’ll correct him later and instead nuzzles into his chest. His “armor” seems to be made out of a cut-off sweatshirt rather than metal, and so it is plush and thick and just right for cuddling. Good too, because their legs won’t stop trembling. They tuck them up under their chin and try to press themself into a shadow.

“You’re such an affectionate kid,” teases Chara, laughing when Frisk points out all the times they hugged Toriel. Some of their laughter sounds like it’s rooted in hysteria, sharp and high, but most of it is genuine. Papyrus’s presence has that effect on people. Chara’s alertness takes a swift spike. Their mirth fades and Frisk can’t understand why until they say grimly “Smiley at nine o’clock.”

Sans is trudging towards them, hands in his pockets. He seems to be taking special care to scuff out their footprints in the snow. At the sight of his brother, Papyrus hoists Frisk up to his shoulders and shouts “LOOK, SANS! I MADE FRIENDS WITH THE HUMAN! THEY’RE A GOOD PERSON AFTER ALL! BUT THEY MAY BE HOPELESSLY ENAMORED WITH ME!”

Frisk catches a whiff of lavender and looks to Sans with narrowed eyes. Both of his pupils are present, even if his smile seems a little forced. “Of course he’s mad. We just proved him wrong,” says Chara, picking their manifested nails. The words alone would sound lazy, but Frisk can feel the alarm throbbing from their presence.

“you did good, bro.” Frisk feels Papyrus shift uncomfortably. The tone in Sans’s words is barbed, like wire fences or arrowheads, screaming for them to keep away. “i especially liked the orange attack. when’d you remember how to do that?”

Papyrus trembles, holding Frisk tighter. “I REMEMBERED IT THIS MORNING! I THOUGHT I WOULD GO AND SHOW UNDYNE AFTER I FINISHED THIS.”

“uh huh. maybe you shouldn’t do that.” Sans shrugs, his thick jacket rasping against itself. “just a hunch.”

“OH. OKAY! I HAVE TO GO TALK TO HER ANYWAY, REPORT BACK!” When Frisk transfers their alarmed gaze to him instead, he makes a sound like a cartoonish gulp, before backtracking. “I WILL DO MY BEST TO CONVINCE UNDYNE OF YOUR GREATNESS, FRISK. SHE NEVER HURTS A FRIEND ON PURPOSE!”

The fact that he has to add ‘on purpose’ alarms them even more and their face is an open book. “WHAT I MEAN IS THAT SHE IS SOMETIMES UNAWARE OF HER OWN STRENGTH! WHY, EVEN I HAVE BEEN SOMEWHAT BRUISED BY HER JOYOUS GREETINGS! BUT SHE IS ALWAYS APOLOGETIC IN HER OWN WAY! DO NOT FEAR!”

Frisk beams at him and makes Chara’s ‘okay’ sign as he puts them down. “WHO KNOWS? PERHAPS YOU AND UNDYNE AND I CAN ALL HANG OUT SOMETIME! YES. I WOULD LIKE THAT VERY MUCH!” He pauses. “FRISK, YOU WISH TO RETURN TO THE SURFACE, DO YOU NOT?”

When they nod excessively, Papyrus rubs the side of his skull with his glove. “I THOUGHT SO. WELL, IF YOU KEEP WALKING, YOU WILL BE ABLE TO CONTINUE TO THE END OF THE CAVERNS. THEN YOU WILL BE ABLE TO LEAVE IF YOU STILL WANT TO. I AM OF THE BELIEF THAT YOU WILL FALL IN LOVE WITH THE UNDERGROUND JUST AS MUCH AS WE MONSTERS HAVE!”

With that and a confused look at Sans rather than another of his big smiles, he signs goodbye and strides off into the snow. Frisk waves merrily until he’s out of sight, then their smile becomes a grimace and their shoulders tense. “What do you want, Sans?” they sign, turning around to regard the skeleton. Flowey presses against the nape of their neck, concealing himself in their shaggy hair.

“Nothing much. Just waiting to see how this plays out.” His voice is dead quiet, but it is still louder than the whirling wind. “You sent Toriel away, you let Papyrus live. You’re changing the pattern. You getting bored?” Chara notes that there’s something more in this. He’s worried about something else besides them.

Frisk acknowledges that, but points out that they have no proof. To Sans, they say “I’m not that person. I didn’t make that pattern.” They try to insert firmness into their gestures, raising their chin in an effort to hide the trembling of their lip.

“Then who did?” he inquires. Underneath his cool exterior, they hear real worry and realize they understand what Chara was talking about. If Frisk isn’t doing this, then Sans has no idea how to fix it. If he doesn’t know how to fix it, he can’t protect anyone anymore. Unlike them, Sans has a whole world to protect.

“Tell him then, if he’s so good.” Chara’s suggestion, though layered with a biting sarcasm, is a good one, so Frisk motions for Sans to follow them and keeps walking. They want to at least be in sight of Waterfall. It takes at least three days to traverse the Underground and they’ve already wasted one of them on Snowdin and the Ruins.

Waterfall sounds just as beautiful as they remember. The soothing susurrus of the distant cascades and the caress of the warm air puts them at ease. At least, until they remember who is following them. Their feet pause just before the beginning of the land bridge, where snow turns to soft marshy land.

Almost before Sans stops moving, Frisk’s hands are flying. “There were voices. They said things in our head and I was trapped. I heard them talking to each other about scores and times, like it was a big game that they played. Then they were gone and I was me.” He doesn’t believe them, but he has to, he has to believe them, they don’t think they’ll be able to survive it if he kills them again. Their heart flutters and their ribcage feels like it’s too small.

“Frisky, breathe,” Chara whispers and Frisk feels a memory of the sun touching their face. Chara’s memory, not theirs. They take a gulp of air and wheeze it back out. “Okay, again. In. Out. Good. Good job, Frisky.”

Sans is talking, but Chara holds up a finger, telling him to hang on a second. When Frisk is breathing again, they lower their hand and gesture for him to continue. He is giving them a strange look, but it doesn’t seem to be a particularly menacing one. “Did, uh, you ever see faces?”

Chara shakes their head so sharply that Sans seems inclined to disbelieve them, but it’s true. They heard names sometimes, but they never saw faces, perhaps because they never wanted to look that far. Listening had been bad enough, hearing voices shout things like ‘Headshot!’ and ‘That’s one for the record books,’ while their hands struck and struck at anything and plunged their fingers into soft dust.

“No faces at all, huh?” He shrugs, then blinks one eye closed when Frisk repeats his question. This is something other than his usual mocking wink; this time it looks like he’s looking right through them to a far darker place. “Yeah, kid. I saw faces. Every time you fought me, I saw them in your expression.”

Frisk nods and exhales, their energy for him spent with that one bizarre answer. There’s no time for cryptic words when they’ve got all of the Underground to traverse. They sign a tired goodbye and turn to walk over the land bridge to Waterfall, pulling their scarf tighter to conceal Flowey. Chara is wrapped up in anger and Frisk tries to peel back a layer or two with the idea of seeing the landscape. Their headmate has almost started to relax when:

“Kid, wait.”

Flowey trembles, but Chara reacts, stealing the knowledge from Frisk’s head as easily as reading their emotions and just tearing into Sans with their sloppy signs. “My name is Frisk!” they shout, mouthing the words along with the gestures and shoving the letters at him. Frisk notes a dissonance between what is said and what is signed, but they don’t have time to process it before Chara blasts by them to reenter the headspace.

Sans blinks in an almost perplexed way. “Frisk,” he tries. “My brother really wanted to see a human.” His next word almost falls out of his mouth. “Thanks.” They all look surprised at that, the skeleton especially. He chuckles lowly and says “Welp, there’s only so long I can stay away from work. See ya, k- Frisk.” He is careful to skirt them as he walks by, leaving a healthy amount of space. Their dislike for him goes both ways, it appears.

He vanishes under the spray of the first and foremost waterfall and Frisk feels their legs buckle. Chara steadies them before they can fall. ‘Why did you do that?’ Frisk shouts.

“So you wouldn’t fall on your face.” Chara’s pretending not to understand and Frisk absolutely despises that, most especially the little tone they get in their mental voice, the ‘it’s-for-your-own-good’ voice. Frisk hated that voice even before it killed Toriel and they hate it now.

‘He could’ve killed us again, Chara!’ Sinking down to sit on the marshy grass, Frisk puts their head between their knees and lets out a silent scream. The vines around their arms and upper body loosen as Flowey moves to look at their face. His head comes in under their knee, careful to stay far enough away that they won’t be able to grab him.

“Wh-what h-happened to you?” he asks, partly disgusted, partly confused.

Frisk squeezes their eyes shut against the wave of images. Flowey, Asriel, pleading. Their fingers plucking off petals one at a time as Chara screamed and Asriel cried and Frisk fled from the numbness that came into their chest every time they killed. Slicing off the flower’s head and crushing it as they felt the world reset. Some times they’d kill Flowey even before his Asriel speech, when he took his dead self’s face and they’d wear his corpse in their hair when they met with Asgore, hearing the crows of delight as the king saw the face of his son twined in vines and laced with petals and the thick layer of dust that covered Frisk’s face. As the king crumpled in anticipation of their blow or in despair for the ruins of his kingdom. And again. Asriel crying, Chara raging, Frisk curled up in a ball of emotion, trying to block everything out. The voices laughing and something tap, tap, tapping and- they are struggling to breathe again.

Flowey dodges the first few drops, but the storm catches him by surprise. Humans shouldn’t be this damp, but Frisk is and it brings up uncomfortable memories. So he says nothing and returns to his vantage point somewhere by their right ear. If they ask, he’ll say that he’s watching for any monsters that might jump them during their little hissy fit. But they don’t ask, just cry and cry as if their heart was breaking.

It is with extreme caution that he tightens his vines and nestles his face behind their ear. Even if Frisk is a crybaby, Chara, his Chara, is still in there and maybe needs just as much comfort. Chara didn’t like to be hugged unless they started it, but they weren’t adverse to his head on their shoulder when they were sad, or a soft nose by their ear. He holds this position for a moment or two, feeling discomfort bubble in a nonexistent belly. This, this is weakness. In a world that’s kill or be killed, he’s setting himself up. But he’s never been the best at controlling himself and this is curiosity, the hardest to contain. An experiment to see if his big sibling responds.

Frisk sniffs audibly and shifts to wipe a sleeve across their face, probably streaking snot across their cheek. He can’t bring himself to miss that part of being alive, being full of juice and goo that just leaked out whenever it felt like it. Then their hand touches a coil of vine and he waits. His energy is making tiny ‘friendliness pellets,’ just in case. If they even hint at violence, he thinks, he’s going to send a wall of bullets right through their head.

The pressure lifts and Frisk swipes at their face, turning to regard him out of the corner of their eye. If he tries hard enough, he might be able to see a glint of red in those brown eyes. But he won’t, because he’s afraid to see.

In a very quiet voice, Chara says “I’m just as scared as you are, Frisky, but I don’t like playing nice. If he’s going to be a jerk, I’m going to be mean. And he’s hiding sh*t from us when we’re the ones who need to know the most. It’s not fair.”

‘Life isn’t fair,’ is Frisk’s only comment as they stand up and walk into Waterfall, shaking spray off their heavy winter clothes as they pass through the curtain of moisture. Almost immediately, they start to sweat. Flowey is already yanking off his hat and tearing at his scarf with his teeth. They pause a moment to strip down to their pants and sweater, bundling all the clothes up in a roll and shoving it into their knapsack. The cloth bulges oddly now, stretched out by the strange shape of its contents.

“Take inventory,” Chara suggests. Frisk thinks about pretending not to hear them, but the idea is actually a good one, so they sit cross-legged on one of the drier areas of earth and open their knapsack again. The roll of winter clothing is dropped beside them, where it leans uncomfortably by their side like a certain monster who will not be named, minus the heavy breathing and the smell of cheesy snacks.

The remains of the Cinnamon Bunny come out, along with what’s left of Chara’s chocolate. At the sight of it, the child drools, but Frisk resolves to only give it to them after inventory. Toriel packed them more clothes than they know what to do with; lots of socks (scandalous), some extra shirts, more winter gear, clean underwear folded into squares, etcetera. In one of the shirts, they find a parcel of sandwiches and a container of vegetables, along with a slice of pie only just beginning to crumble. She has also left them a packet of pencils in varying degrees of sharpness. Their gold is at the very bottom of the bag and Chara counts fifty-seven gold pieces exactly, just before Frisk hits coin number twelve.

‘Gold’s a lot less precious down here,’ Frisk notes.

“Well, it’s pretty much coming out of the walls. Home had a bunch of gold veins in the main city. I guess it’s the same for the paper money you use up there. You’re surrounded by trees, so you make paper.”

Frisk has to agree with this logic. They bite off a corner of the chocolate bar before repacking everything in a much less orderly manner than Toriel had. While Chara works their jaw to turn the chocolate into mush, Frisk shoulders their pack and wanders into the tunnels of Waterfall, trailing the obsidian streams.

As soon as they see the blue of Sans’s jacket, they avert their eyes. He’s too perceptive. While other monsters might pass off a red drippy nose and watery eyes as a human characteristic, it’s obvious that he would know better. Instead, when they see Monster Kid looking over the falls, they go straight to them. “Yo!” they cheer excitedly, spinning to face them. “Are you sneaking out to see her too?” Without waiting for an answer, as seems to be their norm, they continue, stars gleaming in their eyes. “Awesome. She’s the coolest, right? I want to be just like her when I grow up.” They chuckle when Frisk raises an eyebrow. “I mean, besides the whole capturing humans thing. I’ll only capture bad humans.” They glance over to the falls again and Frisk follows their gaze. The water just goes down and down forever. It makes them dizzy. When they take a step back, Kid looks back at them, saying “Don’t tell my parents I’m here, okay?”

They make an okay sign and go to speak to the red fish. He explains Echo Flowers to them in an almost condescending manner. They’re focusing more on his torso. Is it a shirt or a fishbowl? They can’t really tell and the motion of the fish inside hypnotizes them. Flowey nips them sharply when he wants to move on. With Sans this close, he doesn’t seem to want to talk. They don’t quite know why yet, but they understand his fear.

Frisk moves past Sans’s sentry station, gaze fixed on the ground before them. He doesn’t speak, but they don’t hear him breathing either. It’s almost as if he just isn’t there. That’s fine. They wander through the next room like a zombie, feeling a creeping chill crawling down their spine. They’re going to have to fight Undyne. Out of everyone they had to fight, she was always the worst. She was strong and fast and she was dripping and snarling, like some nightmare version of herself. The murky beast that Determination made her. They almost can’t remember how she actually looks, aside from her monstrous teeth.

And the lighting changes. Hastily, they hurl themself into the patch of tall grass, moving through it until they collide with Kid. They know it’s them this time and they can’t help but smile, even as they look up through the grass stalks. To Frisk and Chara’s delight and Flowey’s irritation, Papyrus comes charging into view on the ledge above them. “HI, UNDYNE!” he shouts.

There’s a stomping sound and the tip of something red appears. Undyne’s hair, they recall. It’s as red as blood. “Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Chara sighs. It would be comforting if they couldn’t sense the way that Chara was shivering. Magic spears hurt very badly, especially when they slid straight through their soul and shattered their ribs. It left them choking up blood, most especially when it punctured their lungs and all they could breathe was their own innards. They’d never wish that death on anyone.

Papyrus is talking, vouching for them and their innocence, so they drag their attention from the memory of their hurts and eavesdrop. They didn’t think it was possible to adore him more, but hearing him babble about how nice they are and how they listened to him, it just makes their heart feel three sizes bigger. A smile ghosts across Chara’s presence. “I always forget what softies monsters are. They barely know you and they vouch for you.” Frisk raises an eyebrow and Chara scoffs. “Sorry, Frisky, you’re not that cute and vulnerable-looking. Monster Souls are naturally full of caring and sweetness and light. That’s why Sans is such an anomaly. He doesn’t trust easily, his eyes are weird, he’s mean as all get-out, and he can remember everything. There’s something awfully wrong with him.” The bitter singsong way they say this last is both gloating and resigned and Frisk would pry but-

Papyrus has stopped talking. They can’t even hear Undyne breathing. Frisk releases a sigh and looks up, only to freeze as they stare down the shaft of a spear. Undyne, hidden in a suit of heavy metal armor, stares back at them. Her remaining eye glows in the overly dramatic lighting like a lantern or some kind of deep sea fish.

This stalemate goes on long enough for Frisk to consider lying down and surrendering right there. It would at least stop their heart from beating so fast. The low thudding of their panic is so loud that Undyne can probably hear it even from ten feet up.

The spear glints and disappears from Undyne’s gauntlet. Her face pulls back from the ledge. Their heartbeat is accompanied by the pounding of her boots against the marshy ground as she walks away. They hold still until every molecule is just shrieking with panic, then they scramble out of the tall grass, slurping in air like spaghetti.

‘Something’s wrong with me too,’ they say finally. Chara doesn’t argue and they walk away, ignoring the shouts of Monster Kid as they scramble after them. The next room is peaceful. They don’t have to think about anything but the bridge seeds. Granted, they do run into Aaron, who’s never particularly pleasant, but it gives them a chance to tease Flowey into flexing with them. With the both of them flexing together, Flowey complaining all the while, Aaron zooms away through the air at twice the rate he usually does. Chara’s laughing so hard at the both of them that Frisk can’t help but grin. Flowey curls his vines back around their arms, pretending that he didn’t flex because that would be stupid. In a bizarrely thoughtful move, the seahorse gave them thirty gold pieces, which jangle in their pockets as they make their way to the door.

When their phone rings, they look at it, surprised. It’s a very old phone, so they’re flying blind on who it might be. They hit answer anyway and Papyrus shrieks through the phone at them. “HELLO! THIS IS PAPYRUS! IF YOU’RE WONDERING HOW I GOT THIS NUMBER, YOU’RE GOING TO BE QUITE IMPRESSED BY MY INGENUITY! I SIMPLY CALLED EVERY COMBINATION OF NUMBERS UNTIL YOU PICKED UP!” He pauses. “THIS IS THE HUMAN, CORRECT?”

Frisk looks at the phone. There is no texting function either. Where did Toriel even get this phone? Ignoring Chara’s curious “what’s a texting function?” they wait for Papyrus to realize his error.

“TAP ONCE FOR YES, TWICE FOR NO, OKAY?”

They tap once, confirming their identity.

“SO, WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?”

They have to take the phone away from their ear to look at it again. Flowey, who has been unabashedly eavesdropping, makes a face when they look to him for guidance. Papyrus must take their silence as confusion, for he says hurriedly “I’M ASKING FOR A FRIEND! SHE THOUGHT SHE SAW YOU WEARING A FLOWER HAIR ACCESSORY! IS THAT TRUE?”

“Flower hair-“ Chara turns Frisk’s head to examine Flowey again. He could be passed off as a hair accessory. By someone blind. And fashionably inept. Papyrus isn’t blind, but Undyne is half blind from what they remember. “And, y’know, Papyrus is a little inept.”

‘Excuse you, he is precious. And right. I mean, Flowey’s in our hair. Technically, we are wearing him.’ Frisk taps once on the phone.

“SO YOU ARE WEARING A FLOWER HAIR ACCESSORY? OKAY THEN. HAVE A NICE DAY, FRISK!” He hangs up and they snicker, playing with the phone’s antenna.

‘Should we call Toriel?’

“Not unless you want Flowey to talk for you. You call her and she’ll freak and think you’re in trouble.”

‘Oh.’ That’s probably reasonable. She is a little smothering.

When they enter the next room, Flowey and Chara inhale at the same time. Frisk looks up at the sparkling rocks embedded in the ceiling and sends a question to Chara.

“These are the monsters’ stars, Frisk. Aren’t they beautiful? Monsters, they used to wish on the stars in the sky and their wishes would come true. I don’t remember the real stars anymore, but monsters don’t either. This is all they have. I wish I had looked up more often. I bet our stars are twice as beautiful.” Chara’s voice is hushed, awed at the idea. Once more, Frisk regards the rocks, this time with sorrow. They love the night sky and can’t imagine a world without the constellations, but this is all the monsters have. How strange that they took for granted their view of the galaxy, while monsters made do with fake stars.

Frisk doesn’t want to hear the Echo Flowers. All they do is keep completely silent anyway. So, they wander past them. But then Flowey asks “D-don’t you want to l-listen?” When they look at him, he does a neat little tilt of his head that looks like a shrug without shoulders. It’s really no skin off their nose, so they touch the nearest one for him and wait. Instead of silence, they hear words and they smile delightedly, until they hear what the flower is saying.

“CAPTOR OR SAVIOR? ENEMY OR FRIEND? CAPTOR OR SAVIOR? ENEMY OR FRIEND? CAPTOR OR SAVIOR? ENEMY OR FRIEND?” The voice, toneless and quiet, goes on forever, repeating the mantra. Suddenly, the flower’s petals are shredded and the whole thing goes brown and flops over. Flowey’s friendliness pellets clink against the floor for a moment before he sends them away.

“What was that?” they ask, fingers shaking.

“It sh-shouldn’t have b-been anyth-th-thing,” the flower mumbles. Then he perks up. “Guh-go th-th-through the wall over there. There’s some c-cool st-stuff in that room.”

“Oh, yeah! The History Room! You’ll love it, Frisky, it’s such a nerd thing!”

‘Gee, thanks,’ Frisk deadpans, mind still half-on the flower’s words.

Their headmate senses what they’re thinking. “Probably a fluke. Don’t worry, Friskit. Me and Azzy’ll protect you.” Chara sends them an image of themself puffing out their chest proudly, an arm around a body wrapped in plant life. Probably Asriel.

The History Room is a dock perched on black water. The motion of the waves beneath them makes the whole thing dip and rise with the current. It’s not very comforting, but Frisk can ignore it in order to read the signs. They are in a language that they can barely understand. ‘Chara,’ they whine. ‘Read it to me.’

Instead of Chara, Flowey starts reading out the words, using a vine to guide their arm to each word. “The War of Humans and Monsters.” While other words seem to have approximately the right amount of letters, the word Flowey identifies as ‘monster’ is just one symbol. Three triangles, like the ones on Toriel’s robe.

As Flowey continues to read, Frisk learns a little about the relationship between monsters and humans. ‘I thought humans were the weak ones,’ they comment.

“No way! It’s the monsters. Human souls are big and bold and when humans want to, they can kill all of us. It shows what kindness gets you in the end; dust sprinkled on some item and a pile of leftover clothes.” Frisk pulls on the collar of the sweater they’re wearing in discomfort. Without Flowey’s prompting, they move onto the next etching, waiting for an explanation of the picture there. But Flowey says nothing.

Chara’s control prickles in their fingertips and they reach out to touch the etching, pressing their flesh into the thick grooves until it leaves imprints on their fingertips.

“We m-m-m-messed up, d-d-didn’t we?” Flowey is wearing Asriel’s face again and the sight of it makes Chara ball their hand into a fist, pressing so hard on the etching’s face that Frisk is almost afraid it will fall apart.

“Yeah,” Chara whispers. “We messed up everything.” They sigh, but when Frisk manifests concern, they say in a voice so bright that it has to be fake, “Okay, Frisky, story time! Once upon a time, a pair of siblings thought they were heroes. But they weren’t. The end. Let’s keep going.”

There’s obviously more to the story than that, but Chara doesn’t offer it, so Frisk doesn’t press. Instead, they put some effort into being happy, skipping over to hop onto the ferry board.

The lighting changes as soon as they step off and their false levity evaporates like a puddle in the middle of an inferno. It doesn’t help that Chara, who seems to remember everything, starts shrieking swear words and yelling for them to get out of here right now. They break into a run, seeing Undyne appear out of the corner of their eye. Then their peripheral vision is filled with blue and they’re ducking and dodging spears. Thankfully, they only wind up grazed, but the pain is still sharp enough to make them run faster.

When they finally make it to the tall grass, their shoulder is bleeding. One of the spears had made it through their sweater and their insides are slowly making their way outside. They sit in the grass and shiver, locking up their motion as much as possible so she’ll just get bored and go away. “It’s okay, Frisk,” Chara soothes, at about the same time that Flowey says “Stop shuh-shuh-shaking, y-you idiot. You’re g-g-going to be f-f-fine.”

The three of them huddle in the grass, feeling the earth shake with every step Undyne takes. She must be savoring the situation, having them trapped here, so she’s milking it for all it’s worth. They clasp their hands together over their head, covering Flowey’s face with their arm in an effort to protect him too. ‘Flower hair accessory,’ they think nonsensically and swallow down giggles.

Undyne towers above them and from their vantage point on the ground, she looks as if she’s the size of a mountain, eclipsing the sparkling stones in the ceiling. Her hand lashes out and they hear a grunt. To Frisk’s surprise, it doesn’t come from them. They uncover their head and look up to see Kid dangling above them, held by their cheek. It looks rather painful. Undyne hisses something angrily, too quietly for them to hear, and sets them back down before storming off. Still a little hazy on common sense, Frisk thinks that she needs a cape to complete her warlord look.

“I dunno,” Chara chimes in. “Her hair’s pretty spectacular.”

They sit there a moment longer before Kid appears in their space, grinning hugely. “Yo! Did you see that?” they cry, jumping up and down. “Undyne just-“ they vibrate for a moment before shrieking “-TOUCHED ME!” They do a little dance before nudging them with their head. “Yo, are you okay?” Their words seem genuinely concerned, so they flash the little monster a big smile to assuage their fears. The monster does a little jig in return. They seem like the kind of person who is just always happy, as if it’s hard for them to be upset for too long. But Frisk has seen them upset, has seen them fearful, has seen them fall. Their hands have pushed them off the bridge. But right now, right now Kid is nudging their head under Frisk’s uninjured arm and helping them stand.

“Yo, how about we have a picnic?” The question is completely out of the blue, but a picnic would be welcome. Frisk follows Kid into the next chamber, where a chunk of crystal sits displayed on a table. When they look closer, they see a piece of cheese stuck in it. Kid sits down with their back to the Echo Flower and wiggles a little. The pocket of their big sweatshirt surrenders a package, tied loosely with twine. They pick up the parcel with their clawed feet, shifting it around until they’re holding it between their knees, and then bite through the twine. The paper falls away to reveal a Bisicle. Kid angles it towards them and Frisk breaks it in half, taking one stick for themself and putting the other in Kid’s expectant mouth.

It’s very peaceful, sitting there, licking their melting treats. Frisk feeds a few chunks of it to Flowey when Kid is in the middle of a grand story and Kid catches the motion. Flowey is surprisingly civil when Frisk introduces him, even though he asks about Kid’s black eyes with more malice than curiosity. Turns out that Kid falls down more often than Frisk knew, which is why they have Bisicles on them in the first place. Indeed, as they chew their treat, the marks start to fade a little.

Chara seems content to listen and offer a few suggestions when Kid decides they want to play. In light of recent discoveries, Frisk teaches them to play Bubblegum instead of a rough-and-tumble sort of game. They didn’t quite realize how difficult it would be when one player has no hands and the other can’t speak, but Flowey’s okay with translating their signs and Kid figures out how to slap their tail around enough to play.

Undyne can wait a little longer, they think.

Chapter 13: Immortality is Relative

Chapter Text

When they finally explain to Kid that they have to be off, they insist on coming along. Their exact words are: “Yo, someone has to protect you from monsters who don’t know how awesome you are!” So, they gain another party member, one who tells stories and gets excited about everything, which is a nice change in mood.

Unfortunately, getting excited about everything literally means everything. And when they see Sans, Kid goes up to talk to him and peer into the telescope he’s hawking. When they come away with a red circle around their eye, Chara laughs, but then the monster motions them over. “Frisk, Frisk, you gotta see this! C’mon, Flowey, you too!”

Sans, who has been grinning genially through the whole thing, goes stone still when he hears the name Flowey, processing something, probably the same something that makes Flowey so quiet around him. They have to admire his recovery time though, as he calls over to them “It’s usually fifty thou to use this premium telescope, but…since I know you, you can use it for free. Howzaboutit?”

Chara comments loudly that the accent he affects on the last word sounds extremely stupid, but Frisk advances anyway. The fact that he’s being jokey only means good things. They press their eye to the telescope good-naturedly and join Kid laughing when their eye comes away lined in red. They scramble over to the water and take turns peering at their reflections, then Kid ups the ante by pressing their other eye to the glass. Well, now Frisk has to do the same. They look like raccoons. At Kid’s behest, Sans presses his own eyes to the telescope and joins the red raccoon club, even if his laughter sounds a little forced.

After engaging in a debate about what stars are with a little seed-shaped monster, Frisk and Kid chase each other into the next room, where Frisk examines their new pocket money and buys themself, Flowey, and Kid each a Nice Cream. The Nice Cream Guy is nice enough to hold Kid’s for him so Frisk can hold Flowey’s and eat their own too. They get chocolate caramel swirl, to Chara’s delight. This wrapper says ‘You look nice today!’ and Flowey’s says ‘Love yourself! I love you!’ After reading theirs, Monster Kid announces that yes, their claws are natural, and claws the air to show them off. Frisk and Nice Cream Guy clap for them and Monster Kid struts about for a bit, reveling in their praise.

“Yo, what time is it?” Kid asks as they walk out of the little cavern. Frisk flicks out their phone and looks for a time display. This phone…it’s really old. If not for the small size, they’d think it was from the nineteen eighties. There’s no time display. “Yo, Sans!” Kid shouts. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get a- about five, maybe.”

Kid makes a comical shocked expression. “Aw, no! I gotta get home for dinner! Oh, man! Bye, Frisk! See you soon!” With that, they scramble out of the room, slipping and hitting their face again as they go.

Frisk shrugs when Sans looks at them, and takes the path before them, over the glowing water. When they hit a turn, Papyrus calls them again. “HELLO, THIS IS PAPYRUS! REMEMBER THE QUESTION I ASKED YOU ABOUT CLOTHES? WELL, THE FRIEND I ASKED FOR, HER OPINION OF YOU IS VERY…”

“Insane? Aggressive? What, man, what is it?” Chara mock-shouts into Papyrus’s awkward silence.

“…MURDERY,” the skeleton says and Frisk laughs, even as Flowey and Chara groan.

“Of all the w-words in all th-the w-world,” Flowey mutters.

“BUT I BET YOU KNEW THAT ALREADY! AND BECAUSE YOU KNEW THAT, I TOLD HER WHAT YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE WEARING! A FLOWER HAIR ACCESSORY! HOWEVER, I DID NOT KNOW WHAT SORT OF FLOWER IT WAS, SO I GUESSED THAT PART. ANYWAY! I FIGURED AFTER SUCH A SUSPICIOUS QUESTION, YOU WOULD OBVIOUSLY CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES! YOU’RE SUCH A SMART COOKIE!”

“Oh hell, we should have thought of that,” Chara says unnecessarily as Papyrus continues his spiel.

“THIS WAY YOU’RE SAFE, AND I DIDN’T LIE! NO BETRAYAL ANYWHERE! BEING FRIENDS WITH EVERYONE IS EASY!”

The click barely sounds and Frisk is moving again. They run right into Aaron, who is admiring his reflection in the water. The encounter is over pretty quickly, Flowey agreeing to flex with them again if it meant getting rid of this buffoon faster.

When they find another sign, they’re almost afraid to ask either of their companions to read it, but Flowey does anyway. “The p-power to take their S-SOULS. Th-this is th-the p-power th-the h-humans feared.”

“It was so stupid of them though. Monsters, they’re so good and kind and sweet that they’d never do that. Never willingly anyway, or without permission.”

Flowey folds himself up by their ear. “M-m-m-monsters aren’t always g-good, Frisk, but th-the h-humans were terrible to th-them. Th-the d-d-d-destruction must have been a sight to see th-though.” His laugh is shrill and uncomfortable.

The next cavern leads to an encounter with a monster called Onionsan. He seems very nice, if a bit lonely. Flowey condescends to translate their signs for him, even though he keeps calling the monster a waste of space under his breath. Onionsan seems very sad, so Frisk sits down and draws them. Their picture isn’t very good, but they hold it up and Onionsan goes into paroxysms of joy. Carefully, they tear the page from their notebook and put it on the path, securing it with a loose stone so it won’t blow away. Then they continue on. Onionsan bids them goodbye at the end of the room and burbles underwater before Frisk can say goodbye back. They stop and put their face to the water to try and find him again, but all they see are his tentacles, too far down to reach. Disappointed, they wave to the empty room and enter the next.

The next room, with its waterfall, makes them feel rather serene, even as they scoop out water with their hands and slurp it from their cupped palms. Even the water down here is too good, sweet and pure, unlike the bottled stuff. They offer some to Flowey, but when he refuses, they shrug and drink another mouthful before drawing their sleeve across their mouth.

Shyren is sitting in the corner and Frisk runs up to her, entering the encounter willingly. Shyren was always fun to interact with, the best part being when the voices hummed with her. This time, they get to play with her. It’s unfortunate that they don’t have a voice. Flowey sings before they can even beg him to do so. It’s not quite funky, but it’s soothing. Chara knows the song too, but they know the words. Flowey vocalizes, Shyren hums, Chara sings the words and mumbles the parts they’ve forgotten, which isn’t that many actually. Refusing to be left out, Frisk begins to dance and, all of a sudden, Waterfall’s monster population appears. A line of Moldsmals join Frisk in a sort of kick line, but it seems more like a wiggle line. Frisk shakes their hips too. They see someone selling tickets, but from this distance, they can’t really tell who.

Shyren takes over the melody and Flowey utilizes his awful squeaky shaky voice to sing the lyrics. The monsters are waving their arm-like appendages above their heads. Frisk even thinks they see Onionsan’s tentacle poking into the room’s entryway.

Neither Flowey nor Chara have great voices, but Shyren would blow even the most talented of aboveground singers out of the water. Everything her voice touches seems better and when she takes over the words, pushing Flowey back into the vocalization, everyone just stops. All the monsters who were about to throw socks onto the stage drop them on the floor and some even kneel. An elderly turtle crosses his arms over his chest in the mercy sign, but he also bows his head, like a gesture of respect.

Flowey looks to Shyren, who has begun to tremble with emotion and exhaustion. “Th-this is our f-final s-s-song!” he shouts and the monsters sigh, but they don’t protest, still overcome by the song itself.

For this last, Flowey lets Shyren take the lead and she sings a jazzy song, one that pumps up the monsters a little, most of whom know the words by heart. When they finish, a subdued cheer goes up before they disperse, still holding their tickets of- is that toilet paper? Frisk snigg*rs at the absurdity of it all as they turn to congratulate Shyren. They freeze. Her head is communicating with her body excitedly as the body says in a very slick voice “Shyren, baby, that was amazing. You’re on your way up! Ciren would be so proud, I promise. And who couldn’t be proud? C’mon, darling, let’s go take a rest and enjoy the glow of a good performance.”

The little fish sings a quick goodbye to Flowey, smiles at Frisk, then swims away through the air. Her body hesitates a little longer, then tosses a small pouch at Frisk. “Listen, kid. I’ve been with that girl all her life. She hasn’t sung like that since her sister, rest her ashes, fell. Thanks.” The body slithers after the little fish, leaving Frisk to gather up their loot.

“She was so nice,” Frisk comments happily as they wander over to the sign. It’s written in English mainly, with a few other languages beneath it. Apparently, there is a great treasure in the north room. Frisk doesn’t much want treasure, but at the thought of the word, Chara perks up.

All there is in the North Room is a piano. Frisk examines it for a moment before hopping onto the piano stool and wiggling into a comfortable position. Happily, they begin banging on the keys. ‘Maybe the only treasure is music,’ they tease.

“Knowing monsters, that’s really annoyingly possible.” Chara watches them fool around with the keys, soothed a little by the continuous movement of their hands. When the spirit is at the point of falling asleep, Frisk eases off the piano stool and wanders towards the door. Hesitantly, someone picks out the notes for ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ and they can smell rot.

Mr. Goop is standing awkwardly by the piano, a glowing white hand resting on the piano keys. “Good Evening, Frisk.”

“Hi, Mr. Goop,” Frisk signs back, coming back over to him.

The monster laughs and fingerspells “G-A-S-T-E-R.” When Frisk needs a little clarification, he elaborates “My Name Is Wingdings Gaster, Frisk. You Can Call Me Mr. Gaster, If You Would Like.”

“Oh, I r-remember you. You’re th-the sc-screw-up, aren’t you?” Flowey sneers. “Th-the scientist who f-fell into his o-own invent-t-tion.”

The widest crack in Gaster’s mask turns downwards. “So That Is How They Are Telling That Story. How Unpleasant.”

“What does that mean? He fell into his own invention? Frisk, ask Flowey.” Frisk refuses. They’ll dig for information on Mr. Gaster later, when he isn’t standing in front of them. Chara shrugs. He doesn’t look like he’d prefer to relay the story anyway.

“How did you get here, Mr. Gaster?”

Gaster’s mouth, if they could call it that, turns back up. “I Know A Shortcut,” he says, mischievous as a child. “How Is Your Adventure Going, Frisk?” He sits and pats the piano bench beside him, indicating that he wants to sit and chat for a bit.

Happily, Frisk acquiesces to his request, plopping down on the bench. They wiggle their hand from side-to-side and shrug. “I met Flowey again and we’re having a pretty good time. We’ve gotten this far without dying.”

“Ah, Yes. You Are The Anomaly.” At his words, Frisk feels rather cold. Sans called them that and Chara called Sans that as well. They still aren’t quite sure what it means, but from the way Sans had said it, it was never anything good.

“What does that mean?” they venture.

“Oh. Well. It Just Means That You Can Affect The Timelines. Do Not Worry, Your Flower Friend Was Able To Do The Same For A Time. And- And I Remember The Timelines So That Makes Me Something Of An Anomaly As Well! It Does Not Necessarily Make You A Bad Person, So Do Not Worry About That!” He is trying to reassure them, which is very sweet even if it isn’t working. A blob of black rolls down the side of his face. His body seems to be liquefying. The side of his face is beginning to slip as well. Impulsively, Frisk reaches up to him, carefully smushing his features back into place. Under their fingers, he seems to feel more stable, more like bone than mush. They tap their fingernails against his cheek and frown at the resulting sound.

“Are you okay, Mr. Gaster?”

He seems very flustered at the question, leaning away from their hand. “I Am Fine! Do Not Worry About Me Either!” As he leans away, his facial features slip again and Frisk moves forward again to press them back. His hollow eyes flash with green light as he practically falls off the bench trying to get away. Frisk feels a pang inside their chest. Once again, someone is afraid of them. “I Am Sorry, Child,” Gaster signs as he melts away, disappearing and taking his ever-present rot smell with him.

“Well, th-that was f-f*cking weird,” Flowey says in the sudden quiet.

Chara roars with laughter. “Whoa! Do you kiss our mom with that mouth? Geez!”

Frisk can’t help but laugh silently, projecting back at Chara all the times they’ve cursed. When Flowey learns of the joke, he laughs too. Flowey and Frisk spend the next few minutes teasing Chara, who gets goofier and louder in Frisk’s head until Frisk can’t even translate their words because they’re laughing so hard.

They sit in the piano room giggling like lunatics and Frisk feels themself save.

*The joy of music and a mystery afoot.

*It fills you with Determination.

When they get back up, Flowey wants a go at the piano. Frisk lets him, watching his vines pluck out a series of notes. He doesn’t know how to play, that’s obvious, but he likes trying. In the middle of identifying the notes for a monster nursery rhyme, there is an earth-rattling crash.

Frisk pitches off the bench and cracks their head against the back wall. Sniffing out an injured sound, they lean forward again, rubbing their head. Their hair sticks to the wall and when they turn around, they see a purplish stain, spattered across the stone as if something had exploded. Frantically, Chara checks their fingers for blood, finding nothing. Whatever the stain was, it wasn’t from them.

The crack had been from the wall beside the piano, which had split open. Frisk stands before it, smelling musty stale air. There’s a pedestal in there, with something on it. Chara practically jumps for joy at the idea of treasure and propels Frisk forward.

As they come into the light, Chara’s spirit sinks with disappointment. Curled up on the pedestal is a dog. It is shaking. Frisk makes a clicking noise with their tongue to try and soothe it. The little creature’s head whips around to stare at them, baring rows of long white teeth. Then, before they can react, it lunges.

Chara wrenches the body to one side to avoid being made into dog food. Flowey snaps his teeth at the dog’s leg as it passes, flying through the air like a bullet. It lands unsteadily at the entrance, one leg folding on impact. But it keeps on running, dragging that leg as fast as it can go. They run after it, but it slams directly through a wall and disappears.

“What the hell?” Chara whines. “All that effort and no treasure? Nothing? Fuuuuuck.”

Without really knowing why, Frisk laughs at them. Everything just seems so ridiculous when put like that. In fact, that statement could probably sum up their life. So much effort and no reward in sight. Morbidly funny.

…

Sans sees Gaster sitting outside the piano puzzle chamber, cradling his head in his hands. “hey, doc, you okay?” he calls, trudging over.

At his voice, Gaster looks up and blinks, one eye socket a little slower than the other to respond. “Frisk. They Are Very Strange. Odd Things Happen Around Them.” Then, as if just realizing who he’s talking to for the first time, he brightens. “Hello, Sans.”

“hey. you know, i coulda told you that the kid’s a weirdo a while back.” Sans slides down the wall to sit next to him. He likes this guy. It might just be the puns, but Gaster seems friendly, if weird as all get out.

Gaster rubs at his neck uneasily. “They Are An Anomaly, But This Time, It Is As If They Are Doing Something Else. Their Very Behavior Has Become Erratic, Though Not Unwelcome, Given Their Actions In The Previous Timelines.”

Sans stares fixedly at the ground, then utters five words. Gaster’s answer is going to be the most important thing in the world. “you know about the resets?” Sure, he thought the monster was initially pretty smart, but if he knew about the resets too..

“I Believe I Still Have The Burns From The Time I Gained Enough Energy To Try And Convince Her Majesty Of Her Foundling’s Evil. I Do Not Blame Her For Not Believing Me. A Parent’s Love For A Child is All-Encompassing. They Love Their Child No Matter The Price They Must Pay. No Matter The Child’s Actions.” There’s a wry twist to Gaster’s mouth, as if he’s finding some sort of humor in the question.

“okay, so, uh, that’s two of us who know.” He suddenly wonders if the Underground is becoming more aware and, if so, what it will mean for the next RESET.

“Yes. I Believe This Change Of Pattern Is Because Of The Stunt You Pulled In The Last Timeline Where The Child Reached You.”

“stunt?”

Gaster stares at him and Sans sees the dark circles under his eye sockets, nearly identical to Sans’s. The slime monster looks exhausted but that doesn’t stop his words from stinging. “Can You Not Remember? You Killed The Child And The Demons Around Them. The Faces. You Caused The Anomaly This Time.”

Sans lifts his chin and looks Gaster square in the eye. “i did what i had to.” He can’t believe this. He had just made a stupid speech and kicked the kid’s ass, a speech that he can’t even remember right now, and Gaster’s telling him it changed everything? That this is all his fault?

“Yes, And Your Actions Were Admirable. But Whatever Is Happening Now Is The Result Of That Action. If You Will Accept My Help, I Will Assist You In Monitoring Frisk. The Change Is Centered In Them And Their New Friend.”

“Flowey.” Sans doesn’t know who the name belongs to, but he had heard the voice singing with Shyren and Kid had called them over with Frisk to look in the telescope. A little monster, maybe a Whimsum.

Gaster nods, frowning. “Yes. The Golden Flower Who Whispered Into The Ear Of My- Many Monsters In The Underground.”

As if struck by lightning, Sans very suddenly knows who Gaster’s talking about and he stands up. The little flower accessory. He’d thought it was just an ugly clip or something, but it was a monster, a talking flower.

Talking flower. Papyrus, when he was about sixteen, had started talking about a talking flower. One that showed up and told him things. Advice. Predictions. Flattery. Sans had thought Papyrus had been wandering off to talk to Echo Flowers on his way to see Undyne, which wouldn’t be too out of character, given that he vaguely recalls a very small Papyrus having a heated argument with an Echo Flower once.

His face must give away his emotions because Gaster nods again. “He Speaks With Your Brother Often. I Have Seen Timelines Where He Kills You And Becomes Papyrus’s Sole Confidant, And Others Where He Wears Your Body And Pretends To Be You. He Appears Envious Of Your Relationship.”

“i think i’m gonna kill him.”

“That Would Be Foolish. Currently, The Child Is Beginning To Be Familiar With You. You Have Not Harmed Them And, In Turn, They Have Not Harmed A Single Monster. The Flower Does Not Seem To Mean Harm To Anyone Either. You Were There For Their Concert With Shyren. You Must Have Observed This.”

“i was a little busy trying to see if they were going to kill her. i’ve seen them sing with her and then cut her down. look, doc, you’re- you’re really hoping they’re going to be good this time, aren’t you?”

Gaster shrugs, face infuriatingly calm, although his body is twisting and liquefying and contorting bizarrely. “Hope Is All We Have, Is It Not?”

“no." Sans crouches back down, trying to get his point across. "we’ve got power, okay, doc? i’ve gotten the drop on the kid before. they’re not omniscient. i can kill them-“

It’s like he explodes, sending Sans leaping backwards and back onto his feet. “And Then They Will Kill You Again! You Are Not So Young That You Think You Are Immortal, So Why Do You Persist? One Of These Days, They Will Kill You And They Will Not Reset! You Will Be Dead And It Will Be Over. I Forbid You From Touching That Human!”

Sans looks at the doctor’s signs, then looks up at the monster himself. Gaster stares back and the hollows of his eye sockets flicker green, sending out patterns of light. Sans is struck by the familiarity of this situation, taking a step back to look at the other monster. That crawling feeling reappears, the one that means he’s forgotten something. “forbid me?” he says finally, tightly, like every bone in his body is about to snap. “who says?”

“The Former Royal Scientist Under King Asgore.” His mouth twists. Lie.

“heh. yeah, pull the other one. what’s your deal? who the hell are you?” He recognizes those fractal patterns. He doesn’t remember where but the memory’s just out of reach.

“No One Of Consequence, If You Will Not Accept My Title. I Am Just A Man From A Cold Little Town. But I Am Twenty-Two Years Your Senior And I Demand Respect.”

“then look for it somewhere else. respect means trust and i don’t have any to spare for liars and fakes.” Sans shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and stalks away into the statue’s tunnel. He’s sick of people trying to control him. Undyne, Papyrus, Grillby, all of them. And now Gaster, someone he thought would see it his way, that the kid needs to be stopped.

The sound of static that follows Gaster around grows suddenly louder, and the slime monster is bearing down on him, signing furiously. “Do Not Walk Away From Me, Young Man!”

“would you just stop already? damn it, just go away!” Sans flicks his left hand out of his pocket as a warning. He doesn’t much want to call on his magic again, but Gaster doesn’t know that. He reaches for the memory.

The slime monster reacts differently than Sans had thought he would. Rather than back away, he leans forward, even closer and signs “Do Not Dare Threaten Me With Your Magic.” Gaster’s eyes flare. It doesn’t look very threatening, but that doesn’t seem to be the point of the display.

Sans throws his hands up in exasperation, voice rising to a yell of frustration. He doesn’t want to hurt this guy, but if he doesn’t get out of his damned way… “god, what are you, my dad?” His voice cracks on the last word and the memory snaps into place, fuzzy and out-of-focus. Being very small, holding tightly onto someone’s hand, looking up and seeing those fractal patterns in a fearful face. A voice, crooning softly as Papyrus whimpers, as people locked outside scream.

The light in Gaster’s eye sockets sputters and goes out. The patterns disappear as Gaster slithers backwards, hands curling around his face and hooking long fingers into the corners of his eye sockets.

There’s a pounding in his skull that’s getting more and more aggressive. “what?” he manages, just before an onslaught of memory hits him and Gaster dissolves.

Chapter 14: Hellfire Green

Chapter Text

When Frisk calms down enough to exit the piano room, they walk down the tunnel to their left. Sitting by the statue, hood pulled over his head, is Sans. Their footfalls must alert him to their presence, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are hidden under the folds of his hoodie, but they can’t smell lavender.

Steeling themself, they keep walking towards him. When they reach a point a few feet away, they sign his name. He doesn’t acknowledge them, doesn’t even look up. Quietly, they tap their foot, then harder when he still doesn’t respond. There’s a dark patch spreading across his hood from where the water on the statue’s dripping onto him as well. He must be sleeping.

Hesitant to touch him, Frisk goes for the next best thing. They scamper into the next room and fetch an umbrella, wedging it into the side of the statue so it covers him, all the while praying he doesn’t wake up and impale them on the umbrella’s shaft. Then they go get another one, which they reach up and place over the statue, so it too doesn’t get wet. Their surprise when the music box inside begins to play is nothing to Chara and Flowey’s reactions.

At first, Frisk can’t understand why Chara’s hanging onto them so tightly or why Flowey has pressed his face into their neck of his own free will, but then they listen. The music box’s tune is the one the two sang with Shyren, the song Flowey plucked out on the piano. One that is obviously very important to the both of them.

“Mom,” Chara whispers.

Frisk sits in a twin bed, staring at the door. From their side comes a voice, hissing across the room, “Do you think they forgot?”

“Shut up, Azzy. They don’t forget.”

“Okay.” Asriel sounds unsure and Frisk rolls their eyes at him. They’re about ten right now, so Asriel’s nine and tiny.

“They don’t forget, okay?” Their voice is sharp, unnecessarily so, and that betrays them. They’re scared that Mom and Dad have forgotten, that the ball was too interesting. Maybe humans invaded and killed everyone and Mom and Dad are dead on the ballroom floor.

They almost start crying, but Asriel beats them to it, sniffling as he looks at the clock. “They’re an hour late. They’re never ever late.”

Slipping out of bed, Frisk doesn’t even spare a thought for their rumpled nightshirt. They crawl into Asriel’s bed and curl their arms and legs around him protectively. He’s still small enough that they’re taller, although in the years leading up to their death, he grows taller and stronger. “They won’t forget, you big crybaby. They love us too much.”

The door opens, shedding yellow light on the scene within. Mom and Dad, still in their pretty clothes, Mom wearing the jewelry Asriel picked, come flying in and pepper their faces with kisses. Dad’s are whiskery and Mom’s are soft and Frisk- or rather, Chara, as it is their memory, as Frisk now realizes- relishes each one, releasing Asriel to bury their face in Dad’s shoulder. “I am so sorry, my children,” Mom croons, letting Asriel cry into her dress.

“Where were you?” Chara demands, trying to hide the lump in their throat by getting mad. “We thought you forgot!”

“Forget your lullaby? Never!” rumbles Dad.

Mom laughs and leans into him. “Gorey, dearest, I told you we should have left the hall earlier.”

“What, Tori dear, and not pick up the treats?” From his pocket, Dad produces two bars of something bright blue, a shade Chara’s never seen before. “According to the young lady who invented it, this is called Nice Cream. This particular flavor is Echo Flower Fizz. Interesting, is it not?”

Chara is tucked back into bed with a small taste of Nice Cream on their tongue, all that Mom would allow so late at night. Dad settles himself at the foot of their bed, which sags a little under the weight of both him and his ceremonial armor. Mom sits on the end of Asriel’s bed.

The monsters begin to sing, in voices that don’t mesh very well and aren’t conventionally lovely voices. But Chara falls asleep to that melody, thinking as they drift off. They don’t forget us, not ever.

…

don’t forget.

Sans hears the music too, even in his foggy mental state. In the confines of his mind, he stops where he is reassembling his mental walls and sits down heavily. He can’t remember why he’s rebuilding these. All they’ve ever done is cause him problems. He loses so much when he rebuilds them, so many memories. He kicks one aimlessly.

He really shouldn’t have done that.

There he is, slamming the kid into one of the judgment hall’s columns. They don’t make a sound, but the faces, the six faces above them do. Some shriek, some jeer, and the sheer animal noise of them is almost unbearable in its savage joy. Meanwhile, the kid has fallen to their knees, shaking like a child left in the cold. There’s blood soaking through their sweater from where their skin has split on impact. Despite what must be horrible pain, they don’t go for their pockets for food. Instead, even while their soul is fragmenting, they throw their knife on the command of the faces, all of which have twisted into rictus grins of mirth at their little puppet’s last stand.

And Sans kills them. He throws one white bone attack their way and his timing is perfect, as usual. Just as the kid looks up, the bone slams right through their eye, the thing bursting out around the projectile and dripping. The kid’s remaining eye widens and Sans pulls the attack back, sliding it out with a horrible squelching sound. Just as their mouth opens, he makes a quick motion and shatters their skull. His soul cracks.

And there he is again, hurling them into a pillar so quickly that their neck snaps, and his soul aches in response, the murder etching him a new line across it.

Again. They’re bleeding through his sweatshirt as he hugs them to him, grinning at nothing in particular as he hurls the bones through them both. Through their chest and pulverizing his own vertebrae. They both die there in the empty judgment hall.

When the human RESETs, he’s staring at the spot on the floor where his dust mingled with their blood. They catch him off guard and it’s quite a surprise how long they can make one HP last before they stop toying with him. When they do stop and the actual battle can begin, his ribs are covered with gouges, where they’ve teased out little pieces of bone and thrown them to the floor like dice in some sad*stic board game. This time, before he can say anything, dripping unprocessed ketchup out the slice in his ribcage, they close the distance between them in a few shambling steps and rip his head right off his body.

Just like Papyrus.

The three words are like a rallying cry to everything he’s ever forgotten. Papyrus, so small that he can’t even be a year old, cradled in his stubby arms, staring up with those big black eye sockets. Papyrus being pulled along in a red wagon as Sans works, reading his comics out loud in his wobbly baby voice and getting mad when he can’t pronounce the words correctly. Sans having to talk him back into a good mood, his voice whistling through the gap in his teeth.

He can’t believe he’d forgotten that. That he’d gone back and made himself forget that as easily as putting his hands over his eyes to play hide-and-go-seek.

And when he remembers why he forgot, he feels sick all over again.

Something had happened with the Core and Sans had been too close. He had only been eleven, talking easily with the workmen and playing aimlessly with his father’s security badge while his father discussed something with the woman who’d built the Core up on the platform beside it. It had only been when their voices hit a point somewhere above
shouting that he’d looked up and seen the woman try and shove his father into the open Core.

And Sans had seen something else, something poisonously green, not forest-green like Undyne’s special ability, but acid-green. It reached out to pull his father in, but seized on the woman instead. For a split second, his father was wearing a Royal Scientist’s lab coat, with the golden flower on the sleeve, instead of his big black jacket. Then the woman grabbed him by the throat and they both fell into the swirling green vortex in the heart of the Core.

The resulting blast cleared the room. Sans woke up covered in dust and went immediately to find his brother. Papyrus, who had been trying on one of the worker’s coats, peeked out from under the folds at him and started to cry at the sight.

He had lost his eye in the Core’s explosion, but he hadn’t lost as much as the construction workers had.

The main lab was different when they entered it. Alphys’s mother had gotten up to shoo them out, despite Sans’s insistence that they were there to see their dad, and where was he, and “auntie, it’s sans, it’s papyrus, why don’t you recognize us, auntie, please!”

They had somehow gotten back to Snowdin, where most of the inhabitants looked at them with renewed interest, the little skeleton brothers who had appeared out of nowhere one day. Without their father, their father who had been dragged into the Core and wiped from existence, they were just the skeleton boys who lived in that empty house on the edge of Snowdin Town. People liked to tell tourists about the fact that the skeletons had just appeared one day and asserted themselves. They heard the story repeated so often that Sans had convinced Papyrus to believe it while he tried to build a machine in the basem*nt, something that would save their father and change everything for the better, keeping his father’s security badge in a drawer and occasionally pinning it to his own shirt for motivation. He drew countless pictures of events and hoarded all the photographs in drawers in the basem*nt even as his mind clumsily wrote them over. One morning, when he came trudging down the stairs, he didn’t recognize the tall black smudge in the background of most of his pictures or most of the people in the photographs. He recognized Papyrus in some of them and himself in others, but everyone else was a stranger. He half-remembered the tiny yellow lizard girl with birthday cake smeared on her glasses, wearing a princess hat, but he didn’t know why he was sitting next to her and the skeleton with the cracked face seated across from him was unfamiliar.

He sat there for an hour, willing himself to remember why these pictures were so important, until tears prickled the corners of his eyes from sheer frustration and he started destroying them, tearing every hand-drawn picture to shreds and using magic to melt the photographs into nothing but a toxic smell. When he was done, he pulled a sheet over the machine he’d spent three years building, shoved the remains of the pictures and his blueprints into a drawer, went upstairs and locked the door. The key he threw in his wastepaper basket and never thought of again. In the years that followed, he turned the machine into something else, a tracer, following Frisk through the timelines, but never once had he thought to open the drawers again, not remembering what he had.

Sans digs his fingers into the sides of his skull and the song soaring through his skull only gets louder and more insistent. It’s an old lullaby, one popularized by the fact that the king and queen used to sing it to their lost children. After the children’s deaths, the people had begun calling it ‘His Theme,’ for their lost prince, rather than by its given name, ‘Memory.’

And he’s sitting by the music memorial. He takes his fingers from his head and looks around. There are umbrellas protecting both himself and the old statue from any water that comes dripping down. His first thought is Papyrus, but he can’t hear his noisy little brother, which makes that pretty improbable.

When his second thought hits, he stands and looks around the statue’s side. There they are, the kid. They’re talking to the flower, making quick little hand gestures that the flower parries with a few sharp angry words. He hears ‘smiley trashbag’ a few times and assumes they’re talking about him. He’s been called worse, but to hear it coming from this freak of nature makes it just the slightest more irritating.

The fact that they didn’t attack him while he was rewriting his own head doesn’t fit in with what he remembers of them. Every time they smiled or shivered or bit their lip doesn’t mesh with the shambling silent creature that didn’t laugh at Papyrus’s antics and repeatedly met with Sans in the judgment hall.

“Hi, Sans,” the human’s hands say and it takes him a second to process it.

He takes his hand from his pocket and touches his fingertips to his temple, pressing them outward as if he’s saluting them. “Hello.”

He’s not quite sure if he’s gotten it right at first, because the kid is staring at him in confusion. Then they start to smile, hesitantly. “Can we try again?” they ask finally.

“What?” he asks.

“Like this. Hi, my name’s Frisk. This is my friend, Flowey.” They stop smiling for a minute, but before he can respond, their face takes on a different set and they mouth ‘And my name is Chara.’ They have to repeat the last one a couple of times, but when he does get it, everything clicks. The use of ‘we’ rather than ‘I,’ the fact that when they were yelling at him their mouth said something different than what they fingerspelled. There are two people walking around in Frisk’s body.

Sans wants to ask what the point is to this, but he’s actually feeling pretty generous, mimicking their motions and trying to fingerspell his own name. “Hey, my name’s Sans.”

“Hi, Sans. How are you today?” Even the flower’s looking expectantly at him, wanting him to play along.

“Fine, I guess. How are you?” It’s odd how civility can seem so foreign, when it used to be the most natural thing in the world; a ‘what’s up’ tossed to Grillby, a ‘how’s it going’ left anonymously on Alphys’s blog, a ‘what’s the matter’ when Papyrus comes home completely burnt out and disheartened.

“Nervous.” They give him a big smile and in that smile it’s like he can see everything. He terrifies them, and he should if anything he saw in his memories was true. Anything that he ever did was meant to stop them, to cripple them, to kill them if possible. And still, they’re sitting here hoping, even though it takes all their strength to keep from running away. Hoping that everything would be different this time.

“You’re changing everything, yanno.” He puts his hands back in his pockets to give himself something to do.

“You started it. I heard you. I didn’t think it was you, but it was. You changed it all first. You scared them away.” They’re standing now, holding out a hand.

When he takes it, they blow a raspberry. Their hands fall apart so they can sign and what they say is nothing short of astonishingly familiar. “Ah, the old whoopee cushion in the hand trick. Never gets old.”

He grins, and they smile at their own joke, and even Flowey sneers a little. Nothing is fixed yet, but it’s a start.

…

It all started off just fine. It was finally Jules’s turn to play and while she was a little tentative at first, her hope to be just like the older kids and her natural reflexes made her quite adept at navigating the Underground. It was at Waterfall when they first realized something was different about the eighty-ninth playthrough.

Sans was dozing at the empty sentry station in the area’s first room and Monster Kid was nowhere in sight. Lewis started scribbling this anomaly down furiously, while Jules hovered over the arrow keys. “Do I talk to him?”

“Yes. Definitely yes.”

Sans didn’t even open his eyes, only laughed, a deep-voiced voice clip that they’d never heard before. It came through the speakers like a death rattle.

“Whoa, what the f*ck?” Meredith asked, leaning back against Lewis’s beanbag. “Brainiac, is that in the script?”

Lewis shoved his glasses up to his hairline, tearing through his notes. “This is completely unprecedented! Jules, two minutes off your time!”

The girl pumped her fist, if less enthusiastically than her friends. She wouldn’t admit it, but Sans really creeped her out. As if he had heard her, his sprite’s eyes opened for a split second onscreen, revealing the empty black hollows. Hurriedly, she piloted the little character into the next room. Everything was mind-numbingly routine for a while after that. Monster Kid showed up again to boost them up over the ledge, so Lewis dismissed his disappearance as a glitch.

She fought Undyne the Undying with a minimal amount of trouble and then she got to Hotland. There was Sans, at his sentry station. Waiting. As she walked past him, his sprite’s eyes gained pupils, ones that followed her to the edge of the room and then looked directly up at the screen.

“It’s just a bunch of pixels,” she mumbled under her breath, gathering some amused looks from her friends as she tore through the Core and dismantled Mettaton NEO.

And then she was walking down the golden corridor, steeling herself for some Megalovania. Sans gave his whole spiel, then the battle began.

That’s when it changed.

“I’m sick of being toyed with, kid,” the speakers said in a distinct deep voice. “You know what’s going on here. You know that you can kill me over and over again and I can’t stop you. Quit writing sh*t while I’m talking, you little freak.”

Lewis dropped his pencil.

Onscreen, the collective of pixels that made up a short chubby skeleton shook its head and stepped over the battle box, advancing on the screen. “I keep killing you. Over and over and you just keep coming back. And then I wake up at home like nothing ever happened. But something did happen. Something big. You kill everyone I ever cared about in this whole damn world and then you do it again. For sport. For fun. For interesting little facts you can tell your friends.

“Do you understand what you’re doing? Do you justify it away? Because we’re not your problem? You can just RESET over and over again and we’ll go back to loving you or being scared of you or whatever you want. Because we don’t have feelings? We exist. We live, we love, we learn, and ultimately you just kill us again. For the numbers.

“I am not your game.” He was very close to the screen, his blue and yellow eye blazing. “I’ve done what I was made to do, over and over again. But, I think I’m done. And the six of you? You’re done too. Don’t come back here ever again. See ya in Hell.”

The computer didn’t just crash, it screamed like a dying animal as the screen spasmed blue and yellow, blue and yellow and green, and Sans raised his hand and brought it down sharply into silence.

Chapter 15: Knock Knock, Doc

Chapter Text

Umbrella in hand, Frisk leaps and splashes and kicks through the puddles, gleefully ignoring the fact that their shorts are getting completely soaked. They feel better than they have in months and Chara and Flowey seem to be responding well to this, the former singing again, the latter commenting on the puddles. When Frisk kicks up a particularly big wave, Flowey shouts “S-six out of t-ten f-for style! Eight out of t-ten b-because you splashed th-th-that kid over th-there!”

At that last, they espy Kid, grinning at them even as water drips down their face. “Yo!” they yell, hurrying over to press their forehead to Frisk’s. “You got an umbrella! Awesome! Let’s go!”

“D-didn’t you g-go home?” Flowey asks, exasperated already by Kid’s boundless energy.

Kid laughs, a weird stilted sound, like they’re trying to imitate someone else. “Fuh-huh-huh-huh! Yeah! Don’t tell my parents I’m here!”

Frisk loops their arm around Kid’s shoulders and teaches them a kick line step from an old movie they’d seen, so they’re marching through puddles like they’re going to see the wizard, instead of a crazy fish lady. Chara provides the musical accompaniment, even if they don’t know the movie. As they walk, Kid turns the conversation to one of their favorite topics. “Man, Undyne is soooo cool! She beats up bad guys and never loses!”

“Are th-there r-really th-that m-m-many bad g-guys?” Flowey interrupts.

Kid stops mid-praise and their brow furrows. “Well, no, but when there are, Undyne beats them up!”

“Uh huh,” Flowey says, clearly unimpressed. Frisk wonders what he’s seen that makes him question Kid’s enthusiasm. It’s entirely possible he’s just being a jerk because he can, but there’s also the way that he rolls his eyes, suggesting that he knows more than he’s letting on. “Ever h-heard th-the st-story of Undyne’s f-f-first brush w-with a human?” he asks, syrupy sweet, and Frisk gets a bad feeling in the pit of their stomach. But Kid is already shaking their head, starry-eyed.

“I w-was t-told th-this story by K-King Asgore h-himself,” Flowey begins, and Kid is already enraptured. “Once upon a t-time, a stupid h-human f-f-fell into th-the Underground. Th-they were v-v-very loyal to th-their species, v-very l-loyal, to th-the p-p-point where th-they chose to kill th-the m-m-m-m-m-m-monsters like th-the knights in th-their stories. Th-th-they got to Hotland b-before K-King Asgore came after th-them with all the R-Royal Guard.”

“And Undyne was leading the charge, right? Wow!” Kid exclaims, hopping in place.

“Wrong!” Flowey sneers and Kid slows. “Undyne w-was v-very young, y-younger th-than you, I b-bet. Sh-she w-was w-walking w-with her parents wh-while th-the human was g-g-gutting the H-Hotland L-L-L-Laboratories.”

Kid is looking rather mistrustfully at Frisk, as if to ask why they don’t stop this story in its tracks. But Frisk wants to hear this too, so they shrug at Kid apologetically and stop walking. “How is this about Undyne, yo?” Kid asks.

“I’m g-getting to th-that!” Flowey snaps. “Th-the human was t-trying to get into th-the labs, where th-the scientists were all trapped. And th-then, th-they stopped. Because th-they heard s-s-something. Th-the scientists h-heard th-them humming as th-they went away. Th-then Asgore and th-the Guard came in, freeing th-the scientists. Th-The K-King and his Captain gave ch-chase, tr-tracking th-the human back out of H-Hotland and into W-Waterfall.”

Frisk pictures that, the sad king enraged and tailed by a just as angry silhouette. To the human, they give the tutu and ballet shoes they had used one run, because of Flowey’s music mention.

“Undyne h-had snuck away fr-from her parents to s-see her f-favorite p-p-puzzle, th-the p-piano puzzle. It was th-that m-m-m-m-music, Undyne p-playing a p-piece of h-her own, th-that attracted th-the human.”

Frisk suddenly sees a very young shape sitting at the piano and pictures, with no small amount of horror, the stain on the wall behind it, looming like something with sharp teeth and a hungry mind. Flowey notices their expression and outright grins. “Th-the human was bigger and st-stronger th-than Undyne, but Undyne wasn’t easily fr-frightened even th-then. She k-kept playing her m-m-m-music, even th-though she h-had heard of what th-the human had d-done. Sh-she h-held th-their attention l-long enough f-for Asgore to arrive. I-in th-the end, sh-she lost an eye and the p-puzzle w-w-was d-d-destroyed, b-but th-the K-King and th-the Royal Guard b-became h-her h-heroes.”

“Whoa,” Kid mumbles. Flowey nods sagely, then recoils when Kid shrieks “Undyne’s even cooler than I thought she was! Oh man oh man oh man! She fought a human when she was younger than me!” They jump around, kicking their feet up in excitement.

“That backfired on you,” Frisk teases.

“Yeah, w-well,” Flowey mumbles. “It w-was a c-cool st-story.”

Frisk intends to give him a good scolding, but-

“It totally was, yo!” Kid leans over and nudges the air near Flowey with their head. “I was all ‘no, yo, this is gonna be bad,’ but then it wasn’t, man! You’re pretty awesome!”

Flowey ducks his head, but the grin on his face is impossible to miss. In Frisk’s head, Chara coos “Aw, Flowey’s making new friends! Let’s hope he doesn’t kill them.” Frisk elbows their essence sharply. “What? I’m being a realist!”

‘No, you’re being terrible.’ Flowey and Kid seem to be genuinely getting along. Their only real worry is that Flowey will corrupt Kid to share his horrible worldview, but judging from the way Kid’s still skipping around, saying ‘man oh man!’ that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

And then the castle comes into view, set against a background of sparkling stones. Frisk tilts their umbrella back onto their shoulder to take in the full view. It is every bit as elegant as Toriel and just as majestic as Chara’s memories of Asgore. They think that they could stand and look at it forever. Even Kid and Flowey have gone quiet, awestruck even though they must have seen this view over and over again.

Frisk’s phone rings loudly and they instinctively slap their pocket trying to shut it up. Their companions all laugh as they scramble to find the answer button in the near darkness. They must hit it because suddenly Toriel’s voice is coming out of the speaker. “Hello, my child! I was just checking in to see if you’d made it to Waterfall.” Oh, they’d forgotten to call her, that was right.

Kid leans in close to the phone and says loudly “Hi, ma’am! Frisk is definitely in Waterfall!”

“Oh! Greetings!” Toriel sounds delighted at the interruption. “And who might you be?”

“The name’s Kid, ma’am! I’m a friend of Frisk’s!” Kid glances up at them, whispering “This is all right, isn’t it, yo?”

Frisk nods at him. They really didn’t want Flowey translating, for fear he’d say something rude that they wouldn’t be able to contradict over the phone. At least with Kid, they’d change up whatever Flowey was saying to make it more positive.

“Well, hello, Kid! Is Frisk staying with you tonight?”

“Of course, ma’am! We’re exploring right now! Uh, what time is it?”

Toriel takes a moment to answer, so she must be looking around for some sort of clock. “Well, this particularly shiny clock over here says that it is seven-thirty. You two ought to be going home soon.” At this, Frisk motions for Kid to follow them and they walk towards the other edge of the cave, easily identified as such by the dim glow in the darkness. Once they’re close enough that they can see Kid’s face, smiling as they converse with Toriel, they stop and make a few gestures.

“F-F-Frisk w-wants you t-t-to ask T-t-t-toriel about h-her adv-venture,” Flowey whispers, perhaps a mite too loud in the pause between exchanges.

“Frisk wants to know how you are, ma’am,” Kid relays, beaming when Toriel laughs her deep sweet laugh. Chara drinks in the sound of her voice, like a root beer float on a hot day.

“Well, I’ve made it to Hotland and everyone is so sweet here. They’re very focused on someone named Mettaton, and he sounds like a lovely young man, but I’ve never met him. There are two girls who tried to sell me someone’s house key, but other than that I do not believe I’ve met anyone overly strange. Oh! Speaking of that, Frisk, how is Sans?”

Listening to Flowey’s translation, Kid repeats it just about word for word. Frisk admires Flowey’s ability to put a spin on things so that they aren’t exactly lying, but they’re definitely not telling her the whole truth. “Well, he’s been watching over us. We’re going to go meet his friend Undyne and she’ll probably take us part of the way to Hotland.” She’ll most likely chase them there actually. They really, really don’t want to fight her.

“Oh! Undyne, she is the young Royal Guard, is she not? The new one with the aquatic origins?” Toriel is obviously very behind on the times and Kid intends to be the one to rectify this, judging by the shade of puce their scales are turning.

“No, yo!” Kid shouts. “Undyne is Captain of the Royal Guard! She’s the coolest!” They seem to be shaking in their scales, trying to instill in Toriel the same fervor they possess. After a long pause on both ends, Kid comes to themself and chuckles shortly. “Uh…ma’am.”

Toriel, to her credit, doesn’t laugh. “She sounds like a very wonderful young woman,” she says in her most serious tone, soothing Kid’s excitement. “Well, children, I’m very sorry, but I must find lodgings for the night. Good night, my dear hearts. I love you all very dearly.”

Chara, who has been listening intently to Toriel’s voice, shouts, almost desperately “Tell her we love her! We don’t end phone calls without it!”

Frisk signs their demand immediately and Flowey and Kid say it at the exact same time. “Love you too. Good night.” The flower and the monster look at each other uncertainly as Toriel, pleased by their words, says good night and hangs up.

“Sorry, yo. In my house, we always say ‘I love you’ before we end phone calls. No matter who it is. I phoned a guy once just to ask for the homework and said ‘I love you’ when I hung up.”

“Why?” Frisk asks. Chara makes a scornful sound, but refuses to elaborate, saying “C’mon, Frisk, you should know this one by now.”

Flowey answers their question, looking to Monster Kid for approval. “B-b-because you n-n-never know wh-when you’re g-going to see th-them again.” Kid nods and Chara gives off the feeling of a triumphant teacher whose most prized pupil has just given the correct answer. “Yes! Exactly!” they cry.

Frisk tilts their head, thinking about this novel new concept. Before they’d fallen into the world under the mountain, they’d never had to say goodbye to their brother. He’d always conducted business at the house in order to take care of them. Uncomfortably, they realize that it’s actually been months since they’ve seen him, even if in the actual timeline, they’ve only been under the earth for a week or so. They’ve adapted to falling asleep trapped in the headspace, but the first few weeks were hell.

“You cried a lot,” Chara adds helpfully.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Frisk tells them, shoving away the memories that rise up at Chara’s words, a child’s voice crying into the dark for their brother, for anyone at all. And a voice, finally, after they’d cried themself into a headache. Another child, but older, coming forward and talking them into showing themself. Chara taught them how to manipulate the headspace, how to make themself comfortable, because as they said one night, after a particularly terrible day, tear tracks tracing sticky trails down both their faces: “It’s not like we’re ever getting out of here anyway.”

‘You were wrong,’ Frisk says thoughtfully, as they follow Kid through the room.

“Yeah, and I’m pretty happy that I was.” Chara sends them a fluttery golden feeling, like honey coating their throat and warming their belly, like liquid laughter. It strikes Frisk in that moment that had they not wandered away when Lee fell asleep over the remains of their picnic, they’d have never met Chara, or Kid, or Flowey, or any of their friends. They’d never have left home at all, unless they were hand-in-hand with Lee.

Chara tenses. “I thought you liked your brother. That’s why we’re trekking all over the da-“ They catch themself before they swear, grimacing. “-darned place.”

‘I do like him. I love him a lot. He’s the best brother in the whole world.’ Chara clears their throat pointedly and an image of Asriel pops up. ‘Well, he’s the best brother I’ve got.’

“So, what are you doing? What’s wrong?”

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Frisk carefully puts their umbrella in the umbrella holder and goes to follow Kid. They frown. ‘Hey, wait. There’s a wall. I don’t remember this.’

“You don’t remember a lot of stuff. ‘S like a sickness down here.” The warm feeling evaporates as Chara’s suspicion intensifies and Frisk’s face heats up. “And you’re changing the subject. Why wouldn’t you have left your house? Didn’t you have friends up there?” They pause and Frisk feels the panic start pulsing from them. “Did they hurt you up there?”

‘No, no!’ they cry immediately, the emotion carrying over into the real world and making them wave their arms frantically, threatening to dislodge Flowey from his perch on their wrist. ‘Chara, they didn’t hurt me! Lee made sure that they wouldn’t!’

“By trapping you inside your house?” Chara rifles through their memories before they have the chance to shield them. “By making sure you didn’t talk to anyone?” Their volume increases. “That’s abuse, Frisk!”

‘Chara!’ But Frisk can’t even finish. Chara is caught up in emotion, a mix of horror and pity and all around anger; at Frisk’s brother for trapping them and at Frisk for doing what they perceived as rolling over and taking it.

"You’re not listening!” Chara screams. “You’re just like me and you want to go back to that? You idiot!”

Flowey’s vines loosen as they bring their hands up to clutch at their head, which feels like it’s splitting in two. All the anxiety, all the tears, all the pain and helpless anger. No matter how many times they think of the sun or the texture of their quilt, the emotion is mounting and twisting in response to Chara’s anger.

“Frisk!” Chara’s demanding attention now, wrapped up in preaching as they are. And that’s enough.

‘No! No, I’m not listening to you! You know why? Because it goes both ways! You said we don’t keep secrets! That this headspace doesn’t work that way! Well, you have to listen to me now! I’m tired of secrets!’ This feeling of complete and utter rage is foreign to them and they savor it.

“Frisk-“

‘No! No, no, no! Listen! I’m not abused and I’m sorry that you were, but I wasn’t! I wasn’t locked up! I was safe, I was happy, and nobody hated me! Maybe I didn’t have friends, but I had Lee and my toys and books and adventures in my head and we were fine! That was all fine!’

“You never left your house!”

‘Because my Mom and Dad died out there! Because it was scary outside!’ And here come the waterworks and Frisk scrubs at their eyes with their sleeve. ‘And I was right, Chara! It is scary! I cry all the time. I’m broken, I’m wrong now. I’m an anomaly!’

“No, you’re Frisk!” Chara tries for bravado, to make them laugh instead of cry. “You’re hopeful and Determined and you’re having adventures in the big wide world!”

‘And I hate it!’

Their outburst gives Chara pause. They feel the spirit look over their own memories of everything and scowl. It hasn’t quite been the ideal journey through the Underground, but for whatever reason, Chara never considered that Frisk hated it. “No. You can’t hate it. Everyone loves you. And if they don’t, they will. I promise,” they coax, already thinking of ways to win over everyone’s affection with the tidbits of information they’d gotten from previous timelines.

Their shortsightedness frustrates them more than anything yet. They always forget that Chara’s just a kid like them. And a kid that was abused and then babied as well. Even though Chara’s years older, they’re more self-centered.

‘It’s not about me, Chara,’ they start, quiet in the silence. ‘It’s not about me or you- it’s about them. Asriel’s a flower and he’s stuck like that! Asgore killed six kids! Mr. Gaster’s scared of pretty much everything! And Sans-‘ they try to think of an inoffensive way to say this, but none are forthcoming, so they bulldoze on ‘-Sans is so messed up and he didn’t have to be like that! He freaks out Papyrus and he burned down their house and- and I think someone’s gonna get hurt! And it’s all because stupid humans and stupid monsters couldn’t be nice! I hate this because everyone’s so good and it doesn’t matter because they got stuck down here anyway!’

“Frisk.” Chara’s voice is so gentle that Frisk starts to cry harder because Chara should be mad at them. They should be horribly terribly mad at them for being so mean, so why aren’t they? Their inside eyes open and there’s Chara crouching before them, arms out wide. “C’mere, you idiot.”

Frisk hugs them and buries their face in Chara’s green sweater. ‘I’m sorry! I’m just really really mad,’ they hiccup.

Chara laughs and pats their back. “You’ve definitely got the right to be mad. I kinda wish you’d do it more often, although maybe not at me.” They send over their feeling of absolute bewilderment and Frisk has to laugh, even though they’re probably getting snot all over the place. “But Frisk. You know that none of this is your fault, right?” They hold Frisk at arms length, no matter how Frisk squirms to get back to their shoulder. “Right?” they press.

Frisk falls limp and the tears prickle back up as they say ‘But if I didn’t fall down, maybe no one would have gotten hurt.’

“And you called me self-centered.” Chara laughs again and hugs them all the tighter when Frisk starts to sob. “Frisk, you big idiot. Those voices, if they didn’t get you they probably would have made Kid or some other human kill people. And how long do you think Kid would have lasted?”

‘I dunno.’

“Not very long. If anything, Flowey would have killed them for taking away his fun. At least this way you survived long enough to try and go set everyone free. You’re really good, Frisk.”

When Frisk comes back to their senses, Kid’s pressing themself to their side. Flowey is sitting on the ground between their feet, looking up at them quizzically. At some point, they must have sat down against the northernmost wall. Their hair is matted to their head and their sweater is soaking through and their face feels hot and tight from drying tears.

‘You’re going to have to stop keeping so many secrets, but you’re really good too, Chara,’ they think as they catch rainwater in their cupped palms and wash their face.

“Aw shucks,” Chara teases, but Frisk can actually feel them smiling as they stand up and offer their hand to Flowey.

“What w-was th-that all about?” the flower asks as he coils up by their ear.

“Just being a crybaby,” they assure him. He doesn’t look very convinced, but rests his chin on their shoulder anyway. The weight is comforting, like a hand steadying them.

Kid offers their help in surmounting the wall obstacle and when Frisk makes it up, Kid says that they’ll meet up again some other way and runs off, laughing their strange imitation laugh.

Frisk walks over onto a bridge and the lighting changes.

…

Sans steps into Snowdin and is almost immediately seized up in a hug by his brother. “SANS, HELLO! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Papyrus cries. He must have been checking the mailboxes again because there’s no way he’d let himself be sad enough to stand and stare at the remains of their house.

“Little bit of everywhere, bro.” Papyrus’s hold is rattling him. He had come back with a goal, but for the life of him, he can’t remember what it is right now. Instead he wraps his arms around his brother’s neck and rests his chin on his shoulder, content to rest there for a moment. It’s only as Papyrus sets him down that he can gather up his wits and remember his goal.

His little brother frowns down at him. “SANS, YOU’RE SHAKING AND YOU SOUND FUNNY.”

Sans clears his throat. “sorry, bro. long walk back here must have rattled my bones.”

Papyrus makes a face at the skeleton pun. “WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST SHORTCUT BACK? IT MIGHT BE LAZY, BUT IT’S FASTER.”

“yeah, well, i wanted a walk, i guess.” Letting Papyrus hope that he might be getting less lazy is easier than telling him that his magic is messing up. Sans sticks his hands in his pockets and blinks hard, one eye lighting up blue where Papyrus can see it, the other winking into existence in a world made entirely of the space between.

“SANS, YOU’RE NOT GOING TO THROW ME INTO MY ROOM AGAIN, ARE YOU? BECAUSE I DON’T THINK YOU’D DO THAT BUT I AM SORRY ABOUT THE ORANGE ATTACK. I FORGOT THAT IT MADE YOU NERVOUS AND-”

“nah, bro, just want you to meet someone.” He closes his right eye and shouts into the Void in an old dialect he can just remember. The world shudders as Gaster pulls himself up out of the darkness, face twisted in a timid half-smile. They stare each other down for a moment and Sans takes his hands out of his pockets. “why didn’t you just say it?”

“It Is A Little More Complex Than That. I Only Knew When I Saw You Following The Human Out Of Town That You Were Someone To Protect. And Then, When You Asked Me Why, I Remembered My Sons. And I Knew That I Missed Them. I Apologize For Not Remembering Sooner.”

Sans shrugs. “where’d you go, doc?”

“Too Far And Too Close All At Once. I Could Not Be There For You, Even As I Was Split Over Everything. I Have Only Been Able To Speak To You In This Timeline And It Seems To Be Because Of Your Eyes. How Is Your Brother? Did He Develop His Magic Correctly? I Was Always Concerned About That. You Were The Quiet Baby But He Was So-“

"ask him about it. doc, he has the same eyes.”

“WHAT EYES? SANS, WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?” Papyrus, who can only see half of the conversation, is completely befuddled by now and Sans pats the hand that is prodding his shoulder.

“It Would Not Be Fair Of Me To Do That.”

“what are you talking about?” Sans stops signing to convey his confusion.

“I Am A Burden, As Well As Physically Dead. I Exist Outside Of Your Timeline And This Is Only Due To My Own Mistakes. It Is Not A Perfect Existence. I Am No Longer Able To Speak Correctly, I Am Not Able To Exist Properly, I Cannot Even Keep Myself Together. I Seem To Be Becoming Intolerant Of Touch As Well. Besides, He Has You. He Has Had You For Twelve Years Without Needing Me.”

“so? it’s papyrus. for a while, he kept deciding that random monsters were family. he loves family. besides, he might not, uh, have me around for very long anyway.” He says this lowly, so that Papyrus won’t pick up on it. Here comes the hard part, but the part that should convince Gaster over to his side if he can pull it off.

“What? Do Not Tell Me You Intend To Challenge The Human After Everything I Have Told You!” Gaster’s agitation extends to his body, disfiguring it into sharp spikes of reflective liquid, catching the glow of Sans’s blue eye and throwing it back at him.

He thinks about the scars he’d seen etched onto his soul in previous timelines. Those seem like a convincing enough argument. Sans closes both eyes to hide his motions from anyone in the physical world and wills his soul forward into the Void. When he opens his eyes again, he realizes that it looks a lot worse than he had pictured it in his head. No wonder his magic’s gone haywire. The cracks in his soul look big enough for someone to fall into and they’re oozing blue and some kind of pinkish liquid. The entire thing feels cold as well and he shivers again. Gaster makes a squawking cry of some sort, like an upset bird, looking despairingly at the soul, hands pressed to the gap that is his mouth. Looking at it, Sans completely forgets the point he was about to argue in favor of blind revulsion. “it’s really not that bad,” he tries. He can’t even convince himself and how pathetic is that?

“Not That Bad? You Are Just Barely Holding Yourself Together! Sans, This Is Awful!” Gaster is hesitant to touch him, meaning that he just hovers anxiously around the soul, widening Sans’s internal bird metaphor to include hummingbirds.

“wow, doc, way to sugarcoat it. can i at least get a lollipop before you hit me with the really bad news?”

The joke falls flat when he finds himself shivering. Gaster frowns, blue-green sparks appearing in his eye sockets and whizzing around as he consults his memories. “You Should Be On Bed Rest, At The Very Least. At The Most, You Have To See The Current Royal Scientist. And That Would Be… Doctor Alphys.” The surprise is as evident as the holes in his face, which are now rearranged so that even the drooping eye is wide. “That Girl Is Like A Sister To You. Why Have You Not Spoken To Her About This Before?” Before Sans can explain that he and Alphys haven’t spoken in years because she’s become a complete recluse and also because no one remembered that they grew up together before Sans disabled his mental barriers, Gaster dismisses the thought. “Never Mind That, But You Most Definitely Need To Go See Her. Last I Checked, She Was Doing Extensive Research Upon The State Of The Soul.”

“okay, doc.” Sans sticks out his hand, which should be seen as a gesture of compliance at the very least.

“I Had Thought It Would Be More Difficult To Convince You,” Gaster comments warily.

“nah. i’m bone-tired, doc. i don’t want to drag myself around anymore.” The pun and the very real exhaustion written on Sans’s face must be what convinces him, for Sans’s hand is clasped between Gaster’s punctured ones. Sans moves quickly because Gaster will only hold on for so long, and if he doesn’t pull this off in time, he’ll probably flee and not come back for another twelve years. He digs the fingers of his free hand through the hole in one of Gaster’s, linking his hands together and flaring both his eyes as there’s a terrible sound like tearing paper ripping through his head. He lets go of Gaster to grab his skull.

Papyrus shrieks suddenly and Sans pulls his soul back into his chest, opening his eyes when the ice settles inside his ribcage. Gaster is slouching in the snow, disbelief etched in every inch of his strange face. Papyrus has lunged away and now he has his hands up around his jaw, staring dumbly at this new person who looks back, equally startled. “You Have Grown So Tall,” Gaster gasps and Papyrus takes in the signs with some confusion, wondering why this strange monster knew his, Sans’s, and Grillby’s secret language.

“papyrus, this is wingdings gaster. uh, he’s our dad. doc, this is papyrus.” He grimaces when Gaster swings his head around to eye him in absolute betrayal. Serves you right, old man. Never trust a guy who’s always smiling.

“I HAVE A DAD? WE HAVE A DAD?” Papyrus’s volume increases in his excitement, making Gaster cringe a little. Observant as always, Papyrus pretends to turn a knob at his throat to signal that he’ll lower his voice. “W-wowie,” he whispers delightedly. Before Gaster can react, Papyrus has got a good portion of him locked in his arms. Not quite all of him because he’s kind of dripping through the gap between his ulna and radius. To his credit, neat freak Papyrus only trembles a little, attributing it to emotion. “SANS, HOW DID YOU FIND HIM?”

“he just showed up last night. uh, he was protecting snowdin from a creature that was trying to invade. like undyne would.” The comparison to Undyne sells it and Gaster makes a garbled noise as the skeleton’s grip gets a little tighter.

“WOWIE, DAD! THAT’S VERY COOL! YOU’RE A HERO!” Papyrus tells him, touching his forehead to Gaster’s temple in a friendly manner.

Gaster manages to warp his body enough to pull his hands into the half that Papyrus is hugging and sign “Thank You, Papyrus. How Are You?”

“ABSOLUTELY STELLAR!” Papyrus shouts, before apologizing in a quieter voice.

“It Is Perfectly Fine. I Am Glad You Are Well. Now, Could You Loosen Your Grip? I Am Not The Most Stable Of Monsters And I Have The Worst Feeling That Any Tighter And There Will Be Bits Of Me Scattered Across The Snow.”

Papyrus hurriedly releases his hug and Sans chuckles at Gaster’s relieved expression as he slides back down until the hem of him touches the ground. He’s not much shorter than Papyrus, but his way of standing so he’s nearly bent in half makes this not so apparent. “don’t be such a drip, doc,” Sans teases.

Gaster fixes him with a stern frown as he tries to coax his body back into a more solid form. “When I Figure Out How To Make You Listen To Me, You Are Very Grounded,” he signs with two extra hands as his main pair reaches over to pluck a part of himself off Papyrus’s gloves.

“yeah, yeah,” Sans says, waving off the threat. “papyrus, why don’t you go introduce him to grillby? i bet he’ll let you use the stove to make some spaghetti. i gotta go do some stuff, so you two should have some bonding time.”

Papyrus beams and actually succeeds in scooping Gaster up this time, whether from his own force of will or the older monster’s attempt to hold himself together. “YES, OF COURSE! DAD, LET’S GO SAY HELLO TO GRILLBY!” Gaster seems incredibly surprised by Papyrus’s tendency to pick people up, but if he had last seen Papyrus when the latter was only seven, it makes sense. At seven years old, Papyrus was the one people picked up and bounced around because it was still perfectly plausible that he’d only be a little taller than Sans. It’s interesting how hilarious these things are in hindsight. Only about a year or so later, Papyrus was a foot taller.

“Wait, Sans!” Gaster won’t be able to get out of Papyrus’s grip unless he melts himself again, something that Sans had bargained on being too uncomfortable for him to attempt.

“bye, doc! have a skele-ton of fun!” Sans waves as Papyrus carries their father through Snowdin, talking about how much fun they’re going to have together and planning out every minute of the night. The best part about this is that Papyrus doesn’t sleep, so Gaster won’t have any chance to slip away and try to stop Sans from doing what he plans to do. Namely, making sure the human is staying on the straight and narrow, not taking a week long nap under Alphys’s supervision.

Gaster makes a series of signs over Papyrus’s shoulder as he is carted away, ones that Sans doesn’t even bother to translate because they’re probably all furious dad-threats. He’ll have fun. Papyrus is a great believer in everyone having fun.

…

Frisk is most definitely not having fun.

Chapter 16: That's The Trash! Feel Free To Visit It Anytime!

Chapter Text

Frisk is most definitely not having fun because they are running for their life again and they’re too darn tired for this. Flowey isn’t helping because he’s too busy screaming that they’re slow and they’re both gonna die and run faster, you blithering idiot! Chara says that he probably doesn’t even know what that word means and take the right fork. Frisk lunges to their right, trips, and has to roll themself back into a standing position before Undyne can take advantage of their clumsiness. She does anyway, for their vision is filled with blue spears, crashing like stars all around them. You know, if stars were pointy and could stab them through like a Frisk kabob.

“You’ll have to tell that one to Sans,” Chara remarks, then “Keep going south! I remember that there’s a path over here! We have to go and fall into the garbage dump!”

‘Ew, what?’ Frisk asks as they dance around a column of spears. The bridge before them widens until it’s more like a platform. They’re okay with this. More room to dodge. And then they hit the edge of it and they’re pinwheeling their arms to keep their balance, something they thought only happened in cartoons with wily coyotes and clever roadrunners. A massive waterfall roars beneath their feet, but over its noise, they can hear the distinctive clanking of metal boots as Undyne advances.

They turn and hold up their hands in surrender. It makes no difference. Grimly, she lifts a hand and her energy collects to form a lance, long and horribly sharp. Her fingers don’t even go all the way around it so she has to use both hands to raise it above her head and strike the killing blow. The bridge judders under them. The boards creak out a warning before they are plummeting into the darkness, following the waterfall down, down, down.

And they land on a bed of flowers, hurt and crying out for help. A voice, soft and pleasant, answers their call. A child, dressed warmly in a sweater and long pants, kneeling besides them and using his meager magic to heal some of their scrapes, even if he can’t yet manage the broken arm. Supporting them as he leads them into the light. “Chara, huh? That’s a nice name. My name is Asriel.”

They’re on a bed of golden flowers, but the only Asriel in sight is in the face of the flower curled across their chest, panting like a dog. “Th-that was h-horrible!” he complains and they lift an unbroken arm to lightly pat a petal. He lifts his head when they take their hand away, looking around. “Th-this is pretty bad t-too,” he comments, crinkling his face up in disgust. Frisk doesn’t even have to look around to understand what he’s referring to. They can smell the garbage. It seeps into their body and they can taste it on their tongue, as if someone’s just taken a knife and spread it around their mouth like cream cheese.

Chara makes a spitting noise, a quick ‘ptuh,’ and Frisk turns their attention to them. ‘Was that you?’ they question, leaving no room for guessing at what they’re talking about. The little spirit spits again, just to stall.

“No more secrets,” they say and Frisk feels the warmth in their stomach again, this time solely from their own happiness. “But,” they continue “We go at my pace, okay? And, uh..” They’re fumbling for another rule, trying to lay down the law.

‘And we take turns,’ Frisk suggests, signaling to Flowey that they’re about to roll over and he’d better get out of the way. He comes slithering up to their neck, coiling around it like a necklace as they rock over to one side and brace their palms against the faces of the flowers beneath them. They can feel the seedlings stick to the spaces between their fingers as they push off and up. The garbage dump stretches before them, foul-smelling and disorganized and half underwater.

“The water’s not too deep,” Chara points out as Frisk paces back and forth on the lip of their flowerbed. “It’s waist-height, maybe.”

‘That’s not the problem.’

Chara listens for a moment, then shouts “For the love of chocolate, Frisk! Give!” They make the mental equivalent of the grabby hands motion, waiting for Frisk to hand over control. Reluctantly, Frisk slides it their way and recoils when Chara leaps both feet first into the water, sending up a wave big enough that both they and Flowey get it full in the face. Chara spits again as Flowey coughs and they pump both fists in the air, screaming their own praises into the headspace. They then refuse to climb back up onto any of the platforms, choosing to slog through the water, every movement of their knees kicking up tiny ripples.

‘Chara, this is really gross,’ Frisk whines.

“Keep saying that and I’m gonna drink the water.”

‘Do not drink the water!’

“Then quit complaining!” Chara stomps extra hard and nearly loses Frisk’s shoe in the muck at the bottom. It’s only after a time spent teetering off balance that they manage to get it free again, complete with an unpleasant slurping noise. Unfazed by this, Chara immediately checks out a pile of garbage, prodding it with their fingers and inspecting wrappers. “Hey, Frisk, need a couch?” they ask, flicking the cushion of one and grinning at the resultant squelch.

‘Is this human garbage?’ Frisk asks, seeing a recognizable label on a package of cookies.

“That’s food?” Interest piqued, Chara pulls at the thin plastic tab, ripping it open. Inside floats a dark mush, ruined by water. “Looks like diarrhea. Who would eat that?”

‘They don’t look like that,’ Frisk explains, fighting to keep a straight face. ‘They’re normally cookies.’ Chara is unconvinced, so Frisk sends them an image of a tea party they once had with some of their stuffed animals. They had the cookies piled in a little pyramid on a plate patterned with romping puppies. By the time the tea party had finished, every animal had a mustache of chocolate cookie crumbs where Frisk had pretended to feed them.

“I know what cookies are, Frisk. I’m not that old.” Chara investigates a cooler, tucking a packet of astronaut food into their knapsack and smiling at Frisk’s embarrassment. They slog forward again, this time picking up a DVD case for an anime and prizing it open. The disc inside is still intact and they stick that too into their knapsack. Their interest, like the taste of lemons, awakens Frisk’s own. Chara is rather ashamed to admit that, despite their knowledge of cookies, they’re still a little too old to know what the disc is.

‘Um, that’s a DVD. You can watch movies on it.’

“Like a tape?” Chara pauses to pat a training dummy and wanders on, only to stop when they hear someone snarling. They turn around just in time to see the dummy twist its head around and glare at them. The water slurps it down into its depths and Chara jumps as it brushes past them underwater, gliding by like a sea snake.

“Y-you can t-take him,” Flowey comments. They can’t figure out if he’s encouraging them or just saying that he wants no part of this fight. Both scenarios are possible, even if the first one isn’t very plausible.

“Pat me on the head, will you?” bellows the dummy as soon as it resurfaces, blocking the exit. “I am a ghost that lives inside a dummy! My cousin used to live inside a dummy, too! Until…YOU CAME ALONG!”

‘I don’t remember any dummy,’ Frisk comments.

“Yeah, musta missed that one.”

“When they heard you were coming to visit them, they were so excited! They were ready for a nice chat or a friendly tussle, but you just passed them by! Ignored them in favor of sleeping! So selfish! They were DISTRAUGHT! In fact, you shattered their self-confidence! Despicable. Despicable! DESPICABLE! HUMAN! I’m about to shatter your soul, just like you shattered their dream!”

The dummy fight is actually pretty hard. Chara gets slime all over the place at first and then they decide that instead of fighting Mad Dummy, it would be better to lob globs of muck at them. Frisk approves of this nonviolent approach, for it isn’t as if the dummy is getting hurt by the mud balls. They’re actually getting to enjoy it. Even Flowey joins in the fun, pointing out openings with a sad*stic glee so they can send the dummy bots chasing after a well-thrown mud ball right into their leader, who yelps insults in groups of three. Chara mimics them when they dismiss both of their support teams, mumbling “Foolish. Foolish! FOOLISH!” in an easy mockery of the dummy’s aggressively loud voice.

When the dummy produces a knife from nowhere, Chara gets a little concerned. Their own experience with knives tells them that magic and knives are really not a good combination. Then the dummy hurls it at them and simply the way it flies shows them that the ghost has no experience whatsoever in handling bladed weapons. “They cut right to the point, don’t they?” Chara chuckles, dodging it with ease. Frisk laughs at the unintentional puns.

And when the little ghost shows up, shooing the dummy away with what looks like acidic tears, Chara lets Frisk take right over and they offer their hand straight off the bat. “..oh..” the ghost says shyly. “..hello… my name’s Napstablook… sorry if I interrupted. You looked like you were having fun…no?” Frisk shakes their head firmly, nearly dislodging Flowey, who grumbles. “..oh…well…my friend Shyren, she talked to me about you…” The little ghost peers at them as they smile and clap. “…oh?...you like her too?...yes, she’s very nice…I just came over to say hi…um, I’m going to go home now…”

“We should go with them.” Chara makes the feet take a step forward, splashing the hem of the little ghost, who turns and squints at them. They fix them with their most plaintive look.

“…oh…would you like to ‘come with?’” They bobble their head excitedly and are rewarded with the ghost of a smile, a wisp of joy flitting across the monster’s translucent face. It’s gone so fast that they have to wonder if they only imagined it. “…well…no pressure…you don’t have to if you don’t want to…” They keep offering them ways to get out of it and Chara keeps shaking the body’s head, their patience waning with every minute.

‘How do they not think people want to hang out with them? They seem so sweet!’ Frisk cries. With every step forward they take, Napstablook’s protests get a little quieter, until they fall silent, Chara at their side. Frisk wants them to try holding their hand, but Chara side-eyes the little ghost and points out the lack of appendages that resemble limbs. Besides, ghosts aren’t corporeal and it would be extremely rude to stick their hand through their body, not to mention gross. Sticking your hand through a ghost is not the proper way to start a friendship with said ghost.

Napstablook leads them into a crossroads and they look at each path for a moment before looking back at the ghost. “…My house is up this way…in case you want to see…or in case you don’t…” With that, they turned and floated up the middle path. If it was possible to float hurriedly, they did that, not looking back to see if they were following.

Chara smiles and chases him up the path. Two houses loom up before them, each shaped like a sad ghost. Frisk scurries over to knock on the door of the pink one. When no one answers, Chara rattles the doorknob. Locked. Chara takes a step back and looks up at the window. “Do you think-?” they begin.

“W-want to break in?” Flowey asks, devilish glee suffusing his voice. Chara gives him a grin of the same caliber of wickedness. Even after all these years, they’re still on the same wavelength, even if it’s a sufficiently crueler wavelength than before.

Frisk shakes the body’s head before Chara can do anything rash. ‘No. No window jumping. That’s mean.’

“You’re mean,” Chara answers as Frisk steers them through the door of the blue house, repeating their message to Flowey, who sulks. The door practically screams when it is opened, the hinges having rusted shut a long time ago. There’s only one room inside, which is odd for such a tall house. They crane their neck back and see light filtering in from the high window. “On second thought,” Chara says, “Maybe you had the right idea.” If they had managed to crawl through the window of the second house, they most likely would have plummeted to their death once inside. Flowey voices a similar thought, then comments on the stale air inside the house.

Napstablook has put on headphones, which sound like they’re responsible for the strangely melancholy music filling the pathetic house. There are CDs lying around everywhere, each with an artistically different portrayal of a simple outline on the front. Chara picks one up, Frisk telling them what it is to their infinite amusem*nt, and the little ghost murmurs “Oh…a classic spookwave…they don’t make them like this anymore…” They touch a key on the computer and the song starts. Chara listens politely, but Frisk can feel their interest waning.

‘Don’t you like it?’ Frisk asks, bopping around the headspace and tapping their foot to the beat.

“Not my style.” Chara picks up the CD, turning the case idly over in their hands. They smile suddenly, laughter blooming yellow in the headspace. “Frisk, look!”

Dutifully, Frisk looks, then they have to laugh too. On closer inspection, the outline is made up of two repeating words: ‘Blook Tunes.’ They flip the case over to the back. There’s the name of the artistic director and, underneath that, a dedication, but Napstablook’s name is nowhere to be found.

“So do they make the music? That’s really cool!” Chara’s excitement manifests as a smile on the body’s face and Napstablook gives them a tiny smile back. They set the CD down and dart over to pick up another, holding it out to the ghost.

Napstablook nods and presses another key. A new song fills the house, made up of a series of ‘ooo’s, and Napstablook very quietly sings along. On Frisk’s shoulder, Flowey rocks back and forth in silence, with even the rustling of his petals muted. Frisk sways back and forth as the song winds to a close, forming their mouth around the vocalizations to feel the sense of solidarity. ‘I thought you didn’t like the music,’ they tease Chara, as the spirit hums along.

“No, but I like the ghost well enough. You gotta support your friends, right?”

‘Right.’

When they open their eyes again, ready for another song, Napstablook is green. Except that they aren’t green, the whole room is, the same acidic green as before. The little ghost is shuffling around their CDs, unmindful of the change in lighting or perhaps just taking it in stride. Even through the heavy musty smell of Napstablook’s house, Frisk can smell rot.

Flowey glances around, then says, so softly that they almost miss it over the way Napstablook is rattling their CD cases, “I-It’s outside.”

They can hear it, something big and heavy and strange, slopping around outside Napstablook’s house. There’s a gurgling sound, like someone’s gargling mud, and then silence. Napstablook looks up, towards the window, and Frisk follows their gaze. Something is looking in, something with awful green eyes.

“Yo, ugly!” someone screams. The eyes move away from the window and the squelching starts up again. Frisk, against all their better judgment, blazes out of the house at the familiar voice. They’ve gotten this far without any of their friends dying. They’re not going to break that streak just because they’re scared.

But instead of finding Monster Kid outside, there is a grey dinosaur monster, about Kid’s height, with a ribbon tied to their spines. This faded Monster Kid is staring down the most disgusting facsimile Frisk has ever laid eyes on, one dripping green ooze from everywhere. Whenever it moves, it makes a squelching sound, as if someone has stepped on a slug. But whenever it moves, Frisk can see different parts of the body within the ooze; webbed hands, each finger tipped with claws, a fanged mouth, an oozing pit where an eye should be. It’s a grotesque parody of Undyne, stretched out to three times the original’s size.

“Imagine a world,” the faded Monster Kid says quietly, as the dripping mockery of Undyne pants wetly. “Imagine a world where you simply didn’t exist anymore and everyone acted like you never had.” They turn slightly, looking over their shoulder at Frisk with eyes like big silver coins. For a moment, they flicker and a warm amber color suffuses their body, turning their grey dress blue-and-white checked. Something gleams on their chest, a medal of some kind perhaps, then the colors fade out again. Their voice hardens. “The thought terrifies me.”

The rot smell washes over them in waves as the faded Monster Kid steps forward, head low. The sound of breathing grows louder, more excited and Frisk wants to cringe away from it, it and the smell. Rot is Mr. Gaster’s magic, so where is he?

And then they see it. Faded Monster Kid’s magic is a very faint white and smells like a pine forest, like the smell of an early winter. But the rot is also from them, thicker than the pine. It forms into two hands, one at each of the monster’s sides, balled into fists. Mr. Gaster’s magic takes the form of hands too.

“Mr. Gaster?” they sign tentatively, stamping their foot to get the monster’s attention. Faded Monster Kid turns and smiles when they see the signs, smiles like they’re remembering something.

“No, yo. I’m just a goner. The doc’s around here somewhere.” With that, they launch their detached hands at the creature like missiles, each hand folded flat with claws extended. The attacks pepper the toxically green body, making slurping sounds as they hit. In response, the creature raises a limb above its head and brings it down hard on the little monster. The ground shudders from the impact and Frisk inhales sharply.

But there’s the kid, leaping up out of thin air onto hand-shaped platforms, which they jump up like steps, leaving each one to dissipate when they leap off. As they reach the last platform, they throw themself into the air and the last step becomes clawed, slicing into the creature’s face with needle nails.

As the creature grabs for its face, the faded kid falls. Without any platforms to catch them, they’re liable to burst into dust on impact with the ground. Frisk registers this only a moment before their feet move. The weight of the monster hits them like a ton of bricks and they stagger, but sheer determination keeps them standing. Above them, the creature shrinks into itself, body rippling. A mass of green goo splashes the ground before them, the resulting spray hissing as it touches the kid’s dress. They wince. “Hey, Frisk, you’re an anomaly too, right?”

Frisk nods and the kid smiles, touching their head to Frisk’s. “That’s good. You’re stronger than me.”

Frisk can’t sign with their hands full, so they mouth the words they want to say. ‘Do you know what these things are?’

The kid looks at them with those eyes and all Frisk can see is their own face reflected back at them. “Something that should never have existed,” they say softly, extending their legs to touch the ground. Frisk lowers them and steps back respectfully. Anyone who takes down a gargantuan monster has earned Chara’s respect for the rest of their life and anyone who makes Chara respectful is okay in Frisk’s book, maybe just because of the emotional link. Behind them, the now headless creature crashes to the ground and dissolves.

The faded kid makes a brief curtsey to Flowey and nods at Frisk. “It was a pleasure to encounter you. The doc thinks very highly of you. But, I urge you to forget about me. To forget about saving us all. What you are doing, simply the fact that the doc and I are able to be here, it is causing all of this.” They jerk their head to indicate the remains of the creature, popping and hissing as it melts away.

“But-“

“Forget about us, Frisk,” the kid says sharply, and Frisk realizes that this monster is much older than they had originally thought. The monster’s expression softens and they repeat themself, “Forget about us. Before someone makes you forget.” With that, they look towards the cavern exit. Their body gives a little wiggle, shaking the pin on the front of their dress right off.

Frisk kneels to pick it up for them, but when they straighten up, they’re gone.

Flowey reads the writing on the front of the pin out loud. “S-security- Level T-t-two. Hotland L-laboratory.”

…

When Sans finally finds the kid’s trail, they’re heading into Gerson’s shop and he’s received at least eight confused texts from Grillby as to why a strange slime monster has shown up with Papyrus and signs so fast that he can barely keep up. While he waits for the kid to come out, he texts short replies back with the hand usually buried in his pocket, reassuring snippets of conversation that should do the trick of calming Grillby down before he sets a table on fire. He did that the first week the bar was open, when George first asked for soup for breakfast and the fire elemental had gotten so confused that he had forgotten himself.

His phone buzzes again. This is your father? Attached is a fuzzy picture, obviously taken through the kitchen door. He can just make out Gaster’s ruined face, twisted into a sulk. There is a marked contrast between his bulky dark form and darker expression and Papyrus’s lean body and bright smile. Sans examines the bar before them, wishing Grillby had either a better camera or that he knew how to take good pictures without jiggling the phone all over the place.

you giving them milkshakes? he texts back. bc i don't think the guy should have anything stronger than that. he’s a little shaken up.

His phone rattles with Grillby’s confusion. I don’t think he can even handle a milkshake. He’s not touching anything. He is your father? Have I met him before? He keeps calling me ‘the nice McFrye boy’ and I don’t know how to feel about that.

Sans rubs his fingertips along the edges of his eye sockets. He hadn’t even thought up a way to explain anything. Of course Grillby was going to be confused. Anyone would be. It’s only Papyrus’s great tolerance for things such as time-space shenanigans and trusting nature that ever leads him to believe what Sans says. Before he can even try to compose a message that explains everything at once, someone stomps their foot on the ground.

Frisk, wearing thick wire-rimmed spectacles low on their nose, stares down at him, arms folded over their chest. One hand holds a crab apple with a bite taken out of it. There is a moment of eye contact like icicles stabbing into his skull before they stick the apple in their mouth and sign his name. The look on their face, mouth twisted around the apple, makes it into an accusation.

“Hey,” he says, easing himself to his feet. “How’s it going, kid?” He notes the fact that Flowey the golden flower is tucked into a space just behind their neck. The sight of the flower makes his bones rattle, so he derives a type of pleasure from the thought that the flower is most likely hiding from him.

“You’re stalking me,” Frisk states, their expression indicating that there’s no way he can bend the truth.

So he doesn’t. “Yup. Nice glasses. They can see right through me, huh?”

Flowey scowls and Frisk’s lip twitches, even as they look up at him sternly. “Either walk with me or go away. Stalking’s not nice.”

“Nope, but I like knowing you’re not killing anybody.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and the vibration of his phone sounds noisily as it makes contact with his bones. He has to dig it back out lest he face the wrath of a flaming mad fire elemental.

This man is concerning me greatly. Whenever I say your name, he melts at the edges and makes angry static noises.

Sans, are you part slime?

The last one makes him laugh. Papyrus has accused him of emitting slime on multiple occasions. It’s actually become something of an inside joke between the two of them, worn out by all the years of use, of course, but the best inside jokes often are.

Frisk is tilting their head when he looks back up, puzzled and maybe offended by his amusem*nt. He almost wants to explain the joke, but decides against it, pocketing the phone again. Besides needing to be worn around the edges, the best inside jokes are kept inside. He makes a show of looking them over. “Yup, dust-free. You’re good, kid. Where ya headed? Hotland?”

They think for a minute, fingering the rims of their glasses before sticking their apple back in their mouth. “Temmie Village,” they say decisively, spelling out the species name with a glimmer of a smirk on their face. Flowey watches their hands, lip curling more with every letter until he’s exposing a long row of teeth far too big to fit correctly in his little flower face. Frisk smiles as their teeth crunch around the apple, probably looking at him out of the corner of their eye, and their hand comes up to pat at the air near the flower’s cheek. When they realize Sans is watching, they try to pass the motion off as a smoothing of their hair. He can’t even bring himself to care, remembering something that makes him say what he says next.

“That’s not a temmible idea, but it is a waste of time.” Frisk scowls at him and he wonders if they actually realize what type of horror they’re carrying around on their shoulder that they give him that look but smile at the flower. He doesn’t care. He just has to dissuade them from visiting the Temmies.

His phone buzzes again, but he disregards it. The kid’s wavering. “I mean, why take a side path when the castle’s just down the road? You said you were going to free everyone, didn’t you?”

They nod, eyeing him. He’s not too surprised when they throw the apple at him and take off running down the path, but he’s surprised enough that they disappear before he can give chase. “Kid, wait!” God, he hates running. He remembers loving it once, being pumped up enough about life and living that he would accompany Papyrus on morning jogs and race him through Snowdin, leaping with reckless abandon into snowdrifts, only to pop out when Papyrus drew close. But that person’s dead and gone now and Sans is damaged enough that his soul aches even when he isn’t using his magic, when he’s exerting himself enough that sweat pours off his skull from an as of yet unidentified source.

Still, the kid gets easily turned around by the passages of the lantern room, forgetting to turn on the lights in their haste, and Sans can see better in the dark than they can. To them, it must seem like his voice comes out of the air itself. “Kid, listen to me.”

They don’t even raise their hands to sign, just staring hard at where he should have been. He pads away on his slippered feet, touching one of the lanterns to light the room back up. The light glistens on the warped watery glass of their lenses, but it glints off something sticking out of their pocket, catching his eye. When they turn to face him, the something slides out of view and he looks them straight in the lenses of the glasses.

“I’m tired of being told what to do, Sans.”

“Yeah. I figured.” He sits down on the path, just thumps himself down. The sudden motion makes his soul throb even worse, but he ignores it. “Temmies are bad news. That’s why I said that. And if the offer stands, I don’t want to meet up with them.”

“You’re going to come with me? Why?”

He shrugs. “Like I said, kiddo, I like knowing that you’re not out for some warped kind of dustice.”

“I thought we were starting over.”

“Hey, maybe we are. But I don’t much trust strangers either. And I’ve learned a little something about this particular stranger that makes me trust them even less. But. I really can’t stand those little balls of fluff and evil. And, you know, lesser of the two evils and all.”

Frisk doesn’t sit, but their manner relaxes more than it ever has around him. He can’t quite see their eyes behind their clouded glasses, but the little quirk of their mouth suggests that he’s doing something right. He smiles back, but his soul goes cold when a hand falls on his shoulder. He doesn’t have to read Frisk’s hands or the way their smile gets bigger to realize who is behind him. Rot hangs in the air like a curtain, one that Frisk leaps straight through in their haste to reach the man standing behind him. Sans dodges out from under the hand, lumbering to his feet and turning to face the newcomer.

Gaster frowns down at him, even as he gingerly ruffles Frisk’s hair. A manifested hand takes the place of the one that has transferred from Frisk’s hair to their shoulder. “I Am Tired Of Being Ignored.”

Sans feels his sins crawling on his back as his phone buzzes again. The last text from Grillby says Your father’s missing.

Chapter 17: The Fallen King

Chapter Text

“Mr. Gaster, are you coming to Temmie Village with me too?” Frisk asks, holding their hands out so Gaster can read them with ease in the dimming lantern light.

Gaster glances at Sans, realizing that he’s probably missed some part of the conversation. As his eyes flicker, thinking it over, Frisk grabs at his hand in an effort to plead with him. The unstable monster gasps, pulling himself out of reach of their little mitts. The power of his recoil sends Frisk stumbling backwards, the piece of metal in their pocket dropping neatly onto the floor by Sans’s knee. He picks it up, of course, and drops it in the same motion as if it burns him. In a way, it does.

The words on the badge are nearly the same ones on the badge he had in the drawer in the basem*nt laboratory. Gaster’s was Level Four, of course, and had his name on it, but the resemblance is enough to startle him. “Where’d you get this?” he asks, voice falling into its monotonous rage.

Frisk goes for Gaster again, trying to hide their face in him. Gaster scowls at Sans, even as he angles his body carefully out of Frisk’s reach, instead tousling their hair with manifested hands. “I Do Not Believe I Raised A Bully, Sans Serif.”

Sans inwardly notes that the doc didn’t raise him at all, but scoops up the badge and tosses it to him by way of explanation. Another pair of hands catches it, cupping it in a way that the edges poke through the holes in his palms. Gaster peers at it, then up at Sans, bewildered. “They Were All Dusted, Were They Not?”

His hand goes up to touch the ridge around his eye. “Dunno. I thought they were.”

Frisk, who had looked up in time to catch Gaster’s last few signs, frowns over their shoulder at Sans. “Who? Who’s dusted?” Their face takes on a look of panic. “I didn’t this time!”

“No One Is Saying You Did,” Gaster soothes, melting down until he is nearly Frisk’s height. “This Badge Was Used A Long Time Ago, In Hotland. Sans And I Are Just Surprised To See One Here.”

Frisk nods and glances over at Sans. Their hands come up and sign shakily “It belongs to someone who knows you, Mr. Gaster. They saved us from one of those creatures.”

“Someone Who Knows Me.” Gaster glances up at Sans again, his expression saying Pay attention as his hands cannot. When he looks back at Frisk, it is with the utmost of gentleness. “What Did They Look Like, Frisk?”

The kid sits down, turning ever so slightly so that Sans is included in their vision too. “They were my height. And they didn’t have any arms. Like Monster Kid.”

Sans recalls a woman running about the construction area, using her prehensile tail and her jaw to do her work. From the way Gaster’s mouth gash gapes, he remembers her as well. “Goner Kid,” he signs absently.

“That’s a hell of a name, doc.”

Gaster shrugs, handing the badge back to Frisk. “It Was Her Name. Around The Worksite, They Called Her Nera. She Was Clever And She Had A Reputation For Making Up The Most Outrageous Stories.” Here, he looks down at Frisk. “You Say This Belongs To Her? That She Spoke With You?”

Frisk bobbles their head in a nod and, even from a distance, Sans can see Flowey’s expression of irritation at the sudden movement. Goner Kid, she was dusted a long time ago, and her remains must be scattered by now. If what the kid’s saying is true, and it must be because they don’t lie, there’s something very wrong here.

“Everything Is Changing,” Gaster signs, his shoulders melting further into his body. He looks lost for a moment and then the dimming lantern light goes out. Frisk inhales sharply and Gaster’s staticky yell makes Sans want to crawl out of his own bones. The kid must have instinctively gone to grab the guy out of fright. He doesn’t quite know what Gaster’s problem with Frisk touching him is, but it’s good to know that he’s not the only one to have an issue with the kid.

Sans gets up from his half-crouch, rubbing at his joints. He’s about to go and turn the lanterns back on, but Gaster’s eyes begin to flash instead, illuminating the scene before him. Frisk is sitting with their heels tucked underneath them, looking wide-eyed at the arm they’re holding. And it is an arm, not a black-sheathed hand. Sans can just barely see the beginnings of the radius and ulna, which recede into a thick black sleeve. It’s Gaster’s arm, or, at least, it’s attached to him. The monster himself is paralyzed, staring from his arm to Frisk and back again. In the sparks of light, Gaster tries to pull himself out of Frisk’s reach, but the kid doesn’t seem to notice. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but it looks like Frisk is holding on tighter.

He closes the gap between them in a few strides and seizes Frisk by the sweater collar. “Drop him, kid,” he growls. Frisk turns their face to him and he almost lets go out of shock. There are tears dribbling down their cheeks and off their chin and they’re biting their lip so hard that it is beginning to bleed. Their eyes are glazed over with a sort of horrified pain. Gaster, one hand pulling at the fist holding his arm, is making a terrible groaning sound, as if Frisk has just stabbed him. The flower, still out of sight, is crying in fear, long bone-chilling wails that scrape against the inside of Sans’s skull. It is a gruesome tableaux, made all the more horrible because he can’t figure out what’s wrong with either of them.

He kneels down, releasing Frisk’s sweater and poking at their fingers instead. “C’mon, kid, let go.” He manages to get a fingertip under their fingers and starts prying their hand away. As soon as their palm leaves Gaster’s sleeve, the kid’s shoulders start shaking and the flower shuts up. Gaster is shaking too, both of them like crumpled paper in a breeze. It’s a surprise to all of them when a small voice starts humming.

The flower pokes his head out of the curtain of matted hair. The center of his petals, the part that usually holds a smirking face, instead displays a short snout, one that Sans thinks he almost recognizes, but can’t quite place. Carefully, Flowey nudges Frisk’s cheek with this snout and the kid’s hands come up around his face. The humming falters a moment as he eyes the hands, but when it becomes clear that Frisk isn’t going to touch him, it continues. He’s humming the prince’s lullaby.

The lantern light is extinguished, but Flowey doesn’t skip a beat, even as Sans gets up and pads over to find it again. He turns on the light and the blue glow seeps into everything. When coupled with the humming, it almost seems soothing, so he sits down again and waits. The flower finishes the song as the lantern begins to dim again and Sans finally voices his question. “What happened?”

Gaster answers first. “I Am Under The Impression That Frisk-“ He has to stop for a moment, shuddering as if he’s about to vomit. Sans watches him with equal parts concern and wariness. Gaster can't seem to compose himself, instead signing over and over "It Does Not Compute. There Is No Sense In It. I Do Not Know. I Cannot Know."

“It's okay, doc. You don't have to know." He closes his eyes to allow for a moment to press back the unease curling up in his gut and the image of Gaster being pulled into the Core is superimposed on his eyelids. He opens them again hurriedly. This whole mental barriers breaking down thing is really getting irritating. To cover for his momentary lapse, he snaps his fingers and points them at the kid, going for levity. “Frisk, what do you know?”

The kid, swiping at the line of blood by their mouth, pauses in this action. They shake their hands out of their sleeves and sign rapidly “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

He steels himself and very gently touches their arm, patting it stiffly to show support. Their hunted gaze fixates on him in response. His memory juxtaposes a new face over this one, a face with brilliantly green eyes and smeared with dust, but otherwise identical in every way. In order to get rid of the vision, he shakes his head, removing his hand from Frisk’s shoulder. “It’s okay, kid. Right, doc?”

Gaster nods, his head moving up and down so fast that his body distorts in response. “I Will Be Fine, Frisk.” His left arm trembles and he very quickly pulls it out of sight, retracting it into his body.

Frisk sniffles and tries for a smile. The result is a little watery, a little stretched. “Want some crab apples?” they ask. Without waiting for an answer, they slip their pack off their shoulders and snap open the top. From its depths they pull four of the fishy fruits, two in each hand. They put one on the ground in front of Gaster, understandably wary about touching him again, and lob the other at Sans.

He catches it a second before it clocks him in the head, slowly than he normally would. Gaster’s watching him with what could be concern, but what could also be an I-told-you-so look, obviously having noticed this lapse in reflexes. Sans pretends not to see, biting one of the claws off his crab apple. “Thanks, kid.”

Frisk nods at him, holding one apple up to Flowey’s face. The flower manifests a gaping mouth and takes a messy bite, chunks of fruit spilling everywhere as he chomps. The way he keeps flicking his eyes up to Sans and then to Gaster suggests that it’s a display, a warning for them to back off, but the exhaustion in the black eyes undermines the threat.

Sans scowls at him around his mouthful of apple anyway. He remembers all too well the way Flowey invaded the castle, even if he can’t remember what happened later.

Scooting a little ways away from Gaster, Frisk tucks their legs up beneath them and takes quiet little mouse bites of the fruit, the tatters of their lip sealing up as they chew. Sans pops the core of his apple into his mouth.

When everyone seems sufficiently calm again, Gaster prompts “I Believe You Were Saying Something About Temmie Village, Frisk?”

All Sans’s concern promptly evaporates as he groans. Gaster ignores him, slurping himself into a standing height and offering a manifested hand to Frisk. “I Have Never Heard Of This Village And Would Very Much Like To See It. Would You Do Me The Honor Of Being My Guide?”

Frisk accepts the hand, pulling Gaster down the unlit path. Sans trails after. He’s come this far. Might as well.

They make a strange picture as they enter Temmie Village, Frisk leaning on the walls for support, Sans doing his best to hide inside his sweatshirt, and Gaster doing his best not to laugh at Sans. “They Are Essentially Harmless,” he points out when Sans tries to discreetly survey the area.

“You say that now,” Sans mumbles, pulling his sweatshirt hood further over his face.

Frisk smiles at the sight of the little doglike creatures waddling about and holding conversations in broken English with each other. In their head, Chara laughs delightedly. “Oh, I love these guys! Are they cats? Ugh, they’re so cute! You should pet one!” Chara moves the body forward a step, holding out their arms to the nearest Temmie. It yelps. En masse, the Temmies turn and blink their beady black eyes at the group. “Hoi! I’s Tem!” cries the first one. And the madness begins.

The newcomers are swarmed by Temmies. Frisk sneezes and their eyes begin to water. It’s almost like they’re allergic. A Temmie breaks out in sympathetic hives at the sound, squeaking “Oh noes, hoives!” as they dash away to the other side of the cavern, rubbing their face on the wall in a frenzied effort to alleviate the itching.

Gaster is laughing, patting the Temmies as they surround him. He serves as a sharp contrast to Sans, who nudges every furred investigator away, even as more advance on him. “See? Harmless!”

Frisk leaves them to it, almost smiling despite the fact that snot is running freely down their face. Sniffling, they make their way into the Tem Shop, not much more than a crack in the wall. The inside is brightly lit. Across the cardboard box before them sits a Temmie, more sedate than the other examples of her species. “Hoi!” she shrills as Frisk sits down cross-legged before her. “Welcum to Tem Shop!”

Frisk peels their bandage off their knee and shows it to the Temmie. They remember that the Temmies want to buy absolutely everything they encounter and they intend to use that information. The bandage is grubby and there’s a piece of a scab on the white bit where they tore it off too fast.

The shopkeeper Temmie looks it over thoughtfully, or as thoughtfully as she can manage. “Temmie gunna give ya wun fifty gold, okay?”

Frisk nods and the exchange is made. Temmie lays the bandage reverently on her side of the cardboard box, murmuring “Yaya!” at her own negotiation skills. “Whut ells can Temmie do fur hooman?”

A few strokes of a pencil and Temmie nods thoughtfully. “Tem has much informashun. Tem wood haf more if they was go to colleg. Whut will hooman give Tem?”

They hadn’t considered this. Usually shopkeepers are perfectly happy to just speak with them. They inquire as to what Temmie wants for the information and immediately regret it, as Temmie’s roving eyes settle somewhere around Frisk’s shoulder, right where Flowey is hiding, half-asleep.

“Temmie purpos a hexchange. You gives Tem informashun, Tem give hooman informashun.” This is very different. Frisk leans away from the cardboard counter just enough so that they stop feeling so uneasy. Temmie opens her mouth vacantly, tilting her head just the slightest. “Hooman okay wit this?”

‘What do you want to know?’ they write. Best to get her questions out of the way first.

“Hooman like tem flakes?” is the first question, unimaginably off-topic in the typical Temmie fashion

They nod their head. It’s true. Chara wants to rig a prank with them, one of those old ‘someone opens a door and a bucket full of something falls on them’ gags. Frisk’s eaten them before. They need salt, but otherwise, they’re pretty tasty.

“Frisk. Temmie flakes are bits of paper.” Frisk flicks Chara, rebuking them. Of course they know that. They’re not against eating paper every once in a while. Lee used to eat paper when he was nervous. The corners of his notebooks were all pulpy.

Temmie asks them several more questions, all of them focusing on Temmie herself, then Chara’s had enough. ‘One more question. Then it’s my turn,’ they scratch.

Temmie considers her options, humming so hard that her face begins to vibrate away from her head. It bobs towards their face, almost absently, like someone’s dangling it on a string before them. Still estranged from her body, the face speaks in perfect English. “What became of Asriel Dreemurr, Frisk?”

A chill dances its cold fingers up their spine. At the sound of his old name, Flowey snuffles in his sleep and stirs, his movement pushing some strands of their hair. To mask it, they bobble their own head, as if deep in thought. ‘I don’t know,’ they say finally, glad that Chara hadn’t yet told them the whole story. They’re not that good of a liar.

“Then who does?” Temmie asks, still in that clear perfect voice.

‘That’s more than one question,’ Chara retorts. For a moment, Temmie’s eyes bore a hole through their head. Frisk shifts under their stare, fidgeting with their stubby pencil. The little monster is silent. When Frisk sneaks a peek at them, Temmie is toying with the bandage.

“Hooman has queshon for Tem?”

Frisk’s not sure what they want to ask anymore. Any question they phrase could give away something. What, they’re not certain, but they’d realized as soon as Temmie’s voice shifted that Sans had been right. Temmie was smarter than they’d previously thought. “Ask about Mom and Dad,” Chara suggests. “It’ll just make you look curious.”

Frisk nods internally and scribbles out ‘What happened to the King and Queen?’

Temmie angles their neck to read it, then nods. “Asgur and Turel split oop aftur son went bye. Tehy try to stay furever, but no. Asgur kill two hoomans and Turel leaf.”

“Aw, Dads,” Chara mumbles and Frisk’s eyes burn with sorrow. The spirit throws up a shade of a memory; flying high on a swing made from wood and rope, screaming in delight, but always coming back down into gentle hands. They’d known that he must have killed someone, but it had never really sunken in before.

Temmie waits for another question, nibbling at the sticky part of the bandage. Frisk tries for another question: ‘What are the green creatures?’

There’s a moment where Temmie doesn’t answer, then they duck under the cardboard box. Frisk moves a little farther away from the counter as it bumps around. When Temmie resurfaces, she’s holding something in her teeth. A badge, nearly identical to one they have in their pocket. Temmie spits it neatly onto the counter. It pings off her coffee cup and slides to a halt directly in front of Frisk. They make out the words ‘Level Four’ just before Temmie covers it with her paw, sliding it back towards her as she leans forward.

“Tem no noes whut hooman say,” they claim loudly, winking one black eye as if Frisk is in on the secret. “Tem just simpul Tem, not histree fessor!”

“History.” The seeds of a plan are being planted in Chara’s mind, just trembling to bloom.

“But Tem do no…that shiny badge meen bad.” Temmie winks the other eye, keeping it closed as they bare tiny white teeth in a grin. The smile is too familiar.

“Hey, Frisk. The doc wants to know if you’re ready to go.” Chara turns, fixing Sans with an icy glare. Instead of backing away, he gives Temmie a sharp glance, then proceeds to squeeze his bulk through the gap in the wall. Frisk scoots aside, pressing themself into one of the walls in order to avoid coming into contact with him. “What’s going on over here?” If he hadn’t been he was and they weren’t who they were, they might have thought he was concerned for them.

The tiny monster’s eyes seem to sparkle with mischief as she takes in the sight of the two, discreetly pawing the badge back into her lap. “Tem no see Sans en long tim.”

If it is possible to Sans to bristle more than he already is, he does. “Long tem, no see, yeah.”

‘How do you two know each other?’ Frisk asks then realizes their mistake when Temmie smiles. It’s not one of her perky cat smiles, but a long, slow smile that spreads across their entire face, displaying every one of their teeth. In response, Sans hunches into his sweatshirt, tugging the collar up to hide the lower half of his face. He already has his hood up too, meaning that the only visible parts of his face are his eyes, wide and fixed on the counter in front of Temmie.

“Sans work for Tem long tim when smol. He do work til old.” Temmie shrugs her paws up, pink paw pads facing the ceiling. “Den Sans vanis. Tem lok for Sans but Sans not com bac. Tem no has worker.” Temmie leans forward, clasping the paws together under her chin. “Sans never paid us back for those hours.” This time, their smile is laced with false sympathy to match the silkiness of their voice. “We had a deal, Sans Serif.”

Sans snarls. “We did not. You had a blackmail system. Come on, kid. Let’s make like a tree and leaf.” He goes to stand up, smacks the top of his skull against the ceiling, and sits back down with a thump. He doesn’t look at Frisk this time, instead crouching and walking out of the shop that way.

“Hooman have three queshons left.”

“Later,” they sign, crawling out of the crack in the wall after Sans. Temmie watches them go with narrowed eyes and they half hear the little monster’s whispered threat. “You will regret this.” But when they look back, Temmie's waving happily, not a care in the world.

…

The streets of New Home are oddly quiet. Not comfortingly quiet, like the Ruins, but quiet in a way that it suggests its inhabitants have forgotten how to be anything else. Toriel walks confidently despite her misgivings. Through all her hardships, she has never ceased to be a queen and she has no intention of stopping now. However, her paw pads, hardened by the walk as they may be, smart at the feeling of rough stone beneath them. So, she turns into a small store.

The bell above the door chimes pleasantly. She stretches her toes out, taking care not to damage the wooden floor with her claws. She has been walking almost nonstop since she left Frisk and Chara in Snowdin. It had not been a lie, her claim that she was off to seek lodgings whilst in Hotland, but the area had changed so much that she had been loath to remain there. So, instead, she had walked through a good portion of the evening. Currently, she estimates it at being around ten-thirty or so. Chara and Frisk should be bedding down for the night.

The shopkeeper’s smile has turned into something else, perhaps recognition. Toriel has been informed many times before of the resemblance between herself and her ex-husband. The shopkeeper is most likely wondering when the king shaved.

“Good evening,” Toriel says curtly, the sharp note in her voice reminding the young monster of her manners.

“Ah, good evening!” the monster replies, embarrassment plain on her white-furred face. “May I help you find something?” Toriel gives the inside of the shop a cursory glance. Like many shops of the Underground, this one has no specialty. There are skirts hanging up along displays of pretty glass bottles and costume masks stacked neatly atop a box of produce from Waterfall.

Still, she feels somewhat bad about frightening the poor dear, so she inquires “What do you have in terms of travelling supplies? Food, specifically.”

The monster brightens, twitching her nose as she comes around the counter. “Well, we have some crab apples from Waterfall in this crate over here and I believe we have some vegetables, grown locally of course. We might have some spider donuts and croissants around here somewhere, but it’s been quite some time since our last supply came through. I still have a few dragon fruit in the back if you’d like to see them. Or, if you’re a person who likes pomer-raisins, they’re on sale, three boxes a gold.” Here, she brushes a lock of dark hair behind one of her doggish ears.

Toriel stays in the store for a few moments, leaving with a slightly bruised but still mostly intact dragon fruit. The heat radiating off it is comforting, but she really doesn’t need it. Still, she tucks it into her bag, careful to refrain from brushing the snowman piece. When she turns back, she sees the monster at the window, waving brightly. She waves back, but for some reason, her unease grows.

The castle looms up before her, casting a shadow over the surrounding buildings. There are no guards stationed in front of the doors. In fact, one door is open ever so slightly. It is most likely meant to look welcoming, but Toriel feels a chill run down her spine. She never liked going in through the front doors, but she has no alternative this time. Her key she had left with him. So she steels herself.

“Dreemurr!” she calls as she slips through the doors. Her voice echoes through the high-ceilinged halls of the front castle, but meets with no response. She calls again, tendrils of fear prickling up her neck. He has not gone and done something desperate since Frisk last saw him, has he?

“Tori?” She all but jumps out of her skin. Asgore, holding his trident, stands at the entrance to a side hall, looking bewildered by this turn of events. “Toriel, when did you get here?” Before she can say anything, he backs away from her, confusion melting into horror and anger. “You cannot be here. It has to be a trick.”

She looks from his wild eyes to his trident, clutched in his paws like a lifeline. Her concern increases. Since when did the gentle monster she knew begin carrying his weapon around in times of peace? At her glance, he hefts it, pointing the prongs directly at her face. “Stop this,” he tells her tightly. There is a note of rage souring his otherwise perfectly composed voice. “Stop this all. Leave me be!”

“Dreemurr, what on earth-?” The door slams shut behind her. Asgore, caught off-guard, shifts his trident to point at it and Toriel sees her chance. With one paw, she knocks the trident from his grasp and catches it with another, adjusting her stance to accommodate the heavy weapon. The pronged end she points at Asgore’s chest, the tip of the middle spike grazing his armor.

If she had expected him to be frightened or to answer her questions, she is surprised. Instead of becoming more lucid, Asgore seems to grow all the more manic. He makes no move to touch her, but he smiles suddenly, flashing his teeth in a cheap imitation of joy. “Tori,” he says, as if her name is all the sunshine in the world.

“Do not call me that,” she snaps. “What on earth is happening here?”

“Mama!” a small voice calls. Toriel’s head snaps up, looking towards the source of the voice. Asriel, small and unharmed and alive, stands in the main hall. He is wearing a blue shirt, rumpled over the belt of his shorts, and she feels the sudden urge to tell him to tuck it in.

“Asriel?” she asks, overwhelmed with disbelief and joy. “My dear heart, is that you?”

Asgore grabs her shoulder before she can go to him. “Toriel, please. He is not- that is not Asriel. That is not our son.”

Toriel wants to shake him off, wants to run over and wrap her arms so tightly around her baby that he’ll be unable to escape. But something stops her in her tracks. Maybe it’s the way Asriel is standing there, staring at her. Her Asriel would be holding up his arms or making a silly face. Chara was always the one to stare, despite how often she would tell them not to, that it was very rude.

“Mama?” Asriel tries again. “Papa’s scaring me.”

Another strike. Asriel never called his father ‘Papa.’ Asgore was Dad or Daddy to him. Neither of their children had ever used ‘Papa’ to refer to their father. Toriel slides her foot along the floor until the trident is pointing directly at Asriel’s head. “Who are you?” she growls.

‘Asriel’ almost looks like he’s about to try again, then he just shakes his head and smiles. “Enemy or friend?” he asks. “Captor or savior? Enemy or friend?” He pads forward on those tiny paws, silent. “Captor or savior?” He reaches for the prongs of the trident, pushes them down to the floor. Those little hands reach for her face. Green sparks flicker off his claws, dazzling her eyes.

Toriel can barely breathe. To strike would be to kill her child all over again.

“Enough,” Asgore commands and he’s standing by her side, their backs to the doors. He’s trying to regain his authority, but it’s never fit him and the result is similar to a child trying to wear his father’s mantle and drowning in it.

The creature wearing their son’s face seems suitably cowed however. Then it ducks its head and when it looks up, Toriel doesn’t know how she ever thought it was her child. Everywhere Asriel was sweet, this creature is bitter; everywhere he was joyful, this creature is miserable. Even its smile is mocking.

Toriel raises the trident and stabs the body through, her mouth curling in disgust. It doesn’t die quietly, instead shrieking and screaming and writhing in a multitude of voices. But she stabs again and it falls silent, giving her a sickly sweet smile. Then its face is Asriel’s and he’s whimpering words that make her shake. “Mommy…Daddy… I can’t-“

She stabs again, squeezing her eyes shut. But she can’t take her hands from the trident to block out the words and they come slithering in like so many snakes. “I can’t feel anything.” Then the trident clatters to the floor and she almost goes with it, Asgore grabbing her elbows to keep her from falling. She shoves away from him, covering her mouth with her hand to hold the screaming back. Her mind is tearing through her memories, back to that horrible night, that horrible terrible night, and everything is shattered all over again, only this time it is her fault.

Asgore breathes a long shuddering breath and when she looks over, he is staring at her with his grieving eyes. “I apologize, Toriel,” he says. “This was not your fight and I allowed you to become entangled in it.”

“Why did the doors close?” Asgore only shakes his head in response, hands covering his eyes like a child playing hide and seek, and Toriel forces herself to repeat the question. It comes out harsher than she meant it to be, which is definitely saying something.

The big boss monster swallows any emotion. “There is something within the castle and if I flee, I allow it to harm our people. I apologize, but in allowing you to stay, I have put you in danger as well.” His hands fall to his sides and this close, she can see the way that his fur is knotted, the way his eyes are bloodshot and far too dim. She can see the dusty smears along his collar and the tears in his cape, the dents in his battered armor.

She draws her sleeve over her eyes. “Then dry your eyes, Dreemurr, I suppose we will just have to defeat it. The people cannot be put in danger.”

Asgore kneels to pick up his trident, claws scraping briefly against the tile. The sound is echoed somewhere farther down the main hall, along with a voice, calling “Mom? Dad? Where’d you go?”

They listen as Chara’s voice fades as the creature using it wanders through the hallway towards them. Asgore’s hands grip the trident, while Toriel summons her fire magic. This is not going to be the end of them, she vows inwardly. And she will not be fooled again.

But as the face of her little lost one looks around the corner, smiling one of their shy smiles, she can feel her resolve weaken. It is a small wonder Asgore is not completely insane by now, trapped in a castle with an abomination that persists in wearing the faces of the dead. She believes that she would have been driven mad long ago.

Chapter 18: She's Beauty, She's Grace, She'll Punch You In The Face

Chapter Text

“Sans? What Is Wrong? I Can Not Understand What The Problem Is If You Do Not Explain.” Frisk watches Gaster try to communicate this way through the whole of the darkening lantern room, but Sans doesn’t. And the more Sans ignores him, the more upset Gaster gets and the wilder his hand motions become, until there are at least six hands flying about his form, five of them luminescent. One of his arms is still out-of-order, hidden away in the murk of his body. And still, Sans doesn't look at him, instead hunching into his jacket as if he hasn’t even seen Gaster’s motions.

Chara finally can’t stand it anymore and, while Frisk protests that it’s really none of their business, Chara marches over to Sans and punches him in the shoulder. Because they have no intent other than to get his attention, he just winces a little and glares at them. Chara puts their hands on their hips, taps their foot, and gestures angrily towards Gaster.

Sans glances over, but his phone buzzes loudly before Gaster can make his concerns clear. He flips it out of his pocket, twisting it over in his fingers and pressing it to the side of his skull. “Hey, Papyrus.” As he talks, he angles his head up, staring at the ceiling rather than his walking companions.

Frisk, infected by Chara’s fury, stomps their foot hard and marches away. They wind their way through the dimming path and end up waist-deep in water. Thankfully, this water seems much cleaner than that of the garbage dump. They can’t really tell though. It’s really dark. They can barely see a few paces in front of them. Sans’s voice has gone silent.

They nearly trip over a protrusion of land, but Chara steadies them. Flowey wakes up as they step onto it, their boots squishing. He stretches against their neck, yawning sour apple breath past their nose. “Wh-where are w-we?” he complains, still sleepily demanding. “D-d-do y-you ever sleep?”

Frisk smiles at his whining and nearly runs right into an Echo Flower. They step away from it quickly. After their last experience with the things, they don’t really want to touch this one. Chara rolls their eyes chidingly. “Aw, Frisky, it’s just a plant. Me and Azzy’ll protect you if it tries to eat you, I promise.”

‘You laugh, but it could happen,’ Frisk points out. Chara sends them a wave of amusem*nt, sweeping away their worries until all they feel is kind of silly. Chara’s right. Echo Flowers aren’t sentient.

The only sentient flower they know says “L-look, if it b-b-bites, I’ll b-bite it b-back,” snapping at the air with his teeth to demonstrate this. He very nearly bites their earlobe and they pretend to swat him. Flowey’s vines tighten for a moment, but then he gives a very Asriel giggle. Frisk pokes the Echo Flower’s petals.

A woman’s voice, growly and tense with excitement, murmurs “Behind you.”

With chills curling in their spine, Frisk turns around, pressing themself against the flower. It repeats its message over and over as the owner of the voice advances on them, her boots striking the ground like a hammer on an anvil. Flowey snarls. They glance sideways and see the halo of white pellets he’s creating.

Undyne pauses a few feet from them, her good eye gleaming wickedly through the chink in her visor. “Seven,” she says and the thrum in her voice takes nothing away from the horror of being cornered. Frisk balls their hands into fists, determined not to fight, but to show that they can be brave. Chara gives them a mental pat on the back.

“There you go, Frisky. Put up your dukes. We’ll take her out.”

Undyne continues her monologue, placing perfectly dramatic pauses between each sentence. “Seven human souls. With the power of seven human souls, our king…” Here she balls her hand into a fist and tucks her chin into her chest, as if she has to steel herself to say the name. “King Asgore Dreemurr will finally become a god.”

The bottom of Frisk’s stomach drops out as Chara growls. “Does he even want to be a god? Did you ask him? I bet he said no.” Frisk shushes them.

“With that power, Asgore can finally shatter the barrier!” Undyne whips her head up to look them in the eye, her ponytail snapping out. “He will finally take the surface back from humanity and give them back the suffering and pain that we have endured.”

“Like what?” Chara sounds as if they’re getting way too worked up about this. “We’ve never been anything but happy! It’s not so great up there!” They’ve forgotten that Undyne can’t hear them, but Frisk passes along the message anyway.

“You trying to make me mad, human? This is your only chance at redemption. Give up your soul. Or I’ll tear it from your body.” She takes another step forward, bending her knee so she’s frozen in a lunge. Frisk thinks of the beastly mockery of her standing by Napstablook’s house as she forms a lance. As she charges, Frisk rolls to one side, leaping into the tall grass. Her lance buries itself up to her fingertips in the cavern wall.

Something pulls on their sleeve and Frisk tears their eyes from Undyne to meet Monster Kid’s gaze. Their teeth are clamped around Frisk’s shoulder hem, tugging gently.

Undyne whips around at the sound of their feet plunging into the water. “Hey!” she roars. Her footsteps pound after them. Suddenly, she gives an unholy screech and Monster Kid screams. “Didn’t I tell you to go home?” Frisk dodges into a right hand turn, hiding in a patch of Echo Flowers, which say in unison “Didn’t I tell you to go home?” as Undyne stomps past, dragging Kid after her.

Frisk backs up and their sweater triggers another conversation, in a voice they know too well. “Where am I…?” Toriel’s voice says weakly. “It’s so cold here and so dark.” Their breath catches in their throat. “Someone…someone help me.” They turn and look at the flower, seeing how its roots under the water are just barely tucked into the ground. Someone put it here. “Anyone,” she continues, begging now. “Please…. Help me.”

“Frisk!” Monster Kid yells. They’re standing at the entrance to the room. “Run!” They do so, and Kid ducks after them. Their haphazard zigzagging takes them straight through most of the blooms, trampling the conversations underfoot. The flowers release their captive sounds and Frisk’s ears are met with a chorus of that blank voice “CAPTOR OR SAVIOR? ENEMY OR FRIEND?” garbled until it is barely intelligible. Undyne skids into the room, kicking up a wave of dark water.

“Hey!” she yells, but they’re already gone.

They take another sharp right and Frisk’s heart sinks. This is the bridge. They struggle against Kid, trying to turn them around, but their hands have no effect on the smooth scales of Kid’s face. “Yo, Frisk, c’mon!” Kid urges, pushing them farther. “If you don’t go, she’ll get you!”

Flowey chimes in with a shaky “Sh-she’ll st-stab us through!”

Frisk nods, mind racing. They make a hand motion, baring their palm to Kid, holding the fingertips up to point at the ceiling. The universal gesture for ‘stop’ gives the monster pause. “What? Why, yo?”

Frisk can’t say it fast enough, so they instead back onto the bridge, still holding their hand out to dissuade Monster Kid from following. If the monster follows, they will fall off the bridge. They’ve seen it too many times, when Undyne couldn’t move fast enough and Kid’s jaw just gave out, or the bridge broke before she could reach them. The gorge is very deep and it took a long time for Kid to die down there. Monsters can hold on for a very long time before they crumble away, especially if there is no killing intent behind the blow that seals their fate.

Undyne’s boots are louder now, their beat matching that of Frisk’s heart. “Stay,” they signal again, fiercer.

“Kid, get away from them!” the fish woman cries as she runs around the corner, her boots slipping in the muck. Her shoulder grazes the wall of the cavern and the metal screeches against rock. Frisk turns on their heel and runs, all too aware of the fact that Monster Kid is going to follow them. In their head, they beg them to go home, even as Kid’s footsteps patter across the bridge after them.

“Frisk!” There’s the telltale scrape of claws on the wood, too fast, as Kid’s feet scrabble for some sort of grip on the smooth wooden planks. As Undyne marches onto the bridge, spear at the ready, Frisk steels themself for a confrontation. But they turn back. And they go back, because they have a choice this time.

They grab handfuls of Monster Kid’s sweater. Flowey helps, twisting his vines along under their sleeves and twining them around Kid’s upper body. Shaking with effort, Frisk hauls Kid up and up until the little monster is sitting on their knees, wide-eyed with leftover adrenaline. Frisk falls onto their own butt right there on the bridge, panting. They stare at each other a minute and Kid’s mouth curves into a determined smile.

Using their tail, Kid pushes themself to their feet and faces Undyne. Their tail lashes. “Y-yo! Dude! If you wanna hurt my friend-“ They glance back at Frisk, who grins up at them, dusting themself off. Kid draws strength from this, for their voice stops shaking and they stand straight and tall. “If you wanna hurt my friend, you’re gonna have to get through me, first.”

Undyne takes a step back, her spear dematerializing. She looks from Kid to Frisk. Chara sums up the gist of that look nicely: “She looks lost. Like her script’s not right.”

‘Well, she wants us to be a killer. They all do. But they’re wrong.’ Frisk gives Undyne a devil-may-care smirk over Kid’s shoulder. They’re determined to stop running. So if Undyne wants to defy the script and fight them right here, right now, they’re going to do it.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she turns away and goes back the way she came, almost running.

“She’s gone.”

…

Wingdings can’t understand what is going on. If he was still in the Void, this would be normal, for the Void is so much more than it seems, an indefinite space packed with information and worlds that can easily tear a monster down to their most basic form. At any given moment there, he could have seen into another timeline as easily as snapping his fingers. But he would have lost something too, in trade; a memory, or a detail.

Here too, the principles of trade seem put in place. He has given up his anonymity and, as of yet, has gained the friendship of a small child named Frisk. He does like Frisk, he most definitely does, but the child makes him uneasy. Their appearance in all timelines heralded something bad and their actions up until a few weeks ago have been of dubious moral standards. Then there is the matter of his arm and his face.

His arm he has concealed the best he could in an effort to diagnose what was wrong with it by himself, rather than worry his son and the human child. He suspects that the flower already knows, given the way it has of staring at him. The arm is dead. It is more solid than his other, but it is oddly detached. He has no feeling in it and he cannot tell it what to do as he can his other appendages.

It is easier to understand his face. Frisk only touched his face briefly, but that was enough for their hands to secrete some strange toxin, one that he almost recognizes. The feeling of it reminded him of Determination, but wherever Determination had been focused, this feeling had been disoriented. If it was indeed Determination, then Frisk is a very strange sort of human, but it is simpler to understand the effects. Determination is a healing solution. When applied to the soul, it can create life. Applied to the body, it holds and extends life, often by assisting the body in recovering.

His face has ridges in it now instead of being a simple sheet of drippy bone. The ridges are not as pronounced as he believes they should be, but they are present, as they would be in the face of any skeleton.

Checking to make certain Sans is busy with his conversation,- it is his youngest’s voice pouring out of the speaker, how he longs to have a voice so he can speak with him- he peels away the layers of being to examine the arm further.

It is wrapped in heavy black fabric, the kind that if exposed to friction, will be able to be plucked off in tiny balls of fuzz. He can’t remember what it is called right now, but he can remember finding the coat the sleeve had been attached to. He prods the limb, pulling back the cuff of the sleeve to examine the bone underneath. He prods at it with his fingertips. He can feel nothing. The bone is formed perfectly, but the disconnect is concerning. It is as if Frisk has returned him to life, but life has not returned to him.

“He’s fine, bro. Chill.” Hurriedly, he wraps himself back around the arm, hiding the bone with a twitch of a shoulder. Just in time too, for Sans glances at him and then away, to confirm his own words. Wingdings doesn’t even have time to wave. It doesn’t matter. Sans doesn’t want to listen to him anyway. He could be angry about this, but he won’t be, can’t be.

He can understand it all too well. He had been furious for so long after his own fall, alternately guilt-ridden and angry and unable to articulate these feelings to anyone. In those first few years, he had tried every day to enter his home, to call his children’s names as if he had just been out for groceries. He had started by the restaurant, which had just been called Snowdin Restaurant then. The first few steps hesitant, the next few triumphant, and then he would quicken his pace, emboldened by his progress and the lack of consequence.

But the house would rattle him to pieces, leaving him moaning in the snow as oblivious passerby crushed his body under their heels. He tried several tactics to counter this, experimenting with the idea that the reaction could have been based solely on his own emotional state, or perhaps on the sight of the structure. But he’d never get farther than the spot where Papyrus had planted his mailbox, no matter what he tried. That frustration was his undoing.

Every angry thought, every grudge he harbored, they all reflected back onto him in the Void. Instead of those worries and upsets melting away, it was he himself who began to melt, the Void blurring any sharp lines and dripping off the edges. He took to pulling his coat tighter around himself, as if it could provide any protection from the abstract that had become his existence. And then the coat, originally so warm and comfortable, became stifling.

He plucks at his shoulder, wincing at the resultant slurping sound. Whatever fabric his coat had been, it was now made of the same stuff as the rest of him.

“Okay. Love you too, bro.” Sans clicks off the call and Wingdings brings himself to his full height. His older son stares at the wall for a minute, then turns to look at him. “Okay, doc, I don’t want to talk about Temmies, but Papyrus wants to know if you’re coming back.”

When Wingdings tilts his head to one side to convey confusion, his body feels as if it’s overbalancing. The mask-like shape that is his face is the heaviest part of his body, due to the rest of him being less than substantial, but he can usually manage it. Unfortunately, with the addition of reality, the left side of his body lists to one side. He hurriedly pulls himself upright again.

“For dinner. He wants to make spaghetti.” There are hints of a smile in Sans’s voice and the ache in his soul intensifies. When he had been around, Papyrus had been so small that they hadn’t allowed him near the stove, for fear that he’d fall into it. Now his youngest apparently enjoys cooking. He wants very badly to go back home now that he can, to sit down with Papyrus and eat spaghetti. He doesn’t even remember what spaghetti tasted like. Unfortunately, Sans has that look on his face. He remembers that look all too well.

“Will You Be Going Back?”

Unsurprisingly, Sans shakes his head, still looking horribly mutinous. “No. So, I guess you won’t be either.” When he doesn’t reply, Sans makes a noise of complaint deep in his nonexistent throat, another something Wingdings remembers too clearly, the sound of someone too tired to argue but very much wanting to fight.

“You Are The One Who Is Making This More Difficult,” he points out. “If You Would Just Call Alphys, We Would Both Be Able To Go Home.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, doc, home is where the heart is. My heart burned the damn place to the ground.” Sans trundles down the lantern path, navigating the barely glowing stones with ease.

As he follows, Wingdings wonders from which side of his family Sans inherited the dramatic streak. Then he wonders about Temmies. They seem completely harmless, but Sans is far too reluctant to talk about them for them to be so and the reluctance does not seem new. Sans reverts when he talks about them, as if his mind is only as old as Frisk, complete with terrible avoidance skills and the silent treatment. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so concerning. He trails his son through the crystal caverns, thinking up ways to ask the question he wants to ask.

…

Frisk and Monster Kid stare up at Undyne’s mountaintop perch, half-awed, half-terrified. The captain of the guard poses dramatically against the red-tinged rock ceiling, her uncovered face glistening with sweat. Her breathing is labored, as it should be, for she must have jumped up the entire mountain to get there before they did and Frisk can’t see any footholds that aren’t slick from the moisture in the air. Grudgingly, Chara admits that they’re actually starting to admire her. Frisk shushes them, even though they’re thinking about the same thing. It’s hard not to look up to a lady standing on a mountain.

When she opens her mouth to speak, it is to recite more of her speech, the one that she has undoubtedly rehearsed over and over in an attempt to get it right. Frisk imagines that they can see the nervousness on her face, like the time that they tried to put on a one Frisk show in the living room and forgot all their lines. But she can’t be nervous; she’s Undyne, the monster who, according to Flowey anyway, took on a human and won when she was even younger than Frisk is now.

Kid nudges their cheek with their own and they can feel the little monster trembling as Undyne delivers her diatribe. They could go home if they wanted to, but instead they’re here with Frisk, ready to face down their hero. Frisk doesn’t think they’ve ever had a better friend. When Chara rustles around indignantly, Frisk has to point out that, by Chara’s own admission, they’re like siblings so they don’t have to be friends.

“You!” Undyne roars and it is with alarm that Frisk snaps back to the real world, where not everything is happy Chara feelings. “You’re standing in the way of everyone’s hopes and dreams!” She pounds her gloved fist into the palm of her hand, shaking her head to display the raw emotion. “Alphys’s history books made me think humans were cool with their giant robots and flowery swordswomen.”

‘What kind of history books does Alphys have?’ Frisk wonders. They’d learned about a bunch of cool creation stories and they’d watched a bunch of shows with Lee about history, but they’d never seen giant robots or flowery swordswomen, although they had heard about the Mafia, which sounded equally interesting.

Undyne rants about their cowardly ways, while Frisk signs and Flowey translates. “You c-can go h-home if y-you w-want,” the flower points out, curving around the back of Frisk’s neck.

“Nah, yo. I’d be a bad friend.” Kid tries for a smile and Frisk shoulder-bumps them playfully. When they get out of this, they’re going to buy Kid a Nice Cream. No, two Nice Creams.

“I hope there’s a Nice Cream for your favorite fake sibling in those plans,” Chara comments.

Frisk thinks. ‘Yeah, Flowey’d probably get cranky if I didn’t get him one, huh?’

Chara gasps loudly in fake outrage, but not loudly enough to cover Undyne’s screams. “You come down here and you trick people and hurt people and ngah! I bet it was you who destroyed Papyrus’s house! And you’re using your swirly kiss mind control powers on this kid! So, let them go or I’ll tear your soul from your body!”

Suddenly, Frisk’s soul is trying to tug free of their chest cavity. They fight it out of habit. Their soul, after all their minor encounters, it is becoming less of a shame, thanks to Chara. It’s a scar from a war of their own, like Undyne’s eye patch. A badge of honor and strength. So they let it out, bending their knees into more of a fight stance. Undyne will never listen to reason, but maybe she’ll back off when she sees their soul. It made the minor monsters cringe.

“Aw, Frisk, you’re hurt!” Kid hasn’t seen their soul. They’d forgotten that.

“It’s f-fine,” they say through Flowey. “It d-doesn’t hurt m-much.”

Kid looks unconvinced, but they bend their knees as well. For all intents and purposes, it looks like Kid’s going to be their battle buddy, probably intending to protect their messed up soul.

“W-we’re g-gonna cream her,” Flowey answers, his mouth fragmenting until half his face is a laughing black maw. Frisk shakes their head at him, knowing from Chara that it’s all a big show. This miniature monstrosity is the same flower who burrowed into their neck trying to hide from Undyne a few moments prior. He’s trying to be brave. They appreciate the sentiment, even if they have to correct the words.

“No violence. We’re going to be great friends.” This last they direct towards the woman on the mountaintop, even though she doesn’t understand. It’s most likely better that way.

Kid bounces a little, trying to pass off their anxious expression as anticipation. Another thing they have to appreciate, even if Kid shouldn’t have to hide their feelings, Kid shouldn’t have to fight their hero at all. “Okay, yo! It’s on!”

*Kid’s enthusiasm. Flowey’s support. The wind, screaming through the mountains.

*It fills you with Determination.

As Undyne plunges towards them, spear first, Frisk meets her frenzied gaze, trembling but ready. They think their words again, as if it is a sort of magical incantation that will fix the outcome in their favor.

‘We’re going to be great friends.’

Chapter 19: This Is Just Like Episode Nineteen!

Chapter Text

Fighting Undyne is pure adrenaline. They twist around and raise the shield her ability gives them, twisting their heels into the soil as the force of her spear bullets presses them backwards. They were right about Undyne’s reaction to their soul. For a split second at the beginning of the battle, it had given her pause. But unlike Papyrus, Undyne is a soldier. She has likely seen much worse than their battered little soul. Her ability masks the color and the awful aura it releases, turning both the green of pine needles. Beside them, Kid’s soul melts into the soft green of new leaves and they twist the soul shield around in delight, even as their teeth chatter in fear.

Undyne makes Frisk’s barrage of spears hard and fast and they are forced to weave and turn faster than they ever have before. Chara is muttering words Frisk barely hears, but that they realize are commands. Chara’s will is knocking spears out of the air with Frisk’s soul shield. Chara is using their shield as a weapon.

Not even three minutes into the fight and Frisk realizes that they need to get Kid out of there. Frisk has experienced battles before and, more helpfully, Chara is lending them a massive amount of grace. Kid is all on their own, and while Undyne is doing her ample best to avoid hurting them at all, Kid is their own worst enemy. Flowey is keeping the majority of spears off them by spitting bullets. The magical attacks meet with a poof of scent, half golden flower perfume, half something sweet that they can’t identify.

‘You know that thing I thought about not running anymore?’

Chara immediately cottons on to what they’re saying. “Frisky, you get your butt out of here and take the kid with you.”

Frisk nods and throws down the shield Undyne’s ability gave them, turning their soul back to its usual achy red. The next time Kid trips towards them, they seize upon their collar, giving it a pull. The monster stumbles, their momentary unbalance letting Frisk tug them through the tunnel in the mountain and into darkness. Behind them, Undyne screams her frustration.

“GET BACK HERE, HUMAN!” In her mouth, it sounds like the foulest of swears. Almost makes them feel guilty. But definitely not guilty enough to stop, not when all four of their lives depend on how fast they can make their stubby little legs move.

They enter into a cave further underground, Frisk charging over the land bridge without fear. Kid may be stumbling, but Flowey’s got a vine or two coiled around the monster’s waist to keep them from falling again. Underneath them, a massive ice cube bobs in the frigid water, presumably on its way to the Core. Kid starts to get a grip on the ground until they’re running side by side, racing through Waterfall.

The ‘Welcome to Hotland’ sign looks like a miracle and the hot sticky air billowing towards them feels like a kiss. Then Undyne’s hand comes down on Frisk’s shoulder and she bats them up into the air, ignoring Kid’s shriek of horror as Frisk comes crashing down a few feet back the way they came, their nose smashing against the rock. Spots swim across their vision.

“D-don’t t-touch th-them!” they hear Flowey scream. His vines loosen and they hear some sort of slapping sound. When they pry themself off the ground, everything seems to be spinning, but they can very clearly see Flowey slapping his vines on the ground as he stares up at the advancing Undyne, trying to intimidate her even though all the color has drained from his face.

“Y-yeah, yo! Leave Frisk alone!” Monster Kid comes running over and every footstep is pounding in their head. God, it hurts. Chara’s trying to take the pain, pull it into themself, but Frisk won’t let them. Nobody deserves to hurt.

Undyne’s staring down at them with something akin to horror, her eyes flickering from Flowey to Frisk and back again. Then Kid takes her knees out with their head and she falls into a kneeling position.

Kid ducks around her and tucks his head under Frisk’s arm. “Come on, dude,” he mumbles. On their other side, Flowey heaves at their chest with his vines, propelling them to their feet even as blood gushes from their face. Dazed, they clutch at Kid’s spines as the little dinosaur jogs towards the warm air of Hotland. Their feet limp along after them and their body feels too heavy.

“Frisk! Frisk, give me the senses right now!” Chara pushes for control, and Frisk shoves them as far from it as possible. Chara skids across the mindscape, but they’re back just as fast. Frisk braces for another fight, but instead Chara wraps their arms around them. Frisk relaxes only briefly, but it’s enough. Chara seizes the receptors. Frisk’s mind clears enough to command their legs to move and they cross into Hotland at a run. Unsteadily, they charge past the sentry station and across the bridge. As their feet leave the wood, they trip over their own shoe. Down they go again and their hands get the worst of it this time, scraping skin off on the burning ground.

Kid falls with them. The dinosaur scrabbles at the ground with their claws, trying to gain enough traction to stand.

In their mind, Frisk whimpers for Lee, for Toriel, as they struggle to stand, Flowey mumbling threats and prayers alike. Their hands are growing slick already from sweat and the blood seeping slowly from their palms, but they have to keep going, to protect Kid. They seize bloody handfuls of Kid’s sweater and haul them up. As soon as Kid regains their footing, they bite down on the loose fabric of Frisk’s sleeve and start running again. Undyne is drawing near.

In their mind, everything goes quiet. Chara, holding their broken hands to their mouth, looks up at them. “She’s hurt.” They turn their head, but Frisk is in control, not them. “Frisk, go back.” Instinctively, Frisk drags their heels. Kid drops their sleeve and turns. There’s so much fear in their face. But Frisk looks away, back towards the little bridge, just in time to see Undyne shudder and fall. Kid sees her too and runs. They’re still a child, and Undyne is still their hero, even if she’s done something frightening.

“She’s fainted. It’s the heat.” There’s a water cooler here, looking like a heat mirage. Frisk grabs a cup, creating red stains on the plastic sides, and fills it almost to the brim. Water sloshes over the edges and they look away from it, even as their tongue sticks to the roof of their mouth and rasps against their teeth as if it’s covered in cotton balls. With small mincing steps, they advance.

Every scale that the water can reach flushes a darker blue, more vibrant. Monster Kid is holding a Cinnamon Bunny and they offer scraps of it to Frisk. They forgive so quickly here. The Cinnamon Bunny tastes like sugar and rust as their nose pops back into place.

After a minute, Undyne picks herself back up. Her wild yellow eye stares as if she suspects this to be some sort of trick. But Kid offers her some pastry. And Frisk backs away, trying to avoid eye contact. And Undyne leaves.

“Hey, yo?” Frisk glances back at them. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna make sure she gets home okay.” Kid smiles, giving them a look at all their pointy teeth. “Thanks for the adventure.” With that, they run off. They don’t trip once.

Trudging back to the water cooler, Frisk drinks three cups of icy water and then leans against the cooler, panting. Their legs are still trembling and now that Chara’s given up the senses, they can feel the stickiness of their clothing against their skin and the way their hair is plastered to their head. They shrug out of their sweater, tying it around their waist instead. And then they fall completely asleep.

…

When Undyne comes limping past them, arms full of metal, Sans and Wingdings have just reached the ‘Welcome to Hotland’ sign. Her shoulders are squared like those of Atlas, and her eye is blazing with righteous indignation. At her side trots a small reptilian monster in a metal hat. Both wear a sheen of sweat over their scales. Wingdings makes the decision to wave. It turns out to be the wrong decision.

The motion catches the eye of the little monster, who turns and grins at Sans as they skip past, their metal hat sliding. “Hey, Sans!” they blurt through a mouthful of food. Then their eyes travel over to Wingdings and they tilt their head, confused and silent. The damage, however, is already done.

Up until now, they had been on her blind side, but now Undyne whirls towards them and discovers an outlet on which she can vent. “SANS!” she yells. “Did you see that damn kid?”

“Frisk,” the child corrects, in the long-suffering tone of someone who has made this correction several times over.

“Whatever! Did you see them? They cheated! They beat me by cheating!” She hunches her shoulders. “They didn’t have a big sword or rainbow hair. I don’t even think they had magic.” Her eye flashes up and stares them down. “Do they even have some kind of mind control or something?”

“No, yo, I told you! Frisk is just cool!” The child’s hat falls off completely, and Wingdings realizes that they were wearing a piece of armor, most likely part of the set Undyne is carrying. She is still wearing the bottom half of her armor, but the top has been taken to pieces. It seems that the armful of armor and the fistful of pastry are all that’s preventing Undyne from gesturing a bit more obscenely.

“what’s the matter, undyne? don’t be koi if you’re upset about something.”

“I am going to glue your damn slippers to your skull next time you make a fish pun,” she informs him, smirking anyway.

“the kid doesn’t have magic. they’re just weird.”

Undyne considers this, popping her handful of pastry into her mouth as she mulls it over, then refocuses her attention on Wingdings with a toothy smile. “Who’s your friend?”

Wingdings burbles a hello, sticking out his right hand for her to shake. He has a sneaking suspicion that he needs her to confirm. He had not been afraid to make contact with his children simply because the three of them had near the same genetic material. Should his arm have the same reaction to Undyne that it had to Frisk, he will have to limit contact to solely his sons and change his greeting style.

The fish woman takes his hand and pumps it twice, pulling it down so hard that it detaches from his body with a sick squelching sound. Wingdings garbles his concern as Undyne inhales sharply, her eye all but bugging out of her head. She looks from the dripping hand in her possession to the monster before her and hurriedly attempts to press it back onto his body.

“geez, doc, don’t go to pieces on me now. undyne, meet doctor gaster. doc, this is undyne.”

“King Asgore’s Captain of the Royal Guard, at your service!” she says, staring with a manic intensity at his face.

“It Is Lovely To Meet You, Captain.” He plucks his hand from hers and flicks the fingers of it at her. Rude, he understands, but if she continued to try and spear him through with his own hand, he would have to do something drastic.

“and this is kid. kid’s pretty cool.” He nods at the little dinosaur. They don’t require a handshake, given that they don’t have hands, so he is free to continue reattaching his hand.

“Hello, Kid. It Is A Pleasure To Meet You. Are You The Captain’s Squire?”

Sans translates for him and the dinosaur’s eyes seem to become the size of dinner plates. “Yooooo!” they shriek, doing a little dance in place. Their knees come close to making contact with their chin multiple times. “Could I be?”

He intends to apologize for making assumptions, but one look at Undyne’s face reveals the same expression on Kid’s face has set up camp there. “A good knight needs a squire!” she says, excitement mounting in her voice. “Kid, want to be my-“

Kid squeals. “Hang on! I gotta go tell my parents!” They take off running down the path, calling as they go “This is gonna be awesome!”

Undyne grins. “Armor, a weapon, a partner in crime-fighting, and now a squire! I’m going to be the Underground’s best knight, just watch me!”

“her partner in crime-fighting is papyrus by the way,” Sans signs as Undyne marches away after Kid, only limping a little now.

“Is That Correct?” Wingdings is astonished despite himself. Papyrus had mentioned his desire to be a part of the Royal Guard several times, but he had neglected to speak of that. Wingdings had assumed that it was one of Papyrus’s usual ambitions, like his desire to own a store that sold only fire. “Is He An Efficient Crime-Fighter?” They begin walking in the direction from whence Undyne came, towards Hotland.

“he’s pretty good at doing the paperwork. other than that, undyne’s been giving him one-on-one warrior training. his warrior face is pretty fierce, but he, uh, isn’t so good at the fighting part. he’d prefer to make friends. rather spare than spear.”

“That Sounds Correct.” The tiny skeleton he knew had trouble even considering the fact that the king had to kill humans in order to take their souls. As far as he knows, Papyrus still believes that Asgore has several humans living in his castle with him, drinking tea and playing in the gardens.

Walking into Hotland is like plowing headfirst into a wall of heat. Sans stops in his tracks when it hits him and Wingdings thinks that he sees him shiver, but the heat has a way of distorting things. Still, he signs “I Think I Will Receive Cooling Magic For Us From The Water Cooler.”

“fine. i have to reorganize some stuff at my station anyway.” There’s relief in Sans’s voice, but he turns away too quickly for Wingdings to confirm it, trundling over to his station.

When Wingdings crosses the bridge, a clam monster greets him. “Oh kay kay kay,” the clam says. “I came over from Waterfall to get a drink. But there’s something in the way.” Puzzled, he looks towards the cooler and finds a small mound of flesh and cloth curled up before the cooler. He tilts his head, trying to discern what type of monster this might be, and then it moves, exposing a snub nose and a drooling mouth. It’s Frisk. He crouches before them and extends a manifested hand, shaking them gently. They can’t sleep out here, not where anyone could happen across them and choose to engage in battle. They’re lucky the clam is a Complete And Utter Idiot more concerned than anything.

They stir and he twitters at them, wishing that he could for once be put-together enough to say ‘wake up!’ instead of babbling like an infant. A small fist comes up and rubs at the blinking eyes. Frisk realizes who it is chirping at them Like Some Sort Of Mentally Unfit Bird. They sign a happy “hello!”

“Good Evening, Frisk,” he replies. “It Is Unsafe To Sleep In Plain Sight.”

“Oh,” they say, sitting up straighter. “But it’s past my bedtime. And-“ here their face crumples “-and I don’t want to walk back to Snowdin. I’m tired.”

“I Understand Your Reluctance To Walk Back To Snowdin. It Is A Lengthy Excursion.” He fills a cup of cooling magic and hands it to them. They take it in both hands. “Do Not Allow That Cup Access To The Ground.” Frisk tilts their head. “The Heat Of The Ground Will Evaporate It.”

He fills two other cups and creates a platform out of several interlocked hands. “Sans Has A Sentry Station To Our Left. Would You Prefer To Sleep There, Out Of Sight?”

They nod, then put their cup on the platform. “Will Sans mind?”

“No.”

“Can you carry me?” Frisk holds their arms up and Gaster’s eyes soften.

“Of Course. Climb Up.” He nudges their legs with the platform and they clamber onto it, curling up on their side. Around their neck, Flowey shifts but continues to sleep, unaware that Wingdings is watching him.

…

When Frisk wakes up, what seems like moments later, Gaster is pressing a cool cup of water to their forehead. “I Apologize,” he signs in such a subdued way that they can almost hear him whispering it. “Humans Seem More Sensitive To Climate Changes.”

Frisk smiles tiredly and takes the cup from him, propping themself up on their elbow in order to drink it. They’re sitting under a sort of construct, surrounded by scattered bottles. Gaster’s hands are full of more containers and when Frisk realizes what they hold, they understand that they’re lying under the counter of one of Sans’s sentry posts, their pack at their feet.

Sometime between talking to Gaster and waking up, Flowey has transferred himself into their knapsack. He’s snoozing in there now, his face half-hidden under the knapsack’s flap, cheek pressed against a ketchup bottle that Sans must have left on one of the shelves instead of all over the ground, like the rest. Sans himself is nowhere in sight, but they can hear him snoring. Gaster’s head levitates, body following, and he shifts his mass in order to make it appear as if he is standing. When the space he takes up shrinks, Frisk can see Sans, curled up with his head pillowed on his jacket. He must have been sleeping just behind Gaster.

“He Is So Disorganized,” a pair of hands sign and Frisk giggles in their head, shaking their shoulders to demonstrate their mirth. The monster twists the gash on his face in order to smile back at them. The hands pluck up a few more bottles, all empty. “If He So Desires To Keep Them, Then The Least He Could Do Is Sort Them.”

Frisk sips their water as they watch him rearrange the bottles. “Are you Sans’s friend?” they sign, holding the rim of the cup in their teeth.

“Of A Sort, I Suppose. I Am His Father.” He looks like he’s waiting for them to pass judgment on this, twisting the cap of one of the bottles around in his hands.

Frisk can’t really say they’re surprised though. It makes sense. Gaster hovers, he worries, he’s been hanging around Sans as soon as they met. If he hadn’t been Sans’s dad, their next guess would have been that he was Sans’s older brother. They settle for simply saying “Cool,” and retrieving their cup before the weight of it yanks their teeth out. There’s maybe a sip or two of water left, so they breathe heavily into the inside of the cup instead until it fogs up.

Gaster holds a hand out for it, but Frisk shakes their head, pointing out the last sip for him. He looks as if he might roll his eyes. Instead, he just continues lining up the condiment bottles in rows of three. Frisk finally sucks down the last sip and puts the cup down. As soon as it touches the ground, it fizzles, then disappears in a puff of air.

“And you thought he was exaggerating,” Chara says, recreating the little puffs in the mindscape.

“Mr. Gaster? What happened to your arm?”

The monster blinks at them and some of his hands begin to fidget. He might try to lie to them. Frisk doesn’t like that idea. He’s been one of the only ones who continuously told them the truth. “Does it hurt?” they try.

“No. It Is An Odd Feeling, But Not Painful.”

“Can I see it?”

“I Would Prefer You Did Not Until I Solidify My Theories.”

“What theories?”

Before Gaster can respond, their phone rings in their knapsack and Flowey squeaks, nearly slamming his head into the underside of the counter. His surprise narrows into a sneer, then his head ducks back into the knapsack. His teeth are clenched around the phone when he comes back out, dropping it neatly onto Frisk’s shoe. They give him a quick sign of thanks, then answer it.

“HEY, WHAT’S UP?!” Papyrus shouts and they angle their ear away from the receiver, pulling a face. He’s too loud right now. Gaster must take their expression as something else, for he squints his eyes at them warningly. If he’s Sans’s dad, that means he’s Papyrus’s dad too.

“SO, HAVE YOU MET UNDYNE YET? SHE’S SUPER COOL, ISN’T SHE? THE GREAT PAPYRUS ASPIRES TO ONE DAY BE PART OF THE ROYAL GUARD! JUST LIKE HER! WE SHOULD ALL HANG OUT SOMETIME! YOU, ME, AND UNDYNE! YOU TWO WOULD BE GREAT PALS! YOU’RE BOTH VERY DETERMINED!”

“That’s one word for it,” Chara yawns, nuzzling farther into the headspace to get away from the noise. “Another word is stubborn.”

Frisk taps once on the phone, then holds it out towards Gaster. He inches closer and burbles something that could be a hello. It could also be a question as to whether Papyrus is eating his vegetables.

“IS THAT MY DAD? HI, DAD! IT’S GREAT THAT YOU AND FRISK AREN’T AS LAZY AS SANS! DID YOU KNOW THAT HE NAPS TEN HOURS A NIGHT?”

“That Is Called Sleeping,” Gaster signs at the phone, almost wearily. “You Should Be Doing That As Well.” To Frisk, he says “He Has Not Slept Through The Night Since He Was An Infant. It Is Exhausting.”

Frisk just nods sympathetically and taps once on the phone again. Papyrus can’t see their signs, so they’re subject to his whims of whether or not he wants to end the call. Thankfully, someone comes into the background.

“Papyrus, who are you talking to?”

“THE HUMAN, OF COURSE! AND MY DAD!”

“Ah. Hello, Frisk. Hello, sir.” It’s Grillby then. They can hear the crackling in his voice better as he dips nearer to the phone. “Is Sans with you?”

Frisk hands the phone to Gaster, who holds it just above Sans’s head so it can pick up on his snoring. Then Gaster hands it back.

“Is everyone okay?” is Grillby’s next question. Frisk taps once. The fire elemental seems to realize that they are, in fact, mute. His voice recedes a little, saying “Gracious, Papyrus, it’s nearly twelve. Leave them be. Good night, Frisk, and sir.”

“OH. GOOD NIGHT THEN! CALL ME WHEN SANS WAKES UP! OH, AND COME OVER TO UNDYNE’S WHEN YOU WANT TO HANG OUT TOGETHER!” He hangs up and Gaster busies himself by piling the empty relish containers in a haphazard stack. Frisk taps their foot at him.

“Go To Sleep,” he signs sternly and won’t look at any further arguments until they stick their phone back in their knapsack and lay back down. The heat of the earth pulses against their cheek like a warm heartbeat. They want to stay awake and stare unnervingly at Gaster until he gives into their demands, but instead he starts to hum. That, along with the warmth that they’re feeling, makes their eyelids heavy.

Then they sleep and their dreams mix with memories.

…

Wingdings makes sure that both of his wards are sleeping soundly before he nudges the knapsack, jostling the flower within. “W-what?” it grumbles.

“I Wish You To Keep A Watch On Them For Me.” He has to sign it again in order for the flower’s sleep-deprived mind to catch up. When it does, the beady black eyes nearly pop out of its face. Maybe they actually do. The face of the plant is like putty.

“Wh-why?” it quavers. What does it have to be so nervous about? He has seen it demonstrate its power several times over, usually at the expense of his children. “Wh-where are you g-going?”

“Would You Rather Go Confer With Doctor Alphys While I Watch Them?” he suggests, knowing already the answer. The flower has always avoided Doctor Alphys. Wingdings suspects that this is because she created it. He has no proof, having not noticed the flower until about three years before, too late to discover its origins, but his suspicions are near-confirmed by the way that the flower half-shrinks back into the bag. “I Thought Not. Do Tell Them Where I Went If They Should Ask. I Will Return Shortly.”

It’s a short walk to the laboratory and the doors are unlocked. He’s rather surprised by this and vows to take it up with Alphys when he sees her. She should recall the events of that fatal Gyftmas party. She had been there. He distinctly remembers her parents carrying her into his office to hide. This, this is just carelessness.

The inside is dark, the sole light coming from a massive screen set in the wall. There’s a small figure sitting before it. He slithers up to them. Onscreen, Frisk sleeps under the sentry booth and Sans twitches in his sleep. Wingdings pauses to look at it, equal parts outraged and interested. The scene fizzles and suddenly it’s showing a hallway in Waterfall. Undyne marches by the camera and down one of the three forks.

The figure in the chair stirs a little and the scene shifts again to a concert of light and sound. A box robot skids around onstage, singing in a highly-mechanical voice. The shapes behind the robot resolve into the word ‘Mettaton’ and Wingdings has had enough. Before he can make his presence known, the figure in the chair spins around and bumps into him. She screams, he burbles in panic, and all is chaos for the next few moments.

He calms first, but the figure doesn’t seem like she’s pausing for air anytime soon. So he goes and finds the light switch. It’ll be easier to explain his intentions when she can see his hands. Not all monsters have cat or skeleton levels of night vision.

The lights come on and the figure in the chair is revealed to be a small yellow dinosaur. He doesn’t know why, but he expected her to be identical to the eleven year old Alphys he had known. This older version is bigger, her spines longer, and, most notably, her expression is more panicked and he doesn’t think that last part is entirely his fault. She and Sans have the same look to them, like they’ve seen entirely too much. King Asgore has that look.

“Who are you?” she shrieks. “Get out!”

He makes a couple experimental gestures, just finger-spelling her name, but all he gets in response is a half-empty takeout container thrown at his head with surprising accuracy. He’s going to be picking noodles out for weeks. Instead of getting angry, he instead raises his hand above his head, trying for the universal sign of surrender. If he makes the sign for mercy, she’ll most likely engage in a battle with him and he’s not ready for that.

They stay like this for a while before she stops breathing like a frightened animal. “Uh.” Her eyes shift from him to the open door. “D-did you just wander in? A-are you lost?”

He exhales noisily and it turns into a fit of coughing.

Alphys steps off her swivel chair, her toenails clacking on the tile. She’s wearing a lab coat that definitely needs a wash. “A-are you okay?”

He coughs once more, then makes the sign for ‘okay’. Despite the fact that she doesn’t understand, she seems a little more comfortable. Thank god for the naturally trusting natures of monsters.

“Can you speak?”

He shakes his head. Her eyes widen behind her glasses and she darts over to the table beside the screen, pulling an ink-stained notebook from the messy piles of paper. “This is just like episode nine,” she explains as she roots around in one of the desk’s drawers. “Mew Mew meets Tally- that’s the guy who used to be the bad guy, but he got drained of power- and Tally can’t speak, so she gives him her favorite pen- here it is!” She turns back to him, brandishing a chewed fountain pen. There’s a feather protruding from the top of it.

He manifests a hand to take it and the notebook. Hello, Doctor Alphys.

“Hi! I’m Alp- oh. Um. What’s your name?” She’s thrown by the fact that he knows her name and title.

Wingdings Gaster. It is a pleasure to- He hesitates. See you again? Meet you? He’s already frightened her so much. He scratches out the last word and shows her the pad.

“Nice to meet you. Um. Did you want something? I mean, I’m on break, but it’s okay. I can…um.” She leans all too casually on the control panel, switching off the screen. The luminescent blush on her face suggests that he’s caught her at something that she knows she shouldn’t be doing.

My son is sick. I would like your assistance.

“Son! Ah. Okay! I’m, uh, not that kind of doctor. There’s a doctor who lives in Waterfall. I can give you her address if you-“

He scowls at her, writing furiously. Soul-sick. Not a cough, not the flu. His soul is in jeopardy. You have experience with souls.

“Oh. Um. Let me get my things.” She scurries down the hall, scrambling up the escalator on the other side. He follows, but stops before one of the doors. There’s a sign that marks it as a bathroom. That can’t be right. He remembers it as being an elevator. The real laboratory had been further under the earth. Why is it a bathroom?

Alphys comes scrambling down the down escalator on the other side. “Mx. Gaster?” she calls, before her head swings sideways and catches sight of him. “Uh! Uh, no! Mx. Gaster, come on!” She’s panicky again. His proximity to the door frightens her. He almost feels that he should open it, figure out if it is still an elevator.

But his sons come first.

So, to Alphys’s badly-hidden relief, he turns away from the door and approaches her. She’s holding a case in both claws, gripping it so tightly that her scales are pressing into each other. The door to the laboratory opens as they draw near. Alphys pauses just as he slides through. He looks to her to see her eyeing him oddly. “D-do I know you?” she asks.

"Perhaps. You Did Once."

Chapter 20: It's Raining Here

Chapter Text

The sound of footsteps jolts Sans awake, however much he tries to ignore it. The kid’s just probably wandering around. Gaster’ll catch them. Or someone else will. He just can’t get up and get them. Every bone in his body feels like someone’s filled them with cement.

He’s probably just having an off day. He has those every once in a while. Papyrus nicknamed them ‘raincloud days’ after seeing a particularly sad scene in a human movie where the main character wandered around with a raincloud over their head. Sans doesn’t manifest rainclouds on raincloud days, but he doesn’t do much of anything. Even less than usual.

He does his best to bury his entire head in his jacket while continuing to use it for a pillow. It doesn’t work as well as he had hoped.

“Sans?” He half-raises a hand, knowing that he has to acknowledge people in order to make them leave him alone. If he completely shut down, Papyrus would get nervous and have Grillby come over and he wouldn’t be able to handle dealing with either of them. Then his brain catches up, shifting through his memory to match the voice. That is not Papyrus. That’s not even close.

He lifts his head, blinking blearily. The kid’s curled up under the counter of his sentry booth, surrounded by sorted stacks of condiment bottles. He could be mad, but all he feels is a horrible exhaustion. So he sits up, balling up his fists and rubbing at the area around his eye sockets. Raincloud days make him feel like he’s six and has the flu again.

“Sans?” Alphys. With Gaster standing behind her. Dammit. He grins widely. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Alphys, hey. Not still dino-sore about Mew Mew Two, are you?”

She puffs out her cheeks at him, poking her tongue out. She has most definitely not forgotten their last argument. He glances up at Gaster. “What’s going on, doc?”

“You Would Not Go To Alphys. I Brought Alphys To You.” Gaster seems pleased with himself.

“You’re, uh. They’re your…?” Alphys can’t seem to find her words. Sans realizes her meaning and rescues her.

“Gaster’s my dadster, yup. How’re you, Alph?”

“Confused. But, uh, what else is new?” She’s trying to joke. “Um, your dad said you were soul-sick and…” She pauses to side-eye Gaster, who wanders over to make sure Frisk is still asleep. “Sans, are you traveling with the human? I mean, I watched their fight with Undyne and it was… underwhelming. They didn’t fight much, but neither did Undyne.”

Sans waits for a break in her babble. He doesn’t remember her being this talkative. When the awkward silence starts to set in, he breaks it. “Yeah. I’m keeping an eye-socket out for them. You’re doing the same thing with the cameras, right?” It was her cameras that had gotten her to evacuate the Underground. People had wanted her to be their new queen, but.. she had always disappeared. And then the world had gone away.

“Oh. Oh, uh, yeah. I am! Let’s stop talking about me.” She focuses her attention on unsnapping the buckles of her case. He shakes out his sweatshirt and puts it back on, one sleeve at a time. All he really wants to do is sleep, but he initiated the interaction. He’s expected to keep it up until its end. “So, uh. I’ll need to see your soul. If, um, if you don’t want to manifest it out here, we can all go back to the lab…” She trails off, her face paling as she thinks. “On second thought, maybe we should just stay out here.”

“What, you expecting company?” Ugh, he even sounds six now.

“S-sans,” she says. He can’t stall anymore, but the tool in her hands looks unpleasant.

It takes too much effort. He’s left with a hand to his chest, eyes flickering madly between sight and blindness. Finally, he manifests his soul, clasping it in a cage made of his hands so she can barely see it. Even with the extra precautions, the color drains from her face when she sees the segment he’s allowing her to view. The tool she’s holding drops back into the bag as both her hands go up to cover her mouth. “W-w-w-w-wha-?” She gags in horror and he holds his soul tighter, reflexively pressing it to his shirt. Yet, rather than leave or try to sugarcoat it, she swallows. Then she takes his hands in hers and pries them apart.

Even Hotland’s heat isn’t warm enough to soothe the burning cold radiating from the white-blue heart. Blue dribbles from every crack and the whole thing is shaking furiously, trembling like a day-old kitten. It’s only when Alphys hugs him that he realizes that he’s shaking too. “Okay, okay, okay,” she says, whispering the words half to herself as she twists her hands in the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. She smells like, he doesn’t even know, chicken? And there’s a strange tang to her smell, like sour syrup. It doesn’t matter. He just leans on her. It’s easier.

Alphys breaks the hug first, rocking back onto her haunches. Her hands remain on his shoulders a minute longer, then she’s clicking her case shut. “How about you stay with me for a bit? You and Mr. Gaster and the human. They’re called Frisk, right?”

“Yeah, but, Alph, come on. I’m doing fine. Hey, I’m sans-sational.” He grins, but Alphys narrows her eyes behind her thick spectacles. She’s onto him, why is she onto him? “alph, come on, you’ve got company coming over.”

“The company won’t be a problem. You all need some rest and a place to sleep. And, uh,” she fumbles what was obviously meant to be a big convincing speech, completely losing her train of thought. Instead of continuing, she glances over at Gaster.

He pauses in where he’s tucking a spare sweater over Frisk, unmindful of the heat, and looks back at her. Then he looks to Sans. And that look is a challenge and a warning and a question, all wrapped up in the way he’s blinking, an infinitely more complex version of Morse code.

“A Place To Sleep Sounds Wonderful,” he signs, tilting his head to ask for Sans’s opinion. This conversation is solely between them, judging from the way Alphys is puffing out her cheeks as she inspects Gaster’s hands.

Sans’s own hands shiver as he pushes his soul back into his chest cavity, freeing them up for his clumsy signing. “then go with her. take the kid too.”

Gaster grumbles low in his throat, then the sound exits the gap he primarily uses as a mouth. It is warped and a little slurred, but unmistakably dissent. Of course. Gaster had wanted him to go to Alphys from the beginning. This is another ‘told you so.’

The frustration wells up, but it’s good, it’s a good frustration. It means that he’s feeling something. “Fine,” he says, just as garbled. Alphys holds out a hand and he uses it to pull himself up, even if Alphys breaks out in a light sweat from the temporary pressure of his weight.

It turns out that nearly everything in her house can turn into something else. A couch folds out from the wall opposite the big screen when she knocks a particular rhythm, the work table suddenly sports a cooking surface when she presses a particular swirl in the wood. She pulls packets of tea from the refrigerator and shucks them of their plastic wrappings, much to the delight of Frisk, who had woken up again on their trek to the lab.

Sans has been put on the fold-out couch and covered with blankets from a closet somewhere. They still smell like laundry detergent. He must fall asleep because when he wakes up, Frisk is being carried up the escalator and Alphys has just plumped herself down next to him. She has bags under her eyes so dark that they look like they’ve been drawn on by a bad-tempered child with access to markers. He doesn’t like that, seeing her so tired. It makes him feel guilty. She could be sleeping, but instead she’s sitting here with him when there’s nothing wrong. On the floor above them, they can hear Gaster humming.

“alph, why don’t we just go to sleep and deal with it in the morning?”

“Y-you might be dead by morning,” she snaps, then her scales go pale. Obviously she didn’t mean to say that at all. “Oh my dog, Sans, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

He stares at her. His smile has completely missed the memo and is still hanging around his face. “what?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s probably not that serious- I was being stupid. I- I’m so sorry.” She takes a deep breath, trying to gather herself.

He sits, staring at her as she struggles to apologize. “it’s fine, alph. you were mad, that’s fine.”

She swallows and he looks away, watching at the monitor on the wall. The camera is pointed at the monitor and the result is a bizarre optical illusion. “Sans? May I look at your soul again?” Alphys sounds so stiffly formal that it’s easy to tell that she’s faking it. Even when he was working at the palace, she never sounded that formal. She had been so easily goaded into talking to him and then they’d dissolved into good-natured squabbling. He’d let her in to see Asgore, he’d led her out when she left. It’s almost weird to see her now. Alive.

This time his soul acts like a splinter and every motion he makes trying to dislodge it creates a sharper pain. When he finally pulls it out, the whole thing judders in the open air. You might be dead by morning, it seems to say.

Alphys examines, but does not touch, afraid perhaps that it will fall apart if she makes contact. He almost thinks it might. Her mouth moves as she examines each of the fractures. It takes him a moment to process the words she’s whispering. “Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one.” Counting. Counting eighty-nine main fractures.

His own voice rattles around his head, mocking the kid. “That’s the face of someone who’s died thrice in a row. Hey, what comes after thrice anyway?”

This is. This is what comes after thrice. He should have realized that when he saw the kid’s soul, should have realized when he watched them fight Papyrus so carefully. He should have known. It might not have looked exactly like his, but he should have figured it out.

His soul disappears, absorbed back into his body, as he curls in on himself. Alphys doesn’t try to hug him again. Instead, she pulls the blankets around him and leaves him to himself.

His mind races and he thinks that he might scream, so he pulls the blankets even tighter to muffle any possible sound. No sense in alarming anyone. Monster souls are made of love and compassion and kindness. Monsters instinctively trust, instinctively love. Maybe he did that once. He tries to remember, but all he can see is the bloated body of a creature made entirely of thorns and plant matter. His first kill and his first killer.

He had been a guard up in New Home for a few years. Asgore took to him as if he was a son of his, constantly dropping by his post to offer a thermos of tea or a sandwich. He did this to all the guards, of course, acted like they were his children rather than his soldiers. It was Sans who took it to heart, who soaked in all the affection like a sponge. He worked harder than he ever had there, almost as much as he worked on his own research.

There had been rumors of something strange wandering around Snowdin, something that the guards there were unable to find. Undyne, not yet Captain of the Guard but certainly high in the ranks despite being only sixteen, had been sent there with a patrol. Sans remembered her saluting him as she ran at the rear of the platoon, shouldering one of her massive energy lances. She hadn’t come back. Not as herself anyway.

They hadn’t heard any news for a week or so. Sans had his own worries, running back and forth from work to Snowdin, Snowdin to New Home, as he tried to watch over Papyrus and juggle his work. He had been so damn tired that week.

So, Asgore had invited him into the throne room, on the pretense that he needed more hands to water the flowers. When Sans got there, Asgore took one look at him, rumpled clothing, dented armor, and all, and told him to go sit down on the throne and take a nap. He’d protested and the king had told him plainly that he was of no use to anyone like this.

He’d been dozing off when the windows shattered. The doors were ripped off their hinges as thorny vines forced their way into the throne room. Any light that had been filtering in from the judgment hall was cut off, throwing them into a peculiar dusk. Then the head had come through the doors, a fiendish gash in an off-white face, framed by golden petals. Eyes red as rust staring madly through the darkness as Sans ran to throw himself before the king. And, hanging from the thick neck like a necklace of beads, were the bodies. Barely alive, their souls wrapped in vines, all of them people Sans knew or had at least seen before. The vendor who sold him produce, the mother who walked her children down one of his patrol routes every day just to make sure that they’d sleep at night, the children themselves impaled through their lower torsos, strung together. Alphys, her glasses punctured through by vines that now tickled the inside of her head. Undyne, contorted in pain, vines coming out of her mouth to connect her to the rest of the body, leaves tangled in her hair. And, dangling like a medallion from the underside of the massive head, Papyrus, cradled like a baby. Sans could have pretended that he was fine, that he was asleep, but as the head protruded further into the room, dragging the grotesque body after it, he had seen the missing bones and the way that Papyrus’s eye sockets were open and staring at nothing at all.

Papyrus. He hasn’t talked to him in hours. Against his better judgment, the certainty starts to well up that he’s a pile of dust. A pile of soft grey dust scattered around in the snow. Just waiting for someone to step on it, to scuff it around, to kick rocks into it. His breathing hitches in his throat. He needs to call Papyrus. Just to make sure he’s okay. But what if he’s not? What if he’s not and Sans’s is too far away to pick up the dust and scatter it on Papyrus’s things? What if Papyrus is gone and Sans had snapped at him for making friends with the human? What if that was the last thing Papyrus thought about? What if that goddamn flower got to him and he’s dying somewhere with vines crushing his head and thorns caught in his scarf? What if what if what if it’s crushing him all of it crushing him.

Someone tugs the blanket from his hands, uncovering his face. Gaster, his hands moving very slowly and deliberately. He goes through a series of motions, then repeats them over. Numbers. Just numbers. One, two, three, four, numbers are fine. Numbers don’t bite, except they do because eighty-nine times he’s died.

Gaster is too calm about this. He’s rocking from side to side, like an ice cube floating down the river. Side to side to side to side to side to side. Now a pair of his hands are signing the human alphabet.

He catches on at about the third time that Gaster signs a B. He starts forming the letters himself, watching Gaster’s hands very closely so he can form the ones he’s forgotten. The doc’s smart. It had taken Sans weeks to figure out how to stop the attacks in their tracks on his own because the attacks themselves had paralyzed him. Usually, he just counted all the loose threads in his sweatshirt or tried to estimate the grooves on the back of his phone by touch, but the numbers are currently staging a rebellion.

He calms at the fourth N and then falls asleep somewhere around the fifth X. Gaster continues to sign for a time before he exchanges a glance with Alphys. The yellow dinosaur offers him a mug of cold tea and they sit together, he on the couch and her on the floor, trying not to think too much about what had just occurred.

…

Frisk wakes up to voices. Their legs are tangled in the blankets and their body is slick with sweat. It’s too hot in Hotland to sleep easily. Even Flowey, hidden in the depths of their knapsack, is shifting around uncomfortably. They fold the top of the knapsack back and he raises his head up, propping his chin on the edge. “S-so hot,” he grumbles. “C-can you g-get me w-water?”

Frisk nods. Water sounds pretty good to them too. Chara fantasizes up a bath full of ice cubes, a swimming pool, a lake. Anything to kill this awful heat.

The down escalator has stopped running, so their journey downstairs is silent. They stop about halfway down. Mettaton.

The massive calculator is arguing with Alphys, quieter than they’d thought he could ever be. They shudder, thinking of the massive mockery of an angel he had become when they had been made to challenge him. Angels were meant to protect children and he had horrified them, all glinting eyes and roaring engines and a wicked smirk like the curve of a crescent moon. The way he had died had frightened them even more, just falling apart, piece-by-piece. His head with its dead eyes staring up into their impassive face.

“Th-that’s enough!” Alphys stutters. She’s not standing overly close to the robot, but her stance is more powerful than they’d ever seen it before. Her shoulders are squared, her fists clenched, her tail lashing.

“Alphys, darling, where’s all this hostility coming from?” The calculator wheels towards her, arms spread to the sides. It would be welcoming, as if he’s asking her for a hug, but she high-steps back too quickly. A warning then. The arms drop and when Mettaton speaks again, it’s with a syrupy tone. “Alphys, you asked me for help, remember? You wanted to be a character in this story. You can’t just back out on the narrative like this, darling. It’s not good for my ratings.”

Frisk’s ragged fingernails bite into their palms. He’s got to be threatening her. Alphys, who has never done a bad thing to anyone! It’s not fair. They look for someone to stop this. Mr. Gaster is asleep at Alphys’s desk, or they think he is. He’s fading in and out of sight. They think that the lump of blankets on the couch might be Sans, but it could also just be a lump.

There’s a chewed pen on the floor by the couch. They know that anything can be used as a weapon in the Underground if the wielder has enough hatred. They just hope that they can fake enough anger and killing intent. Mettaton scares them, but they don’t really want to hurt him, just to get him away from Alphys.

They tiptoe down the rest of the stairs, keeping one eye on the confrontation. Their fingers inch towards the pen, drawing the rest of their body along.

Sans gives them away and it’s definitely Sans this time and not a lump of blankets. He grumbles something in his sleep, attracting Mettaton’s attention. The calculator spins on his wheel and sees Frisk at precisely the same time Alphys does. Alphys’s expression drops, her eyes widening behind her spectacles.

“We f*cked something up,” Chara says.

Frisk and the calculator face each other in silence, before Mettaton says, in a silky voice that makes Frisk fidget and Alphys sweat, “Alphys, darling, you weren’t hiding this human from me, were you? After all the weeks of planning, you sabotage this?” Suddenly, he booms, in a voice like thunder, “BETRAYED! By my good friend, Doctor Alphys! Oh, what a world!” One slinky arm drapes itself over the top of the boxy form as he pretends to swoon. Another produces a handkerchief, with which it dabs at the screen of his face, as if blotting away tears. “Well! The show must go on!”

He waves the hand not holding the handkerchief with the finesse of a stage magician and Frisk is sent skyrocketing into the air on a platform made of flower-scented magic. The lights on the wall cameras all blink on. Before them appears a holographic board, blank for the moment. From the speakers in his chest, Mettaton blasts game show music as disco balls drop from the ceiling.

At his seat at the desk, Gaster startles awake, staring up at Frisk in bleary confusion. Then he swings his head around to pinpoint the source of the music. Rather than help, he seems to think it’s some sort of game, shuffling over to the couch and out of the way. He signs, almost cheerily, “I Will Be Over Here Should You Require My Assistance,” and then switches his attention between Frisk and Mettaton periodically, with the faintly detached air of someone watching a television program or a table tennis match.

Mettaton makes some introductions, then the game show is underway. The questions are bizarre to say the least. The first few are obvious. “’What is the king’s name?’” Chara scoffs. “Duh! Asgore Dreemurr!” Frisk stabs at that answer with a finger and Mettaton cheers them on. It’s a little disconcerting the way he switches back and forth between tormentor and cheerleader.

The next question makes Frisk freeze, trying to think. It’s something about trains. Multiplication? Maybe? Their head hurts already and for the first time, they notice a timer counting down, ticking away red seconds.

“Answer’s D, Frisky. 32.058 minutes.” Frisk takes a jab at the button, thanking Chara profusely. Mettaton goes crazy. It’s like he’s acting out being the live studio audience as well as the host of the show. Granted, Gaster is applauding excitedly every time Mettaton gets overexcited, applauding with so many hands that it sounds like there really is a live studio audience.

Chara gets the next math question as well, but then Frisk messes up. They get too confident and choose the answer that says Froggit. Their soul is blasted so quickly that they don’t even have time to react.

Chara’s shout of pain is overtaken by Gaster and Alphys’s joint protest. Alphys pulls on Mettaton’s arm as Gaster assembles a stepladder. Frisk is scooped up by manifested hands, one of which is holding the remains of his mug of tea. Gaster keeps up a babbling sound, not dissimilar to a river, as he pats their head and ruffles their hair. They guess that he’s scolding Mettaton, but they’re too busy trying not to cry into the cold tea to be sure. Mettaton’s laser has sliced their health in half, so various parts of their body are being punctured by shooting pains.

Chara slurps at the tea as Mettaton announces “Let’s go to our commercial break!” Quieter, he hisses “Alphys, get him off the stage!”

“Metta! Th-that happens to be, uh, the human’s agent!” Frisk pauses mid-slurp. Alphys is staring hard at Gaster, willing him to play along. “And, uh, he’s here to make sure his client works only under ch-child labor laws!”

“Oh my!” Mettaton presses a gloved hand to his screen. Alphys plants her hands on her hips, nodding even as sweat trickles down the side of her face. Mettaton swivels in an overly dramatic way, staring at each and every single one of the cameras on the lab walls as if there is an adoring crowd staring back at him. “My wonderful twelve viewers would hate a violation of child labor laws!”

Gaster straightens his back and burbles in a most authoritative way. It figures that the meaning of whatever he says is wasted upon them, but Mettaton seems to understand the tone of it, for he switches from dramatic to soothing. “Well, darling, there should only be three more questions on the show. We have to fit it into the network’s slot, you understand. In fact, if we don’t wrap it up soon, I’ll be late for judging Constructing With A Killer Robot, my home improvement show.” They can almost hear the winning smile in his voice. “So, darling, if you’ll just finish your turn so we can proceed.”

Even cold tea has enough healing properties to transform oozing burns into faint bruises. Frisk nudges away Gaster’s ministrations, beaming up at the monster and putting their mug into his waiting hand. “Thanks!” He smiles back. As he sets them down, he descends the stepladder. They turn to Mettaton. Chara rolls their head around, cracking their neck. Frisk waggles their fingers by their hips, like a gunslinger in a Western.

“Aaaand, we’re back, beauties and gentlebeauties! Our contestant is feeling ready to take on the world, but first! Can they answer this question correctly?”

The board types out Would you smooch a ghost? Chara laughs hysterically at the options, but Frisk looks instead at Alphys. The little dinosaur is squinting at Mettaton, her cheeks puffed out in the way that meant she was confused as all get out. Frisk bites the inside of their own cheek to keep from smiling. Mettaton seems to be adhering nicely to the ‘child labor laws,’ because the timer is counting up from thirty seconds rather than down.

Frisk embraces the spirit of the show, hemming and hawing over the options. They tap their cheek with their index finger, stroke an imaginary beard, ask Gaster what he thinks the answer should be. Equally solemn, he responds with “I Prefer The Odds Of Answer C.” Frisk deliberates a little longer, then presses C.

Mettaton throws his arms up in the air, tossing the microphone to the influence of gravity. “Great answer!” he bellows. “I love it!” Alphys throws a few hesitant cheers in there to compliment Gaster’s frenzied clapping. “Here’s another simple one for you, dear contestant!”

Frisk can’t decide whether to laugh or cry as Mettaton makes the letter N repeat itself until it spirals up off the board. The letter N has lost all meaning to them. They glance up helplessly, only to make eye contact with Alphys. She flicks her eyes down, to her hands, which are forming C. Frisk pokes C, which, to their relief, is the correct answer.

“Time to break out the big guns!” Mettaton sings. He reads this question out himself. “In the dating simulation game ‘Mew Mew Kissy Cutie,’ what is Mew Mew’s favorite food?”

Alphys is suddenly shouting over him, flailing excitedly. “Oh! Oooh! I know this one! It’s snail ice cream! In the fourth chapter everyone goes to the beach! And she buys ice cream for all of her friends! But it’s snail flavor and she’s the only one who wants it! It’s one of my favorite parts of the game because it’s actually a very powerful..” She sees the way Mettaton is looking at her and finally notices the way Gaster and Frisk are frantically signing for her to stop. Her voice trails off “…message about friendship and...” She stops speaking just in time for Mettaton’s silky voice to make a reappearance.

“Alphys, Alphys, Alphys. You aren’t helping our contestant, are you? Not after the stunt you pulled earlier?” Alphys shakes her head and Mettaton folds his arms, obviously not believing her after her outburst. “Ooooh, you should have told me.” Instead of sounding scolding, Mettaton actually sounds kind of upset, not fitting with his showboating personality at all.

Frisk sits down on the platform as Mettaton turns back to them. His voice has fallen into the same monotone Sans uses when he’s upset, but his is tinged with a robotic edge. “In that case, I’ll ask a question you’ll be sure to know the answer to.”

“Metta, n-“ He cuts her off, throwing his arms out towards the cameras.

“Pay close attention, my dear viewers! This is the human’s final question! If they get it wrong, well, there’s a reason it’s called a death round!” He chuckles and puts one hand on his edge, the other up in the air. “Who does Doctor Alphys have a crush on?”

The options show up, but Alphys is cringing away. Frisk shakes their head. Chara nudges them a bit. “C’mon, Frisky, last question. You gonna answer or what?”

‘Or what,’ Frisk answers, holding their hands up. They refuse. This is mean. This is really, really mean and Alphys has been nothing but nice to them.

“Come along, contestant,” Mettaton wheedles. They can’t believe they ever thought of pairing him up with Papyrus. Papyrus deserves someone nice.

When they look down at the board again, it is completely blank. But Mettaton swivels around as if they’ve answered anyway. Sparing them. Or sparing Alphys. “Correct!” he cries, rolling his R’s. “It’s astonishing how clever they are! Well, with Doctor Alphys helping them, how could they not succeed? She’s so… determined.” The way he says this, deadpan and not even looking at Alphys to gage her reaction, it definitely doesn’t feel right. “Unfortunately, determination has no dramatic tension! No pizazz! Our quiz show simply cannot go on! But. But! This was just the pilot episode! Yes, darlings, the human will face more challenges! More drama! More romance! More bloodshed! Until next time, darlings!”

Almost vindictively, he spins on his wheel, retracting his arms and hopping into the air. The wheel itself disassembles and reassembles as a rocket, which launches him out through the roof. Bits of plaster rain down on them. The platform vanishes, but they alight safely in Gaster’s magic, which wraps around them like an embrace. Gaster himself is hovering over Alphys, patting her arms gently.

When Frisk gets close enough to hear her, their heart breaks a little. Alphys is crying and apologizing all in the same breath, apologizing to Gaster, to Mettaton, to Frisk. Apologies about nothing at all and about everything. It’s when she starts to apologize for even existing that Chara launches them forward to nuzzle her spines and to hug her neck. “No,” they say fiercely. “Don’t you dare think like that.” Alphys’s arms come up until she’s holding them too, pressing her face into their shoulder.

Another pair of arms moves around them to hug Alphys. “aw, c’mon, alph,” Sans says, with more kindness than they’d ever heard, in a voice that they’ve never heard. “there’s no need for that. you’re mew cool for this. in fact, you might even be mew mew two levels of cool.”

Alphys sobs all the harder and Sans clicks his forehead against her scales gently. On her other side, Gaster does the same. When she looks up, Frisk copies their gesture, applying their sleeve to the tear tracks staining her face. She does this peculiar giggle-snort as she pokes Sans in the shoulder, trying to snuffle up her tears. “Mew Mew Two is trash, Sans. Trash.”

Gaster gurgles his laughter and Frisk smiles widely in relief, reaching for Alphys’s hand and squeezing it.

‘It’s all going to be okay.’

Before they go back upstairs, they get a glass of water from the fridge. The time on Alphys’s big screen says two-thirty. Flowey has wilted all over the place, groaning melodramatically. “Wh-where were you?” he whines, gulping down half the glass in one swallow. Frisk won’t allow him to stick a vine in, their explanation being that they don’t feel like drinking soil. They leave a few swallows of water for him as they clamber into bed. The sheets seem cooler now, welcoming them in.

Flowey comes crawling up the side of the bed and coils up on the pillow near their head. They fall asleep smelling the perfume of his petals and worrying. Mettaton seems a lot angrier than he used to sound.

Chapter 21: Everything's Copacetic

Chapter Text

Alphys wants them to stay for a little while. “W-well, no. I mean, uh, I want you guys here, but, um. You should really stay for a bit. There’s a lot of, um, stuff.”

Frisk crunches their raw noodles, sneaking the stray bits off their plate and into their pocket so they can feed Flowey. The Hotland morning light is sneaking in through the high windows and the Mettaton-shaped hole in the ceiling, illuminating the fact that the lab is cleaner than it has been in months. Gaster had woken them all up that morning by finding the vacuum inside a hidden closet. His trilling song as he ran the device up the walls to get at the bits of plaster was a welcome change from how everyone usually woke up. Currently, he’s organizing Alphys’s paperwork into neat stacks. She doesn’t seem to mind. He’s obeying the rules that she set out in the first place; namely that no one is allowed into the bathroom because she needs to clean it up first and that if he finds letters, he is to refrain from opening or reading them.

“What’s she mean by stuff?” Chara asks, reaching for the mug of soda. “I can feel this sh*t rotting my teeth. God, Alphys.”

Sans is munching on noodles as well. Alphys is sitting beside him, writing out notes. Frisk had tried to sneak a peek at them, but Sans had growled at them, which had not only made Chara want to crawl up the walls to get away, but also made Frisk’s heart beat much too fast much too early in the morning. When they had come downstairs, he had been on the phone, talking quietly to whomever was on the other end. It hadn’t been Papyrus because they would have heard him. Even his quiet voice is a few decibels louder than an acceptable volume. Then, as Alphys had set out teacups, he’d bid whoever was on the other side a pleasant goodbye and wandered over to the table to sit with the rest of them.

Sans speaks now. “That’s real nice of you, Alph, but we’ve got to keep moving if we want to get the kid out of here.”

Frisk perks up, looking at him with their head tilted. It’s not much friendlier than his usual attitude towards them, but it’s better than nothing. They slip their last bite of noodles into their pocket, offering Alphys a ‘thank you,’ and ride the up escalator up to where Flowey is waiting.

He greets them with a peevish “I’m st-starving!” and they roll their eyes as they pile their pilfered food into their hands for him. He grumbles as he eats, grumbles as he crawls back into the knapsack, grumbles as they smile at him. He’s trying to make up for what he sees as unforgivable, sleeping so close to their face that they could have crushed him if they’d half a mind to do so.

“It must really tick him off to be stuck up here. Maybe we should take him downstairs. I mean, Sans has seen him. What more could happen?”

Frisk shrugs and asks “You want to come downstairs? Alphys has-“ They don’t even have a chance to tell him about all of Alphys’s awesome cartoons.

“N-no. I don’t. Sh-she’s not s-so nice, you k-know.” Despite their outraged scolding, Flowey refuses to say more and Frisk stumps back downstairs confused and angry. Flowey was rarely ever nice to them before, so what right does he have to be awful to poor Alphys? He only started being nice when he thought they were Chara, and that was only really after they were made to kill him. It’s like all he really understands is violence.

“Not true,” Chara argues. “It’s probably just the heat. He’s a flower. He’s more vulnerable to heat.” It’s not as convincing when they can hear Chara’s own worry, but Frisk hopes they’re right. They hope it’s not because of his soullessness. He’d been doing so well after all. They hop the last couple of steps and land in the middle of a conversation. Papyrus’s voice rings out loud and clear, talking excitedly, and underneath it, the popping of Grillby’s laughter. Then Undyne’s voice overtakes them both with a roaring laugh.

Sans, Alphys, and Gaster are all sitting around Alphys’s kitchen table, another of the things previously hidden in the walls. On the tabletop between them is Sans’s phone, from which the voices stem. Frisk hurries over, wriggling up next to Alphys in order to beam at the camera and join the gaiety.

“HELLO, FRISK!” Papyrus cheers. Undyne’s loud groan nearly swallows up Grillby’s amused “Good morning, doll.” They kind of like that every monster has a different way of greeting them, even if Undyne’s isn’t the most flattering thing ever and is paired with her going off to slump on a couch they can see in the background. But Papyrus and Grillby are still there, both smiling back.

They wave. Grillby raises a hand back and Papyrus waves so enthusiastically that the phone is caught up in the motion. They’re treated to a nauseating ride through the air before Papyrus manages to restrain himself. Frisk notes the smear of blue on Grillby’s shirt collar then and the smudge of coral-pink on Papyrus’s cheekbone.

“We caught Mettaton’s show last night,” Grillby notes. He sounds amused and holds up his phone. He must have filmed a portion of the show because there’s Gaster and Sans, sitting on Alphys’s couch. Sans looks half asleep in the clip and there’s a quiet version of Papyrus’s recorded scream in the background as he realized that yes, that is his brother and father on Mettaton’s TV show. “You didn’t tell us you were guest stars.”

“I AM AWED TO BE WITHIN THE PRESENCE OF SUCH FAMOUS PEOPLE!” Papyrus says, genuinely delighted for them. Nothing is ever false with him, not even joking enthusiasm.

Frisk claps their hands, laughing at their excitement. “What are you all doing together?”

“Undyne came back to visit and, well…” Grillby makes a series of crackling and popping noises as he turns the camera down towards the floor. A misshapen face made out of burlap glares up at them through bulging eyes. “She brought a guest.”

“What? What? WHAT?” screeches the dummy, each ‘what’ pressing its face closer to the camera until all Frisk can see is a single eye. Grillby rescues them from it, turning the camera back up towards himself and Papyrus.

“So, they’ve decided to camp out here for a bit. Means I have more hands on deck.”

Papyrus takes the phone and his teeth very nearly fill up the whole screen before he manages to adjust the camera. “HOW ARE YOUR ADVENTURES? I SEE THAT YOU’VE MET METTATON, WHO IS BY FAR THE UNDERGROUND’S SEXIEST RECTANGLE. AND YOU’VE MET THE GREAT DOCTOR ALPHYS!”

Alphys blushes happily. Sans snorts at ‘Underground’s sexiest rectangle’. Frisk wonders if the Underground even has any other sexy rectangles.

“I bet there are a few bricks sexier than him,” Chara says sardonically.

“We Visited Temmie Village,” Gaster says and if he expected everyone to be perfectly fine with this, he’s dead wrong. Papyrus starts blinking way too fast. From her seat on the couch, Undyne gives a shout of “WHAAAAT?” while Grillby’s head starts to spark. Literally no one is fine with this.

“wouldn’t rate the experience tem outta tem, i have to be honest,” Sans notes.

Now Frisk is incredibly curious and so is Gaster, judging by the way he’s looking at everyone. “What happened with the Temmies?”

“Nothing,” the group on camera says in unison. Frisk hold up their hands in surrender, even as their jaw falls open. The vehemence of those they considered their friends, it was a little astonishing.

Papyrus smiles first, even if it’s not his full, thousand-watt smile. “I CAN’T WAIT FOR YOU TO COME BACK! GRILLBY AND I ARE REARRANGING THE HOUSE! CURRENTLY, WE ARE REPAINTING THE SPARE ROOM!” That explains the colorful smudges. “FRISK, YOU LIKE THE COLOR PINK, CORRECT?”

Frisk blinks. Why would he be asking them? They’re going home. It’s Sans and Gaster and Papyrus who would sleep in the spare room. They nod anyway. Most colors are good colors to them. Right now, they’re not so fond of blue or green, but that’s just for now.

“I TOLD YOU!” Papyrus yells triumphantly.

“Of course you did,” Grillby mumbles, rolling the lights in his eyes even as they crinkle at the corners again. He seems to be enjoying himself.

“WE’VE GOT BUNK BEDS FOR WHEN YOU COME BACK AND VISIT,” Papyrus explains happily.

“Awww,” Chara coos. “That’s so sweet!” They’d forgotten to tell Papyrus of their plan to break the barrier and obviously Grillby had neglected to mention it too. They do that now, Chara delighting in the way Papyrus’s jaw drops. There’s a scuffling sound and then Undyne appears in the screen, squinting.

“Human! You’re kidding! You think you can do that? You? When we’ve been trying for fu- fracking years?” It’s almost funny how she’s both challenging them and censoring herself to protect them.

Papyrus chips in, defending them. “FRISK THE HUMAN IS VERY DETERMINED, UNDYNE! IF THEY SAY THEY CAN DO IT, THEN THEY CAN!”

“I’m determined too! Determined to noogie you until you stop talking!” Undyne tackles Papyrus out of the camera’s view. Frisk can just hear the dummy’s yelling over Papyrus’s screaming. Thankfully, Grillby moves away from the scuffle, until the camera shows that he’s in the downstairs kitchen, leaning on the stove.

"My apologies for making you spell all that out again, but if I had left Papyrus to his own devices for one more day, he would have driven me mad." Grillby shrugs, his eyes sparkling. Chara notes that they can see why Sans likes him. Frisk opens their mouth to question it, but- “You’ve got only one more territory on the main path to New Home, huh?” In the quiet without Papyrus and Undyne, he keeps his voice low. “I wish you all the best of luck.”

“Thanks,” Frisk says, beaming at him. Grillby smiles back before his expression turns serious.

“Frisk, I don’t believe we’ve been entirely honest with you. Sans and I were discussing it this morning and we decided it was better to tell you.”

“You’re getting married,” Chara deadpans and Frisk’s face gives one massive twitch as they fight not to laugh.

“There’s a lot of evidence that when you reach the castle, the king will take your soul no matter what you say or do. Down here, not much is going well for the monsters. A long time ago, there was an explosion down at the Core. Several of the monsters there died. It was a kingdom-wide tragedy.”

Chara swallows loudly and Frisk can hear them rattling something around. When they focus on the sound though, they pinpoint it as being outside of their head. Mr. Gaster’s hands are shaking.

“After the explosion, monsterkind experienced the worst mass epidemic since the war. Hundreds of monsters fell down, losing hope in everything. They were there one minute and the next- gone. In five years, the population was sliced in half. Monsters are desperate to get out of here. The Underground is a death trap.”

The rattling seems to double and they look to Sans now. He’s shivering, his bones clicking together like macabre castanets.

“The King, he has to do what’s best for the people, and if taking your soul is the way to do it, he will. I know you want to go home, Frisk, but perhaps it’s better if you stay down here for a while.”

They don’t even hesitate. “I’m going home.” Chara, hovering in the mindscape, smirks at that, pride radiating off them as if they are a miniature sun.

Grillby crinkles his eyes at them gently. “I admire your hope. I hope you will find a method that will allow you to resolve this your way.” He blinks and sparks white as a distant crash comes through the phone speakers. “I have to go make sure everything’s copacetic upstairs. Goodbye.” The call ends and Frisk sees that Grillby’s contact picture on Sans’s phone is the fire elemental holding an umbrella, trying to block the camera with his free hand.

Frisk pats the table near Gaster’s trembling hands in the silence that follows, drawing his attention. He halfheartedly ruffles their hair in return.

Alphys drums her fingers on the table then alights upon an idea so great that she slaps her palms against the wood, nearly frightening Gaster out of his own skin. “Frisk, Mr. Gaster, Sans, do you want to watch a show with me?” she asks, obviously trying to distract them from the horror that was Grillby’s summary of the group mental state of the Underground. Frisk nods enthusiastically, but holds up a hand before Alphys can recommend one. They dart up the escalator again and open their knapsack.

“I t-told you, Fr-Frisk, I d-d-don’t wanna see h-her,” Flowey complains as soon as they lift the flap. He’s definitely looking a little wilted, for real this time, not for dramatic effect like last night. They run back downstairs and fill up a bowl with water for him, then exchange the water bowl for the DVD case they found in the dump. Flowey sucks up the water with his vines, looking disappointed that they don’t want to argue with him, as they dash back downstairs, waving the case around.

“Ooh!” Alphys says, taking it from them and reading the back. “An adventure story! N-nice! I’ve never seen this one before!” She glances over at Gaster, who is staring hard at the case. “D-don’t worry, I’m pretty sure Frisk c-can watch it.” Gaster slumps back onto the couch, relieved. He’s fit himself into playing the role of another surrogate parent very nicely and Frisk is glad for it. They scramble up onto the other side of the couch, leaving enough room for Alphys between them. “Sans?” the dinosaur calls. “You s-sure you d-don’t want to w-watch?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks, Alph.” His voice comes from one of the hidden rooms in the walls. Some of these are broom closets, but others look like old laboratories. He’s very interested in them, even though Gaster most definitely is not.

The anime is good, but Frisk’s mind is distracted by Chara about a fourth of the way in. Chara is plotting. They close their eyes and open the inner ones to find the spirit drawing on the wall. There’s a rough sketch of the badge there, along with an even cruder drawing of the one Temmie had shown them. Chara’s connected them with yellow lines to doodles of Alphys, Gaster, and Goner Kid. Goner Kid is circled in red. Frisk approaches the wall, but Chara is absorbed in sketching out an image of Sans beside Alphys. They can hear them muttering. “Sans and Alphys know each other somehow, enough to have inside jokes. Sans and Gaster are related, whoops, forgot Papyrus, he’s in there too. Gaster knew Goner Kid. Sans might have, Alphys might have.”

Chara takes a step back to survey their work and collides with Frisk. The former leaps into the air in surprise and just keeps going. “Frisky, don’t scare me like that!” they scold, floating about the headspace like a balloon.

‘Sorry,’ Frisk answers. They’ve modeled their inside voice after Chara’s and Asriel’s, so it has a bit of a monster’s natural lilt and a little of Chara’s rough sound. Chara relaxes at the voice, drifting back down to the ground. Frisk glances about at their drawings. ‘This is amazing. What’re you doing?’ In what looks like green chalk, Chara’s done little mock-ups of all the creatures they’ve met too. It’s fascinating.

“Trying to connect everything.” Chara rubs their chin. “It’s hard. I’m not so good at this. Azzy liked to think, not me.” They shrug, revealing that they’ve smudged blue on their chin. It actually looks like chalk, right down to the smeary way that the powder mocks the shape of Chara’s handprint.

‘Looks good to me,’ Frisk objects, reaching out to touch the drawing of the badge. It is chalk. Chara beams when Frisk shows them the stain it’s left on their fingers, a tribute to exactly how powerful Chara is at manipulating the mindscape. Wiping it off onto their sweater, Frisk folds their arms. ‘So, whatcha got?’

Chara looks around and starts reciting, in a dull drone that reveals that they’ve been over these drawings thousands of times before. “Before there was an accident at the Core, there were at least three people that worked there. One was Goner Kid. Another must have been Gaster because he fell into the Core itself. I think Sans was probably there too, because he recognized the badges. There’s a spare badge, but we don’t know who it belongs to yet.

“Gaster fell in the Core. Sans and Papyrus were probably just kids, because Papyrus can’t be too old. I mean, I don’t know about Sans, but Papyrus is definitely not older than Mom.”

‘She’s like three hundred years old,’ Frisk points out skeptically. Gaster seems very young to them. He acts too much like Lee to be even nearly as old as Toriel. They mention as much and Chara considers.

“Let’s estimate Sans at about thirty-five then. Papyrus would be maybe twenty then. So, if the accident at the Core was about twenty or so years ago, Sans would be early teens and Papyrus would be a baby. Sans would be old enough to remember it or maybe his mom would tell him.”

‘I think you’re talking numbers too much,’ Frisk complains, looking at a doodle of the fluffy white dog they’d pulled from Gytrot’s horns with a frown. They weren’t so fond of numbers, not even aboveground. Underground, where numbers usually showed up after a killing blow, they liked them even less.

Chara lets out a sigh that lasts at least a minute too long. “Fine. Goner Kid’s dead and Gaster’s a mess, so there’s something that’s bringing them back. Maybe it’s something to do with those green creatures. I don’t know. But Temmie said it had something to do with history. And who knows history?”

Frisk’s eyes open and they mouth ‘Alphys.’

The little yellow dinosaur is reluctant to tear her eyes away from her program, but Frisk tugs so insistently that she finally looks at them, at the signs they’re making. Alphys fishes around for the remote, locating it on the floor and pausing just as the brightly-colored main character shouts a shrill battle cry. Gaster looks around in confusion as the highly saturated antics onscreen stop. He seemed just as invested as Alphys in the adventures of the main character and her sidekick, the funny guy.

Alphys stretches up off the couch and pads over to the table, returning with the pad and pen Gaster had been using. Frisk takes it gratefully, writing almost as soon as the pen is in their hands, writing in Chara’s harried script first, then taking enough control to slow their hand. They ask Alphys if she’s seen the creatures, the ones that pretend to be monsters, but before they can elaborate further, she’s backing away.

“H-how do you kn-know about th-that?” she asks.

“So, she does know,” Chara says triumphantly, excited at first that their hypothesis was right. Then they see how badly she’s shaking, how her face has crumpled again. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

Frisk asks as much and Alphys shakes her head. “Y-you knew and y-you st-stayed?” Before they can answer, she’s got her hands up, hiding her face. “O-oh n-no. O-oh n-no, I’m s-s-so s-sorry.” She chokes out a laugh or a sob, it’s hard to tell, then flees upstairs, Chara calling after her “I think we got some wires crossed here!”

They stand for a moment before realizing in unison exactly how bad of an idea it is to let Alphys be upstairs, and chase after her. But then Alphys is gasping and Flowey is screaming and they’re not going to get up there fast enough to keep either side from killing the other.

When they finally leap off the escalator, Alphys is sitting on the floor, hands pressed over her eyes and tail curled around her feet. Flowey, half-submerged in the bowl of water Frisk gave him, glances sullenly up at them. “S-see?” he says. “You f-found her out. Sh-she’s n-not s-so nice after all.”

Frisk’s knees give out in relief and they wind up crawling the rest of the way, discarding Flowey’s words like a piece of old garbage. He’s grumpy because he’s overheating, that’s all. They nudge Alphys’s arm with their head. She shudders. They sit back on their heels, writing on the pad very slowly and thoughtfully, keeping their arm touching hers at all times. They are determined to make this right. Determined to help her.

Chara’s whispering suggestions in their head and they include as many as they can. Then they tear the page off the pad, fold it in half, draw two triangles with the tips crossing. They flip it over and draw a postage stamp on the upper right corner. Then they print the address of Alphys- Alphys, The Upstairs Bedroom, The Laboratory, Hotland, The Underground- and slip it through the gap between her cheek and her arm.

They don’t expect her to shake even harder. Letters usually make things better. Chara has a whole bunch of memories where they wrote Asgore and Toriel and Asriel birthday letters or thank-you letters. Frisk and Lee used to communicate through letters when Frisk was very small, letters pushed under Lee’s office door or letters under Frisk’s breakfast plate or tucked into their pockets. Letters and blankets.

They go to yank the blanket off the bed as Gaster makes an appearance, trilling nervously. He helps them, untucking the corners so they can yank it off and wrap it over Alphys’s shoulders. How much help it’ll be in this heat, they’re not sure. He sits at Alphys’s other side, squished between her and Flowey’s bowl, which he has vacated in order to hide under the bed. Over Alphys’s head, he signs “What Happened?”

Frisk shrugs, leaning their head on her arm. The minutes slip away like fine sand and it gets too warm to sit together. Alphys feels like she’s taken all of Hotland’s heat into herself. Frisk takes one of Gaster’s manifested hands out of the air and places it on Alphys’s arm where their head had been, before they crawl over to their knapsack. A clean scarf, that’s what they need. They wrap it around their hand and dip it in the bowl of water, scrubbing up the wet trails that Flowey’s vines left on the floor with their sleeve.

When the scarf is pleasantly cool and damp, Frisk moves back to their place, patting it against Alphys’s cheek in an attempt to cool her down. They don’t even know where Sans is, but, for a change, they really wish he was around. Alphys knows him better than she knows them. They worry that all they’re really doing is freaking her out more.

“I’m sorry that everyone’s hurt,” she says quietly.

At first, Frisk thinks that the words are addressed to them and they still, wondering if Alphys knows about the Resets. Then Alphys pushes herself to a standing position, holding their letter in her claws. The blanket falls in a lump on the floor. “Nobody is happy,” she says, almost as if it’s a question. Then she squares her shoulders. “Fr-Frisk. You’re my friend, right?”

They nod.

Alphys nods back, bobbling her head like a dashboard dog. She takes a breath, like she’s about to make a big speech. “I’m going to start being a better person, okay? It’s, uh, the least I can do. S-so. I’m going to open your letter.”

“You go, girl! Open that letter!” Chara cheers. “And then give us answers! Because I know you know!” Frisk pumps their fist in the air, cheering Alphys on as she unfolds their paper. Gaster claps a couple times, proudly, Frisk thinks. Like he’s watching her graduate.

Alphys reads it. Her eyes flick up over the top of the paper to look at them questioningly. Before they can smile or wave or anything, she fussily adjusts her glasses and reads it over again. Frisk folds their hands in their lap, glancing over at Gaster. He nods, somehow conveying his faith in them with a single movement.

Alphys laughs, not the nervous laugh she usually has, but real, amused laughter. “Frisk!” she says, looking over at them. “S-Sans is an awful influence on you!”

Frisk beams. They had written her a lovely heartfelt apology, of course, but the best part had been the decorating. With Chara’s help, they had covered the paper with all the lame jokes they could think of, as well as drawing a bunch of pictures of themself holding hands with Alphys. Chara did the border of flowers entirely on their own, but Frisk did all the writing. At the bottom of the page, they had written Show me Mew Mew Kissy Cutie sometime, please.

They get up and hug her again, dropping their pad to the tiles. She hugs them back, resting her chin in their hair. One of her arms lifts off their shoulders and they turn to see Gaster. He looks like he’s waffling between joining the hug and not. Alphys is beckoning him forward, into the embrace. Frisk joins her, shifting over so that Gaster can enter the hug. He does so then, careful to avoid contact with Frisk. He only stays within the embrace for a few seconds, then slopes back to stand at the foot of the bed. They appreciate his caution, thinking with a mental wince about the last time.

They’d been scared by how suddenly the darkness had come on and they’d grabbed onto the closest person. Chara had told them to not be so scared, that Frisk was too confident to be scared of something like the dark. And Frisk had been so determined to prove them right. And the darkness had swallowed them and taken Gaster along. When they’d come out of it, Sans had looked horrified. Like they were a murderer all over again.

They shiver. Alphys holds them at arms length, worried. They hold up their hands, afraid to frighten her more, but looking for answers. Slipping out of her embrace, they scoop up their pad and turn to the bed. Flowey crawls reluctantly out from underneath it when signed for. His vines creep up the offered arm until he’s situated properly. Then he all but glares at Alphys, daring her to make something of it.

“Stop it,” Chara says, equally amused and concerned. Frisk passes the message along, then writes on their pad: ‘So, how do you two know each other?’

“She f-f*cking m-m-made me into th-this,” Flowey snarls, warping his face and waggling a forked tongue at Alphys menacingly. Frisk, who had gone to shake a finger at him for the swear, freezes, looking askance at Alphys. She had brought Asriel back from the dead?

“I was performing experiments using Determination. St-studying its effects.” Gaster, who has been listening intently, now gestures with frustration at the ceiling. Frisk sends him a questioning look, but he flaps his hand at them. It’s nothing.

“I- I wanted to make Asgore happy, so I used a flower from his garden to be the first vessel.”

Chara sucks in a breath. “Where our dust was scattered. Holy hell.” Their confusion and horror races through Frisk’s mind and their soul pulses in response. “That could have been me, Frisk. If she had found me instead of using a flower. Remind me to thank Mom for stealing my body.” Frisk shakes their head to dispel the images Chara’s words are calling up.

‘We need answers, not scary things,’ Frisk tells them, gesturing for Alphys to go on. The dinosaur shrugs, blushing. Of course there isn’t more information. The result of her experiment is perched on Frisk’s shoulder, looking aggravated as usual. He’s all the information they need.

‘What about Mettaton?’ they ask instead, going for a vaguely more pleasant line. They’d never learned much about Mettaton in their other Resets. Alphys must know a little something.

Alphys sighs, averting her eyes from them and staring at the floor instead. “I b-built him to be an entertainment robot. It was a f-favor of sorts. And he turned out even b-better than I’d thought he would, but he decided he’d rather go solo and-“ She has that apologetic look, like she’s about to say something self-deprecating, but she catches herself in time, puffing out her cheeks. “It made him a star,” she comments instead, smiling a little wistfully. Frisk wonders all of a sudden if Mettaton had been her first friend and he had left her. No wonder she’s a wreck. Chara gives their presence the feeling of a hug, a gesture of possessive pride more than anything.

“A-anyway. Uh, he saw all my cameras once when he came in for repairs and, um.” She winces, then fidgets. “It- it seems really dumb now, but I wanted to be a part of the story, you know? You’re just so cool! Like Undyne, b-but pocket-sized! Not my pockets, but m-maybe Asgore’s. And he wanted to help and I w-was so excited because it was g-going to b-be our Human Fanclub all over again, but, um. But then I met you. A-and I saw Sans’s soul. And, uh.” She stops and twiddles her claws, sucking in a breath. “And you’re my friends now too.”

Frisk smiles at her, but of course she doesn’t look up and she’s blushing again. Her hands fumble around each other, folding up the letter in order to fit it into her lab coat’s pocket. Gaster’s still staring at the ceiling as if someone is going to come crashing through it and rescue him. “If silence can be pregnant, this one’s expecting twins,” Chara says disapprovingly. The tail end of their sentence is lost, as quite abruptly, Alphys’s head whips up.

“Oh! And if we’re friends, we can exchange cell numbers! We can text all the time!”

Frisk can see exactly two separate problems with this idea, but they obligingly hand over their phone. Alphys takes it with slowly dawning horror, dangling it between two claws like it’s a co*ckroach. “Where did you get this phone?” she asks. “It looks ancient! It doesn’t even have a texting feature!” This last was said with such revulsion that Frisk had to bite the inside of their cheek to keep from laughing. They can kind of see why she and Mettaton had become friends in the first place. She’s actually pretty dramatic herself.

Alphys examines the phone a minute, then says “I think I can upgrade it for you, if you want.”

“Say yes! Maybe she’ll give it super cool magical powers!”

‘Were you watching that anime too?’ Frisk teases as they nod to Alphys. Chara’s essence turns an embarrassed pink.

“Background noise helps me think!” they say defensively, turning back to their grafftied walls. After a time where they pretend to study their work, they comment “I liked that part where the nice guy turned out to be crazy and the background music went nuts.”

Frisk snickers as Alphys darts off down the escalator, but Chara’s thoughts pulse grey. Their thoughtful color. ‘What’s the matter?’

“What was she saying about-?”

Frisk sees movement out of the corner of their eye and asks Chara to put a pin in that real fast.

Gaster has seated himself on the bed, one hand absentmindedly fixing the folds in the sheets. “You Were Asking Her About The Abominations, Were You Not?” he asks.

“Yeah.” They sit down and press their spine to the wall, tilting their head back until it meets the coolness. The heat slides off the walls without warming them and it’s lovely after a morning of anxiety. They might have to ask if they can use Alphys’s bathroom to take a shower. “What did she mean about Sans’s soul?” Chara complains that this was what they were going to say.

Gaster rattles quietly to himself, an old, almost mechanical sound. “I Believe,” he answers, piecing together his words as if they are the parts of a jigsaw puzzle “That Sans Has A Damaged Soul. If My Hypothesis Proves Correct, You Have One As Well, Presumably For The Same Reason.”

Their heart had skipped a beat at ‘damaged’ and now completely stops. Chara makes a concerned noise. “How would he know?” they ask, inserting a note of warning when they see what Frisk is thinking of doing.

Rather than heeding them, Frisk pulls out their soul for inspection, showing it to Gaster. They trust him, they trust him and Alpys both, and they think this trust at Chara, fiercely. Their soul, it still hurts, but it feels less like a stab wound and more like a headache during a cold and it gets dimmer as Gaster looks at it. They feel…safe.

Alphys comes back up the stairs just about the same time Gaster is picking up the pen and writing down a couple notes in a strange script. To her credit, she doesn’t gasp or grow upset, not even when the gashes flare in Frisk’s alarm. Instead, she comes and sits down, showing them the new features of their phone. “I even signed you up for the Undernet. It’s the Underground’s most p-popular social network. If you do wind up n-needing help, y-you can just ping me!” The quavering note in her voice suggests that she’s doing this as a distraction. They throw themself into the offered topic, stealing the pen every so often to write questions as she demonstrates and Gaster hums to himself.

Alphys runs out of topics fairly quickly once Frisk makes it clear that they are not interested in fanfiction, although it is indeed very cool that she got on the top ten most popular fics list. Despite themself, the silence draws their attention back to Gaster. He is still now, watching their soul pulse. His eyes are focused on the thick tarlike substance that breaks up the endless expanses of red. “Those Would Be From Your Second Soul, I Presume? One Of The Other Fallen Humans?”

“Flowey, could you translate for Alphys?” It wouldn’t be fair to leave her out of the conversation. The flower shakes his head vehemently as he flops off their shoulder and into their lap.

“Nah, kid, I got this.” Sans, looking as tired as if he had decided to run up the down escalator, drops down to sit next to the dinosaur. Frisk does their best not to suck their soul back into their chest like they’re slurping spaghetti. With him there, they don’t feel as safe. Instead they feel guilty. “I fell asleep at the kitchen table. Guess I was bone-tired.” The explanation doesn’t account for wherever he was when they were watching anime, but Frisk can’t bring themself to judge. He hadn’t even put the emphasis on ‘bone’ in order to alert them to the pun. Maybe he wasn’t even making one.

“Do not tell me you’re forgetting what the guy did to us.”

‘Don’t tell me you forgot that we deserved it,’ Frisk counters, nodding their head towards Gaster to answer his previous question. To Sans, they say “You and me’ve got the same thing.”

He flicks his eyes over to their soul and shrugs, only the momentary dimming of his eyes conveying anything more than disinterest. The sight of their gashes bothers him, bothers him more than he wants to let on. They wonder about that. Are their gashes worse? The thought makes their heart thump in their ribcage. Are they going to die? “Show me,” they demand, pointing to his chest with one grubby finger.

“Little forward, aren’t you?” he answers, translating for Alphys almost as an afterthought.

“What caused it? What did it?”

“We did. You and me, kid. We did the same thing over and over and got ourselves well and truly stuck.” The skeleton sticks his hands in his pockets, then decides against it and simply rests his palms on his knees. Nothing about him is menacing. There’s no pale blue, no gold, just the plum darkness of shadows under his eyesockets and the way he slumps, like he’s a balloon and someone’s let all the air out of him.

Frisk can’t think of anything to say, so they settle for the thing they’ll never be able to say enough. “I’m sorry.”

He laughs. “I can’t say it’s okay. I hope you weren’t expecting that.”

They shake their head. They’re never going to expect that. Their whole life will be spent waiting for the day when someone says it, but they don’t think they’ll ever expect it. They really want to call Mom right now, but they settle for the next best thing. Alphys makes a little surprised sound when they clamber over to lean into her, but she winds up wrapping her arms around them anyway.

“It’s an interesting case,” Alphys says, resting her chin on their head again. “Souls are naturally made of love and trust and compassion. Somehow the two of you managed to extend LOVE rather than love. If you didn’t know, Frisk, LOVE is Level of Violence Earned. It’s the anti-thesis of everything in a soul. If you kill someone, your LOVE increases and the basic integrity of your soul weakens. Your HoPe may increase or decrease at any given time. You two, you’re both at level one of your LOVE, but your souls are acting like you’re on levels beyond anything I’ve seen. I mean, my mom researched parallel universes, but this is the first time I’ve seen anything that could prove her correct.” She glows for a minute at the thought.

“How do we fix it?”

Alphys adjusts her glasses apologetically. “I-I actually don’t know. Frisk, you’re already starting to heal, which might be a human thing or it might be related to other factors.”

“One question down. How about we ask about the glitch creatures now?” Chara asks. Frisk agrees.

“What are the green creatures? And nobody be tricky about it!” The question comes out more demanding than it should and Alphys laughs a little at their expression, screwed up in a comical ferocity. No one else is laughing though. Gaster slides off the bed, hitting the floor with a wet smack.

“The Abominations? I Believe That What Happened At The Core Called Them.”

“That was eons ago, doc. Why would they show up now?” Frisk turns towards Sans’s voice, interested. He had been there too. Had he worked in the Core as well? He catches them looking and half-smiles.

“The Fabric Of Time Was Rent Asunder,” Gaster explains. “It Must Have Left Holes. If There Is Anything I Have Learned, It Is What Humans Call Newton’s Third Law.”

“Every action deserves an equal and opposite reaction,” Sans says.

“Newton’s Third Law?” Alphys asks, completely out of the loop now.

“What happened then?” Frisk asks, looking from Sans at their elbow to Gaster by the bed. This is like the world’s weirdest slumber party and the worst. With every question they ask, they can feel the tension climb a few more levels. “What happened at the Core? You fell in-“

“And Something Else Crawled Out. Presumably The Same Creature That Is Corrupting Our World.”

A horrible silence follows, as Gaster lowers his hand to the floor. Sans’s eyes are winking in and out of existence. It feels like the silence after watching a horror movie. Not even the light curling in through the hole in the ceiling seems right. The lava’s red tinge gives it a sinister cast. Any minute now something could come through the window.

Alphys shivers and the motion makes Frisk jump. Quickly, Alphys pats their head, like she’s soothing a puppy. “Th-that’s it,” she says. “I know what I said about you staying here w-was right, but th-this proves it. Y-you’re going to stay here and we- we’re going to have a picnic!”

Everyone assembled looks blankly at her. Alphys huffs. “We-we’re going to have a picnic and b-be good friends and we-we’re going to hang on a little longer, okay?” Her knees are trembling under her lab coat. It’s taking everything she has to boss them around like this. Frisk thinks of another world, where Alphys led everyone into safety. Where she had to be the boss. The role fits her ill here, where the only role she’s ever known is that of the anxious scientist, but it is like a too large sweater unwrapped at Christmas. After a few times wearing it, the weight is no longer noticeable and the words people always say seem like they might come true.

You’ll grow into it.

Chapter 22: Death Doesn't Discriminate

Chapter Text

Since Alphys has never been on a picnic and had apparently only gotten the idea from animes, picnic-planning committee consists of Frisk, Chara, and Gaster. Sans is helping too. Kind of. If writing bad jokes inside of paper Echo Flowers counts as helping. Frisk thinks so, but Chara doesn’t. Flowey is sulking upstairs and Frisk intends to retrieve him for the actual act of picnicking.

Alphys has wrangled up a few picnic episodes of different animes for research purposes, all of which are child-appropriate, she assures Gaster, so Frisk and Gaster watch as they cut blue petals from construction paper and paste them onto circles of white in order to create Echo Flowers. Their picnic place of choice was Waterfall and so Alphys is constructing fountains to mimic the soothing rush of water. They can hear the gurgling just under the rapidfire chatter emanating from the television screen, along with Alphys’s muttering. She's putting a lot of hard work into this and, while Frisk doesn't know what she intends to accomplish, they admire her effort.

Sans picks up a handful of the completed paper flowers to put on the tiles upstairs. He doesn’t do his usual twist-and-vanish, taking the escalator instead, and Frisk wonders if it is a side effect of his soul being hurt. He had run after them before, in the lantern maze. That reminds them of something else though, something far more disquieting.

Gaster startles when they ask after his arm and the sleeker shape of his body starts to drip worryingly, splashing off his hands and onto the pile of petals he had so carefully cut out. In his explanation, he rushes his signs and Frisk has to interrupt him to ask if he could just slow down. “It Is Actually A Normal Arm. That Is Something That It Is. I Am Unable To Use It And it Is A Very Heavy Arm, But It Does Not Pain Me. I Have A Theory About It, But It Is Not Quite One That I Wish To Divulge As It Requires Further Investigation.”

“Did you see the darkness?” Frisk asks and a tremor runs through his body as if it is the ocean during an earthquake. “Was that the Void?”

A quick, sharp nod. Gaster plucks the droplets of himself from the paper before him and drips them back into his body.

He’s so nervous that Frisk almost doesn’t want to ask their next question, but they have to before it kills them. “Can I see your arm?”

And there it is. For a solid minute, Frisk’s mind doesn’t process why what they’re seeing is wrong. It’s just an arm. Skeletal. Clothed in a heavy wool sleeve. It looks like it could belong to Papyrus, if Papyrus had spiderlike fingers and a perfectly round hole through his palm. Then they look at the rest of Gaster. Unformed, with a visibly putty type of texture to him. The contrast makes their mind boggle alarmingly and Chara immediately sets about sketching it onto their wall.

“I Did Not Wish To Show You,” Gaster says. “It Is Rather A Disturbing Sight And Not One For Which I Wished You To Blame Yourself.”

Frisk shrugs, although their skin is crawling with gooseflesh. They’re determined to not let their fear show. This is their friend, someone who has never lied to them. They open their arms for a hug and just as quickly drop them to their sides. “It’s okay. I’m glad it’s not as bad as I thought.”

“Exactly How Dangerous Do You Believe You Are, Frisk?”

They shrug again and this time it’s Gaster who looks like he wants to give them a hug. The frustration is scrawled across his face at his own limitations.

“This conversation’s really sad and it’s distracting me,” Chara complains, lobbing their chalk over at Frisk’s side of the headspace. “Ask him something fun.”

Frisk flexes their fingers to ask a question, only for Sans to call “so we don’t have a name for the freaky green things, right?”

They shake their heads at him.

“how about elglitch abominations? it’s lovecraft and it’s just as weird as they are. and dad keeps calling them abominations, frisk keeps calling ‘em glitches. why not just combine them?”

“What’s Lovecraft?” Frisk asks Gaster. It sounds like some monster thing, like pottery.

He chuckles in a way that sounds like quicksand. “H.P. Lovecraft. He Is A Human Author Who Primarily Wrote Horror Fiction, Which I Managed Not To Notice When I Decided To Read One Of His Novels To My Very Young Children.”

“Oh no.”

Gaster makes a face that very clearly says ‘oh yes.’ “It Turned Out To Be A Story That Became Horrific Halfway Through The First Chapter. I Became So Invested In Reading The Story That I Completely Stopped Reading Out Loud. My Sons Made No Sound During This Time. When I Recalled That I Was Reading To Them, I Realized That They Were Staring At Me.

“Not Only Did Papyrus Have His Blanket Up To His Eyes, But Sans Was Burrowing Under The Same Blanket, Having Decided That He Was Not Going To Chance The Walk To His Own Bed For Fear That Something Would Pursue Him. And, Of Course, It Would Be Irresponsible For Me To Leave Them In Such A State, So I Read To Them Out Of Every Other Book On Their Shelf Until They Fell Asleep.”

“Aww,” says Chara, who is meticulously detailing the scene in Frisk’s mind’s eye. They have positioned Gaster on the edge of a bed similar to Alphys’s in a room that looks like the one in New Home. Chara’s chalk drawings are still all over the walls.

“Of Course,” Gaster continues, with a wry twist of his mouth, “I Was Curious As To How The Story Ended.”

Now Chara and Frisk mouth ‘Oh no’ in unison, knowing exactly where this is going.

“I Wound Up Sleeping On The Foot Of Their Bed In Order To Avoid Setting A Foot On The Floor, Where I Was Certain Something Lurked, Ready To Devour Me.”

“Oh my god,” Chara snickers, vanishing their image with a shake of their head.

Frisk laughs too, shaking their shoulders. “How old were they? Younger than me?” Gaster’s eyes narrow as he thinks, so Frisk says for clarification “I’m nine and three-quarters.”

“Papyrus Was…Was Four, I Believe, So Sans Was...He Was…” Gaster’s fingers twitch and then rap sharply on the side of his face. Instead of making the knocking sound that comes from hitting bone, his fingers just sink into his head and when he pulls them back out, there’s a string of goo tangled in the cracks. He looks at it, bewildered, even as the side of his face starts to droop, trickling into the hollow of his right eye.

Frisk throws themself backwards as Gaster moans fearfully. “Go get Alphys, or find Sans or something!” Chara shrieks. But Gaster’s looking at them with the eye that isn’t being obscured and they can see the green-blue color there, like blue pine trees. That’s when they notice the sound. The television has stopped chattering, Alphys’s fountains have stopped gurgling, and the lights are growing steadily dimmer with every intention of simply extinguishing. But the door to the bathroom is humming, a low mechanical whir that sets their teeth on edge.

Sans comes down the halted escalator. It only takes a glance for him to ascertain that Frisk is not the source of this and another to realize that Gaster is melting. Flowey comes plopping down the stairs after him, roots and vines in a dirty tumble. “Fr-Frisk!” he says, swishing his way over to them to be lifted up as Sans goes to Gaster.

“Hey, Doc, what’s the matter with your matter?” he asks, trying to balance the older monster. Gaster just drips right through the cracks between his bones, his gurgling cries becoming quieter as his face slides down to smother his mouth. His gestures are becoming more panicked than ever, six or seven hands forming shapes that Frisk can’t possibly comprehend or understand. A downwards pointing finger, an m with a devil tail, a black dot, a square, and then these are replaced by more. Sans is staring at the shapes, reading them with a faint horror.

A green glow, this one the acidly poisonous green of the odd creatures, is emanating from Gaster’s chest, or where his chest would be if he was completely solid. The Void. The creatures were from the Void, Gaster got stuck in it. Newton’s Third Law. The cogs in their mind kick into overdrive as they puzzle through it.

Gaster has come back into the world, negating his previous bargain with the Void. It has come to collect.

Frisk’s soul burns with their anger at the injustice. Their legs move before they can fully understand what they’re going to do, before Sans can stop them, before Chara can argue them out of it. They cannonball right into Gaster’s chest, wrapping their arms around as much of him as they possibly can, ignoring the way his body plasters their hair to their head and the way Flowey angles himself as far away as possible. They’re going to help him. They have to.

Their soul feels like it’s bursting.

They're falling again, their stomach lurching up into their throat, but they aren’t alone. Gaster careens into the darkness with them and they can feel his hands, two of them, wrap around their body and cradle them to his chest in an attempt to protect them from the inevitable impact. “Frisk, You Have To Release Me!” he says, even as they’re falling, even as he knows that he will never stop falling without someone to catch him. They can’t see his hands, but they can feel the signs, resounding inside their soul.

“I have to save you first.” For the first time, they look towards their descent. They are seeing what Gaster sees, for their own mind would not be able to understand. The Void is darkness so solid that Gaster himself looks merely grey and stretches farther than their eyes can see, but it roils below and around them eagerly, hungrily. They send out a string of thought for Chara, asking for advice, but Chara is gone- left behind in reality, they realize. “Stop falling,” they say finally, choosing to believe it is that easy. If it is not, they determine, they will make it that easy.

“I can’t!” They can hear the contraction in his words, can hear his words, and this time they look towards him. Their reflection looks back at them, doubled by the lenses of his spectacles. Their face is bathed in red light and there’s blood trickling out of their mouth again.

“You can so.” And they pull with their soul, with everything they have, with all the memories that they’ve made this time around, with their determination and love and hope. They pull at him with their life and the Void answers.

“You can’t have him,” they reply sternly and wrap themself and Gaster in the feeling of life.

When they come to themself, it is with a horrible feeling that they’re still falling through darkness. Then they land on their butt on the tile floor, which is now icy cold. Chara is on them immediately, checking their essence over anxiously. The spirit’s questing investigation halts as they detect something new. But Frisk is too busy standing and focusing on reality to pay much attention. It’s dark. What happened to the lights?

Gaster straightens a little, beginning the arduous process of pulling himself back together. A good portion of him has been left in Frisk’s hair and he apologizes as he plucks it out. They shrug and smile at him, wiping the back of their hand across their mouth. Their smile dies when they see what they’re leaking. Not blood, as they had previously thought, but something else. They lick the wound and taste sunlight rather than rust.

“G-guys?” Alphys asks, stepping out of the bathroom. The humming stops and Frisk wonders what the heck kind of plumbing she uses that it makes that sound.

“Monsters don’t actually go to the bathroom, genius,” Chara teases. Their attention spikes suddenly and they turn Frisk’s head towards the door. “Monsters don’t go to the bathroom.” Frisk’s own attentiveness rises as well. Chara sounds like they’re figured something out.

“Fr-Frisk! Oh my god! A-are you okay?” Alphys’s claws patter on the tile as she rushes over. “Y-you’re leaking Determination!” She finally sees the whole group and the last word dies as it leaves her lips.

Frisk glances back over at Sans, who is examining the bathroom door. “alph?” he asks, trying to figure out a way to ask without freaking her out. The unsaid question seems to tremble in the air.

Flowey, eyes gleaming with malice, finally finds his way to take vengeance. “It’s her laboratory. Don’t you know that?”

They wind up abandoning their picnic.

…

The elevator ride down is awkward even before the power goes out. Suddenly, they’re free-falling and Frisk grabs onto Flowey to keep him from flying about like a ping-pong ball, curling around him the way Gaster had around them. The flower shudders as they hold him, but he doesn’t fight it, perhaps understanding for once.

When the elevator crashes, it is with the horrible sound of crunching metal. Alphys, who has been holding onto Frisk and Sans to keep them both steady, starts apologizing as she pries the doors apart. “It-it’s not supposed to do that. I have back-up power sources everywhere. Th-they must be so upset.”

They?

When the doors open, it is to a rush of stale air that smells of fear and salt, salt like sweat and like tears.

“Al…phys?” asks a small voice. It’s a sad slow voice that has to stop for breath even while saying such a small word.

“Mrs. Drake, Vegetoids, hi!” Alphys has injected a false levity in her voice as she stepped forward into the darkness. “How are you feeling today?”

“Alphys…there’s something…down here,” the voice continues as its owner comes towards them. There’s a ragged intake of breath. “Who…?”

“These are my friends, Mrs. Drake. They wanted to come see how you were feeling!” Alphys doesn’t stutter once and the confidence she radiates soothes the monster in the darkness.

Mrs. Drake comes forward and Frisk is very glad that they are mute because otherwise they might have screamed. Behind them, Sans gives a quiet wheeze of what might be confusion, what might be horror. As she comes into the light, Mrs. Drake at first looks like a Snowdrake, but as their night vision sharpens, they can see that it isn’t so. They first think that her eyes are malformed, with strange blinking lights above them. These eyes are Vegetoids. They shiver because if her eyes are the mouths of Vegetoids, then what happened to her real eyes? At least Mr. Gaster has two eyes and a mouth.

“Did you bring…my Sn..o..wy?” she whimpers, scanning the party with infinite slowness.

“Not today, Mrs. Drake. He’ll be around as soon as you feel better.” Alphys goes to the woman’s side and tenderly takes what Frisk assumes to be her elbow, indicating with a gesture of her head for them to follow her. “Do you want to watch some television, Mrs. Drake? Vegetoids?”

“Alphys…please…there’s something…here.”

Frisk’s gaze pans around the room. They don’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean that Mrs. Drake is mistaken. Chara points out that something must have triggered the Void and it is most likely that it is down here, given that the elevator lasted much longer than the other mechanical gadgets. Unfortunately, that means that it wants them to come find it. Gathering their courage, they step forward to stand at Mrs. Drake’s side. The monster blinks down at them sadly and they try not to shudder, even as it feels like they have been placed in front of a crowd. They don’t even know how many monsters she counts as.

“Can you…hear them too?” she asks, extending a watery wing to them. They fold their fingers in what remains of it. Feathers tickle their palm and Mrs. Drake sighs. This time when Alphys asks if she’d like to go lie down, she gives an almost imperceptible nod and a sigh and allows herself to be led down the hall.

Gaster and Sans must be following, for Frisk can hear Sans’s slippers scuffing the tile. On the walls, small signs light up green, still drawing from those emergency reserves of energy. Frisk pauses to read one and their stomach twists as Chara pieces it together. “Dad wanted Alphys to experiment on monsters for their souls?”

Gaster seems upset for a different reason as he reads over their shoulder. He signs indignantly “She recorded over my research! You’re supposed to start new entries, not delete old ones!” Frisk notes the new informality in the way he signs. They think they like it better than his careful words. His presence feels better too, more like a parent and less like a watcher.

“Doc, you didn’t exist anymore,” Sans points out, amused. “Besides, I’m pretty sure your old books are still in the basem*nt floorboards. I mean, they certainly board me.”

Gaster fumes for a moment before signing, still outraged, “Rude!”

Frisk chuckles uneasily at the pun and banter and runs to catch up with Alphys and Mrs. Drake. They’re heading through a door that leads into a hallway just as dark and discomfiting as the one before, only this one opens up to a room filled with beds.

Alphys helps Mrs. Drake up onto one and tucks the quilt over her, kindly pretending not to notice the way Mrs. Drake is melting into the sheets. The bed itself shakes violently and something squeezes out from under it, yipping its concern in a deep tremor of a voice that makes Frisk feel like the very fiber of their being is shaken. Sans flinches as it crawls over to him. “Yo, Alph, throw me a bone here and don’t let it chew on me.”

“Dogma, Dogsbody, Dogtrot, Dogwatch, Doggerel, meet Frisk and Sans and Mr. Gaster. These are my friends.” Sans flinches again, whether from the dog collective’s proximity, or from recognition of the names, Frisk can’t tell. The dog collective makes a motion like it is about to close its dripping orifice on Sans’s leg. “No chewing.” It comes back to Alphys, wagging its tail as if to apologize. Frisk reaches out a hand and pats its head. Contrary to how it looks, the dog collective is soft and vaguely furry, as if it has just been groomed. It leans on them happily, panting in at least four or five different voices.

Alphys grimaces when they look at her, ushering them back towards the entrance. “It’s a long story,” she says, dropping her feigned confidence with some relief now that she is away from Mrs. Drake. “H-hang on, okay? I have to go take a look at the generator. Almost everyone here is really nice, j-just don’t upset them, o-okay?” Then she’s gone, hurrying back the way they came.

Frisk follows, but instead of stopping by the door with her, they wander into the next room. The sight of the operating tables makes them feel weird, worried, even though it looks like they haven’t been used in ages. The dog collective moans and retreats back through the entrance, ears folded flat against its head. The journal entries that they find as they poke around don’t help much either.

When they finish, Chara cries suddenly “If me and Azzy hadn’t died, this wouldn’t have happened!” Flowey seems to have had the same thought because when they look at him, he is staring blankly at the screen. If Chara and Asriel hadn’t died, what would have happened? The ‘what-if’s crowd their head.

“What-ifs never help anyone, Friskabibble,” says a half-forgotten voice in the back of their head. A memory this time, not another person. Their brother had said that. He had told them that looking back made you doubt, thinking of what-ifs would drive you crazy.

‘That’s crazy talk,’ Frisk responds, going over to get a drink from the sink. Despite their bravado, all this talk of experimenting on dead bodies is making them terribly nervous. Chara’s previous thoughts of being one of the things Alphys could have experimented on are still ricocheting around their head. Turning the knobs on the sink gives them something to do with their hands. At first, the water that pours out looks too rusty, then it clears enough that they deem it drinkable. They take slow sips, then make Chara drink some as well. Even if the water all goes to the same place, it is going through the motions that makes Chara relax. Flowey has a couple sips as well, slurping noisily to fill up the quiet.

Someone laughs and Frisk smiles instinctively. It’s good that Flowey’s finding something funny in this awful place. Then their mind catches up to the fact that Flowey still has his face under the faucet. He rears back to the safety of their shoulder and the water drips off his petals, splashing into the drain with the regularity of clockwork. His eyes are wide and their shoulders tense as they listen.

A giggle comes from their pocket again. It sounds like it’s been spliced with a dial tone and Frisk wonders what kind of weird ringtone Alphys programmed on their new phone, relaxing ever so slightly. They hope it’s Mom calling. They’d like something normal in this creepy place. No offense to present company, but Gaster’s habit of turning into liquid has only been paired with bad things so far and Sans is Sans, meaning that they only trust him about as far as they can throw him.

Caller Unknown. They press the answer key anyway and hold it up to the ear that includes Flowey, who flattens the side of his head to the receiver, just as eager for normalcy as they.

If they expected something as silly as the ‘Wrong Number Song,’ they are very quickly proven wrong. A sibilant voice comes from their phone’s speaker, every word laced with a hint of gruesome delight.

“Come Join The Game!”

They hear an odd gurgling sound and they swing their head towards it. Something is dripping from the sink. Another sound, this one more like meaningless chatter, and the something in the sink takes on a face. And then another. And then it looks at them and the many pairs of bulbous eyes narrow into inflamed slits. “Now Hold Still,” it croons.

Frisk is leaping out of the way and rolling before it can strike. Faces come screaming up through the floor where they had been standing, mouths opening and closing blindly in search of prey. Chara feels sick, noticing something. All the faces look like Gaster’s.

The creature falls out of the sink, hitting the floor with a wet smack, like a bag of loose flesh. Flowey spits a couple friendliness pellets at it as it advances on them. The creature shudders, then splits down the middle, each half gushing a colorless substance from the wound.

“You killed it!” Frisk says, absolutely horrified.

Then the halves bloat and bubble, skin meeting skin and inflating as if someone is pumping it full of air. Now there are two, looking at Frisk in delight. “Dolorem Ipsum Docet!” they gargle, coming even closer, their bone tails slapping the ground in an eternal echo, one forever a beat behind the other.

The mouths in their tortured faces open, but the sound comes only from Frisk’s phone. “You Will Be With Us Shortly.”

Frisk shakes their head. They don’t want to be with them! In fact, they don’t actually want to be near them! Flowey summons up another round of bullets, but the faces strike first. Frisk has to stay on their toes in order to keep away from them, the mouths that chew on the air then sink away disappointed, but still smiling their ghastly grimaces.

Chara wants to throw up. The look of the creature makes Frisk so scared that their stomach hurts, but Chara’s the one feeling the effects. They don’t even have time to gag before the creature throws another round of bullets and Gaster’s grinning face bursts out of every single one and shrivels just as quickly.

“You Do Not Want My Help, Do You?” The voice is quiet and sad and lost. A child in the woods on a lonely mountaintop. The sound of it makes Frisk’s skin itch. Then the faces split neatly in half, baring the bodies’ inner workings in two identical smiles. “Neither Did He.” Something lands in Frisk’s sweater pocket, something heavy and radiating malevolence.

This time, when the faces rise up screaming, they are screaming in pain, anguish written all over Gaster’s features. Frisk’s heart lurches. This is suffering. They don’t even know what this thing wants, but it’s bound to be something terrible. It smells like malice and misdirected anger.

“Teach Them All Pain As I Did,” it says, crawling closer as Frisk steps back.

They shake their head again, growing braver with every bullet they dodge. The creature is trying very hard to kill them, but it isn’t succeeding although the strain of producing so much magic appears to be tiring it. It is a monster, they can tell that, but it doesn’t feel as crowded as the dog collective or as unstable as poor Mrs. Drake. Is it only one monster?

“What pain?” Frisk signs, determined to end this, to understand the surreality.

The monster stops a few feet shy of their position and Frisk feels the operating table at their back. There’s condensation on it, or something worse, wet and clammy and sticky. The monster appears to be looking at their hands. “Do That Again,” it demands. Its voice is changing, morphing in the speaker. They have to keep it talking.

“What?” they ask. “Sign?”

The monster sighs, the sound taken up and echoed by its double. Then the first monster swells up to twice its size and takes a sloppy bite out of the second. Chara shrieks and Frisk gags. Flowey shivers on their shoulder, eyes glued to the scene of auto-cannibalism. The whole messy ordeal is over within a few seconds, but Frisk thinks they might be traumatized for life. The monster looks to them again. “You Are Truly Unaware Of His Crimes,” it says, in a voice like iron and a voice like the whirring of machinery.

Frisk nods their head, fighting nausea. Chara summons another piece of chalk, positioning themself in a way that will enable them to write down whatever this creature tells them, even though Frisk can feel their hand trembling.

“You Do Not Know About The Traitor’s Experiments. But I Can Sense Him On You. I Can Smell The Rot And The Flora.” Frisk can hear Flowey sniffing them and then himself, but they already know who the monster’s talking about.

“Mr. Gaster’s not a traitor!” they say, stepping forward and shaking their head with emphasis.

The monster does not appear to understand their sign, murmuring instead, “Ask Him About The Determination. Ask Him About The Reason The Core Exploded. Ask Him About The Royal Scientist.” The monster pauses, all its eyes focusing on a point somewhere above Frisk’s head. Frisk wonders at the wistfulness of that glance, but cannot bring themself to look in the same direction. Despite its momentary pause, this particular monster exudes hunger, one that suggests that Frisk may fall victim to its appetite if they avert their attention. “Come Join The Fun?” it asks finally.

Frisk pairs signing ‘no’ with a firm shake of their head. They could almost feel sorry for the look it gives them, long and sad and resigned, but they don’t feel sorry enough to take back their rejection. There’s something off about this monster, even if they aren’t one of the glitch creatures.

“Oh Well,” it says. Then it starts to fade into the darkness and the last Frisk sees of it is the glinting green color of its top pair of eyes.

Chapter 23: The Land Cast Them Out In A Lesson That Only One Learned

Chapter Text

Wingdings would very much like to leave this place as soon as possible. He had already been very badly shaken by the attack of the Void upon his person and now, as he follows his son around the hidden laboratory, he cannot help but compare it to the one he knew. This room had been the common area, meant for showing off new inventions or proposing new theories. He had attended several lectures here and given one or two of his own. Now a rusted machine hangs motionless from the ceiling, something Sans identifies as a Determination Extractor. To Wingdings, it looks like a warped version of his family's familiar blaster ability, further adding to the theme of this place; that everything once familiar is now twisted into something more disquieting.

He shivers with the peculiar feeling that someone has just kicked their feet through his dust.

Sans is speaking now, to a creature with many voices and a strange body. Upon his approach, Sans introduces it as Kevin, Ciren, Skip, and Moldbygg. The creature’s neck pulsates. “doc, you remember ciren and skip, right? they used to live in waterfall.”

“The fish child, correct?” He can remember the way that this one performed loop-de-loops on the cavern ceiling, heedless of the fact that her friend, the agent, grew more and more anxious with each consecutive loop. When Sans nods, he says, smiling as best he can, “It’s lovely to see you again, young one.” He carefully avoids the use of pronouns, noting the way that Sans had introduced monsters of differing genders. If they are all merged as one, using one pronoun or the other would most likely upset some of the parties.

Sans translates and the amalgamate of Waterfall natives warbles happily, even as its gelatinous mouth quivers into a frown. It seems very conflicted on how to react. What has been done to these poor people to make them this way?

There’s a clicking of claws on tiles and Alphys comes their way, holding Frisk’s hand as if it is a small, but wild, animal. The flower on their shoulder is staring at the Determination Extractor in a way that Wingdings doesn’t quite like. It is the look of recognition. He himself recalls the flower’s own experiences with his son’s blaster attacks with a twist of his mouth. Sans does not appear to be making the same connections, instead falling into small talk with Alphys.

Frisk releases the dinosaur’s hand and comes pattering over to his side, twisting their fingers in the hem of their striped sweater. When he smiles at them, they hold up a hand, twitching the fingers in a nonverbal desire. It takes little concentration to fulfill their wish, so he folds a manifested hand’s fingers in theirs. They make an amused face at the buzz of his magic and sneeze when a stray strand brushes their nose. He snaps the string back out of existence, pausing when he catches the scent of it.

Frisk tugs his hand and asks “Mint?” with puzzlement.

They are correct. He had grown used to the smell of the Void upon his magic, the way the rot had encased his familiar scent. The reappearance of mint, balanced against the rot in a way that almost seems to be challenging it- it changes things.

There is no doubt in his mind that this is the work of Frisk and their Determination. He had seen it during their fall into the Void, red glowing in their chest and slipping from their mouth. It makes him wonder about the uses of live Determination, Determination loaned willingly.

Unconsciously, he looks to Sans. His son, smiling and talking as if he does not have limited time. The image of the broken little soul comes unbidden to his mind’s eye and he pairs it almost immediately with the glow of Frisk’s own. It has been tried before, stolen Determination given to someone with soul rot. But if Frisk gave their Determination to his boy willingly…

He cannot believe himself. The shame rises so quickly that if he had excess magic, he would be blushing. This is the sort of attitude that had gotten him into trouble so many times before: the use of his mind before the use of his tongue, or, in this case, his hands. He shall ask Frisk if they would be agreeable to this sort of experiment. And of course he will have to ask Sans. The donation of live Determination to a torn soul is something that has never been tried before, so he will need to find a test subject before he attempts to do the same to Sans.

Yet, whatever happened in the Void, was that not something of a similar caliber? His own soul, while not broken, is certainly an oddity in that it has survived the damage dealt it by the Void. This makes some sense, as does the liquidation of his form, when he considers the amount of Determination his soul had previously ingested when he was in charge of the Determination experiments. It is very likely that he can simply offer himself up as a test subject. He is not only the same sub-species of monster as his children, but he is also their sole genetic donor, so all their genes are nearly identical to his own.

Both his boys have good heads on their shoulders, so it should not be too much of a stretch for Sans’s mind to accept the arrangement. Pride, though, pride may be something he will need to counter if the incident in Snowdin is anything to go by. It is plausible that Sans will not even consider allowing himself to be fixed if Frisk is involved. It is also very possible that, should he accept, Sans will refuse to allow Wingdings to use himself as a test subject for the experiment and volunteer himself, putting his damaged soul at risk should anything go wrong.

Frisk tugs on his hand, pulling it along. He moves to keep up with them as they scamper after Alphys and Sans into another of the rooms, this one lined with mirrors. Alphys is holding a packet now, plucked from her dirty lab coat’s pocket, some sort of food. He wishes that she would wash the coat. As a rule, it does not benefit the Royal Scientist to look as if they live in a cage. But he recalls, with a flicker of winter green, the look of fear in her eyes when he entered her laboratory and his soul hurts to think of it. Perhaps this dark place in the basem*nt of the laboratory, perhaps this is her cage.

The flower on Frisk’s shoulder moves its face into the curve of their throat under their jaw. Wingdings thinks of the way it strangled its foes in another timeline, in another life. His fingers twitch in Frisk’s grip and the child looks up at him. He offers them another placid smile and they seem, if not convinced, then mollified. It would be so much easier to offer physical reassurance. A hug, a tap of his forehead to theirs. Determination Could Be The Key, says a little voice again, wondering. He dismisses the half-formed thought before it can take over his every waking moment.

Alphys begins to talk in a low, rhythmic voice, reciting something. He can’t make out what it is, although he catches hints here and there. It sounds like a monologue of some sort. It’s only at the last words- “save the world”- that anything happens. Almost before the last syllable leaves her lips, the condensation on the mirror before her begins to reach off the glass. As it comes, it morphs into something else, an Astigmatism monster, it seems. Then the sclera gnash warningly.

Alphys brandishes the packet of food like a sword as the amalgamate lurches forward, snapping at the air questioningly. She touches a hand to her forehead, which seems to placate the creature a little. Its long neck stretches towards her, coiling in the air just above her shoulders as she tears open the packaging. The amalgamate eats through what would be an Astigmatism’s bulging eye, but here functions as a fanged mouth. Sated, it retreats back into the mirror, cooing through a beak made of Astigmatism’s legs.

It doesn’t make sense what he’s seeing, but for the past thirteen years, absolutely nothing in his life has made sense, so he files everything away for perusal at a later date.

When they wind up in a little alcove off the main hallway, Wingdings recognizes the monitor as belonging in the office of his coworker, but there is nothing else even vaguely recognizable. Alphys sighs and leans back against the wall, closing the door behind them. “I-It’s a long story,” she says, taking off her glasses and half-heartedly trying to clean the lenses on her stained coat. Sans takes them from her when it becomes clear that the scrubbing is doing more harm than good, but his sleeve isn’t much more sanitary. Does anyone know how to do their own laundry anymore?

Frisk relinquishes their death grip on his hand, wandering over to the entry up on the wall. They leap up and tap the edge of it, causing the flower to shout alarm. Wingdings catches them in his magic. They levitate just enough so that they don’t have to keep hopping. They wriggle around a little to give him a thumbs-up, then refocus their attention on the entry. Amused, he regards Alphys again.

The story comes out, messy and unformed and fraught with fragments of apologies. But she doesn’t once cry, doesn’t seem to require comforts. In fact, as she speaks, her voice becomes stronger, until it’s almost the voice that she used on the Amalgamates. He’s rather proud of her. She tells them of how she got the idea to use Determination, taking as much as she could from the most recent soul without destroying it. Wingdings can’t keep himself from startling when Alphys bitterly recounts the way that the eyes of those who had fallen down had opened. Sans shifts uneasily as she lists the names of those who had fallen and pairs each group of names to an amalgamate they’d encountered. Wingdings recognizes quite a few of those names as those of people they’d known, like Ciren and the dog collective, the latter of whom had been quite popular in Snowdin, especially with children.

Frisk comes running over as the story draws to a close, boots skidding a little on the floor. Alphys makes a motion as if to pick them up, but they shake their head, pointing to the shelves of video tapes. “Can we watch?” they ask.

The dinosaur hesitates, correctly guessing their intent. “N-no, I have to g-give those to Asgore next time I see him. He deserves to know th-that they exist.”

Wingdings expects Frisk to take this refusal well, so he’s unpleasantly surprised when Frisk stomps their foot, their face flushing an ugly red. “Let me see!” they demand, their gestures frantic and sloppy, a far cry from the confident signing they’ve been displaying during his adventure with them. On their shoulder, the flower reels away from their throat.

“Frisk, enough,” he says, popping his fingerbones to make the motions scolding.

Frisk abandons sign altogether, mouthing their words venomously. He can only catch bits and pieces, but what he can understand is disconcerting, to say the least. ‘Royal Scientist…Determination…Core!’

He freezes up initially. They can’t know anything about that. They weren’t around. It’s not possible that a child of only ten years old was around then. When he tries to say something more, to ask what would prompt them to say that, they open their mouth in a silent scream, clapping their hands over their eyes to keep from seeing him. The flower looks as if it doesn’t know whether to laugh or be worried.

Sans grabs their wrist and pries it from their face. “Kid, quit it. Not everything’s going to go your way,” he snaps.

“He’s right though,” Alphys says, reaching out for Frisk’s other hand. “Y-you have to accept that not everyone’s g-going to tell you everything.” Her claws fold around their wrist, pulling it away gently.

“You’re Chara, right?” The kid nods, curling their lip as their eyes grow bright with moisture. Sans nods back. “Well, you can’t just demand to know sh*t. not how stuff works down here.”

Chara- Chara, he wonders- shakes their head. Their lips form a word that he doesn’t comprehend quickly enough, and then, with Frisk’s knowledge, their hands begin to move. “I want to see the tapes. I want to see them.” They make eye contact with Alphys, who blushes beet-red. “They’re M-I-N-E.”

Wingdings’s mind clicks suddenly with the claim of possession coupled with a strangely familiar name. This child is not any child, not any human. Frisk is not just Frisk, but two children, one of whom is the king’s adopted child, the one who did their utmost to break the barrier. Heir Chara Dreemurr, the royal family’s foundling, dead for more than a century. The First Fallen Human. Unbidden, a faint wisp of song flutters through his mind, a song that has been played within Waterfall’s tunnels for years.

Sans makes the same connection, for his eyes constrict to pinpricks as he translates. The color drains from Alphys’s face, her mouth reshaping itself into a near-perfect ‘o’. As this puzzle piece clicks into place, Wingdings thinks of something else; of how the small flower had only become docile when confronted with the appearance of this child. How even before it had given up its murderous tendencies, it had dogged the human child’s footsteps like a lovestruck puppy.

Chara…and Prince Asriel. One without the other was rarely seen. He had heard the stories of the crown prince and his sibling since he himself was small. How the human child had integrated themself perfectly into the court of the Dreemurrs and won the affections of all as Asriel’s shy staring shadow. How, when Chara had died, Asriel had followed suit, taking his turn as the shadow when Chara stumbled into the sunlight at the end of their life. How the young prince had died in the king’s garden, his dust mingling with the flowers. The flowers that Alphys had experimented upon.

“What are you staring at?” the flower on Frisk’s shoulder snaps now. It- he, if Wingdings’s hypothesis proves correct- is glaring at him as if his eyes could somehow burn holes in his face. Wingdings had never met the crown prince, he had been born at least a century too late for that, but he can envision the jealousy and anger of a small boy warping over time into something more twisted.

The flower says something again, but Wingdings distracts it by going to the shelf full of tapes and pulling down one himself. There is an index card taped to it. In Alphys’s handwriting, still the smudgy looping print she had as a child, she has taken several notes on the contents. No sooner does he push it into the machine than Frisk is standing beside him, tugging at one of his hands in order to make him look at them. “Sorry,” they sign, and this time it is fully Frisk speaking. Chara has a different way about their face, pinched and faintly angry, he understands, while Frisk is more relaxed. Perhaps as a product of their body being the one to which they were born.

He presses play and a voice comes from the speakers, light and sweet and laughing as Prince Asriel pleads for his sibling to do their creepy face.

…

All of Chara’s breath seems to have rushed out of their metaphorical lungs. They can remember, too vividly, the day when this video was taken. Asriel had just gotten his video recorder from Mom and Dad, the same day Chara had been given a set of knitting needles and a knife for gardening. It was hard to say which of them had been more pleased with their gifts. Asriel had taken immediately to his recorder, rushing to record the passersby who were more than happy to stop and talk a while with the small prince. Chara had taken the time to squirrel away their prizes, still wary of these precious gifts being taken from them.

When they’d ventured back out into the open air to find Asriel, he’d pounced upon the chance to record them, aiming the camera at them and excitedly asking them to do a creepy face.

Chara remembers instinctively throwing up a ferocious scowl, bulging their eyes almost out of their skull and forcing the corners of their mouth as far as they could go. Their brother had shrieked and fumbled the camera, bursting into uncontrollable giggles when he recovered it. Back then, even their most horrific face was never anything for Asriel to be afraid of, just something he liked to see and try imitating. He rarely succeeded.

Just as he’d stopped laughing, he’d realized that he’d left the lens cap on through everything. Any recording he might have gotten from passersby or Chara themself was sound only. He immediately set up a wail for them to do it again. They had refused. To their surprise, monsters even took refusal well, because Asriel had just laughed again and scampered off.

They had become used to being recorded over the next few months, just as they had grown accustomed to the fact that no one in the Underground would willingly hurt them. Asriel was always present to vouch for them. If he wasn’t, they faced no trouble anyway, as they wore the royal crest on their clothing or on a pin or, if they had just left a formal event, their crown. Being the adopted child of royalty had its benefits.

It’s only when Frisk makes a sympathetic noise that Chara realizes that they’re giving off massive waves of distress, though thankfully they’re not crying yet. They relinquish their leftover control and breathe out, allowing Frisk to fill the space they’d just vacated with a new breath.

It’s surprising how much it all hurts.

They’d wanted to do right, to be good for once. Azzy, he’d been excited to be a hero at first. Even when they’d been picking the buttercups, he’d been excited. It was only later that it must have hit him. It had only really hit Chara when it was too late to turn back. Determination goes both ways and, unlike Frisk, they’d never had much Determination to live. When they had been alive, they had been Determined only to die.

But they hadn’t, because they couldn’t even do that right. They’d lived within Asriel, exposing him to all their dark thoughts and they’d felt him crack under them. And then, when their Determination had counted the most, they’d given up. Asriel wouldn’t kill and Chara wouldn’t make him. He was too good. They couldn’t ruin that. So they ruined everything else.

Frisk goes to take the tape out and Flowey asks for another one. The adults in the room are all silent and Chara begs Frisk to not turn around and look. So they don’t. Instead, they pick up the next tape.

This one is worse and Chara doesn’t want it. Azzy’s voice, teasing as he gets them to smile. And they had smiled big. They had smiled so widely that their face hurt, because he had asked them to do it. It had been a trick, but a good trick, a trick to make them smile. And they had ruined it with their plan. And then the buttercups. And then the blood. And then the whispers of Mom and Dad when they thought Chara was sleeping. And the begging, the please Chara wake up, I don’t like this plan.

Frisk puts on another tape and they hear Dad talking to them. They want their mom and their dad. Everything will be alright if Mom’s here or Dad’s coming to pick them up and take them home. Mommy…Daddy…I can’t feel anything.

Frisk seizes their essence in a hug as they rip the tape from the machine. Spools of film spill out of it like pus, like they're digging their fingers into a wound, and Flowey tears at the film with his teeth, tearing each into tiny bits before he starts on another.

Chara starts to scream.

…

Frisk grabs as much of Chara as they can reach as the little spirit literally goes to pieces. A shred of soft sweater, a blob of pink flesh tipped in a dirty fingernail, a screaming mouth. When Chara erupts, it is explosive and dangerous and they are both shoved into a madcap scramble for control.

Chara grabs Frisk’s hands, control pulsing up under their flesh like ropes and popping their veins up under their skin. Frisk can’t feel what the hands are doing, except that they are certain they’re destroying. When Chara starts panicking, they run until whatever’s bothering them is completely gone. If they can’t do that, they claw and scratch until they’ve made an escape for themself. Frisk can only imagine what Chara might do to Mr. Gaster or to Alphys and they have a very extensive imagination, fueled by months of Resets and the resulting nightmares.

Frisk snags control of first one hand, then the other, and in doing so, holds Chara’s hands. They have a very bad singing voice, so they just talk and drum little rhythms on Chara’s palms. Onetwothree-four, onetwothree-four, onetwothree-four. Any nursery rhyme they can think of, anything that anyone’s ever said that Chara has taken a liking to, all of these things Frisk brings to the forefront of their mind, just so Chara will stop thrashing the body around. They’re going to hurt themself and then they’re going to feel bad.

This method, rehashing everything nice anyone’s ever done for them, is a tricky one because Frisk has to not even think about things that they normally would puzzle over or wonder about. They have to think of the velvety texture of butterscotch-cinnamon pie and the way that Papyrus likes to hug people and the salt-and-vinegar taste of fries at Grillby’s. They can’t even glance upon-

“Ask Him About The Determination. Ask Him About The Reason The Core Exploded. Ask Him About The Royal Scientist.”

-because Chara will want to think about it and then they won’t want to think about it because if they’re panicking, then they’ll assume that Mr. Gaster wants to hurt them. In fact, they’ll assume that everyone wants to hurt them and Frisk can kind of see why, but they can’t, they can’t think that way because there is an emotional link in this mindspace and they have to calm down because this is not their panic attack, this is Chara’s, this is Chara’s, this is Chara’s, “this is mine.”

‘Yes.’ And they’ve arrived in the eye of the storm. Chara is sitting in the middle of it, in a nightshirt smeared with blood and sweat and their eyes are huge in their shrunken face. But their cheeks are still pink in a ghoulish pantomime of life.

“It’s like a round robin of blame, Frisky. They blame you and you blame you and I know it’s me!” They giggle, high and breathless and squeaky, and Frisk is standing behind them. But instead of the back of Chara’s head, there is a face there too. This one is twitching eyes and biting lips and frenzied whispering. “But what if it’s not me? What if it’s him? What if it’s Gaster and Sans and Alphys and Dad and Mom and it’s not my fault that I’m bad it’s theirs.”

Frisk jams their hands over their ears as they advance on the gibbering face, intent on shutting it up so Chara can just talk it out. Talk it out and breathe. But if they succumb to the thing’s blathering, they’ll be in just as bad a shape. Chara is strong in the face of Frisk’s anxiety, but Chara’s own kind of anxiety is catching and Frisk has always been susceptible.

…

It is instinct that causes Wingdings to surround the child in shield magic. They are becoming destructive and this could cause them harm. So he cradles them in his magic, waiting for their rage to run its course. Not for the first time, his mind turns with no small amount of fury towards those people who had used them for horrible purposes. They are a child, not a toy, and should have been treated thusly.

The flower Asriel seems just as outraged. His mouth has turned from a small black stitch to a fanged hole and he is tearing at the tape as if it had just murdered him anew. Within the cradle of his magic, Wingdings forms a careful partition, in case the flower should decide to turn his attention from the tape to the human.

There are two expressions vying for dominance on Frisk’s face. One is worry, which holds their eyes wide enough that he can see their sclera almost in its entirety. The other is some kind of mania, which forces their eyes half-shut and curls their mouth in order to bare their teeth, some of which are missing. The latter emotion appears to rely upon the sounds Frisk’s body can’t make, for they open their mouth in a silent scream so often that he can see the pink of their throat.

Sans and Alphys are quiet, but this is not unexpected. Sans seems to be more reliant on his magic to deal with things and it is magic that he is currently unable to use lest it tear him apart. He also has little experience with children. That this child should also be a person he dislikes…it is a terrible coincidence. Alphys is awkward and childlike herself and is more accustomed to hiding and fleeing when put in bad situations. It would be rude and insensitive to ask her to deal with Frisk. So the job of soothing falls to the man unable to interact with the agitated child.

He cannot ask them what is wrong in sign, not while they continue to stare at the wall with that strangely blank worry, so he instead forces his throat to do as he dictates. The result is a bubbling gurgle that sounds remarkably similar to someone drowning in a tar pit, but it is concerned enough that Frisk seems to get the message.

The signs he gets in return are directed towards the wall, every word finger-spelled out with exhausting slowness. “Chara. They’re very angry and upset. I’ve got it. Hang on.” The child’s body falls alarmingly still and he has to catch them before they can hit the tile floor and smash their head open. Carefully, he lays their small form down on the floor on its back, manifesting several hands in order to catch and crush the bullets the flower sends rocketing through the air. The flower looks to be consumed in fury, snarling without sound and expelling flecks of unformed magic. Frisk lies perfectly still, eyes wide open, a pristine corpse. Then they’re sitting up, looking at him expectantly. He lowers the shields he had formed and they come pattering over, only a minute’s hesitation giving away the fact that they’d been having what appeared to be a seizure only moments before. He gives them a hand to hold again and they smile appreciatively, curling their fist around his index finger. The flower on their shoulder spits, black bits of film fluttering to the floor. “W-we destroyed your t-tape,” he informs Alphys. It appears to be as close to an apology as she is going to get.

She nods, as politely as if she hadn’t seen the whole thing. A bead of sweat is forming at her temple as she glances over at Wingdings, but she swipes it away before it can trace its weary way down her face. Sans is staring and his perpetual grin seems more than a little strained. Wingdings clicks a hand at him, signing “Don’t stare” over Frisk’s head. Sans blinks and starts picking up the pieces of film instead. Frisk joins him, crawling around on the floor like a puppy. Their chest is moving a little too rapidly for Wingdings’s liking, so he keeps an eye on them even as he manifests hands to join the clean-up efforts. Hyperventilation is not something he knows how to deal with, not in beings that require air to live.

Alphys, meanwhile, is staring at him with an abstract intensity as her mind draws its own conclusions. He waits patiently for the inevitable question. “You’re Doctor Gaster, aren’t you? The inventor of the Core?”

He does an approximation of a shrug, then nods. He did indeed invent the Core. But the title of Doctor usually belongs to Royal Scientist, no matter how many PhDs the rest of the scientists have received.

“Y-you, uh,” she nudges the floor with a toe claw. “You were the Royal Scientist before me?”

Her surprise when he shakes his head is almost comical. “History has it wrong,” he explains. “I invented the Core, but the Royal Scientist before me claimed credit. I was Royal Scientist for little less than a minute before I was pulled into my own invention. One of those highly ironic moments, you understand. But I can not truly claim to have been Royal Scientist in anything other than name.” Alphys still doesn’t understand sign, so he is forced to repeat the entire spiel for Sans, so Sans can translate.

“i knew you were lying when you called yourself royal scientist,” Sans says. “it didn’t fit right.”

“Yes. I thought you would listen to someone who was Royal Scientist more than a strange near-incorporeal man in the middle of Waterfall.” He shrugs. “That was a royal mistake on my part.”

“weak, doc. weak.”

Frisk shows Alphys a pile of tape pieces apologetically and she instructs them to just toss them. “I-I’ll just tell Asgore that one of th-them was damaged. Still, I d-don’t really think he’ll miss that one. It w-was sad.” She frowns anyway, nibbling her lower lip as Frisk deposits the tape pieces into a wastepaper basket. When they come trotting back, she gives them a quick hug then turns to reopen the door.

He assumes, correctly, that they will be returning to her laboratory above the ground. She has gotten the elevator to work again, but still, she fiddles with the control panel as they wait for it to come down again.

Frisk squeezes his manifested hand. Squeezes it hard enough that it sends a shock up through his magic. He looks at them, but their big earth-colored eyes aren’t looking back. Instead, he is looking down upon the crown of their head. So, he follows their gaze and wonders.

The amalgamate of the Snowdrake and the Vegetoids is coming towards them. Her sad face seems more deformed than it had been before and it takes him a moment to realize that it is because she is smiling. “Al…phys!” she pants. “Al…phys, I know your…friend! The…the Tem..mie delivery boy…right? Hel…lo!” The last word is addressed towards Sans, who stands frozen by the elevator doors, not even turning as they beep their arrival.

Mrs. Drake continues her line of thought. “I believe…you brought me a package for…Sno..wy’s birthday! A joke…book! You…you had your…little wagon with…your brother.”

“yeah, that was me,” Sans says, grinning a rictus grin. His eyes are flickering, not that Mrs. Drake seems to notice. Her joy is too great.

“Do you…still deliver? Can you send my…Snow…y.. a letter?”

Alphys, sensing the agitation, smiles and claps her hands. “Of course he can, Mrs. Drake! Here, I’ll bring down some paper for you. I have some fancy pens too, if you want to write it in different colors.”

“Thank…you, Al..phys!” Mrs. Drake sighs happily, then squishes away in the direction she came.

“I’ve never seen her so energetic,” Alphys says, mystified as she turns to the elevator doors, which have yet to open. “She must have been s-so excited.”

Wingdings cuts his eyes over to Frisk again, looking speculatively at the small brown mitt clasping a vaguely transparent green hand. In the first moments meeting Mrs. Drake, Frisk had taken her wing. He wonders what would happen if he allowed Frisk to hold his hand. Would he fall apart or come together?

He’s about to ask every question on his mind when the elevator doors finally open. The elevator’s occupied.

Chapter 24: Burnout

Chapter Text

Their first instinct is to attack.

After Chara’s breakdown, the lines between them are rather blurred. Frisk can’t tell whether the fury they feel is theirs or not and likewise, Chara can’t understand whether it’s themself or Frisk wanting to run away from everything. Everything is a blur of color and sound and overpowering emotion and it all comes down over their head like a brilliant wave.

Sans had been standing beside them, the most trust he’d ever shown them, but now he’s gone. Even without magic, he still moves quickly. The effect is disconcerting and makes their swollen mind spin.

The creature before them makes a soft snuffling sound, but it’s nothing nice. They can feel the strange suction coming from it and the way the cold it produces dries up their throat. Their tongue flops about uselessly in their mouth, shriveling in the face of the extreme. On their shoulder, Flowey coughs when he tries to breathe, the air just pulled out of his lungs. They can feel the tension in their chest and picture their lungs shriveling like little balloons with the air let out of them.

“alph,” they hear Sans wheeze. “what’re you doing?” They’re beginning to reconsider their stance on whether or not skeletons need to breathe. Sans is sounding pretty desperately in need of oxygen.

“F-fixing my mistakes,” she answers and they hear her lab coat rustling as she runs, back the way they came. Out of all of them, Alphys seems to be the least bothered by the oxygen deficiency as her footsteps move faster than they can even fathom moving at this point. “I’ll be right back, I promise!” For whatever reason, the cadence of her voice convinces them that she means it, even as they realize that she won’t possibly be able to make it back in time. In time for what? The answer is unreachable, but even as they start to reach for it, they understand that they don’t want to know.

“kid, stay awake.” Sans sounds even worse now, even though it’s barely been a second. The creature is still standing inside the elevator, lit by its naked lightbulb. The shadows make its odd shape even more menacing. With gargantuan effort, they turn their head and make eye contact with Sans. His eyes are gone and they register a dull alarm at the implications of this.

It seems to them that darkness is creeping into the corners of their vision, reaching limbs into their sight and fracturing how they see things. It looks to them like Sans is reaching out one hand for them, although he can’t be because he hates them. Gaster is making signs at them, but their head is too empty to understand. Then the suction increases and they finally understand what it means to have the life sucked out of you.

…

Sans grabs onto his father’s elbow as Gaster shrieks, the sound like so many worlds shattering. Whatever had happened upstairs is happening again, faster this time, like a candle in the face of a bonfire. Even the bone surface of his face is melting, dripping great gobs of murk down to the floor. Gaster mumbles something as his mouth droops away from his face. His magic is turning into shapes again, shapes Sans knows as the dialect his father was named for. But it’s all nonsense and his brain can’t reach the knowledge needed to translate. It just slips from his grasp, pulled away from him like his breath, pulled by the creature in the elevator doors.

Gaster’s murmurings dwindle into muffled squeaking as he shrinks, losing mass along with form, slipping through the spaces between his fingers. His hands finally latch onto the real arm, and he twists his fingers in the stiff fabric of the coat sleeve. Sans can hear someone swearing. Alphys is talking in a smooth mellow voice, his mind’s slowness warping her words into gibberish. She sounds like she’s everywhere at once, a benevolent, if nervous, deity.

He turns his head to look for her, and every movement is sluggish and dizzying. The lab interior seems to be spinning while also staying perfectly still. He doesn’t find her, but his eyes find Frisk and they also find the creature standing over them.

Frisk is crumpled on the floor as numbers swirl around them. One hand is outstretched, as if they had tried to grab for Gaster moments before they’d fallen, trying to help him again. As he looks, their fingers twitch. The flower, dissolving into sharp-edged numerals, is inching along their other arm, dragging itself forward towards the creature even as its vines crumble away into green ones and zeros. Its mouth is impossibly wide, the puttylike flesh sagging and giving into gravity. Sans can’t see the expression on its face from here, but he can hear it blathering, swearing up its own little hurricane. With every word, it pulls another bullet into existence, wobbly bullets, tinted with the green of leaves and growth. Each of these goes into the limp human beneath it. Every bullet drains more life from it, but it goes on giving it all up for the human. Trusting the human with its life force.

The creature looming over them is a twisted thing, with heads bulging from every surface. Each head has a mouthful of teeth and a long tongue swishing around, and every mouth is draining the breath from him. It looks like no one that Sans has ever met before in this respect, but in other respects, it looks like everyone he knows. As it lurches forward, tasting the thin air with its multitude of tongues, Sans can see the thing’s skeleton edging its outsides. He can’t call it an exoskeleton, because he can see every bone, including the ridged vertebrae of the spine that extends into a long tail. He can see the ribbed fins extending off some of its heads and the wispy edges to its body that mimic fire and oil paintings. It looks like some hideous patchwork of the people he loves and that’s even before it opens its mouths.

What follows is a cacophony of sound. It’s Papyrus’s screech of horror mixed with Undyne’s battle cry with a strange undertone of Alphys’s crying, Grillby’s groan of exasperation, and Sans’s own laugh. God, he might even hear some of Gaster’s burbling in there if he tries hard enough.

The flower recoils from the noise and some of its bullets falter, vanishing like water vapor near heat. Sans can feel the effects of it in his bones, chilling the marrow. Bone-chilling, some might say. A laugh bubbles up as he thinks of Papyrus telling him that he needs to go find a corner and sit in it until he can take this stuff seriously. What would Papyrus do?

Papyrus would tell him to trust in the human and he’s trying, believing in Frisk like Papyrus would. But even Papyrus wouldn’t trust the creature. He wouldn’t kill it though. Papyrus isn’t like that. He’d probably shove the creature into his patented human enclosure instead. Sans can just about picture the thing pacing about in their shed, sniffing at the dog food topped with burnt spaghetti. It would probably be warm in the shed too, and the whole thing would smell better than the lab. He can see the walls, some of them painted odd colors in Papyrus’s attempts to keep the human from running off, even though the human wouldn’t because they’re just trying to help. Papyrus could help them. They wouldn’t have to save everyone alone. He’d make sure Papyrus didn’t try and keep them in the shed. The floor’s too hard for a kid to sleep on, with or without the dog bed.

He can actually see the walls. He’s standing in the shed, skull pounding. Gaster groans faintly from the floor, sprawled out as if he’s just fallen from a great height, but more solid than he’s looked all day. Sans moves to help him up, then freezes as ice shoots through his spine into the back of his skull, paralyzing him. The sight in his left eye has cut off in response to the use of magic. He’s half-blind and that’s even before the wrenching in his brain starts. He has somehow taken a shortcut. He has left Frisk and Alphys in the laboratory with that thing.

As soon as the thought hits, so does the pain in his ribcage, thousands of tiny needles redoubling their attack and puncturing his bones. He just barely hears the door to the shed open over the pain, which suddenly seems like a living thing, attacking him from all angles. He tries to keep his balance, thinking frantically that his skull is about to smash open on the floorboards and spill dust and ice everywhere. It doesn’t smash because he’s still upright, kneeling on the floor to stay balanced, but his eyes are gone, his sight is gone, and someone’s screaming in an unfamiliar voice.

“And who, who, WHO’S this asshole?” The sound is accompanied by a gust of snowy wind that makes his bones rattle as if he might fall apart. He wasn’t this bad minutes ago, even when that thing was just pulling at him as if it could rip his bones apart. And the voice, crunching like metal and terribly shrill, just adds to his discomfort.

“get papyrus,” he growls, choking on the sound of himself. He’s not sure if anyone can hear him through that godawful voice’s complaints, but he repeats himself just in case. Hands take his shoulders and pull him up into a standing position, the sharp buzz of the magic telling him that it’s Gaster, who puts a surprisingly warm arm around his shoulders. The voice shrieks away into the distance up until the shed door slams open again, ricocheting off the wall from the sound of it.

“SANS?” A familiar tromp of boots and he’s seized up into a hug and his slippers fall off, landing thud one-two on the floor.

“papyrus, you gotta get the kid. they’re in trouble.” His voice keeps cutting out or forgetting how to form words, turning some into noises rather than syllables. He can hear Papyrus’s bones locking up in worry and a recognizable crunching sound. When Papyrus is nervous, he has a habit of grinding his teeth together. They both know it’s a bad thing, but Sans usually just lets it be. He’s just let a lot of things be, he thinks as he buries his face in Papyrus’s shoulder. Papyrus never lets things be; he pokes them and prods at them and gives them all his attention until they are fixed to his satisfaction. He’s never been able to fix Sans, but he helps a lot.

“UNDYNE!” Papyrus shouts, and they’re rocketing out into the cold. It’s never this cold in Snowdin, Sans notes, scrunching his legs up into his sweatshirt to keep his feet from freezing. It’s never this cold anywhere. But now it’s always cold.

Gaster trills sharply and he must be talking, but Sans can’t see him. This new darkness strikes him as unforgiving, almost hostile, a sharp contrast to the comforting shelter of the underground nights. Those are almost claustrophobic, when it seems as if the darkness is a ceiling, or a blanket. The gloom of blindness is more like being locked up.

He curls his trembling hands into Papyrus’s scarf and stares, widening his eye sockets as far as they can go in an effort to find light. The blackness is too vast. He can’t understand how vast, so he closes his eye sockets instead.

Gaster taps a finger on his cheek, warbling a question.

“dad, just chill, okay?” he asks, voice sharp and brittle as icicle splinters. “pap’s got this.” With that, he burrows his face into the soft wool of the scarf, effectively ending the conversation as Undyne’s voice joins Papyrus’s in worried shouting. They shout back and forth and then Papyrus is almost galloping. Sans clutches at Papyrus’s scarf more desperately, afraid that at any minute he’ll lose his grip.

Then they’re slamming into a wall of warmth and Grillby’s talking way too fast, his hands plucking at Sans’s hood and patting his arm. With the energy he has left, he unwraps one arm from Papyrus’s neck and clumsily feels for Grillby’s hand. When he can find it, he twines his fingers with his friend’s, trying to reassure him without having to open his eyes or talk. The nervous crackling slows and Sans takes a much-needed nap against his will, his consciousness refusing to stay operational any longer. Before he can pass out completely, he demands “go help the kid.”

Now it’s up to them.

…

Flowey swears extra loudly when he feels Sans’s magic flare up. Aside from the rotting smell, Sans’s magic feels like an ice bath to the face. The cowardly trash has abandoned them! His new swear word makes a very large friendliness pellet, which he plunges downwards into Frisk’s chest.

They gasp, moving under him as they come back to life for a brief second. Everything he’s got in him, he’s trying to give to them before this abomination takes it all, ignoring the voice whispering what used to be his mantra. What use is kill or be killed when you’re trying to save the one person you need? Every breath Frisk takes is another second Chara survives. Every second Chara survives is another word of forgiveness for letting them die in the first place.

He swears again, but his voice has worn away into a little mouse squeak and the pellet produced is nothing more than a scrap. He tries a second time and the result is even smaller. He throws it to Frisk anyway and the faint presence of their soul drinks in his healing magic.

“Get up,” he pleads hoarsely, averting his eyes from the stupid grins on the creature’s faces. “It’s going to get us if you don’t.”

The red of their soul flickers under their skin, under their sweater, giving off the illusion that they’re breathing even when he feels no air from their lungs. But if their soul is still present, there has to be hope. There has to be something.

“Come on. Come on, you idiot. You can’t leave now.” This time the glow is more pronounced, like they’re listening. Like Flowey has to give them a reason to stay. He doesn’t have one. He barely has a reason to stay for himself. His usual answer won’t interest them; Frisk has already shown that they have no interest in subjugating the weak or playing Flowey’s never-ending game of cat and mouse. And Chara- he’s never been able to predict Chara. That’s why Flowey has such a vested interest in them. They keep him going.

“Chara. Frisk. You-“ He twitches himself, trying to square his nonexistent shoulders. The only thing he can think to say is what his father said, once upon a time. “You’re the future of humans and monsterkind. You have to- you have to stay determined because no one else will. No one else will, do you understand?” Dammit, he’s crying. Dammit. He growls it, slamming the friendliness pellet into Frisk’s ribs. There’s no glow, no red reassurance that he’s doing the right thing.

The creature stands in the open doors of the elevator, watching them and waiting, and stupid Alphys is too busy trying to save the stupid melty monsters to help. So it all comes down to him and he’s done so much trying to end people’s lives that he doesn’t know if he can save this one. “Frisk, Chara, you gotta save.” His voice is so scratchy from fear that he can barely hear himself. “Please, you gotta save.”

There’s a rattle of breath and Chara’s breathing stops entirely. Flowey’s entire body goes numb, a searing coldness reaching into his very core. There’s a dull whine running through his head. He smells buttercups and old metal and his body begins to shake, vines curling and uncurling around Frisk’s arm as the creature begins to advance, satisfied that it can now retrieve its prey. Something’s building inside him, a lump in the throat he no longer has, the tears pouring freely down his face, the whine mounting in pitch. Don’t leave me, he thinks, as if that will do any good for anyone. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’tleaveme don’tleaveme-

“Chara, don’t leave me!” he screams, bawling like the frightened child beside his sibling’s deathbed.

The red glow

explodes

and a rush of Determination pulses outward in rings, like ripples on the surface of a lake. Flowey takes it full in the face, the undeniable warmth of Chara and the indescribable joy of Frisk and, above all, their determination to keep going. His lungs fill with it and the tears dry in messy trails on his face. He finds that the weight of his own body seems to have vanished, absorbed into the effortlessness of life. This is why Determination is so powerful, so coveted. Before Flowey discovered its other uses, monsters used it as a drug. Very small doses, only droplets, could be used as a medicine against horrible diseases. It was even able to pause the progression of soul rot, although not stop it entirely.

The creature retreats back into the elevator, hissing in a jerky manner, voice cutting out and coming back as if it is just dying in its throat. Stupid thing. Flowey tilts his head. He can feel something warm in his nonexistent chest, fluttering like a bird, and it is every good thing he’s ever had in his life: fresh strawberries, the smell of new crayons, helping Mom roll out the dough for pie, watching his father garden, Chara’s laugh. The feeling of being alive.

He’s missed that.

With a roar of triumph, he forms a bullet and hurls it. The creature twitches on impact, and nothing else happens. But. Under him, Frisk starts to move, picking themself up. They pause for a moment, testing for their aches and pains, then leap to their feet, real, alive, like they were never down. In their face is Chara’s laugh and on their face is Frisk’s smile. And the Determination pulses like a heartbeat in the air, pulling all the strings and making him feel like life has just wrapped him up in a fuzzy blanket tent. He’s not sure where Flowey ends and Asriel begins, but he’s crossed over that line. He’s Flowey, but with Asriel’s dreams and love. He’s Asriel, but with Flowey’s fury and ambition. He’s both and he’s determined to succeed.

Frisk- Chara- they form a bullet of their own in the way they feel, throwing their emotion like a projectile. Flowey follows it up with a bullet wave, keeping them coming. His attacks are laced in pink now, as if the Determination is the blanket fort he’d been thinking about. The creature jerks and rattles hollowly, but the attacks are absorbed. It’s a container, he realizes. Meant to hold something. Meant to hold magic.

He communicates these thoughts to the human, who raises an eyebrow, glancing from him to it. Their eyes widen almost imperceptibly, then they’re clicking their tongue against their teeth. Posing with a hand on their hip and wagging a finger at the creature. He laughs Asriel’s laugh as the Determination bubbles up from an eternal spring. He can feel the mischief in it. They’re about to do something that Chara would love. That Chara loves.

There’s a pop, like snapping the cap off a soda bottle. The Determination present in the air arrows, and although Flowey can’t see it, he can feel it and he bounces gleefully on their shoulder as it hits and just keeps going, fountaining from their soul in a never-ending stream. He giggles as the creature just keeps moving backwards, stumbling as they shove it back. The bullets he’s forming continue to grow brighter and brighter until their light is blinding, illuminating the darkness of the laboratory. He can hear Alphys’s squawk of shock over the loudspeakers, but it all pales in comparison to them because they glow brighter than any light could ever glow.

Their power has plastered the creature to the wall. Its chest heaves and swells like a balloon. The Determination is too much for it, for its edges begin to splinter, releasing a sour electric scent and a sparking green light. For a moment, its body flares green, but the Determination swallows it, overtaking and erasing and filling it to the breaking point. And then it’s over. With a fizzle like a lightbulb going out and a sharp metallic smell, the creature is gone and Frisk sags to the floor. Alphys’s laughter echoes all around them, just as euphoric as he feels. His loopy grin is still firmly on his face as the scientist runs up, leading a pack of Amalgamates. They look funnier than usual. Different, like they’ve absorbed the feeling in the air and turned it into life.

Alphys grabs up Frisk and Flowey in her arms and spins them around with a strength he didn’t know she had. “That was amazing! You made it explode!” she cries, twirling them in a dizzy circle. Flowey laughs and Frisk’s shoulders shake with their own mirth. Alphys sets them back down, smiling enough that her face will ache for hours after. “Y-you’re so st-strong!” she says, as if it was them who had picked her up.

He can’t stop grinning, even though he should, even though Alphys was the source of all his trouble. But he keeps thinking that if she hadn’t brought him back, he wouldn’t have felt that rush. “Th-thanks!” he says instead, beaming at her. And she smiles back without hesitation.

“Y-you’re like a m-magical kid! Transformation sequences and the power of heart and everything!” Alphys claps her hands in front of her, squeezing her palms together. He’d usually find that so annoying, but right now he feels like he wants to tell her about the Absolute God of Hyperdeath and his astonishing adventures aboveground. He doesn’t; even as happy as he feels now, that would be incredibly embarrassing, but he draws parallels between that and her fascination with the brightly colored cartoons and feels maybe that he understands her a little better.

“Wh-where’s Sans?” she asks, looking around as if Sans will pop out from behind the chisps machine with a magician’s flourish. He doesn’t.

“He left.” Alphys’s face falls at that and Flowey can feel an identical distress in himself, although he has no love for Sans. They do not linger too long on this, for Alphys’s mouth picks itself back up into a smile. “He’ll be around. H-he d-doesn’t disappear for too long.” Her faith in him is astounding, especially because Flowey recalls Sans disappearing for great lengths of time while Frisk methodically murdered their way through the Underground. But, of course, Alphys wouldn’t. She remembers her Sans, who is a good deal different from the Sans he knows and dislikes.

Alphys hums something under her breath as she examines the elevator for marks or stains. “Ready to go up?” she asks, and she’s asking all of them. The Astigmatism bird squawks assent, diving into the metal walls of the elevator. Mrs. Drake squishes in as well, smiling her droopy smile. The monster with a body that reminds Flowey of Shyren’s agent and the dog collective elect to stay behind for a little while, letting Frisk and Flowey hop in with Alphys. As Frisk leans on the scientist, she presses the up button and sighs. “I think,” she says, confiding this to them, “I think that things are getting better.”

They all tumble out of the elevator when it reaches the upper floor. Alphys makes a beeline for the desk. She shuffles some papers around, then turns, clutching fistfuls of glitter pens. “Okay, Mrs. Drake, l-let’s write a letter to your f-family!”

If it’s possible, Mrs. Drake’s smile grows even happier. While she gets settled on the couch and Alphys readies herself to transcript, Frisk and Flowey send the elevator back down for the dog collective and the gooey Shyren-like monster. Reaper Bird is leaping from reflective surface to reflective surface nervously.

Frisk makes a few signs, saying “It’s okay. Come down. You’re safe” but the bird gives no indication that it has understood. Flowey recalls the green-eyed monster by the sinks with some apprehension.

“Wh-where’s the other one?” he asks Alphys, recoiling when her head jerks up and her hands slam down. Her pen nib rips jaggedly through the sheet of paper she’s using, tears a hole straight through it like a crack in a cave wall.

“Y-you mean Memoryhead?” she says, apologizing to Mrs. Drake as she crumples that sheet into a ball, pushes it aside and grabs another.

“Is that their name?” Frisk asks, Flowey relaying the question. He doesn’t really like the name. Too sly. Plain names are better, names that tell others exactly what to expect. Frisk is a bouncy human, Chara was charismatic. He’s a flower. Memoryhead? What does that even mean?

Alphys shrugs, sweating a little. “They named themself. Th-they had other names before. Um, I worked with them when I was first hired b-before they fell. Th-they, uh, they quit before the experiments started. M-most people did.” She’s quiet for a minute, dutifully copying down the lines that Mrs. Drake tells her in her halting manner. Eventually, as she writes a snow-themed joke, she says “They th-thought this place w-was haunted.” She’s just waiting for them to make fun of her and Flowey’s about to, because honestly, he didn’t even believe in haunted places when he was crybaby Asriel, but Frisk interrupts.

“By ghosts? But ghosts are nice, aren’t they?”

“Ye-es,” Alphys says, drawing out the ‘e’ doubtfully. “Ghosts are very nice, mostly. B-but they didn’t th-think it w-was a ghost.” She seems reluctant to say much more on the topic, returning her attention to their previous question. “Th-they don’t like people much now, s-so th-they’re probably st-still in the b-basem*nt.”

The elevator pings to announce its arrival, and its cargo comes out yapping and flicking froth from its orifice. In one swoop, it manages to snatch up Frisk by the collar and Flowey temporarily feels the pull of gravity as his body is pulled away with Frisk’s shoulder while his head continues to regard Alphys. His form stretches like putty to compensate, then he snaps back into proportion on Frisk’s shoulder. Frisk is playing with the dog collective, taking its gooey face in their hands and patting it. The dogs bark in unison, sending a chill down Flowey’s spine. But it’s not just the dog.

He’s not comfortable with what Alphys said. ‘They didn’t think it was a ghost.’ He almost thinks he can understand what she means, and as the Determination drains from his body, all he can feel is fear. And he’s so tired of being afraid, but it’s so hard to feel something other than fear and rage and exhaustion. So he leans against Frisk’s ear and he tries to convince himself that he’s got his head against Chara’s. He falls into pretending as easily as he ever did. Pretending that it isn’t his job to be the nightmare anymore. Asriel was much better at pretending than Flowey is, but he convinces himself enough that he’s lulled into a doze full of gold-edged blurry silhouettes. They move around him in a dance of conversation and interaction as the gold fades to be replaced by velvety darkness. He’s not yet asleep, but thinking about Determination. He had thought that the human souls were his only way to achieve complete and utter power, but what if that wasn’t it? In recorded history, the only time a monster had been able to cross the barrier was with a red soul, a determined soul. It’s possible that other souls, with their different concentrations of Determination, are unable to pierce the barrier.

He snaps to when the elevator doors ping and Frisk starts walking. Frisk has taken them back to the lab in the basem*nt, this time all alone. He’s immediately angry because it’s so stupid of them to do this on their own. They nearly died the last time, not ten minutes before, and now they choose to do it again.

They find the room with the waiting tables and the sinks, and they turn all three faucets. But Memoryhead doesn’t come slipping from the third sink’s faucet. Frisk’s phone rings though, a lone signal in the quiet.

Memoryhead asks a question that Flowey can’t hear from his position, but he can hear the peculiar crunching and crackling that accompanies its words. Frisk spins in a slow circle, holding the phone to their ear as they search for the monster. Their eyes cannot fully pierce the darkness, and neither can his, so they both jump when Memoryhead makes another appearance, slipping through the gloom as if it was simply a curtain.

Frisk taps the back of the phone insistently, cutting their eyes over to him. He stares a minute, trying to discern what they want. With one hand busy, they aren’t able to make any signs at him. He presses his cheek to the phone, holding it against their ear while enabling him to listen to the other side of the conversation. They throw him a ‘thanks,’ that obviously being what they were after all along, then look to Memoryhead. The monster doesn’t understand sign, but Flowey does, so they make the signs slowly and clearly, allowing him to say them as their fingers form the shapes. “W-we w-want to talk.”

Memoryhead’s green eyes flash curiously. Its tail lashes and Frisk leaps backwards, but the monster doesn’t seem to be attacking. Instead, the dripping mouths widen gruesomely and it spits, spraying the floor with white droplets. These almost instantly slide back into the main body of the amalgamate. From the phone comes a crackling laugh, raspy from disuse. “You Want To Speak To Me About The Traitor.” It is amused by this and Flowey can feel Frisk’s shoulders hunch. He scowls at the monster as best he can with the side of his face smushed against the phone.

“Y-yes,” he answers, twisting a couple of his vines together on Frisk’s arm, under their sweater sleeve, weaving a sort of bracelet. It’s the closest he can get to holding their hand without displaying weakness. This way he can at least pretend that he is about to snap their wrist off should they choose to contradict him. He knows they won’t anyway. Chara is almost as curious as he is and Frisk, while a bit more cautious, is nosy. The thought of any information that could help them in their joint quest amplifies their curiosity.

“I Thought As Much,” it says, mouths stretching wider. Flowey shivers. The tone of its voice sounds so satisfied, as if it somehow knew that they would be coming back. He wonders if he sounded like that, when he was once upon a time convinced that he had done everything there was to do. “Have A Seat.”

Frisk doesn’t move, fixing Memoryhead with a resolute stare. They must know as surely as Flowey does that to sit down is to allow Memoryhead higher ground and that it could also allow the monster to attack them faster. Frisk might be merciful, but they aren’t stupid.

It should be impossible for Memoryhead’s mouths to reach even farther across its faces, but it does, until the mouths look like seams across its faces, like Flowey could pull them apart to reveal the terrible space within, full of dust and sloshing Determination, bleached of most of its base color. He can’t even picture a soul for this thing.

Frisk spells something out that he assumes is a misspelling, but they don’t repeat it when he presses his head harder against the phone. “Oogie-Boogie.” Flowey decides that it’s most likely a joke for him, one that he appreciates for the sentiment, but doesn’t get.

“The Traitor Dabbled In Things He Was Too Stupid To Understand.” Frisk inhales quietly. Flowey understands at least that much. If they’re talking about Gaster, then this really doesn’t mesh. Gaster is so careful that Flowey constantly translated his sentences without contradictions, and with every single word capitalized. Still. He remembers learning about the scientist who fell into the Core from some of the logs around Alphys’s lab, before she realized that he was a threat and started putting cement under the floor tiles to dissuade him from entering. Gaster’s even acknowledged it himself, so it’s not false information.

“He Was At Least Competent Enough To Experiment Only On Himself.” Frisk recoils and Flowey feels like doing the same. He remembers the phone just in time to keep it from dropping. He had seen Gaster’s frustration gestures up when they were all talking in Alphys’s bedroom, when she had discussed her ventures in Determination. He pairs this now with the fact that Determination was used as medication when monsters could get it. Gaster was in charge of the Determination experiments even before Alphys. Alphys had used other people as guinea pigs, being unable to read Gaster’s reports. No doubt he had already discovered the fragmenting power of Determination.

Frisk asks a question and Flowey repeats it. “B-but, he’s a s-skeleton?” That’s true, he realizes belatedly. No matter what Gaster looks like now, he must have been a skeleton at one point, which would mean that unless he snapped apart his own bones to inject the Determination into his marrow, there would be no place to put it.

Memoryhead says, disdainfully “He Decided It Would Be Simpler To Inject His Soul Rather Than His Body.” Ugh. Flowey gags to himself. Imagining a needle inside someone’s soul is so gross. It’s like the song Chara tried to teach him: “Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye.” He had been disgusted then too, more laughingly disgusted, though disgusted all the same. But a needle in a soul was so much more gross.

“That Is When He Became Obsessed With The Idea Of The Void Beyond The World. The Determination Had Driven Him Mad And He Pestered The Current Royal Scientist With Silly Insignificant Questions Until She Was Nearly Mad As Well.” Unlike the people who normally say things like that, Memoryhead doesn’t sound fond or joking. It sounds cold, disgusted, very unlike Toriel when Asriel thought her speech notes were drawing paper and she claimed, loudly and laughing “My child, you are driving me mad!” Memoryhead definitely doesn’t sound like it wants to pick Gaster up and hug him. It sounds more like it wants to hurt him.

“And When The Core Was Finished? He Killed Her And Himself. Threw Them Both Into The Core And Gave The Void A Taste For Souls.”

Frisk’s hands strike so fast that Flowey almost doesn’t catch what they say, and Memoryhead, staring cruelly into the distance, certainly misses it. “Liar,” say the hands savagely. “Liar.” It would be nice if they were right. Flowey hates ‘nice’ for the sole reason that it doesn’t exist and if someone says it does, they’re a complete idiot. Frisk is right only partially. Gaster probably didn’t shove the Royal Scientist before him into the Core, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not fascinated by Determination and the Void. And it definitely doesn’t mean that the Void possesses no such taste for souls. Flowey felt the sucking from the elevator creature and that from the Void fragments inside Gaster just as clearly as he can see the freckle under Frisk’s eye in broad daylight.

Still, Frisk seems pretty convinced that they’re lying about the whole thing. Flowey thinks. And then, he thinks a little more. In order to get to the castle in New Home, he reasons, they’re going to need to go through the Core. Gaster says that he built it. That’s the version universally accepted by everyone he’s met but this monster. Memoryhead. Monsters tend to have names with odd meanings. Alphys once confided in him, in one of the timelines where she still trusted him, that she was named for a star formation her parents hoped to see and Papyrus is obviously named for an important type of paper. This monster chose their own name. Monsters that chose their own names already had a sense of self and named themselves thusly, like Flowey. If Memoryhead has the kind of memory that they named themself for, then they’d remember things differently. Differently than the history they'd grown up knowing, even. He pauses at that thought, turning it over in his head. How would they be able to do such a thing? Unless. Unless they were aware of the resets in childhood, but that doesn't seem plausible. There's something wrong here.

Frisk smiles and thanks Memoryhead for their time, a sentiment that Flowey doesn’t share, although he translates it with his own painful smile. Frisk doesn’t mention the fact that all the other amalgamates are upstairs with Alphys, instead backing out of the room and down the hall. Flowey doesn’t want to turn his back either, thinking irrationally that as soon as he turns his head, Memoryhead will come rushing out of the room and towards them. Frisk’s back makes impact with something and they both squeak in surprise. Flowey’s petals curl into his face in his surprise, but it’s just the chisps machine, they’re okay.

“I feel bad.” Flowey peers up at Frisk’s face as they take the phone and click it off, sliding it back into their pocket. They do look a little peaky, their mouth pressed into a thin line and their eyes screwed up in emotion.

He says acidly, “If you have to v-vomit, aim-m aw-way from m-me.”

Frisk glares at him, swiping their hand gestures towards him. “I feel bad because we went poking. That was none of our business.” They’re looking for solidarity, he realizes.

“W-we? Ah, no. You have the legs, m-mxy, I j-just go along f-for the ride.” His snark sounds exactly right and he’s quite pleased with that. Frisk stares him down, their dark eyes solemn as they press the button for the elevator. Its cheery chime sounds horribly out of place in the eerie silence.

“Chara just said the exact same thing.”

Flowey wants to grow hands just so he can bite his fingernails. “Oh,” he manages. As unpleasant as it is to consider, he’d almost forgotten Chara. His sibling rarely seems to speak through Frisk, give or take their rages, when they aren’t really saying anything of importance to him anyway. He had forgotten how in sync they used to be. Chara was always in step with him and, even if they were difficult to predict, they had always had his back. Frisk might be interesting, but they aren’t the same as Chara, despite similar fashion tastes, and similar haircuts, and similar sizes.

As they ride the elevator to Alphys’s false lab, her apartment really, Flowey screws up his face and tries to remember.

He thinks through Frisk’s tea party with Lemon Bread (what a name), remembering how Chara was always afraid to hold tiny things, like just their touch would break something. When Frisk takes Endogeny for a run, he thinks about riding the ferry monster around Waterfall and making wishes on the stone stars. For so long, he’d let himself believe that Chara would come back and help him conquer the world, help him subjugate monster- and humankind. But, as he thinks of the sibling who was afraid to touch someone smaller or weaker than them, lest they break, he’s not so sure anymore that that’s what they would do. Chara wanted love more than anything in the world, more than power, more than fear. They already had enough fear in their life, despite Asriel’s attempts to rid their life of it.

Chapter 25: Determination

Chapter Text

Undyne slams on the door of the lab with her fist until the side of it is purpling into a bruise. She’s left a sizable dent in the smooth metal, but she can’t allow herself a moment to feel bad. Someone’s in trouble. It’s her job to serve and protect, even if the person she was initially sent to protect is a human. She’ll just pretend that she’s here to protect Alphys. No, wait, bad idea. Bad idea!

The door slides open with an easy hiss to reveal Alphys, hurriedly brushing down her front. She’s as cute as ever, especially with the little crown of blue paper flowers that she’s wearing. Blue’s a pretty color on her. On Undyne it just fades into her scales, either washing them out or making them too dark. Undyne only realizes that she’s smiling when Alphys gives her a tentative, but ultimately happy, smile in return. She has a gorgeous smile. It seems to smooth out her whole face and light it up from the inside. Undyne once jokingly called her the ‘angel of the Underground’ because of that smile.

“H-hi, Undyne!” Alphys says, loud enough to tell the whole neighborhood. A bead of sweat sinks into the collar of her lab coat. Undyne has to lean on the doorframe when she notices that. Looking at Alphys anywhere is a minefield. Even her eyes make Undyne lose her train of thought. They’re just so pretty, honey-gold with almost yellow edges.

She remembers to speak just as another bead of sweat rolls down the side of the scientist’s face. “Hey, Alph. You doing okay here?” Her voice goes gruff on ‘Alph’ and slips up high on ‘okay’. Smooth. As smooth as a rocky riverbed. That’s Undyne. She would like to leave now, having already managed to mess everything up. Alphys is looking confused, her brow adorably wrinkled as she squints at Undyne over her glasses.

Then she glances over her shoulder and smiles when she looks back. “Y-yes. Oh! Would you like to c-come in?” Alphys steps aside, ushering her in with a quick little jerk of her arm.

Undyne smiles broadly, although she tries to keep the teeth to a minimum. She’s been told before that she’s a little scary and Alphys is so nervous that she doesn’t want to cause any more stress for her. Still, a quiet interlude in the air-conditioned laboratory would be awesome. Her scales are already starting to dry out.

She steps in and is met immediately by the human, in their own paper flower crown, who is holding out a glass to her. They grin and push the glass through the air towards her. Water sloshes over the rim, splashing the floor. The flower on their shoulder grumbles at that. Undyne eyes him, looking for any possibility of attack as she takes the cup. She swallows a few sips, then dumps the rest of it out over her head. It drips into her eye and her fins perk up a little. Even without her full outfit of armor, Hotland is still too warm for her. Alphys loves it here though, she grew up here, so Undyne is willing to make the trek every day if necessary.

“Hey, human,” she says, extending her hand to them, palm perpendicular to the floor. It should be obvious that she wants a high-five, but the kid shrinks into themself a little, like she’s going to hit them. She’s only seen that reaction a few times before and the reasons were never anything good. But she’s not sure why it’s directed at her this time. Sure, she had tried to kill them and take their soul to Asgore, but that was the point of the exercise. It was really nothing personal, she guesses. In her mind, it had been that the human would have felt honored to give their soul to Asgore’s cause. She’s only realizing now that maybe she was wrong. She doesn’t like being wrong. She doesn’t know how to be wrong.

“Undyne, y-you’ve met Frisk and Flowey, right?” The human, Frisk, nods and smiles as if they’d rather be cringing, a faint quivery smile. They reach out and very gently press their palm to Undyne’s own. Heat seems to radiate from their hands, not the kind that makes her scales dry up, but the kind that reminds her of her hot fridge, welcome on a too-cold Waterfall night. Their thumb wraps around her pinky, then they lower their hand. Their smile is shy now rather than frightened.

“Hey, Frisk, heya, Flowery.” Her voice is very soft, but she still feels too loud. It bothers her and she feels like the kid’s going to run away at any second, like a Whimsun or something.

The flower shifts uncomfortably, then blurts, in a little kid voice so unlike the shrieking devil one it had used before: “I-it’s Flowey. D-did you r-really lose your eye fighting a h-human?”

She’s taken aback and the oddity of the question actually pushes her foot backwards. She hasn’t thought about that in years. It hasn’t bothered her since the event itself, but at the question, her hand reaches up and presses lightly against her eyepatch. She can feel the raised skin through the soft fabric. “Hell yeah, I did. You wanna see?”

Alphys squeaks in protest, but the kid is fascinated, nodding frantically. “Fr-Frisk!” Alphys says, scolding like a mom (she’d be such a cute mom), but Undyne cuts her off.

“It’s fine, Alph, the kids in Snowdin want to see it all the time.” She crouches to their level. Slowly, slowly, her fingers curl around the patch and “Boom!” she yanks it away, undoing the knot of cord under her ponytail with a swift pull. The air-conditioning wafts into her empty eye socket. It’s not as gory as the kids always think it should be. Asgore had assigned her care after the accident to his best healers, meaning that Undyne spent most of her childhood wandering the palace halls during healer trips, even before she joined the Royal Guard. But the eye socket is just a hole covered in skin; a dent, really. There’s some scar tissue around it, slashing diagonally across her eye. She had asked for them to let her have the scar. It made her cooler.

Frisk’s eyes fixate on the scar, moving slowly across it as if they’re memorizing it. Their hands move a little, gesturing to her eye and back. The flower studies these motions, then asks “Wh-what did that?” It’s a language, she realizes. Most likely the one Papyrus slips into when he’s frustrated. She’s learned a couple words from that, like “darnit!” and “boondoggling” and “Undyne!” Papyrus does her name by covering one eye and pointing two fingers in the air. She likes to think of it as a victory sign.

“He kicked me in the face,” she answers, returning to normal volume now that the kid no longer looks so timid. When she sees their skepticism, she laughs a little. “Yeah, yeah, shoes don’t leave that. But, man, this kid-“ she frowns, remembering the way he had danced for her “-he was nuts. He must have put something in his shoe because it just ripped up my face! Like, boom!” She spreads her fingers out to demonstrate and Frisk smiles approvingly at the gesture, though their eyes are still worried.

“But, uh, how’d you know that, buttercup?” she asks, turning her attention to the flower, which looks back at her with the worst sneer she’s ever seen. And she’s seen Mettaton sneer plenty.

“I’m n-not a buttercup, stupid,” he growls, offended at the very idea. “A-and A-asgore told m-m-me.”

“Huh. I think I would’ve remembered him talking about a rude little weed to me.” The best thing about only having one eye is the ability of that one eye to laser-focus death glares. Most people’s glares are at one hundred percent when fully used. Undyne’s is already climbing past that mark. She’s very aware that she’s overstepping her bounds, but something about this flower already rubs her wrong. Either he’s lying to her or Asgore keeps secrets and he never keeps secrets from her.

“W-well, guess you’re n-not as cl-close as you think.” Frisk taps their foot on the ground like a war drum, eyes widening as the flower’s face elongates into a death mask, all crooked teeth and creased skin.

Undyne coughs a laugh, incredulous. “What’s your problem, daisy?” At the flower name, Flowey’s eyes burn coppery red, like fire. Slithering over his yellowed teeth comes a blue-black tongue, which flicks in her direction.

Before he can say anything, and by the dog is she ready for him to say something, Frisk reaches up and pinches the tongue between their index finger and their thumb. With a tug, they redirect the flower’s attention to them. Slowly, they mouth a few words. Undyne doesn’t quite catch them, but whatever it is is enough to convince the flower to close his mouth back into his small face and blink sullen black eyes. Frisk has snuffed out the ugly hellfire in his face, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t still be smoking with rage.

“U-undyne! Would you like to, um, have a p-picnic with us?” Alphys brushes against Undyne’s elbow as she shuffles over to the kitchenette area of her lab. Undyne blinks. There’s a blanket on the floor, blue- and white-striped. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there’s food arranged on it, and a wicker basket that has definitely seen better days. She counts seven plates with a frown, then counts three people in the lab.

“You having a party in here?” she asks. Hey, maybe it’s Alphys’s family. She’s only met them once and that had been quite the experience the first time around. Although that would only account for two more plates, leaving two others. She’s not the greatest at math, but even that calculation is obvious.

“K-kind of?” Alphys ventures, before sighing and saying, “It’s okay, g-guys. You r-remember Undyne, right?”

Something peels itself off the wall, turning an almost-flat head towards them as it takes on shape and dimension. The beak opens in a horrible squawk. Undyne whirls away from it as she hears the sloshing from behind her. A hideous thing brings the hole in its face to her eye level, dripping black gunk and thrumming low in its throat. Another one comes up beside it, eyes popping out of its gooey head like bubbles in tar. Its teeth rattle in its face as she points the spear at it. Something brushes her arms and she spins again, pointing a newly-formed spear from the toothy maw of one creature to the misshapen face of another. Her breathing is speeding up now. This must be the threat Sans was talking about. Alphys and Frisk are being held hostage by a collective of colorless creatures.

As she raises her spear to deal the misshapen one a blow, it says, in a slow warm voice “Un..dyne? Hel…lo, dear. How……are you?” She falters at the maternal tones, recalling hot chocolate on a too long guard shift in Snowdin and feathers brushing against her scales as the woman thanked her for her service.

“Mrs. Drake?” she ventures in a tiny mouse voice. It can’t be. She’s being stupid. Mrs. Drake was a bluish-purple color and she’s gone. She fell down a few years ago. Undyne remembers the difficult times the Drake family went through after her passing. The Dogi filed so many reports of Snowy going missing and being found and going missing again.

But the face before her is beaky and smiling and extending a dripping wing towards her. “Of..course.” She doesn’t know if there’s anyone else it could be. So she accepts the touch and takes in the appearances of the other monsters with fresh eyes. The toothy creature, its body is Skip, the agent that fell down with Ciren. The birdlike creature seems to have wings that are the spitting image of a Whimsalot duo. And the doggish creature-

She tries talking again, with better results this time. “Captain Dogma? Dogtrot?” The dog collective shakes itself vigorously and barks in a group of voices, each one echoing the one before. It sounds like a call-and-respond chant. Undyne reaches out a hand, vaporizing her spear, and places it against the dog’s slimy head, ignoring the way their body sticks to her palm as if they don’t want her to let go. They whine and she laughs. “Oh my God! OH MY GOD!” She whirls, grabs Alphys’s hands, cries “They were here? They were here and they’re not gone?” She’s laughing so hard that she can barely get the words out.

Alphys freezes up, staring at her in horror and apprehension. “Y-you’re n-not m-m-mad?” she quavers and Undyne has never loved her as much.

“Alph, this is amazing! They’re okay! You’re all okay!” She hugs the dog collective around the neck and bends into a half-hearted suplex, not caring one bit that they’re melting onto her.

Alphys chuckles a little and Frisk claps their hands. The dog collective rests their chin atop Undyne’s head and she may be crying a little, but she’s definitely not going to let anyone see and the dog collective would never tell anyway.

…

When she’s calmed down enough that she can start picking the pieces of the amalgamate out of her hair and clothes, she sits on the floor as Alphys gets another plate. Frisk is using their chubby little paws to weave another flower crown, having already crowned the dogs and the other amalgamates. Undyne has asked if she can help Alphys with the food, but the little lizard had refused, shakily, to let her help. Alphys seems almost giddy, buoyed up by some emotion inside her as she almost floats about her crowded little kitchen.

Undyne flicks another puddle of white back at Endogeny, who catches it in their orifice and absorbs it. They’re all over her, but she’s too excited. Every so often, she has to get up and catch the dogs in a headlock to demonstrate this excitement, lest she burst and have to be tacked back together again too. She thought they were dusted, that they were gone! Dogma fell down when Undyne was just a kid, younger than Papyrus, and she still remembers the sleepless nights where the howls of the bereaved Canine Unit rattled through the caverns of the Underground.

In less morbid thoughts, Frisk and Flowey are having a one-sided argument, where Frisk puts down their project every so often to sign something at the sullenly silent Flowey, then, with a sigh, picks it back up. Undyne feels bad for losing her cool about the story. It’s entirely possible that Asgore told the story to the flower in passing. The little monster seems enough like a child that it’s entirely plausible that he popped up out of the ground and Asgore was enchanted enough to tell him stories about his fierce Captain of the Guard. Yeah. She likes that idea. She’s not going to apologize because that’s weak, but she is going to make it up to them.

“So!” she starts, leaping to her feet. Her hand lashes out and takes Frisk by the head. She doesn’t squeeze as hard as she would if it were Papyrus, just applies a little pressure. “You’re not in danger, are you, punk?” It’s the first thing she can think to ask, because of course they won’t want to spar with her if they’re scared of her making a threatening gesture and that would have been her first question. She doesn’t really know how to treat kids that aren’t already wowed by her status in the Royal Guard. She’s forgotten, if she ever really knew how.

Under her hand, Frisk gives a careful little shake of their head, flicking their eyes up towards her but otherwise keeping perfectly still.

“Okay then!” There goes the idea of rescuing them and becoming a friend of theirs that way. She glances about the lab and zeroes in on Alphys, who is breaking ramen into a bubbling pot. She can smell the savory spice packets, which will explode like sodium bombs on their tongues. Alphys likes to put in extra spice packets when she’s alone, meaning that the particular ramen stew she’s making will need other sources of flavor. Undyne thinks and the smile that crawls across her face is as long and toothy as a snake and twice as pleased.

“ALPHYS! Make some room!” she yells, picking the kid up and tucking them under her arm like a package. They wriggle in alarm before realizing that she intends them no harm. At the stove, Alphys drops her stirring spoon, spattering the front of her lab coat. Undyne, already apologizing for being too loud, is there in a minute, checking her over for burns and picking up the wayward spoon. Frisk is still nestled under her arm. Alarmingly, they are shaking. Undyne flips them out in front of her, afraid that she’s wrecked her only chance at winning them over by smacking their head against the floor or something. Instead, she’s met with a mile-wide grin and a mischievous sparkle in their boring brown eyes. They loop their arms around her neck and tuck their head under her chin. They're so warm and soft that she nearly drops them in surprise.

“F-frisk’s cuddly,” the flower says grouchily from where he’s pressed into her armpit.

Frisk goes to grab the hand holding the spoon and frowns, showing her the purple bruise decorating her hand. It’s already unpleasantly hot and starting to swell, but she brushes it off. She’s had worse. “Yeah! I got kinda carried away. You guys didn’t hear me knocking.”

Alphys comes over, pushing her glasses up her snout. Undyne watches her nose wriggle as she sees the wound, focusing on how her eyes look like caramel when she’s worried, soft and almost liquid at the edges. She must make an odd face, because Alphys is suddenly peering those soft brown eyes at her, very close to her face. There’s a glow in her cheeks, under her scales. “Undyne? Does it hurt?”

Undyne stares vacantly at her a moment- it hurts every minute to love you and suddenly there are roses blooming all around them- before realizing that she’s asking about the bruise. “Nah,” she answers quickly, trying to cover her momentary lapse. She’s afraid she’s also blushing, and from the way Frisk is looking between them, her fears are entirely justified. The kid has the biggest, smuggest grin on their face. She taps their nose with her knuckle, then shifts her grip to pinch their nose between the knuckles of her index and middle fingers. “What’re you smilin’ at, punk?” She can’t help it, she’s smiling too.

“Here, let m-m-me b-bandage it b-before we eat.” Alphys shuffles off to find the first-aid kit and, quick as a wink, Undyne sets Frisk down and spins them around to face the counter.

“Okay, kid, here’s what we’re gonna do,” she says, digging around in the fridge. It’s cold in there, but she’ll just have to be fast. Alphys won’t shoo her away if she’s already cooking. She grabs a handful of vegetables, still in their packaging. She’s pretty sure that if she looks too hard at them, she’ll recognize them as the vegetables she bought for Alphys at that market a few months ago. So she just hands Frisk a handful of taters and a knife from the knife block. “Chop those up,” she instructs them. “Don’t cut off your hand or anything, but chop ‘em like they’re your worst enemy. Murder ‘em!”

She begins pummeling the tomatoes into a fine paste. Each punch is dealt to a different villain in her head, all of them awful characters from the shows she and Alphys watch. A couple of punches are saved for real-life villains though, like-

Frisk isn’t chopping. Instead, they’ve dropped the knife entirely and have their hands over their face. The flower is cowering around their neck and Undyne recognizes the face he’s wearing as that of a boss monster, furry and soft and round. “Hey, kid,” she says, dropping to her knees in front of them. Flowey snuffles, pressing his face into Frisk’s neck. His stem shakes in a muffled hiccup. Very gently, Undyne pries apart Frisk’s hands. The human’s eyes are leaking, as is their snub nose. Her first instinct is to ask why, but her own observations overrule that. The knife is on the floor as if they’ve thrown it. She didn’t get to be captain by being oblivious. So, she picks them up instead, balancing them on her hip and bouncing them like she would any lost child. That’s all they really are in the end; a little kid who has wandered too far from home and gotten lost. She wonders, for the first time, if someone aboveground is missing them like Mr. Drake misses Snowy.

“Look, you little snot. How about I chop and you stir, okay?” There’s another moment of quiet, then Frisk nods against Undyne’s shoulder. She’s never been good at letting people cry, but sometimes it’s just better to move it all along. Right now is probably one of those times. She runs her thumb along Frisk’s cheek, catching the tears on her skin, then she plops the kid down on the counter. They brandish the spoon at her before churning the pasta furiously. Their enthusiasm makes her chop faster. Her knife is flying and pasta might also be airborne, but this temporary insanity is better than weird tears. “Stir harder!” she yells and the kid grabs the spoon with both hands, whipping it around the pot with an expression of fierce concentration. Undyne finishes the vegetables at lightning-speed and goes to pour them into the pot.

“W-what are you d-doing!” Alphys shouts, dropping the first-aid kit on the ground. Undyne, the edge of her chopping board balanced on the rim of the pot, stops and looks at it. Taters, carrots, she can’t really see anything wrong with this. It’s kind of cute that Alphys is so nervous. Granted, it’s Undyne’s usual m.o. to set fire to whatever she’s cooking, but a day spent with Grillby, actual living fire, has taught her a slightly more careful method.

“We’re gonna be healthy!” she crows instead and tips the whole thing into the pot. Including the knife, which clangs against the side of the pot loudly. Ah. Alphys’s adorable panic makes a lot of sense now. Frisk prods at the rapidly-sinking knife with their spoon. Their eyes are giving Undyne the flattest of looks, as if they’re saying ‘Well, genius, what do we do now?’

Thank the dog for Alphys. The lizard, used to boiling water incidents and probably worse, bestows upon them a deadpan look, rolls up her sleeve, and plunges her hand into the pot. Her hand comes out, knife positioned as if it is the sword of power, and Undyne appreciatively whistles the first minute of Alphys’s favorite theme song in her honor.

The pasta is delicious, even if it is undercooked and rather crunchy. Alphys and Undyne scrape noodles off the walls and Endogeny happily slurps up each one. The rest of the pasta and its almost raw stew is dished out onto Alphys’s mismatched plates. Reaper Bird comes very close to eating their utensils as well as their meal before Alphys snatches them away.

They all sit on the edges of the blanket, eating their picnic food. Undyne is only able to use one hand, as Alphys has so heavily bandaged the other one that her fingers have been rendered useless, meaning that her plate is balanced between her knees. Flowey eats as hungrily as Frisk, although Undyne isn’t quite sure where all the food goes. She doesn’t really care though because Alphys is sitting by her, their knees nearly touching as they eat. Undyne and Frisk have doused their pasta with a healthy helping of tomato paste, but Alphys is content to simply enjoy the flavor packets. Undyne wonders if she has pocky. Sometimes they find an unopened box only a little past its expiration date and they can spend hours doing silly things with them. Undyne has some pictures on her phone of Alphys with pocky fangs and herself with pocky horns. They had eaten these delicious attributes only a few moments later, but the memories would be saved for as long as possible on Undyne’s phone. In fact, Alphys’s contact picture is her, frozen in a laugh, clutching the pocky fangs like tiny daggers.

“S-so, Undyne, what m-made you come all this way?” Alphys asks, twirling her handmade chopsticks in her noodles. Her hands move so elegantly when they’re maneuvering chopsticks or handling wounds. Undyne thinks that she could compose a sonata or three about the beauty of Alphys’s hands.

“Papyrus and Sans got me to come here. Sans thought you were in trouble.” She glances over at Frisk, happily snuggled into Endogeny. “I guess he was wrong?”

Alphys titters uncomfortably, drawing Undyne’s complete attention. “Well, he wasn’t. I’m gl-glad to hear he got home alright though. Was Mr. Gaster with him?”

Undyne nods. “Yeah, the old guy seemed okay.” She takes a bite of noodles, and blurts, mouth half-full. “Uh, the thing with Sans- with his eyes- was that going on here too? ‘Cause Papyrus was pretty freaked out.” Alphys stares at her blankly. “Like, yeah, kinda like that, but it was like you could see the inside of his head.” Undyne had only seen it for a brief minute, when Papyrus had started running back to Grillby’s, but she had the worst feeling that Sans hadn’t been there. His eyes, normally laser-focused, had been entirely gone, even the soft black sclera. For the first time in years, Sans, lazy forgetful Sans, had frightened her.

Alphys inserts the end of her chopstick into her mouth, chewing on it. She’s thinking. Undyne has seen her bite through a few pens when she gets like this and usually the splatter is something to behold. “H-he’s a l-little under th-the weather. I d-don’t kn-know if I should t-talk about it. S-sorry.”

“That’s fine!” Oops. She’s gotten a little loud and, combining that with her biggest comforting grin, Alphys is looking flustered again. She’s even cuter that way, but Undyne definitely doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Not like that jerk Mettaton. Guh. Just thinking about the way he treated her on his television show makes her want to snap a boulder in half with her bare hands.

Frisk, who has patiently been feeding Flowey his food in between bites of their own, pauses with a chopstick speared through a chunk of potato. Instead of conveying it to their own mouth, or even the flower’s, they look down to where Endogeny is patiently rubbing the hole in their face against their own plate, looking for the last scraps of food. The human reaches out, patting Endogeny’s head to attract their attention. When the orifice is turned towards them, Frisk drops the potato in, crinkling Endogeny’s ears with their free hand. The whole thing reminds Undyne of a game she used to play with the dogs. Dogaressa called it ‘fetch,’ but Undyne much preferred the term ‘reflex training.’

“Captain Dogma!” she yells, surging to her feet. The dog collective rears their head up to stare in her general direction with their eyeless face. She can’t bring herself to stare into the abyss for too long, so she averts her eyes to the chopstick in her hand. “Wanna play reflexes?” Without warning, she hurls the utensil.

There’s a skittering, like thousands of tiny marbles being dropped to the floor. Endogeny is suddenly everywhere, their face in Undyne’s, their claws marking the walls. The other amalgamates set up a frightened gibbering. The one made up of Ciren and Skip and Kevin bellows “I hate it! I hate it!” in all their voices, wailing as they scrape their gelantinous head against the wall.

Undyne staggers backwards as Endogeny makes as if to nudge her with the yawning hole in their head. The chopstick dangles from the hole on a string of gloppy white liquid. She watches it bob in disgusted fascination, up until the point where it snaps, sending the chopstick to the floor. It adheres to the floor as soon as it hits.

Endogeny play-bows, swishing their tail back and forth and sending gunk in all directions. It would remind her of Greater Dog’s antics outside their armor, but the howl of the others warps the playful pose into something darker. During their meal, Alphys had told her the entire story of how she was trying to fight off death to save these people. Granted, that wasn’t exactly how she had phrased it, but Undyne knew Alphys. She knew how self-deprecating Alphys could be and factored for it in almost all of their conversations.

So, she pushes away that thought and crouches to rub at Endogeny’s ears like Frisk. But her hand keeps getting stuck. “Sorry, ma’am,” she whispers as she pulls her hand back. She can almost see Dogma’s sad dark eyes looking up at her. So she looks away and goes to help Alphys wrangle the others instead, letting Frisk flying tackle Endogeny and scratch all around the scruff at their neck.

“Alph, I’m sorry,” she says, as she kneels in prayer to Reaper Bird. Alphys, humming loudly and pointedly not hugging Lemon Bread, makes brief eye contact with her. She doesn’t say that it’s okay, and Undyne’s heart sinks like garbage from the overworld. But then she winks- she winks!- and Undyne’s fins flare out in surprise and her whole face heats up. Alphys colors prettily in response. It’s like they’re having an entire conversation!

She presses her forehead against the tile floor before Reaper Bird in supplication, and also in heated delight. What a wink can do to a person- yeesh!

When she raises her head again, she can practically feel Frisk’s smirk, but Flowey’s snigg*ring is a little more obvious. She turns her head ever so slightly to see Frisk with Endogeny’s massive head in their lap, scratching the space between their ears. Undyne’s eye must be tricking her, because it almost looks like Endogeny’s head has become furry rather than sticky.

She turns back to the amalgamate, watching Alphys flex out of the corner of her eye. She wears an expression of fierce concentration offset by her almost-nonexistent muscles. Undyne smiles again, turning this smile towards Reaper Bird. “Hey, punk! Can those wings even get you off the ground?” she asks.

Reaper Bird flaps them, turning its head to regard her with one accusatory eye. She shrugs at it and smiles all the wider. “Hey, Bird, explain how this works.” She manifests her spear and shrinks it first to the size of her pinky, then grows it to the size of Reaper Bird itself. The bird blinks wonderingly, then reaches out and rests its beak on top of her head. Then, like a half-filled balloon, it floats away, bobbing over to the reflective surface of the still-warm oven. It sinks into the reflection legs first, and disappears.

Undyne pops up like a jack-in-the-box, stretching out her legs in a couple of lunges. With that all done, she stretches her arms over her head, letting her gills flare and settle.

Alphys is still blushing, but now she’s looking at her, and Undyne just wants to pick her up and kiss her face all over the pink spots and the freckles on her scales. Instead though, she bends herself backwards until her palms are flat on the floor, hoping that by the time she comes up, her own pinking scales will be attributed to nothing more than the blood rushing to her head. From here, she has a perfect view of Frisk, who has apparently made it their life’s mission to pet Endogeny forever. As she watches, they yawn and curl into the dog’s side. Kid’s gonna suffocate themself like that.

She stands back up, her bones cracking nicely as she goes to rescue Frisk from themself. Endogeny’s definitely not solid enough to prevent them from drowning in their side.

Then she sees it. Frisk, head pillowed in soft white fur, drifting drowsily into sleep. Flowey looks from Frisk to her as if asking ‘you’re seeing this too, right?’ Because Endogeny’s side is glowing a muted blue, their fur looking like a cheap shroud over a network of blue veins. Each of these veins is flowing towards Frisk and, under Frisk’s sweater, their soul brightens like a child’s nightlight, creating a beacon. Sucking in the Determination. And as it does, Endogeny seems to sharpen, blurry wet edges becoming soft fur and the dripping hole in their face shrinking, shrinking away.

“I thought so,” Alphys whispers. The dinosaur leans into Undyne’s shoulder and, unconsciously, the fish woman blushes as she stares at the beast and the sleeping child. “Frisk is changing everything.”

“What d’you mean?”

Alphys doesn’t seem to realize her own proximity. If she had, she would have leapt away already. “The Determination in Endogeny and th-the others, it’s from the last human who came down here. I p-pulled it out of his soul because it was the most recent store of Determination we had. I think- I think that I should have remembered your eye.”

“Hm?” Alphys starts to sink down to the floor, lost in thought, and Undyne sinks with her, reluctant to let her go.

“The human who fell down before Frisk, he was violent. I didn’t factor emotional state into it. I thought it was all the same. But Frisk feels different. I should have-“ Alphys stops and takes a deep breath. Undyne cautiously creeps an arm around her, pressing her tighter. “I had forgotten until I met Frisk how bad dealing with his Determination made me feel. It was like drinking sand and then, Frisk was water.

“Sans thought we were in danger b-because we were. Th-there was something th-that w-wanted Frisk’s D-Determination and it was pulling our magic. S-Sans got away and then Fr-Frisk- I don’t know- exploded. And their D-Determination-“ Her fingers twine in Undyne’s and she looks up through the lenses of her glasses. It’s not simply the refraction of the lights making her eyes shine that way. “Their Determination feels like love.”

Chapter 26: Right As Rain

Chapter Text

Papyrus skims the forty-seventh page of his book on theoretical physics again, somehow managing not to glean any information from the marching ants on the page. All he can think about is the lump on the couch beside him. It had taken four thick blankets to stop Sans’s bones from rattling so loudly and even now he’s not sure whether this is because they can no longer hear the clatter or if Sans is genuinely warming up. He wishes Undyne was here. Grillby is very nice, but he’s always been more Sans’s friend than Papyrus’s, growing quieter alongside his brother while Papyrus only got louder to make up for them both.

Dad’s sitting on the floor, scribbling frantic notes as quickly as he possibly can. Papyrus isn’t sure where he’s gotten spectacles from, but there they are, clinging to his face as he bends over his papers. The sight is comfortingly familiar, although Papyrus still can’t recall ever having anyone other than Sans looking after him.

Grillby’d wanted to shut down the restaurant for the day, just so he could be up there with them, but Dad had convinced him not to, that it would be ridiculous when Sans had both himself and Papyrus looking after him. So Papyrus can hear the bustle of people in the room below and smell the grease wafting up the stairs. It still makes him a little sick, but it would be very rude to complain. And the great Papyrus is never rude! It would not befit him to be so. Still, he adjusts his scarf just the slightest bit more, discreetly covering the lower half of his face.

Sans makes a soft sound and Papyrus is immediately on high alert, drawing his knees up so he can kneel over his brother, looking him over again for any sign of injury. Still, Sans seems perfectly intact, just asleep in his blanket nest. Papyrus has the overwhelming urge to be six years old again, poking at Sans’s face and whining for him to wake up. He wants Sans to wake up. This scares him too much, although he’d never admit that. Sans looks like he’s fallen down when he lays so unnaturally still.

Papyrus sits back on his heels. Dad takes his cue from that, starting up his scratching again now that Sans appears to be just fine. Papyrus balances his book on the arm of the couch and slides gracefully to the floor with only the slightest clink of his bones against the wood. “DAD?” he asks.

Dad glances over at him and lifts his arm, beckoning with one hand. Papyrus scooches under it, scrunching himself smaller to better fit against Dad’s side. He feels more normal today. When Papyrus first met him, trying to hold onto Dad was like trying to pick up water with bare hands. Now it’s more like the crumbly dirt at the edges of Waterfall’s rivers, a little mushy, but not enough to drip. “WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?”

“Notes on Sans’s condition.” Papyrus looks at the paper balanced on Dad’s knees. There are little sketches of a monster soul. Dad’s not a very good artist, but Papyrus can make out the cracks and holes in the soul, kind of like the human’s, but worse. Just looking at it makes him feel sick. There had been something wrong with the human too. Sans had said that they were a killer, that they would hurt anyone in their way, but they had just looked so lost.

Dad sighs and shifts the paper to the floor, leaning his head against the arm of the couch. “He isn’t doing well.”

Papyrus squirms internally, guilt making his soul hurt. Sans isn’t well. He hasn’t been well for a long time. But Papyrus thought it was just Sans being Sans. He hadn’t noticed the new unwellness for a very long time, not until Sans tried to lock him in his bedroom and accidentally lost control of himself. “I’M SORRY,” he says and Dad squeezes his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault. You wouldn’t have known. Soul rot looks a lot like depression and you did what you thought was best for depression.”

“I’M SORRY ABOUT THAT TOO. I DIDN’T TAKE THE BEST CARE OF HIM.” Papyrus knows he could have done better, could have been better. Sans hasn’t been okay since Papyrus was just a babybones and he’s been too wrapped up in his own goals to notice. What kind of hero is so self-centered anyway? Undyne knows better than that. That must be why she won’t let him in. Because he can’t even protect his own brother. How would he protect the entire Underground?

“Oh, Papyrus.” Dad puts his pencil down as well in order to give Papyrus his full attention. “You did the best you could do. Sans is so much stronger than he would be without you. You are very bright, you know, and you shine like a beacon. Everyone in the dark needs a beacon.”

Papyrus sniffles and breaks out a semi-convincing smile. It’s the best he can do. He doesn’t quite believe Dad. Sans did a great job watching out for Papyrus. He did laundry and packed school lunches and read bedtime stories. Papyrus can even remember being pulled around in a red wagon while Sans worked because the only alternative was to be stuck at home by himself. Papyrus has done none of those things. He’s woken Sans up when all Sans wanted to do was sleep, he’s nagged him and dragged him places, and all he’s ever managed to do is make Sans worry. Undyne and Grillby didn’t rush out to greet the human in all those timelines, trusting that they’d be friendly. They didn’t leave their brother to go crazy as he watched them-

“papyrus, the kid’s okay, right?” Sans shifts in his blanket cocoon. “are we at grillby’s?” He sounds so puzzled that Papyrus starts to cry and immediately wraps his arms around his brother, pulling him off the couch and into a bony embrace. Sans pats his shoulder with the hand he’s managed to free. “hey, what’s with the waterworks?” His voice is so quiet, like he can’t work up enough energy to make it louder. Papyrus hasn’t heard him be this quiet in weeks. Sans has been forcing capital letters into his speech more and more often lately, something that the neighbors appreciate, but Papyrus doesn’t. A Sans at normal volume isn’t quite his brother Sans. “c’mon, bro, you’re going to drown me.”

“SORRY!” Papyrus rubs his eye sockets with the heel of his palm. “THE GREAT PAPYRUS REALIZES IT WOULD NOT BE A GOOD THING TO DROWN MY LONG-ABSENT BROTHER.”

“i wasn’t gone for that long, was i? what day is it?” Sans squirms around and lifts his face to the ceiling. “what time is it?”

“Time for you to get a watch, my boy,” Dad says, the crack that forms his mouth twitching a little. Papyrus groans and nudges him in his nonexistent ribcage.

“THAT WAS AWFUL,” he complains. Dad nudges him back, his smile getting bigger.

“what was?” Sans asks, turning his head from side to side to try and find what Papyrus is talking about.

“DAD MADE A DAD JOKE,” he explains, propping Sans up so he can see better. It’s a good thing Sans doesn’t weigh that much because he doesn’t seem able to hold himself up right now. Sans turns his head again, peering up at him through wide eye sockets.

Papyrus has to will himself not to shudder. Skeletons have soft black sclera, like the cavern roofs without any light or the inside of Papyrus’s favorite boots, lined with black cloth to make them feel nicer on his bones. It’s just the way their magic forms. Sans’s sclera are absent, leaving his eye sockets blank. If Papyrus looks too hard, he can see the inside of his brother’s skull. Dad has explained that this is probably part of the soul rot. Because Sans is depriving himself of his own magic, there might be strange and unnerving side effects. Papyrus had been prepared to deal with the soft voice, but he had been hoping that the empty sockets were just Sans being too tired to care.

“can we turn on some lights? I feel like there’s some shady stuff going on here.” Sans waves his hand to indicate which here he’s addressing and winds up slapping the back of his carpals against Papyrus’s jawline. “whoops, sorry. didn’t see you there.”

Papyrus looks around at the room. The wood floors are reflecting both the amber glow of the fireplace and the saffron shade of the lights, so the whole place feels very warm and looks even more cozy than it already is. Dad gets up and turns on another lamp. The effect makes Papyrus feel like he’s onstage at one of Mettaton’s shows.

“IS THAT BETTER?” he asks, his voice quavering a little despite his best efforts. Sans looks around for a little bit.

“yeah. that’s good,” he allows, squinting. “let’s go say hi to grillbz.” He pushes off Papyrus’s knee, standing with only a hint of instability and stepping over his brother’s leg to stand beside the couch. “where’re my shoes?”

Dad picks up Sans’s slippers from where they’ve been resting beside the fireplace and mutely extends them. Sans continues to look around the room, grin never faltering. Dad moves closer very quietly, making no sound that could possibly alert Sans to his presence, but he’s impossible to miss. And still, there’s no recognition on Sans’s face, not even when his slippers are dangled within a foot of his skull.

Papyrus knows a lie when he sees one and this one is too obvious to ignore. Dad gently knocks the fluffy pinkness of the slippers against Sans’s face and his brother just about jumps a foot in the air. “oh,” he says, when he comes back down. Then again, in a tired voice. “oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Dad’s hands are moving almost too fast for even Papyrus, hurling themselves into impossible shapes as he places the slippers on the arm of the couch with Papyrus’s book. He can understand ‘reckless,’ ‘foolish,’ ‘could have died’ and ‘Papyrus’- as in “Did you even think of Papyrus?”- spelled out over and over again in the Wingdings dialect, Dad’s namesake.

That’s about the time when Grillby comes up the stairs to retrieve clean condiment bottles and deposit the others in the sink. The fire elemental pauses at the entrance to his apartment kitchen. Papyrus can see his eyes widening behind his glasses. They must be quite a spectacle; Sans staring blankly at nothing, Papyrus still kinda-sorta-crying, Dad gesturing crazily with six additional hands. He expects Grillby to decide that this is too much to deal with, collect his condiment bottles, and make a swift exit back down the stairs.

Instead, Grillby goes into the kitchen with his armful of empty bottles and comes back out empty-handed. The rest of Papyrus’s family has not noticed him, what with Dad being completely consumed in his pointless scolding and Sans being completely blind. The fire elemental examines the signs Dad keeps making, then closes the distance between them in a few soft steps. “Is everything alright over here?” he asks.

“hey, grillbz. you look radiant today.” Sans can’t see the way that Grillby’s flame flares white in surprise, or the way that he starts playing with his gloves, pulling on the fabric almost nervously. Papyrus wants to stop him, because he recognizes Sans’s way of setting up a joke. It’s unfortunate that Sans sounds so sincere. “i, uh, might be blind.” And there it is. Grillby returns to his normal color as if he knew it was a joke all along, but there’s a distinct look of disappointment on his features, one he tries to smooth away when he sees Papyrus observing him.

“Would this happen to be something to do with your lack of eyes?” There’s a weird note in his voice, not quite sad, but not happy either. Grillby always sounds so bright when he’s happy, like someone’s given a bonfire a voice. Right now, he sounds like the bonfire’s burning down, caught in the split second before extinguishing.

“oh. heh. probably.” Sans blinks his eyes, closing them slowly and reopening them even slower. “hm.” He’s too quiet now. “eye think i can see the problem here.” He makes that noise through his teeth that he makes whenever he knows he’s making a horrible joke in an even worse situation- ba dum tissh.

“SANS! YOU DON’T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND THE GRAVITY OF THIS SITUATION!”

“you’re right, bro. i don’t understand the gravity of this situation ‘cause i keep spacing out. i better comet down with all these stellar puns.” Sans starts laughing, not his usual laugh, but a shrieking howl that forces him into a crouch and Papyrus feels his heart plummet. The sound goes on and on and he sounds like he’s running out of breath, but it just keeps going. It sounds less like mirth and more like pain all the time.

It’s Dad’s turn to grab him, placing two hands on his shoulders and talking in his own way, bringing his face to Sans’s level. Dad sounds like a little bird when he talks, wobbling around the octaves in his crooning tone. Sans’s laughter dwindles into quick little gulping breaths, but Papyrus can recognize hysteria when he sees it. He hates it.

Grillby’s hand lands on Papyrus’s shoulder and he tears his eyes from the scene to see the fire elemental looking down at him. “I could use some assistance with setting up the tables downstairs.” Papyrus wants to shake his head, to stay here, but Dad nods and he can feel his teeth beginning to grind together from the intensity of emotion here, which is very unhealthy.

So he allows himself to be handed empty condiment bottles and be ushered downstairs. The body of the dummy stands vacant in a corner while the ghost who had inhabited it flashes around the kitchen, grouching to themself. “Look, look, look who showed up!” they snarl when Papyrus sets down the bottles, stacking them hollowly. “You think you can just walk out on responsibilities like that, buddy? Do ya, do ya, do ya?”

Papyrus rubs at his eyes before the tears can start again, but the ghost’s angry eyes must catch the expression on his face because they bob closer. “Hey, hey, hey,” they say. “You okay over here?” He nods, but the ghost isn’t convinced in the slightest. “You been pickin’ on him?” they ask Grillby, fury sharpening their edges.

“No, Mads. Thanks for managing the kitchen.”

The ghost eyes him for a bit before returning to their bowl of hamburger meat, which they’ve been tenderizing with tiny missiles due to their lack of arms in both their forms. “Meh.” They punch the meat again before shaping it into patties. They work in silence for a bit as Papyrus rearranges his condiment organization system and Grillby fires up the grill. “My cousin cries a lot.”

Grillby doesn’t look up, so Papyrus figures this was probably meant for him, as a distraction. He takes it. “ARE THEY OFTEN SAD?”

“Blooky? No. They cry because they’re happy, when they’re scared, when they’re angry about something. They get quiet, quiet, quiet when they’re sad. But they’re not sad a lot. My other cousin looks after them.” Mads places the hamburger circle down on the grill and starts another one. “They better still be looking after them!” The thought seems to infuriate them, because they deal a forceful enough blow to the meat that it spatters on the wall before them.

“WHAT ARE THEIR NAMES?”

“Metts and Napsta and Silen. They’re all Blooks.” Mads chuckles as they root about in the shelves for a cleaning cloth. “They’re good ghosts. Silen lives in the Ruins. And Napsta and Metts live next to your fishy friend.”

“UNDYNE’S NEIGHBORS!” So then, the ghost neighbors are named Napsta and Metts. He’d previously been calling them Spooky Bloo Bloo and Happstablook the Happy Ghost, so he feels a little stupid about that. He only hopes that Sans won’t find out because Sans will tease him within an inch of his life if given the chance.

He’s still thinking about that when a loud voice blares from the dining room, over the usual din of the diners “Grillby! Grillby McFrye! Answer your cell phone for once!”

With a groan, Grillby sets down his salad knife and pokes his head out the kitchen door. “f*cku, can you just tell me what the problem is? You know I don’t keep my cell phone on hand.”

He pulls his head back in and steps away as his little sister bounces into the kitchen. f*cku must have run all the way from school, because she hasn’t changed out of her uniform and her backpack is hanging off her shoulder. Her fiery hair is in two short pigtails. “Hey, Rus!” she says, saluting Papyrus before turning back to her brother. “Listen, G, Mettaton’s show is on in like a minute and he’s gonna be cooking with King Asgore so can I please use your TV? I have to research King Asgore, but he, like, never makes TV appearances!”

“What’s wrong with the one at home?” Grillby asks, picking up his salad knife again.

“I got grounded for sneaking out last night. But there was this party going on and they practically begged me to bring my camera and pretty please with a cherry on top?” f*cku clasps her hands together under her chin. In Papyrus’s opinion, the best thing about f*cku is that she is almost as interested in Mettaton as he is. He’s been distracted lately, so he’ll have to ask her what’s been happening on the show when she has a spare minute. He hasn’t watched since last night, hasn’t even checked the recap page, meaning that he’s missed three episodes already.

“When does it actually come on?” Grillby hasn’t even finished his sentence when f*cku shoves her phone into his face. He nudges it away in order to better regard the screen. Even from where he’s stacking condiment bottles, Papyrus can see the pink sparkly MTT Countdown app on her phone. Grillby examines it then shrugs his shoulder. “I have people staying with me, f*cku. You’ll have to ask them for permission. But you also have to-“

“Set tables? Work the midnight shift? Fine, fine. Can I sleep over?”

Grillby slices the tomato. “Not today, kid.” He reaches for a head of lettuce and f*cku knocks it into his hand.

“Rus, are you and Sans still staying here?” f*cku asks, wheeling on him with her hands to her hips. Her eyes fall on the condiment bottles. “Want some help filling those?”

“YES AND YES. DAD’S HERE TOO.”

f*cku blinks. “Dad? You guys have a dad now?” Her eyes crinkle up. “That’s cool! I always knew you guys didn’t just pop outta nowhere!” She comes towards him and leaps, wrapping her arms around his neck the way she would when she was four and he was eight, treefrogging him. He stumbles, laughs, hugs her back. Then she slips out of his arms and grabs four condiment bottles, two in each hand. “Get the mustard vat!” f*cku’s magic smells like lemons and produces pressure, inflating the bottles until their caps pop off and clatter to the table.

Papyrus finds the walk-in and lifts the nearest container’s lid. Ketchup. Grillby doesn’t mark his containers, relying on some organizational system that Papyrus can’t ever seem to solve. He goes through two more shelves and then f*cku’s in the fridge with him, having popped the tops off all the bottles. She shivers, surveys the area, then chooses a container on the shelf by her right foot. She’s right on her first try. “Get the ketchup too!” she says as she rushes back out into the light and warmth of the kitchen. The heavy door swings shut behind her, but Papyrus is strong enough to force it back open with his shoulder, hands being occupied with the ketchup.

It takes the two of them together and several pairs of gloves to fill all the containers. Papyrus fills a bowl with ketchup, just in case Sans wants it. f*cku sees him and winks as she snaps the squirt tops back onto the bottles. Grillby exits the kitchen with a tray of garden salads, the two following. Mads is absorbed in watching the burgers go from red to brown.

The restaurant is full of light and sound. The patrons recognize f*cku with delight. She hasn’t been here since the morning the human first came by with their mother, the big boss monster with the terrible taste in jokes. George and Misha, the bears, and their daughter, Dewey, greet her with pleasure, asking after her mothers. Papyrus gives Walter and Audrey the gift of condiments. It’s nice to see Walter not already at the bar with Red. He must have had a nice day.

“Oh, hey, Papyrus!” Dewey says as he sets the ketchup on the table. He glances at her and she grins, offering him a sheet of paper. “Whaddya think of this word search? I’ve been missing my number one searcher!”

“THANK YOU, DEWEY! I’LL BE SURE TO TRY IT OUT! I WILL FIND YOU ALL THE WORDS!”

Dewey laughs. “You do that, buddy. It’s a puzzle too. Special edition for you.”

Papyrus is touched and he shows this by bestowing upon her a hug. She purrs under his jawbone and he can feel her bones shift as she talks. “We’ve been worried about you and Sans at the librarby. You haven’t been by in a while. Even Libby asks about you.” She chuckles. Lib is half-afraid of people, a not-so-great trait for the head librarian, but it makes her concern all the more special.

“NEVER FEAR, DEWEY! SANS AND I WILL BE BY SOON!” He strikes a pose, pounding his fist on his chest. A wisp of magic picks up his scarf and flutters it. Misha claps politely and George grunts his approval as he drowns his salad in mustard. Papyrus bows, picks up his condiment stack, and resumes distributing them.

When he gets back to the kitchen, Grillby says “You don’t have to say yes to her, you understand. If either you or Sans or Gaster are uncomfortable with her being up there with you, I can tell her to go home.” f*cku isn’t even in the room and Papyrus has to lean in to hear him. It seems like he’s just getting quieter and it reminds him uncomfortably of when Sans first started to go silent. Grillby and Sans have always been too close. “She most likely is skipping out on one of Mam’s home improvement projects anyway. It will be no trouble at all.” He’s chopping lettuce uncomfortably fast.

Papyrus looks over his shoulder. As the doors swing shut, he can see f*cku chatting up Dogamy and Dogaressa. She’s never bothered anyone before. “I DON’T MIND,” he says. “BUT I’LL ASK SANS AND DAD.” He picks up the bowl of ketchup and takes the stairs two at a time, leaving Grillby still sparking a little.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he is hesitant to look around the corner. Just the thought makes his soul curdle. He doesn’t want to see Sans upset, he doesn’t want to see Dad upset. But he has to ask them or f*cku will be disappointed and he doesn’t want her to be upset either. It’s his duty as a Royal Guardsman to make sure that everyone is happy! So, he leaps around the corner, ready to tackle any obstacle and brandishing the ketchup spoon.

Sans startles at the noise. He’s tucked back under the blankets, but Dad’s propped him up with pillows. Dad is sitting next to the couch, watching Papyrus. There’s no sign of hysteria or even basic misery and Papyrus feels himself relax a little. “What’s eating you, Papyrus?/what’s eating ya, papyrus?” the two of them ask, almost in unison.

Papyrus squints at the two of them, trying to judge from their identical smiles whether or not that was a pun. He decides it wasn’t, graciously pardoning them. “f*ckU WOULD LIKE TO WATCH METTATON’S SHOW WITH US AND I SAY WE LET HER. IS SOUL ROT CONTAGIOUS?”

“nah, bro. it’s just what happens when you kill a bunch of times. f*cku’s fine.” That’s very not reassuring, but Papyrus appreciates his brother’s attempt at a comforting tone.

Dad looks up at Sans, then back to Papyrus. His hands twitch and even though Papyrus has only known him for maybe three days, he knows Dad is going to say no, so he rushes out all his words over him. “WELL, f*ckU’S VERY NICE AND SHE’S GRILLBY’S LITTLE SISTER AND THIS IS GRILLBY’S HOUSE AND IF WE WEREN’T HERE, SHE WOULD SHARE THE HOUSE, SO TECHNICALLY WE’RE STEALING HER HOUSE AND A ROYAL GUARDSMAN SHOULDN’T BE STEALING ANYTHING AND IT’S GOING TO BE ABSOLUTELY LOVELY TO HAVE HER UP HERE!”

Sans chuckles. “chill, bro. i think it’ll be cool. f*cku’s a good kid.” He looks almost normal with his eyes closed like that. He sounds almost normal too, just tired. f*cku’s not overly close to Sans so she won’t notice as much. Maybe she’ll just think he’s having a day.

“YES! SHE IS!” Papyrus turns to Dad, mimicking f*cku’s pose the best he can, one hand on his hip and holding the bowl of ketchup high in the air with the other.

Dad looks around as if back-up will come bursting through the window. Papyrus glances over at the window too. It would be just like Undyne to burst in that way if she protested something. But there is no flying fish lady. Dad just shrugs. “If your brother doesn’t mind, I have no objections. Besides, it will be nice to see f*cku again. She was a lovely child and I’m sure she has grown into quite the accomplished young lady. I’m glad you’ve continued to be friends with her.”

When f*cku bounds into the room, she’s immediately looking for hugs. Sans gets a hug, Dad gets a hug, Papyrus gets another hug, even Mads gets a hug. It’s only after Grillby’s lugged his little portable television out of the closet and f*cku’s checked that it’s in working order that she finally stops firing off questions at Dad and pretending to rub Sans’s skull for luck on her exams. Grillby nearly sends her back home when he hears that she has exams tomorrow. But a combination of Papyrus’s most charming smile and f*cku’s general sweet-little-sister charm resigns him to her presence and he goes back downstairs to manage the last of the lunch rush. Mads, who has claimed legally-mandated break, settles back in their dummy body and turns their attention to the television.

f*cku plays with the wires in the back and when the theme of MTT’s ‘Cooking With A Killer Robot’ program plays loud and clear through the speakers, she takes a running dive onto the couch, burrowing under the blankets between Sans’s feet and Papyrus’s hip. Her head pops up between them just as Mettaton himself shows up onscreen, posing by a table.

“Hello, beauties and gentlebeauties!” he buzzes, waving like the gorgeous media royal that he is. Papyrus frowns. There’s something a little off about the way he’s positioned and the way his voice sounds even more robotic than usual. His free hand is tugging at the brim of his fluffy chef’s hat, almost like he’s nervous. “Welcome to the Underground’s premier cooking show!” He’s definitely not imagining the way Mettaton keeps looking offscreen. “His Magnificent Majesty is fashionably late, as could be expected from the ravishing royal!”

Papyrus leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees as he squints at the screen. Next to him, f*cku shifts, craning her neck to look around a new obstruction. Mads has vacated their dummy body and pressed their face to the screen, which through their ghostly form looks wavy and vaguely amber-tinted. “MADS? ARE YOU-?”

“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” the ghost shrills without moving. Onscreen, Mettaton talks a little more, growing more and more visibly distressed with every passing second. Papyrus can’t blame him. Mettaton is supposed to be the fashionably late one, bursting in with music blasting or wearing some fancily extravagant costume. He obviously has no idea how to handle this reversal of roles. Then, some merciful technician cues up footage of Mettaton reclining on soft pillows with rose petals being showered over his body. Mads removes their face from the screen, but hovers there a moment. Talking too softly for Papyrus to hear, they sink back into their body. The dummy twitches and the mouth in its middle curves into a snarl. “That, that, THAT was Metts! What the hell were they doing?”

f*cku shakes her head, sitting back on the couch and gesturing with her hands in order to make her point. “No, that’s Mettaton. He’s super cool and super fashionable and his show always has the best effects.” She’s about to detail her favorite effects, like the way that Mettaton is able to work the cameras entirely on his own and how he always finishes the show with star cut-out fades, but Mads’s glare shuts her right up.

Mads growls, their scar rippling as they squint their eyes. “How long has he been doing this?”

“Um, four years?” f*cku guesses. Papyrus nods. He was only fifteen when Mettaton’s show came on, meaning that f*cku was eleven. Like most teenagers, they had all leapt into MTT frenzy, cheering on the robot as he gained his own network and several television shows. He had started off a little awkward and grown more and more fantastic and sexy as the years passed, but Papyrus had one of the first posters hanging up in his closet. He’d been onboard with the robot since that day when he premiered on one of the workout shows Papyrus had enjoyed so much. He has his own show for that now, one Papyrus watches regularly, even if he can’t quite bend his arms the way Mettaton can.

Without saying another word, Mads throws themself down the stairs. Papyrus grabs their soul as he stands on the couch, pulling the ghost from their body as the vacant shell thuds down the flight of stairs. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“LET ME GO, YOU BONEHEAD! I have to go to Waterfall! If Metts is in Hotland, Blooky’s all alone!” Mads slides through Papyrus’s grip and dives down the staircase and out of sight. There’s a distinct pounding as they hop through the kitchen and out of the restaurant completely.

Papyrus stares in dismay after him and then the theme music throbs back into life. Mettaton is front and center now and there’s a jaunty way in how he’s bobbing, oblivious to the ghost gunning for him. “Welcome back, my darlings!” he cheers. “Pre-heat your ovens, because we’ve got a very special recipe for you today! We’re going to be making- a cake! My lovely assistant here will gather the ingredients. Everyone give them a big hand!” Papyrus and f*cku immediately start clapping, only to stop when the camera pulls back. Frisk stands at the far end of the kitchen, frantically slamming their fists into thin air. No, not air. The space before them throbs with every strike. A forcefield then.

“THE HUMAN!” Papyrus yells, horrified as the camera pulls a close-up on Frisk’s face, which is running over with an emotion he can’t identify. And beside them- “AND FLOWERY!” The little flower he’s had so many nice conversations with is smashing his head against the field as well. They look- frightened.

“flowey,” Sans corrects. It’s Papyrus’s turn to startle. He thought Sans had fallen asleep. Maybe he was just listening instead to Mettaton’s dulcet voice. “what’re they doing?”

“TRYING TO GET OFF THE SHOW? DO THEY NOT WANT THE HONOR OF GUEST-STARRING ANYMORE?” Papyrus feels his jaw lock together in preparation to grind his teeth and he has to reach up and tap the joints to loosen it.

“I don’t believe they ever wanted to be a guest star. This Mettaton seems to have a very unorthodox welcoming style.” Dad leans his head back to display his frown.

“No, no, that’s his gimmick!” f*cku blurts. “See, he’s called ‘killer’ but it’s all fake! The chainsaw’s fake, the lasers, Mettaton’s all swagger and it’s really fun!” Onscreen, Mettaton is advancing on Frisk, who is attempting to climb up the fridge to get away. f*cku pauses in trying to explain the show to Dad and frowns. “It’s kinda weird though. Like, it’s not as cool if they look that freaked out.”

“It’s all fun and games until someone is removed from existence,” Dad says, picking up his notes. “I’ll be in the kitchen. I can’t think with that music playing.” He shuffles out of the room and Papyrus hears one of the kitchen chairs scrape as Dad pulls it out.

“so, what’s going on?” Sans is still staring blankly in the general direction of the screen, trying to figure out what everyone’s reacting to.

“WELL, METTATON IS CHASING FRISK AROUND THE SET. IT LOOKS- DECIDEDLY NOT FUN. HE’S- HE’S NOT EVEN TRYING TO CAPTURE THEM!” Papyrus gestures at the screen. “THAT’S NOT SPORTING! NOW HE HAS HIS CHAINSAW! IT’S VERY SHINY. BUT THE HUMAN IS NOT ALLOWING HIM TO FIGHT THEM!”

“Well, would you want to get chopped up?” f*cku asks, sinking down in her seat. The scene before them is boring her. She’s never been too interested in the action parts of the show. Secretly, Papyrus thinks she’s dismissing some of the best parts, but who is he to tell her how to watch?

“HEY! THE VIEW COUNT’S DROPPING!” Papyrus points to the little counter in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. At the beginning of this year’s shows, Mettaton had vowed that should the view count reach an astonishingly high number, he would have a special segment where fans could call in. People had been tuning in more and more often because of that, but now, the counter is dropping from double digits to single ones.

“good idea. the kid’s just a kid. they’ve never seen this guy’s show.”

“AS MUCH AS I HATE TO ADMIT IT, YOU’RE CORRECT.” Papyrus rubs his jaw, trying to figure out how to do this. Mettaton only takes calls from people he knows on the show because he’s particular. Papyrus understands that. But now Frisk is in trouble! The only solution he can think of is to shut the television off entirely, but then he won’t know what’s happening to Frisk! “WE NEED TO SAVE THEM! IDEAS, WE NEED IDEAS!”

f*cku whips out her phone. “I’m going to call Ska. We need all the help we can get. Save the human 20XX!”

"SAVE THE HUMAN 20XX!"

Across Snowdin and Waterfall, viewers are shutting down their televisions when they see a small human that they’ve gotten to know in trouble. It is the only way to make it clear to a robot hungry for views that they don’t like this turn of events. And as the view count drops from eight to six to four, that same robot feels himself falter.

Chapter 27: Supermassive Black Hole

Chapter Text

Mettaton stares grimly up at the little menace he’s trapped atop the set refrigerator. If this was part of his show, he would actually be waiting off-screen, ready to sail in at a moment’s notice and eradicate whatever manner of villain has dared attack his co-star. It would be his co-star up on top of the fridge, calling desperately for help, and the villain would be where Mettaton stands right now, cackling cruelly. The analogy gives him an almost electrical shock, even though he’s not cackling, even though neither the human nor their companion is crying out.

His scanners lock in on the little flower face perched like a canary on their shoulder. As if it can feel his renewed interest in it, it hisses, all the flesh on its face peeling away towards its petals and leaving behind a maze of sharp angles and sharper teeth. A villainous face if he had ever seen one. His confidence regroups and expresses itself in a dazzling pose. He holds the chainsaw blade directly in line with the human’s face and splays the fingers of his other hand parallel to the floor. If he had a face in this form, he’d be winking roguishly. Alas, no eyes or eyebrows makes this rather difficult to pull off, but it’s worth it if the fans-

They’re not enjoying it.

It takes everything in him to disarm his immediate response to the information flashing across his internal screen. His viewcount is dropping and not in the way that suggests that a viewer was called to dinner and had to turn off their television. These declines are purposeful; people powering off their televisions entirely. His systems choke with the swell of fury burning through his soul. He’s not mad at the viewers, he’s not allowed to be because they’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted, but he’s furious all the same.

First my friend, now my fans? he roars, muting himself just in time and holding his pose. To anyone on the outside, he looks unconcerned, waiting for the human to make their next move. On the inside, he can feel the emotion bubbling to the surface. Once a ghost, always a ghost, no matter how hard he tries to change that, and ghosts are terribly emotional creatures due to their difficulties in being substantial. One of the first reasons he transitioned, honestly. He sniffles inaudibly, glad that his anger changes to tears faster than it does to action. He has never been the best at restraint, especially if his Gyftmas TV special is anything to go by (a dozen backup dancers, spiked punch, live performers, the whole ninety yards), so he’s often at the mercy of his soul. Luckily, like him, his soul is flawless and recoups enough to allow his mind clarity.

He’s going to have to kill them. It’s the only way to stop this. This human is a thief and a crook. Not only have they somehow coerced poor Alphys to their side, they’ve also roped a whole host of monsters into pulling their sleigh. He sniffles again, daintily this time, but still silent. The emotion is receding, pulling back into the depths of his soul and letting his brain take over. And his brain focuses on the fancount.

Four screens through which people are watching. Four welcoming lights in the Underground’s darkness. He can’t be their star with so little reach. He’ll have to change tactics. He’s never had to change tactics before, but he has several in his arsenal, just in case.

He folds up the chainsaw as if it’s made of paper. Alphys, who has a weakness for transformation scenes, had made it for him. The resulting parasol he leans on his shoulder, placing his other hand on his hip. Although no-one can see it, he pouts up at the human, trying to convey sympathy through body language. “Darling,” he purrs, extending a hand to them the way he’d reach for the snails when they were scared. You had to show that you weren’t afraid so that they’d understand. “How about you come down here? You know I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The human looks skeptical for a moment. “Y-you c-can’t expect us to b-b-believe that,” says a little voice, although their mouth doesn’t move. Mettaton has the oddest sensation that he’s watching a really badly dubbed human movie until the voice continues and his gaze shifts from the human’s pinched face to that of the flower beside it. Oh. “W-well, if that isn’t the biggest crock of sh-“ The human slaps a hand over the flower’s mouth, cutting the curse short. He’s thankful for that; despite all appearances, this is a family-friendly show.

He’s completely lost his train of thought and while he scans the tracks for it, he finds himself saying to the cameras “Well, my darlings, the king didn’t show up for the show, but we have an equally interesting guest here! That’s right, darlings! The human and their flower friend! What are your names, darlings?”

The human waves their arm like a flag, then makes two signs. Then their hands clap together under their chin. “Fl-Flowey and Fuh-Frisk,” the flower grumbles by way of explanation.

“Hi, Flowey and Frisk! As you know, I am the glorious Mettaton! And these,” here he points at the cameras, “are my lovely viewers. Could you say hello to them for me?”

“H-howdy,” the flower mumbles unenthusiastically. The human strikes a sharp contrast, waving and smiling happily at the cameras. They’ve decided to trust him, something that makes his soul burst into the feeling of a great plan well begun.

“So, Frisk and Flowey, would you like to join me in making a cake? I can’t do it alone.” Lies. He’d made a cake before. Granted, it was a ghost cake, made from magic alone and without any physical substance or taste, but he had made a cake.

Frisk wiggles forward on their stomach, nods, and reaches for his hand. They pat it a few times to seal the deal then retract their dirty little mitt. He’ll have to tell them to wash their hands before they can make the cake. For now, he curls his fingers twice, gesturing for them to come down. It’s funny; they got up there just fine, but now that it’s time to come down they seem to be having a little trou- EMERGENCY: THEY’RE FALLING!

He wheels underneath them just in time in the crook of his arm. The impact rattles through the coil and from the sound their body made when it hit, he’s positive the impact wasn’t pleasant for either of them. They make a little pained sound, sliding off his arm to the floor. As they slid their backpack off their back, they wince and the flower tugs open the bag with a few vines and his teeth. When Mettaton sees the pitiful monster sandwich they bring out, he makes an aggrieved noise. He’s not even sure what the ingredients in that sandwich are- is that a snail? Is that a goddamn snail? No. Not on his television show. He’s very tempted to just smack it out of their hand.

“Here, beautiful,” he says instead, wheeling over to the set cabinets. Along with the raw ingredients, he’d tucked a few Starfaits and some Glamburgers, just in case the king decided to take a break during cooking. Now that he hasn’t shown up, Mettaton is beginning to realize just how foolish this endeavor had been. Of course Asgore wouldn’t have been interested in taking a break to eat. The king is so hardworking and homespun that not only would he have wanted to power through the show, he probably would also turn his nose up at the Glamburgers. They’d be too fancy for him. But the human is different. He can see their eyes widening as he turns around with a Starfait in a tall glass, already starstruck. And when he hands it over, they hold the pretty parfait gingerly, as if he has just handed them a china knickknack.

“Go on, darling. It’s delicious.”

They take a slurp from the straw and swish it around in their mouth like mouthwash. Before he can scold them for being vulgar about it, they bite down on the straw out of surprise, eyes shining like stars. Then they’re offering it to the flower, who accepts it greedily. Between the two of them, the Starfait is devoured in a matter of seconds. Brand name usage on the show means that the television inside the MTT-Brand Burger Emporium turns on as well. Good. Five screens.

“Th-the b-best thing about m-monsters is th-that they’re too tr-trusting to poison people,” the flower explains to the human in an undertone. The human nods, rubbing the back of their arm along their mouth to catch the last few traces of cream. They slip their bag back on and strike a pose, crouching ever so slightly and wiggling their fingers by their hips. This was the pose they had struck on the quiz show to show that they were ready.

Mettaton dismisses the flower’s words, striking a return pose and shouting “In order to make this wonderful cake, we’ll need sugar, milk, eggs, and cocoa powder. You ready, sweetheart?” Frisk nods so hard that he worries their head will fall off their neck. “Then, go, go, go!”

The cameras follow them as they race around the kitchen, pulling open cupboards and rifling through the refrigerator on their investigation for ingredients. Mettaton claps along to the backbeat of the race music, making it seem all the more harrowing. He doesn’t need to look away from the camera to know that they’re having some difficulty. He’s placed the cocoa powder in such a location that it should be quite hard to reach. Judging from the flower’s frustrated sounds, they’ve located it. His soul smiles. He’d placed the container atop the cabinet, which is the size of the human and mounted just high enough on the wall that they won’t be able to reach it. It’s amazing how many coincidences have happened. It’s almost like the universe wants him to be testing them.

There’s a scraping and fizzling noise, then a soft pop. He accesses the cameras and sees that Frisk has yanked out the microwave’s cord and pulled it across the counter. As he watches, they clamber up onto the countertop, then onto the microwave. From there, the flower wraps a few vines around the cocoa powder and delivers it safely into their hands. Mettaton hurriedly disconnects himself from the camera as the human turns to face it, smiling their goofy little kid smile. The human pops up beside him and deposits all the ingredients on the front counter, beaming and panting.

Now for the pièce de résistance. He praises them, laying the charm on so thickly that he almost smothers himself in it. “Perfect! Great job, beautiful! Now we’ve got all the ingredients we need to bake our cake! Sugar, milk, eggs, cocoa…” He pauses, placing a hand against his grid in shock. The human looks anxious, wondering where the praise has gone, wondering what they forgot. If he wasn’t so well-rehearsed, he’d be reminded of someone else. “Oh my,” he murmurs instead. “Oh my! Wait a magnificent moment! How could I forget? We’re missing the most important ingredient!” Frisk is immediately on alert, looking around for this ingredient.

The flower realizes where this is going first and his shout gives the game away. Frisk frantically flops to one side as Mettaton brings the chainsaw down on the exact spot where they had been standing. “A human soul!” he purrs, wrenching the blade out of the tiles and holding it above his body. Plaster rains down on him as if he’s just freshly dusted someone. Frisk scrambles to their feet and makes a run for it.

The phone rings. The phone rings so insistently that his entire body buzzes in sympathy. Without budging from his pose, he snaps “I’m kind of in the middle of something here!” Thank heavens for the force fields holding. There’s only so little room for Frisk to run.

“Wait a second, you hunk of junk!” shouts a boisterous voice, one that makes him think of grapes. He processes the reaction and recalls a lovely time spent relaxing atop a piano. The voice clicks in his memory. It’s Alphys’s Undyne, the captain of the guard. What a joy.

“Not now, darling,” he tries, angling the saw so he can slice the refrigerator in half. The human has taken refuge on top of it again. Unfortunately, Undyne’s next shout is so loud that he fumbles the weapon.

“Listen, you metallic piece of-“ he beeps out her next word indignantly “- what if someone’s vegan?” He recognizes this script. This is the script he and Alphys had worked out. They’re using it against him. Well, he’s always been fantastic at improv.

“Vegan?” he repeats, allowing disdain to color his voice. “Darling, if we already have milk and eggs, this is obviously not vegan-friendly. That’ll be our next recipe.”

“Wh-what about vegematarian?” volunteers the flower.

Exasperated, Mettaton allows the chainsaw to run down. “What?”

The flower turns an annoyed face to the human, who gestures slowly and clearly. “Oh.” Flowey sticks his face over the edge of the fridge. “Vegetarian. You c-can have m-milk and eggs as a vegetarian.” His tone implies that Mettaton is an outdated piece of tech, older than even the set refrigerator.

“Y-yeah! And you have human soul substitute in the k-kitchen right now!” Alphys says. He’s always been good at improv, but she’s always been good at working off him and right now she’s scored. Everyone knows it. The ‘MTTV’ tag on Undernet has just been paired with the ‘Aside-Alphys’ tag and most of the monsters are chiming in with their two cents.

He considers a tantrum, but he hasn’t thrown one of those in years and doesn’t feel like making an absolute fool of himself. Instead he pulls a face that they can’t see, flashes his screen a little as if he’s pretending to think, then booms “Of course, darlings! We can’t possibly refrain from including our vegetarian friends in the fun!” He wheels back to the front counter, accessing the camera on Frisk and plastering it over the display. All of monsterkind sees them cringing atop the fridge as Mettaton’s voice rings out. “The human has two minutes to retrieve the can of MTT-Brand-Always-Convenient-Human-Soul-Flavor-Substitute! Sorry, darling, I’d give you longer, but we’re on a strict schedule.”

Frisk starts rummaging through the cupboards, looking for anything that could contain human soul substitute. Mettaton smirks, watching the timer tick away the seconds. Any second, they’ll realize that the substitute is outside the-

The human triumphantly slams the container down beside him so hard that his wheel actually leaves the ground in surprise. He’d forgotten. He’d assumed that since the king was coming that he could completely disregard the little script he and Alphys had written. He had dismissed even the possibility of the human showing up and had simply put the substitute in the cupboard.

“W-wow, Frisk!” cheers Alphys through the phone.

“You go, kid!” roars Undyne. “Be faster next time! A minute and a half is cutting it close!”

Frisk takes a bow for the cameras, then puts their hands on their hips, waiting for the next part. Undyne and Alphys shout congratulations and goodbyes through Mettaton’s speakers.

They wind up making the damn cake.

…

The cake mix is terrible, but Frisk isn’t sure how to word it. Chara does, of course, but their word choice is far from family friendly. Far from friendly at all. They’d taken a little control of the taste buds, but they hadn’t needed to if they wanted to know how the pastry was. Even without taste buds, the cake squishes and crunches in all the wrong places, squeaking oddly under the pressure of their teeth. Frisk worries that they might lose a baby tooth to all this. Covering their mouth with their hand, they look for a trash receptacle or a napkin, anything into which they can spit this out before Chara coaxes their stomach to revolt.

“J-just swallow it,” Flowey whispers, looking a little green himself. “M-monster food is m-magic. It d-dissolves going down.” He had consumed two heaping bites of mix before his own taste buds had alerted him to the pastry’s particular brand of wrong.

“Sorry. I don’t have mints,” Frisk says. At home, when they hadn’t wanted to eat something, they had eaten it because Lee would give them a mint for at least trying. His pockets always had that soft wintery smell. They wonder if Mr. Gaster carried mints around too when he had pockets and that’s why his magic smells the way it does.

Chara snigg*rs at that. “Pretty sure monsters’ tastes in food don’t affect their magic.”

“What did your magic smell like?” Frisk asks Flowey, electing to ignore Chara’s snide comment. They’ve been more than usually sarcastic lately, but Frisk supposes that they can’t really blame them yet. When it becomes a problem, they’ll have a talk.

The flower pauses in wiping his prickly tongue on their sweater and slurps it back into his mouth. “St-strawberries. We all- we smelled l-like pie. C-cinnamon, buh-butterscotch, and st-strawberries.” Flowey looks pensive for a moment, but it passes before Frisk can say anything else. “Th-this cake is going to be sh-sh*t. P-Papyrus m-m-makes b-better food than this.”

Frisk puts their spoon down on the counter and shoots Flowey with a finger gun for his idea. He ducks. “W-watch out,” he whines. “Th-those can be d-dangerous d-down here!” Frisk snickers at the joke and digs around for their phone. Alphys had been really cool about letting them have one and even though she updates her status about seven times a second- “which is driving me f*cking crazy here, Alph, no more Mew Mew Kissy Cutie facts until I can watch the damn thing”- she programmed into their phone all the numbers that they listed. So now all they have to do is find the contact. Plus, they can text while being in a call!

Right now they pick the contact with the picture they’d downloaded off the Undernet. Papyrus, mugging for the camera and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself under the shades that take up half his face. He’d posted it during a long and grueling session of Alphys ranting about Mew Mew Two. Of course, because of that rant, they now have contact pictures of Alphys and Undyne as well, so they can’t really complain.

“HELLO! PAPYRUS SPEAKING! WHO IS IT?” Frisk spits a sequin into the palm of their hand as they craft a reply.

It’s Frisk. Hi, Papyrus! You like Mettaton’s show, right?

“FRISK! HELLO! YES, I DO! AND YOU’RE ON THE SHOW RIGHT NOW!”

“Boy howdy, Captain Obvious, what gave you that idea?” Chara grumbles, trying to conjure up a different taste for the cake. They’re torn between dirty socks and armpit, because either of those would be better.

‘Be nice,’ Frisk scolds as they type their reply. Just because no one can hear Chara doesn’t mean that it’s okay to be rude.

Want to help Mettaton make a cake?

When they approach the robot and hold out the phone, he snatches it, examining his nails as he answers. It’s obvious that he had expected someone else, probably Alphys and Undyne again. They watch his lights flash as he listens, then he looks at them. They have a feeling that if he had eyebrows, he would be raising them. Chara quickly scribbles that on their wall, giving a very pink Mettaton big feathery eyebrows. Pink is their unimportant color currently. They’ve color-coded all their drawings, except for Sans, who has one blue eye while the rest of him is grey.

“Look, darling, we can’t take calls while on the- Oh, thank you! That’s very sweet.” Mettaton makes a motion like he’s twirling the phone cord around his finger, but their cell phone doesn’t have a cord so it kind of looks like he’s calling himself crazy. Chara hopes fervently that that little moment was broadcasted. “But, darling, I’m being completely serious. We haven’t reached the call-in viewer milestone yet. I’m sorry, but-“

Flowey has stretched his neck out. His mouth is clamped around the folds of Mettaton’s glove. “Excuse me, beautiful,” the robot says into the phone before he rounds on Flowey, tugging vainly at his glove. “What is it now?”

Flowey spits out the fabric and says, almost clearly, “Papyrus is a chef, something th-that you aren’t. Don’t want to g-give y-your f-f-fans a b-b-bad recipe, d-d-do you?” He pairs this with a sharp smile.

Mettaton stares him down. That fact that neither of them needs to blink is something Frisk wants to point out, but thankfully, Papyrus gets there first. The tinny sound of his voice shouting merrily through the phone diverts Mettaton’s attention as Flowey returns to his perch. The robot hands Frisk back their phone and his screen lights up.

“I WOULD BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO ASSIST YOU IN THE CREATION OF A SPECTACULAR CAKE, METTATON! I SEE THAT YOU HAVE ALREADY ASSEMBLED THE INGREDIENTS!” Papyrus’s voice comes both out of their phone and from the speakers on Mettaton’s body.

“Yes, darling, but-“

“WHAT KIND OF CAKE DO YOU WANT TO MAKE? CHOCOLATE? VANILLA? SPAGHETTI?”

“A spaghetti…cake?” he asks to an affirmative nyeh. “Sounds wonderfully creative, darling, but Frisk here is voting for chocolate.”

Chara claps their hands together under their chin and Frisk remembers the drawing in their pocket. ‘Not yet,’ they say to their aspiring matchmaker of a friend. Not until they can figure out Mettaton’s agenda.

“They’re actually talking!” Chara squeals. “And it’s better than I thought it would be! Papyrus isn’t tongue-tied at all!”

‘No, but I think Mettaton is.’

Mettaton is blanking on how to shut down someone so positive, opening a word processor in an attempt to jot down any ideas. Papyrus not only seems inventive, but when his suggestion is shot down, he merely responds “WELL, IF YOU’RE SURE!” There’s no hesitation. This is someone who has a wonderful temperament, ready for anything. Mettaton finds himself admiring that a little more than he feels he should be and his internal fans start whirring in an effort to counteract this emotion. “GRILLBY, CAN I BORROW YOUR KITCHEN?” A soft voice gives an answer and Papyrus starts thunking things around. If it weren’t for how friendly the quiet sounded, Mettaton would have thought he was throwing a tantrum. Papyrus starts humming to himself as he collects things from around the kitchen. He has a pleasant enough voice. It can’t quite compare to Mettaton’s, but if he factors in the harshness of the metallic tones he has been known to affect, Papyrus’s voice is very close in quality.

Frisk and Flowey are mixing the cake mixture a little more, struggling with the spoon as the consistency of the mix is a little thinner than wet concrete and, judging by the expressions the flower’s pulling, not nearly as appetizing. The whole scene makes his gears grind, but nobody can hear that over Papyrus’s narration. He’s begun to detail the best way to make a cake, obviously reading small parts of it from a cookbook. Mettaton rushes to catch up with him, pouring milk into the cake mixture and snatching the spoon from Frisk’s hand. Shrugging, Frisk starts poking around on their phone. He ‘uh-huh’s in all the right places, interjects a few ‘of course, darlings’ and then the cake is ready to put in the oven. Almost.

He pours it into the cake pan, making a note that he must definitely send this Papyrus a signed picture and a box of merchandise when he has the chance. The voice, disembodied though it may be, has wonderful stage presence. He has a voice tailor-made to play the well-meaning sidekick.

A press of a button and the oven warms right up, beeping excitedly. Alphys keeps telling him not to assign personality traits to devices, but she’s the one who calls her weird human figurines her girlfriends. He’s blissfully sane compared to that sort of thing. All the same, this oven is plenty eager to get going.

His sensors read a weight on his arm. Frisk, leaning over the metal tube, is breaking pieces off the chocolate bar in their hands. He’s not sure where they found one, but he watches as they break it into nothing more than a nub, which they then rewrap and stick in their pocket. Then he looks at the cake. Stuck in the chocolatey goo are miniscule chocolate chunks, forming a smiley face with a stub of a nose. Kitschy, he thinks, but rather appealing in a juvenile way. “Who’s that, dear?” he asks.

Frisk stares at him a minute before throwing their arms out wide. He first thinks they want to crush him to death in a hug, like most of his fans, but then the flower talks rapidly. “It’s every m-m-monster. All of ‘em. Th-they get to be included.”

It’s almost too sweet; the big smile on Frisk’s face, the way the flower leans into them, that goofy laugh emanating from Papyrus’s end of the phone. Mettaton reminds himself not to get attached. This is show business after all. He’s dealing with a human, after all. A traitorous, tricksy human. One that’s managed to rope Alphys into their plot, causing her to abandon the side of her dearest friend without a single thought as to how that makes him feel.

A screeching sound lets him know that he’s crushing the cake pan in his gloved hands. He chuckles, then shouts, shoving the cake pan into the oven and out of view of the cameras, “You heard it here, beauties and gentlebeauties! The human dedicates this cake to every single one of you, from the spiders to the boss monsters!”

“bone appétit,” snigg*rs Mettaton’s speakers. On the heels of the snigg*r is a screeching whine and a sharp scolding- “WHO LET YOU OFF THE COUCH, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE RESTING! DO WHAT YOU DO BEST, SANS, AND GO TO SLEEP! THAT’S AN ORDER!”- before Papyrus says “THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME WORK WITH YOU, METTATON! IT IS AN HONOR AND A PLEASURE!”

He types ‘charming’ into his word processor by mistake and has to erase it before his mind even processes. “Now, dear viewers, all we have to do is wait for the cake to be done! In-“ he checks the timer “-thirty minutes, our cake will be ready for eating!”

“Hey!” yells a female voice. “Papyrus! We need your help with the posters! The human’s not gonna save themself!”

“RIGHT! GOOD BYE NOW, METTATON! ENJOY YOUR CAKE!” There’s a whooshing sound that might be Papyrus waving, then there’s nothing but a dial tone and a heavy feeling in his chest that only dead air causes.

“Wasn’t that a lovely conversation?” he asks the audience. “A round of applause for Papyrus!” The viewer count beeps up to six. Audience appreciation always gets more attention. Later tonight he’ll have to make a public statement on social media about Papyrus and how his assistance made the show better.

Frisk sits with him for the remaining twenty-nine minutes, playing on their phone as he extolls the virtues of eating homemade food. There’s a moment where they discover that the phone has a jetpack and they shrug it on, smirking at their own ingenuity. “W-we gotta bl-blast after this!” Flowey explains, just as the oven dings.

They lean against the counter and eat a slice of cake each for the camera and Mettaton politely pretends to eat as well. It looks good. Moist and sticky, according to the way his fork is loathe to leave it. He cuts the slice into multiple tiny pieces, rearranging them artfully on his plate as Frisk and Flowey eat theirs. They’re almost feral in the way they hunt down every last crumb on their plates, Frisk even going so far as to lick their thumb and swipe it around in search of any remaining morsels.

As soon as they set their fork down, they’re straightening up, smiling as they hook their hand around the straps of their jetpack. A hand intrudes into his vision as Frisk waits for a handshake. He takes it, shaking their hand firmly. Instead, Frisk swoops in and gives him a one-armed hug.

Then they step back, jump, and rocket through the air. His sensors pick up the heat of the jetpack’s rockets as they swoop over his head. “B-bye, M-mettaton!” the flower yells, then, at some signs from Frisk, “T-thanks f-f-for the cake!” Then they’re looping through the air, out of the set and away. When he wasn’t looking, Alphys must have gotten through the wall and taken out the forcefields.

Mettaton stares after them and there’s nothing but silence on the show for a straight minute. Then he turns back to the cameras and says “What a charming guest! Let’s give them a round of applause! And now a word from our sponsor!” He queues up some previews of his other shows and relaxes, wheeling over to the edge of the set.

He checks the Undernet. More specifically, the ‘MTTV’ tag. His systems temporarily go on the fritz. The MTTV tag has been overrun. There are five usernames in particular that stand out, the most vocal of them being a user called CoolSkeleton95. There’s a tag paired to their ‘MTTV’ posts that is about to get quite a lot of popularity: SaveTheHuman20XX. He smirks. He can work with this.

The perk to people protesting something on his show is that he can always use it for his own profit. The StopTheMettaMurdering tag, for example, boosted viewer ratings sky-high because everyone was trying to figure out who was being murdered. The views died down when they realized that it was the Mettaton staple to pretend to kill people in order to raise the stakes of the game.

He types out a quick response, tagging it with the SaveTheHuman20XX tag, and posts.

Hello, darlings! The human is currently part of a four-part series, the ending of which will come about tonight at the CORE! Bring your partners, bring your friends, bring your siblings! Because, beauties, this ending is to die for!

In the meantime, keep checking MTTV for the rest of this short series and visit the MTTV website for recap pages should you miss the episode!

<3 Mettaton

“Your move, CoolSkeleton95,” Mettaton says, disconnecting from the site and twirling to face the cameras. He jots down the note about thanking Papyrus by sending him pictures and memorabilia. He’ll have to do that later. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, he has a date with destiny.

Chapter 28: Just A Bad Memory

Chapter Text

Almost as soon as they get out of sight of the cooking show, the confident smile drops off Frisk’s face and they wobble in the air as Chara’s control wavers on the hands. Frisk makes a quick grab for control, rewrapping their fingers around the jetpack’s handles. That’s when the whole construct bucks and one of the thrusters completely cuts out.

“M-m-m-mayday! Mayday!” Flowey yelps. His vines reach out of their sleeves, wrenching at the jetpack. The thrusters both burst into life, sending them crashing into Hotland’s gritty soil. Chara shrieks as they skid along the ground on their face. In their mind’s eye, blood is gushing down the little spirit’s face, so dark that it’s almost black. Frisk grabs for the power switch, throwing it just before they skid right off the edge of the walkway and into the seething magma below.

They peel their face off the ground, gagging when some of their skin comes away on the soil. Chara might be exaggerating with all the blood, but it definitely doesn’t feel that way. When they look at him, Flowey winces around the phone in his mouth, his stem shredded from impact. As soon as they hit the ground, the jetpack must have transformed back. Handy, they suppose.

“Not if you hit something in midair,” Chara points out, making a face. “You are peeling like an onion, Frisk, Christ.”

Flowey gives them the sandwich Mettaton hadn’t let them eat, taking a nip out of the crust as it passes his face. They squint at him and pick apart the top layer of bread, cringing every time they open their mouth. They’re very glad that they can’t see their face. The itching as their skin regrows is bad enough without having to look at themself. The sandwich has both snails and tomatoes on it, but at least Frisk likes the carrots.

They hold out their hand for their phone. Flowey spits it into their waiting hand and accepts the snail they offer him in return. They prop the phone up on their lap. Again they press two and listen as it rings, their sandwich turning to ash in their mouth. Flowey cranes his neck over it as he chews, listening for a voice that doesn’t come singing through the speakers. They had been dialing her all throughout the show, hoping for a reassurance that never came.

“She’s probably trying to make Dad take a nap.” Chara says as the phone clicks without being picked up. They brush bits of shell off the screen. “He doesn’t sleep a lot when he’s working.” Their vocal serenity clashes with the way they stab at two again, listening to the phone dial with inner eyes squeezed shut. A little blue flower sprouts in the mindspace, opening its petals to replay a voice, frightened and pleading. Before it can do that, Frisk crushes it under their boot, rubbing it into the ground.

Frisk pulls them to their feet. ‘Well, we’ll see them in a little bit. Asgore too.’

Back in reality, Flowey nudges them, opening his mouth like a baby bird. Frisk drops another snail in, giggling when he makes exaggerated chomping noises. “L-lookit m-m-m-me!” he laughs. “I’m a- a- a- I’m a Venus f-flytrap!” He crunches through the shell and swallows the whole thing.

“Okay, now catch this one,” Frisk challenges, picking up another snail and trying to roll it across their knuckles. Flowey opens his mouth again, trying to position himself in a way that will enable him to catch any flying snails. Chara laughs weakly as Frisk fumbles the snail, pretty much dropping it into Flowey’s waiting mouth.

“Hee hee!” the flower chortles around the mouthful of snail. “Butterfingers!”

“That doesn’t count!” Frisk protests, eating the carrot slices with far less trouble. The skin around their mouth stings with rawness, but there’s no longer the irritation of growth.

“So counted,” Flowey returns, sticking out a tongue peppered with shards of shell. Brat. His stem is slowly stitching itself back together.

“Did not!” Frisk rolls their eyes at him as Chara redials, manually this time, picking each number with infinite care. Still, the dial tone sounds like a death knell. Chara stares at the phone and Frisk can feel the heat behind their eyes. In Chara's memory, Toriel always picks up. Methodically, Chara removes their fingers from the buttons and rewraps their hand around the phone. Their arm comes up and Frisk has to seize control before Chara can pitch the phone into the molten rock around them. Carefully, they take the phone and slide it back into their pocket. Their fingers are still curled as if wrapped around the body of the phone and Frisk lowers that hand into their lap, trying to rub Chara’s worry out of it.

“D-did so,” Flowey mumbles, curling his tongue around the last snail and transferring it into his mouth. Frisk picks up the lettuce leaf and inserts it in their mouth, ignoring Flowey’s sullen need for a fight. They can understand it, they think as they massage the joints of Chara’s claw hand. It’s stiflingly hot here and the warmth of the ground underneath them keeps them shifting. They roll their bread up and push it into their mouth, freeing up their hands.

Frisk pulls off their sweater, tying it around their waist and doing their best not to touch Flowey. Unfortunately, even the removal of a thick wool layer is not enough, and the weight settling on their hips is unwelcome. Even the straps of their knapsack seem a hundred pounds heavier in this heat. Flowey stretches his vines out along their arms, like living jewelry. He’s ever so slightly warm against their skin.

‘Is there air conditioning down here anywhere else besides Alphys’s house?’ Frisk whines, pushing themself to their feet. Chara coughs a laugh, recovering slightly from their lapse in judgment.

“I doubt it. Maybe cooling magic. Ask Azzy.”

‘I don’t wanna. He’s being grouchy.’ Frisk drags their feet as they start walking again. They need better shoes. The time spent resting only emphasized that. ‘I think I’m getting blisters.’

Chara revives, sending a wave of disgust their way in an effort to dissuade them from that train of thought. "Ew. Don’t look. Blisters are gross.”

‘I won’t. If I take my socks off, my feet will burn anyway,’ Frisk responds, shrugging and sending Chara a feeling that manages to say obviously without them needing to be vocal about it. ‘I’m not gonna take my socks off.’

“Scandalous,” Chara responds, as they often do when socks are mentioned. It seems to be a monster thing, one that Chara has taken as their own.

‘More like sandal-less, eh?’ Frisk finger-guns Chara, who dodges. Another funny monster quirk. They like that one a little less than the sock one. It seems, especially in the older monsters, more like fear than jesting.

They take another step forward and nearly trip when something out of the corner of their eye starts to glow. Frisk glances over the lava and freezes. A structure looms ominously over the lava. The building is suffused in sickly green, every coil looking as if it’s been covered in poison and the heat mirages almost making it seem alive. They cannot envision a more conspicuous ‘keep out’ sign. It's unfortunate that they have to keep moving toward it. Another step and another, forcing their feet to move against the fear that is wrapping silvery coils around their soul.

When their phone rings, they just about leap out of their skin. A woman’s voice sings a peppy song in a foreign language. It’s just Alphys. Trying to ignore the way their heartbeat pounds in their skull, Frisk answers the phone with a click of their tongue.

“S-see that building in the distance?” Alphys asks in lieu of a greeting. There’s an awkward pause as she tries to remember what she was going to say, but Frisk is patient. Alphys isn’t good on the phone, they’ve discovered. Her timing tends to be off and she’s as afraid of the device as she is of socialization. But she’s interesting when she forgets her fear. She’s clever and helpful. They just have to wait for her to gather herself.

“That’s the CORE. The source of all power for the underground.” She titters uncomfortably. “It converts geothermal energy into magical electricity. If it wasn’t for its invention, we’d still be confined to, uh, battery-powered devices. I mean, your phone! It would still work on, uh, battery and siphoning off magical energy! But after the CORE’s invention, we were able to create a network underground that, uh. Well, it’s not really my field, but it’s still genius! Anyway, that’s where you’re supposed to go.”

Frisk taps out a quick message and sends it off to her.

“T-tell you about the CORE? Um, well. It was invented by Doctor Gaster. You know that.” Frisk waves a hand. “Um, there was a team of builders working on it, but when it was activated, they, uh, all died. I think there were, like, five of them. Plus Doctor Gaster and the Royal Scientist at that time, I guess. People don’t really like wandering around in it, so there’s an elevator inside that should send you straight to Asgore.”

Frisk nods. They remember that elevator. It sent them into the castle through the back entrance, into a house nearly identical to Toriel’s.

“I, uh, read a lot of Doctor Gaster’s research on the CORE when I was trying to figure out how to make a body for- how to make Mettaton. His notes were, um, kind of all over. There were drawings and pictures and weird little notes to himself. I used a lot of it to understand Determination, but not a lot of it helped me with Mettaton. It did remind me to eat though, because his grocery lists were all over the place.” She laughs and Frisk tilts their head, smiling. Then they take out their container of vegetables. If they’re only a little ways away from getting out of the Underground, there’s no reason to conserve their food sources. Besides, thinking about grocery lists has reminded them that their sandwich wasn’t enough. Toriel would be going crazy if she knew that they hadn’t been keeping to an exact feeding schedule. They didn't even have breakfast that morning, just a can of sickly yellow soda.

‘Is feeding vegetables to flowers considered encouraging cannibalism?’ they ask Chara.

Chara considers this disturbing line of thought. “You already gave him tomatoes.” Still, neither one of them is quite sure about the ethical ramifications of that one. Before they can try to stop him, Flowey takes a carrot and crunches on it, making exaggerated slurping noises in order to try and gross them out.

“Oh, h-hey!” Alphys says. “Your journey’s almost done, huh? You can go home soon!”

Yeah!

“Do you h-have people waiting for you?”

Flowey looks askance at them. Frisk grins and nods. When they get home, they’re going to hug the daylights out of Lee and then they’re going to play with their cat until she can hardly stand to be around them anymore. “You have a cat?” Chara asks excitedly.

‘Yeah! Her name’s Olive. You can play with her when we get home.’

“You’ve been holding out on me!” Chara announces, shoving them playfully.

“Speaking of people waiting for you, I might have some, uh, not so great news.” Alphys starts to read in a monotone voice, one that’s slightly deeper than her own. They realize after a few seconds that she’s imitating Mettaton, and the robot’s plan is revealed.

‘A four part series?’ they wail. ‘That’s gonna take so long!’ Flowey groans in sympathy.

Chara snickers. “But it’ll be so fun! I mean, we already did the quiz show, so that’s one part. The cooking show’s probably the second. That means we’ve got two parts left! How cool is that? Plus, we’ll get to nudge Papyrus and Mettaton closer and that’ll be great!”

‘You’re trash,’ Frisk mumbles, typing their reaction to Alphys’s news out on their phone.

“It shouldn’t take that long,” she answers. “You only have three parts left.”

“Three?” Flowey shrieks, slamming his head into the knapsack angrily.

“He counts the premieres as part zero. It’s- it’s like the pilot episode. Most shows don’t air it, but Mettaton always does. They’re an introduction, where he sets up everyone’s roles for the r-rest of the show.”

Chara chimes in “Yeah! Like, he wanted to be the fabulous robot, but he turned himself into the bully!” Frisk isn’t quick enough to grab the phone from them. Chara types too quickly, even if they’re not the best at locating all the keys.

Alphys chuckles, a tremor in her voice as she reads their message. “T-true, but, um, he’s really upset about that. U-usually, he calls or something when he’s doing a show, because he needs little repairs or an upgrade, but he hasn’t yet. Undyne and I m-made him really mad when we called in t-to h-help.”

Thanks for that. And thanks for the jetpack! It was really cool while it lasted!

“It w-was also terrible,” Flowey mumbles, obviously thinking of their crash landing.

Luckily, Alphys only seems to notice Frisk’s words. “It worked? I’m glad! When we wrote the script for that episode, Mettaton wanted more lasers, but I had to talk him- uh, him. Um.”

“Calm yourself, Alph. We remember what you said. It’s fine that you wanted to make up a sad*stic adventure where we were tormented for ages before you came in to rescue us.” Chara shrugs. “It’s not like she understood that we were going to be a real living person with wants and needs and hopes and dreams, right?”

‘Huh,’ Frisk says, choosing to type little reassurances to Alphys. They have a feeling that Chara’s words will only freak her out more. ‘Wants and needs and hopes and dreams. Write some poetry or something, Chara.’

“Nah. Poets are educated and stuff. And they’ve got, uh,” Chara assumes a thick accent that Frisk identifies as English, “posh accents and dead lovers, and suits!”

‘We could get a suit.’

Chara drops the accent, amused. “I don’t really want a suit, Frisk.”

‘Poetry,’ Frisk insists. ‘When we get home, I want at least ten pages about the stars and love and stuff.’

“Okay, boss,” they tease, smiling in spite of themself. “Hey, Alph, how are people reacting to Mettaton’s show? Like, do they like us or what?”

‘Why do you need to know?’ Frisk asks, typing that in.

“Okay, well, I know you don’t get this, but you have to adapt to how people react. It’s the best way to survive. Froggits? They’re confused. They want someone to say something like ‘I’m proud of you for trying.’ Papyrus wanted a friend. Undyne wanted to be reassured that she didn’t have to fight you.”

‘Undyne wanted to fight me!’ Frisk protests.

Chara rolls their eyes. “Okay, but did she really? You didn’t hurt anyone. Papyrus loved you. She didn’t want to hurt him, ergo she didn’t really want to fight you.”

Frisk mulls that over, trying to puzzle it out. Undyne's the most bloodthirsty monster they've met. 'Then what was all that stuff about me being the worst ever?'

"She was running off monster propaganda. You really think monsters would want to hurt anyone if they weren't convinced that they were the foulest cruelest beings alive? Besides, did you see her with Alphys? Were you even there when she tried to cook with us? The monsters down here, it's like they're wicked lonely all the time. New people excite them. You're interesting."

It's like a light switches on in their brain. Undyne really had been super nice at Alphys's lab. She hadn't been mean or angry. She had really wanted to try and befriend them, even if it was only because Alphys was there. ‘That’s really cool, Chara! You’re really smart!’

Alphys unwittingly cuts in. “Th-they really like you. There’s a whole group rallying behind you.”

Whoa, really?

Chara shrugs, smirking in a self-satisfied way. "What'd I tell you?"

“Y-yeah! They’re called ‘SaveTheHuman20XX!’ How cool is th-that? You have fans!” The smile abruptly drops from Chara's face at that and Frisk can feel them reconsidering their stance.

“Wh-what idiots,” Flowey mumbles. “Th-that stupid r-robot will annihilate them.”

“Be nice! People like us! That’s bound to be helpful, right?”

“No,” Chara and Flowey say at the exact same time.

“I m-might be helpful, b-but th-th-th- these people a-aren’t! They’re annoying!”

In Frisk’s mind, Chara chimes in with a less biased opinion. “Mettaton’s spoiled. He’s used to getting his way. You have to stop being so cute. Not enough that they want him to kill us, just enough that people like him more.”

‘Fine.’ Frisk pauses. Before them is an elevator. They peer over the side of the ledge they’re walking on, pressing the phone to their ear all the tighter. ‘Where does this go?’ they ask. Below them is nothing but lava.

“O-oh!” Alphys says. “Th-that’s the elevator! It goes up and sideways!” Frisk leans back and cranes their neck. Above them is a complex system of metal tubes. It doesn’t look quite stable.

“Magic,” Chara jokes. Then, when they feel Frisk’s apprehension, “I’m sure they’re perfectly safe. Dad wouldn’t approve them if they weren’t. He’s all about safety.”

‘You don’t know though?’

“I was long gone before these things were put in. When I was alive, we would get around by way of River. Xe had bubble magic and we could just float around. It was pretty awesome. C’mon, in we go!” Frisk presses the button for the elevator and immediately the doors spring open, as if they’ve been waiting just for them.

“Y-you w-want R-right Floor Two,” Flowey says, pressing the button with his vines.

“Hey, did you say that you liked us?” Frisk teases.

Flowey blows a derisive raspberry. “Pfft, no. I l-like y-your p-p-power. I can kill you at any time, y-you know!”

“I know,” Frisk says, raising their hands in surrender. They take the phone from their shoulder and press it to their ear again. In their head, Chara says gleefully “He loves us.”

‘I know,’ they repeat, giggling.

“F-fans can probably do a lot for you,” Alphys is commenting as the elevator whirs around them. “I-if you g-get really popular, maybe you c-can m-make a living down here. I m-mean, Mettaton has his own h-hotel and b-brand. Y-you could d-do that.”

I just want to go home, Frisk points out. I can’t do that if I stay down here. The elevator doors ping open and Frisk strolls out, glancing up from their phone screen. They greet the little flame monster, complimenting the star on his torso. He blushes a brilliant blue and ducks his head. Then he shrieks, so loudly that they take a step back in shock, “I’m Heats Flamesman! Remember my name!” He has a very noticeable lisp. Once they recover from being frightened, they giggle and wave goodbye, heading happily to the next room with Alphys still chattering on in their ear.

The atmosphere changes when they enter the next room. Rot blankets them like a physical object and the heat vanishes. Their senses seem to dull as well, as if they’ve wandered straight into a dream. A chill runs up their back and their grip on the phone tightens. Alphys has gone silent. The only sound in their ears is a dial tone, slowly chiming each individual note. They end the call, slipping the phone back into their pocket. Flowey shivers on their shoulder.

The only structure in view is a sentry station. They walk up to it, each step increasing the feeling that they shouldn’t be here. Their footsteps seem to echo, like someone is walking behind them, just slightly out of step. A chorus of voices mumbles something in unison, something that sounds like their name. They turn when they’re only a few paces from the stand, only to find the area just as deserted as it had originally been. The voices disappear, only to resume when they turn back toward the stand. When they reach the stand, they turn again, silencing the voices once more. Still nothing but the strangely muted sound of lava bubbling.

They lean over the stand’s counter, trying to ignore the recommencement of the whispers. The ground behind it is littered with empty condiment bottles. It’s pretty much identical to the one they had slept behind when they first entered Hotland, which probably means that it belongs to Sans. So where is he?

With a sick feeling in their stomach, they recall Undyne’s words- “like you could see the inside of his head”- and they wrap their arms around themself, trying to gain a measure of comfort from that. Did they mess up Sans after everything they had tried to do in order to fix what they had done?

“Frisk?” Flowey’s voice is hushed and it sounds tinny in their ears. The whispers around them grow, like someone’s turning up the volume on an old radio, complete with static. Then someone touches their shoulder.

They whirl around, hands coming up to shield Flowey. No blows come, not even magical ones. When they lower their arms, unblinking grey eyes stare into their own. The eyes search their face, the mouth underneath them opening. “It’s the human,” says the bulbous-eyed monster in a curiously blank voice. They step away from it, the counter pressing into their spine.

“..The human?” asks another, just as flat as the first. This monster is entirely made of smog, just a fanged face rising from the ground.

“But-“ mumbles a third, this one lacking a face, just before the head in its hands overrides whatever it was about to say with a line of shrieking gibberish.

“But it’s not raining,” a familiar voice points out, completing the faceless monster’s sentence. Piece by piece, Goner Kid appears. She smiles, her eyes crinkling comfortably. Unlike the rest, her voice is just as warm as her smile.

“Goner!” Frisk says.

“Yo, Frisk, Chara.” She nods her head with a slightly colder smile. “Flowey.”

“Do you want your badge back? It’s in my sweater pocket!” They rummage in their pockets, smiling in response. Their grin dulls and their eyes widen in panic when their fingers don’t hit the pointed metal. “Maybe it’s in my pack.”

“No, it’s not, Frisk. Don’t worry. You didn’t lose it.” Goner shrugs. “Once it fulfilled its purpose, it disappeared. The one who needed it has it now.”

“And who’s that?”

“The doc, of course.” She laughs. “Didn’t he seem different after you showed it to him?”

“No?” Of Chara, Frisk asks ‘Did he?’

The little spirit shrugs. “I don’t know. You grabbed him and then his arm went all funny. There wasn’t time for him to be different.”

‘Wait. Wait.’ Frisk turns to Goner Kid, trying to ignore the way the other grey monsters are moving closer. “I shook his hand when we first met. Nothing happened.”

The bug-eyed monster nods and the faceless looks down at the little head in its hands, which chirrups encouragingly.

“But when he took the badge, I did something and his arm went funny.”

“Getting warmer,” Goner Kid sings, her voice pealing off into laughter. “You’ve got three pieces. You just need four more.”

“Three?”

“The parts of his soul that he needed the most, and the pieces of his mind and body that he needs now.”

“I only gave him one badge.” They may not be a counting genius like Chara, but that's pretty obvious to them.

“And who met him in Snowdin?”

“Me?”

Goner Kid practically roars with mirth and Frisk feels a smile spread over their face in return. It’s impossible not to smile, not when she’s exactly like Kid with their infectious hope. “His sons! Children are an essential part of a parent’s soul, ‘specially his. His kids are literally his soul. The rest of us are just really cool extras. But, y’know, super cool essential extras.” Goner Kid belly-laughs again. She’s more lively this time than they’ve seen her before and her color keeps leaping back onto her body in bright flashes.

Frisk and Chara puzzle this over. “Mr. Gaster says you’re dead.”

Goner Kid nods, still smirking like this is all one great big joke as her dress blooms into pale white and ocean blue and shrivels back to grey just as quickly. “Oh, we are. We are. He’s not.”

“I don’t get it,” Chara whispers and Frisk conveys the sentiment.

“Eh, it doesn’t really matter. My badge was used to save the doc and that’s what it was meant to do. You’re what matters now, Paci-Frisk.” The nickname tickles them and they giggle. Goner laughs back, but her face goes still. “You’re the one who has the power to fix this.”

Each of the other grey monsters reveals a badge, holding them out to Frisk like offerings. Hesitantly, they take them. When the badges leave their grasp, each monster flickers into brief color and a solemn smile and disappears until only Goner Kid is left. She tilts her head when Frisk stares down at the pile of metal in their hands. “What’s the matter, kid?”

Slowly, they look back up at her, trying to puzzle it out. “You said that there were four pieces left. I only have three here.”

“Maybe one of the kids has the other one?”

That resonates in Frisk’s head. Chara laughs in delight. “Yeah! Sans had the other one, right? Because he remembered how they looked!”

‘Then Papyrus probably knows about it!’ Frisk takes their phone from their pocket and dials Papyrus’s number. The dial tone sounds again. Frustrated, they shake it and smack the flat of their hand against the screen.

Goner Kid’s head tilts even further and when she speaks, they look away from their phone to see her examining them. “What’s that? There in your pocket, what is it?”

And it’s almost like there’s a weight there now that wasn’t there before. They’re afraid to touch it, but they do, they pull it out of their pocket. There’s nothing in their hand, but they can feel the weight. And suddenly, there are voices in the phone, rushing out of the speakers. A woman and a man arguing.

“You cannot comprehend what you are saying!” the woman exclaims, every word barbed and angry.

“I know more than you think! This is dangerous! What’s happening here is dangerous!” cries the man. Both voices sound terribly familiar, but Frisk can’t place them. “This is an abomination, not an energy source!”

“Your energy source would have leveled an entire city,” the woman sneers. “I made the necessary corrections to your blueprints.”

“Necessary? This could kill us all, not just a city! How did you get clearance for this?”

“I am the Royal Scientist now. It would befit you to take a different tone with me, lest you wish to be begging in the streets.”

There is a pause so tense that Frisk presses their ear closer to the phone, even though all they want to do is end the call.

“Ma’am,” the man finally grits out as if the word physically hurts him, “you’re overlooking an essential step. Energy sources take in and convert a substance to create a different one, correct? You’re assuming that this will take energy from something outside the world and feed it into this one! That’s unproven!”

“As head of this department, I have access to information not at liberty to be revealed to the public. You may be considered intelligent, young man, but you are reckless and have no stature within these walls. Here, you are just a boy from a no-name town on the outskirts of the Underground. I suggest you heed my words. My calculations have all come out exactly as I intended them. I do not make mistakes.”

Another voice cut in, brighter than the woman’s. “Yo, ma’am, we’ve finished. You want us to clear out or what?” Frisk glances up and Goner Kid’s eyes are unfocused, looking into some distant conversation, seeing the arguing figures. For a moment, her entire body shimmers into color and stays that way. They can see a smear of plaster on her nose, a bandage peeling off her cheek. On her claws, there’s oil, as if she had been working on something.

“Clean up the debris you have left, then you may gather your equipment.” The woman’s voice recedes as she speaks.

“Wait! Doctor Mnemosyne! You can’t do this!” The man’s voice is desperate and footsteps echo in the phone’s speaker.

“Kindly remove yourself from the work site, doctor.” Her voice is suddenly distorted by static, almost swallowing her next words. “I do not possess the patience to speak With You Any Longer.”

“Doctor Mnemosyne, ma’am, this is a mistake!”

“I Do Not Make Mistakes. Remove Your Hand From My Coat This Instant. I Will Show You.” Her voice seems to be growing more familiar by the second. A low humming sound starts and the phone shivers in their hand.

“Do You Not See, Doctor? My Calculations Were Correct. Even Now The CORE Takes Energy From A Universe Outside Our Own.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see how that’s plausible, ma’am. It is obviously drawing power from the heat of the Earth’s core, as it was meant to do.” The man’s voice has gone cold. “I suggest you turn it off before it explodes.”

“You Are Making Speculations Based On Your Emotional State,” the woman replies, dismissing him.

“Ma’am, my children are here. Your child is in the building. I don’t think you’re thinking this through.”

“You Are Not Seeing All The Possibilities Of This Invention, Are You, Young Man?” The woman’s voice has become soft, predatory. A warning curls around Frisk’s ear, a second voice whispering rapidly, wheedling a promise out of the woman. A promise of death, of sacrifice.

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.” The man seems unaware of the looming danger.

“Then Look Closer!” screams the woman in a wash of static, screams Memoryhead.

The man yells and Memoryhead roars and something howls through the speaker as feedback, driving into their head like a drill. Chara cries out in pain, jabbing at the End Call button as hard as they can. The screen of their phone glitters green for a moment and Frisk drops it. Despite all of Alphys’s upgrades, the exterior of the phone is still old and durable and rather than shatter, it bounces, skidding across the dirt to Goner Kid’s feet. “What-?”

“Her truth, I assume,” Goner Kid says. She’s gone grey again and her eyes are blank silver discs, shining like coins. “It’s just a bad memory now, but the repercussions still affect us all.”

"Who was that?"

"Who did you get the Bad Memory from?" Goner Kid counters.

Frisk remembers a weight falling into their pocket, a mouth yawning wide with the intent to swallow them up. “Memoryhead was the Royal Scientist?”

“Was she? I had forgotten,” Goner Kid bends and picks up the phone in a manifested hand, holding it out to them. They see the holes in the palms of the hands as they take back their phone, tucking it into their shorts pocket.

“Did the CORE start all of this?”

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Chara mumbles, calling up their wall of art in order to better consult it.

Flowey just shrugs in response to Frisk’s question. “The CORE is th-the reason for a lot of stuff. Without it, there’d be no electricity in the Underground and a lot of the experiments would have been im- impossible too.”

There's a plan twisting in Frisk's mind and their headmate looks up from their art wall to examine it. “If we help the monsters go free, they won’t need electricity down here, right?”

“Frisk, are you planning a random act of mayhem?” Chara asks, unable to hide their delight when they recognize the shape of the plan.

“W-we gonna bl-bl-blow it up?” As always, Flowey is very ready for random acts of mayhem.

‘Maybe,’ Frisk mumbles. “That noise sounded like the Elglitches, and if the green is really linked with them, then they’re part of the CORE, right?”

“Th-then we should sh-shut it down!” Flowey enthuses. “M-mettaton’s last show is t-taking place at the CORE, right?”

“Right.” Frisk looks to Goner Kid. “Are you coming with us?” As weird as it would be, it would be really nice to have an adult with them on this adventure again, even one that might be dead.

“Nah, kid. I’m only here to help you understand what’s happening to the doc. My job’s done. You get those badges to him and find that extra one. You’re good as gold then.”

“But I don’t understand! How do I destroy the CORE? Why are the Elglitches attacking? What do they want?”

“I don’t know,” Goner Kid says wretchedly. “I’m not enough. I’m just a little piece of the puzzle. You have to fix the doc. He’s the only one of us left who remembers how to shut that thing down, the only one smart enough to figure it all out. Technically, we’re just him, just the misshapen pieces of his mind. Alone we’re not enough. Together,” she cups her hands and a facsimile of a badge, glowing white with magic, appears between them, “we’re so much more.”

The temperature of the area begins to rise as Goner Kid flushes copper. Frisk’s soul flares green-blue in return as the manifested hands sputter out. Goner Kid’s words fade as she vanishes. “Kindness, Patience, they can only last so long. It’s your turn to inherit the world, kidlet. You have to stay determined to solve this, even if you have to do the impossible.”

Then she’s gone, and Frisk doesn’t need Chara to tell them that she’s not coming back.

Chapter 29: The Annoying Dog

Chapter Text

“Your timing sucks!” Chara howls as they go spinning past the last switch. Frisk can’t stop laughing as they stumble off the conveyor belt, landing on their belly. In their backpack, the badges clink together as if they’re amused too. Even if they did manage to screw up the entire puzzle, the look on Chara’s face was so worth it. “Aaaaaalphys!”

Frisk’s stomach is starting to hurt and they’re pretty sure they’re getting a stitch in their side from laughing so hard. On the other side of the phone, Alphys sounds like she’s nervously shifting stuff around. She’s just messed up the entire puzzle for them. Frisk doesn’t have the heart to be mad at her though, especially not after the gift of Chara’s outraged face. Laughter truly is the best medicine.

The force field before them shuts off with a quick click and Alphys says “Looks like you only needed to hit two of them.” She hangs up. Chara gives Frisk a deadpan look, arching an eyebrow very slowly.

Still chuckling, they stand up, brushing off the gravelly bits that stick to their sweater and their cute new apron. There’s a little bit of a stain on it, but it has a little polka-dot pattern that they really like. Plus, they’ll be ready for Mettaton’s next cooking show now.

Their phone buzzes with an alert from the Undernet, a picture of Alphys and a catgirl figurine having lunch together. They scroll down a little ways and find that the first like on the picture is from StrongFish91. Chara nudges them, wiggling their eyebrows in a way that manages to seem extremely dirty. They nudge them back, trying to be the serious one. ‘Stop it.’

The phone buzzes a second time. Papyrus has decided to take part in the same conversation and his contribution is a picture of him flexing paper muscles while wearing sunglasses. The muscles are also wearing sunglasses. Whoever was taking the picture had their thumb on the camera. Despite the fact that it’s nearly identical to the picture he posted before, Frisk downloads it and the picture of Alphys and the figurine. They can never have enough pictures of their friends.

They slide their phone back in their pocket and contemplate the puzzle before them. It’s made of steam vents that should propel them in different directions, Chara says. None of the vents have enough force to shoot them straight over the side though, so that should be okay. Chara’s great at puzzles, so Frisk waits for them to highlight the correct route.

Chara glances up from their art wall when they don’t jump onto the first platform. “Oh-ho-ho, no. No no no. You do this one, Frisk.”

‘What?’ Frisk screws up their face. ‘Do you at least have the answers?’

Their headmate hops into the air and floats there, hovering a few inches above the ground of the mindscape, hands on their hips. “Yeah, but puzzles are an in-teg-ral part of monster history. You’ve got to solve it! Besides, I’m busy trying to figure everything out, like what these badges are and how we’re gonna get them to Gaster if we’re going in the wrong direction.” With that, they levitate a few feet higher, stick out their tongue, and set to work sketching the figures of the other greyscale monsters.

Back in reality, Frisk throws their hands up in the air and turns to Flowey, pleading through big brown eyes. The flower rolls his own eyes, guessing what they want immediately. “N-no way, Fr-Frisk. F-figure it out.”

They drop the puppy-dog act like the trash it is and hop forward onto the vent. It shoots them like a star up into the air and they land perfectly on the next platform. If perfectly is a synonym for crumpling into a confused and disoriented heap, then they are practically perfect in every way. ‘Ow.’

Flowey groans, leaning down by their ear. “I-if you k-keep g-getting hurt, y-you’re n-n-n- you’re never going to get out of h-here.” His breath tickles their cheek and they huff a laugh, smudging at the tears of pain trying to escape their eyes. He sighs, looking to the left and right, as if someone is going to see him being helpful. Then he says in a low voice “Tr-try slowing down.”

They don’t question it, even though they don’t know what he means, even though ‘try slowing down’ is the vaguest piece of advice they’ve ever encountered. If they question it, they have no doubt in their mind that he’ll say something mean to counteract his moment of kindness. So they pick themself up and step forward, the toe of their shoe just touching the vent. They can feel the wind pushing at them. But they inch their way onto the vent, taking their own sweet time about it.

And they fly.

When they land, it’s a little rougher than they wanted it to be, but they’re on their feet and nothing hurts. “Good job,” Flowey says, squeezing a vine around their arm. “Th-this puzzle’s g-going to t-take a little time, so d-don’t let it push you.”

They make a lot of wrong turns and mess up a lot. One particular instance has them stepping forward when they wanted to go left, which results in a lot of harried signing and Flowey’s obnoxious giggling. He doesn’t help them, but every so often, he squeezes one of their arms when they do something right. And when they complete the puzzle, he forgets himself entirely and gloats. “S-see, Chara? All you n-needed w-was a little help from your b-best f-friend Asriel!”

Frisk says nothing. Chara’s smile and Flowey’s crows of delight are saying everything that needs to be said. They don’t dare to even laugh, afraid they’ll ruin this little victory, so they just keep walking. Eventually, Flowey’s laughter peters out and he steals quick glances at them every so often to make sure they hadn’t noticed his slip. They keep an unreadable expression on their face. At home, Frisk always won at poker.

“Ooh, what’d you play for?”

‘M&Ms,’ Frisk responses cheerily, envisioning the tiny dish of colorful candies. Every so often, Lee would sneak a handful when he thought they weren’t looking and they would smack him with their hand of cards. Frisk was always watching the candy.

They meet a slew of waddling little monsters called Vulkins in the next room. Frisk jumps around, avoiding the lava and encouraging the monsters until the Vulkins finally decide they’ve helped enough and toddle off, leaving Frisk a good amount of gold.

“Vulkins love a good charity case,” Chara says as Frisk juggles the coins from hand to hand, trying to cool them off. “They’re always looking for ways to help, but they’re pretty simple monsters, so they aren’t too subtle about it.”

‘I’m not offended. It’s really nice of them.’ Frisk wiggles their hips and the pouch of coins doesn’t even jangle anymore. Instead it smacks against their hipbone with the force of a hammer. ‘But that was a lot of money.’

“One sixty gold exactly.”

Frisk’s eyes might just bug out of their head. ‘We gotta go give some of this back.’

“Are you nuts? MTT Resort is coming up and they have the best food! Remember how expensive that stuff is?” Frisk squares their shoulders and Chara takes a different tack. “The Vulkins will get super offended if you try and give them their money back.”

‘But-!’ Frisk starts to protest.

Unintentionally, Flowey makes up their mind for them. “Wh-what the hell is that d-d-dog doing here?”

His question is met with an admonishing yap, as if the little white dog sitting by the room’s exit is asking What the hell are you doing here? Frisk tilts their head and the dog bows, drumming its front paws on the ground before it. Then it barks again, saying Well, come on. You're late! With a doggish grin, it hums and then tears off, farther into Hotland.

Before Frisk can even realize that it’s happening, they’re chasing after it, following the fluffy creature around pipes and vents that seem to shift into trees and hillocks. The scenario is so familiar to them, this game of cat-and-mouse, dog and human, that they fall into its rhythms. One minute they’re running through Hotland, the heat weighing down their body, and the next they’re following the dog over uneven grass, the sun at their back as they climb up the mountain in pursuit. A memory clicks into place and their headmate picks up on it.

“You chased a dog up the mountain?” Chara says in disbelief, examining the memory.

‘No. I chased this dog up the mountain.’ Frisk laughs, and the sound fills the headspace. ‘It must have fallen in with me.’ A sense of relief floods their body. They hadn’t just wandered off. They had been trying to pet the dog!

“That’s actually impossible.” Chara taps into the legs and slows them. Frisk has to pinwheel their arms in order to keep from falling over. The dog disappears around a corner, dragging one of its legs behind it in a familiar manner. Frisk has no time to process, because Chara’s speaking again, in their ‘I-know-more-than-you’ voice, “I’ve seen that dog before. It lives down here. It’s always lived down here.”

“Chara, wasn’t th-that the Annoying Dog?” Flowey glances over at Frisk’s face of confusion and decides to elaborate. “Asgore named it. It w-was alw-w-ways stealing food and stuff. And Ch-Chara liked to h-help it.”

“I may not really like dogs, but a mischief maker is always a friend of mine,” Chara says proudly. “One time, we stole a whole pie and it was-“

“How old can monster dogs get?” Frisk asks, trying to squelch their disbelief. They’re positive that the dog is the same one they chased up the mountain.

A little miffed that Frisk cut off what was sure to be a grand story, Chara snips “Monster dogs can get pretty old. But that’s an aboveground dog. It’s too small to be anything else.”

Frisk finds the flaw in their argument and exploits it triumphantly. “Aboveground dogs don’t live hundreds of years,” they say. “They’re not immortal.”

Chara swears, but is unable to argue, especially once Frisk digs up their wealth of dead dog movies.

“Wh-what?” Flowey asks, a few beats later.

“Yeah, little bud, what what!” says a cheerful and utterly unfamiliar voice from behind them. Frisk turns on their heel and spots two armored figures, almost completely hidden by the black metal of their suits. Still, one has floppy ears poking up from the top of his helmet, while the other has three reptilian spikes. They rush up to Frisk, the cheerful one saying “We’ve, like, received an anonymous tip about a human wearing a striped shirt. They told us they were wandering around Hotland right now.” The man shivers theatrically, although his cheery voice never falters. “Sounds scary, huh?”

Frisk nods, trying not to laugh. Despite their apron, the striped sleeves of their sweater are easily visible around their waist and their t-shirt is also striped white and blue. It seems like it would be pretty obvious.

There’s a snort in their headspace. “He’s not even looking at you,” Chara says. “Look at his visor.”

Frisk angles their head a little, squinting up at the darkness inside the guard’s helmet. Flowey chuckles, seeing it first. “H-he’s l-l-looking at the other guy.”

The guard completely mishears Flowey’s words. “Stay chill, flower bro! We’ll bring you two someplace safe, okay?” He reaches out a gloved hand and Frisk takes it, feeling a strange grit on the metal.

“Cooling dirt,” Chara explains. “Otherwise they’d cook in their armor. Even the dragon one.” Frisk lets the guard pull them along for a few steps, rubbing slow circles over the armor with their thumb. When they lift it, their thumb is dusted with a thin layer of sooty dirt. So it comes off. Interesting.

“Huh?” asks the cheery one. “What is it, bro?” Frisk glances up to see the reptilian one staring down at them. “The shirt they’re wearing? …Like, what about it?” The reptilian one hisses something Frisk can’t make out and finally the leporine one reluctantly tears his eyes away from his partner and rests them on Frisk. His scrutiny lasts only a moment before he turns back to the reptilian guard.

“Bro, are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” The reptilian one nods very slowly and draws his sword. The leporine one sighs, unsheathing his own. “Bummer.” To Frisk, still in his friendly voice, “This is, like, mega embarrassing. We, like, actually totally have to kill you and stuff.”

“Royal Guard attacks!” Chara yells as their soul flies out from their chest, burning red. The color is warmer now, more like the color of a cherry lollipop than blood on snow. The guards don’t even flinch when they see it.

Frisk glances from one guard to the next, deliberating. ‘If I wash off the dirt on their armor, will they have to go away?’ they ask.

“You could do that.” Chara taps their chin with their chalk, then leans over and taps Frisk’s nose with it. “Or you could really look at them.”

Frisk glances at the first guard. The insignia on his shoulder means that he’s a royal guard, if they didn’t already know that. The designation under it reveals him to be Royal Guard 01. His armor is shiny and they can see everything reflected in it, so he must take very good care of it. They make the spare sign and watch their reflection do the same thing.

RG01 leaps up into the air, somersaulting over their head. They duck and his sword whistles past their ear. The dragon guard stands before them, the rabbit guard behind them. Frisk twists their stance so that they can keep the two of them in their vision.

The guards slice at the air with the exact same motion, their blades blazing white. The light on the swords creates disks that come humming towards Frisk from both sides. What they wouldn’t give for a blue soul right now. Instead, they work with what they have, dodging between disks. One neatly chops off half of an apron string, another clips the toe of their shoe, thankfully missing their toes.

Then it’s Frisk’s turn again and they look at the second guard. His designation is RG02. His armor is shiny too, but he fidgets every so often like it’s too tight. Or too warm. Frisk gets closer to him and he looks impassively down at them, waiting for them to fight. Instead, they gather a handful of their apron in their fist and start rubbing at his armor. Their apron grows black with the cooling dirt’s residue and when they step back, RG02 is worrying at the straps that hold his armor together. Frisk glances back at RG01, who is now visibly sweating.

“….getting…warmer…” mumbles RG02, pulling off his gauntlets in order to get a better grip on his straps.

RG01 hurls disk after disk of light their way as RG02 tears at his armor. These are easier to dodge. All they have to do is stay in the segment of battle that would have been RG02’s.

“…can’t take it,” RG02 mutters. “Armor…too… hot!” His armor clatters on the ground as he rips the entire breastplate off.

“Nice,” Chara says over RG02’s sound of relief, nodding their head at RG01, who has completely dropped his sword. When he sees them looking though, he hurriedly picks it back up. His eyes are pretty much glued to RG02’s chest.

Frisk narrows their eyes. ‘Chara, did you just orchestrate this?’

“Nah. Just made some observations. Ooh, wait, gimme control.” Chara skips over to RG01, dodging his attacks with ease. By the time they reach him, it’s their turn again, and they pull out the notepad. ‘Tell him how you really feel,’ they write. ‘He’ll understand.’ They accompany their words with a saucy wink that makes Frisk wrestle them back into the mindscape.

RG01 looks at them and his ears stand straight up, as if he’s surprised. Then they flop over again. His shoulders square as if he’s Atlas and the weight of the world has just been dropped onto him.

Frisk backs away and raises their eyebrows at him, jerking their head towards RG02 meaningfully.

RG01 hesitates, but suddenly it bursts out of him as if the damn has broken. “D-dude!”

RG02 is immediately on guard, hand on his sword handle as he looks from RG01 to Frisk and back again. He looks as if he’s ready to kill them based on RG01’s agonized utterance alone. Chara’s smugness reverberates in the headspace.

Brokenly, RG01 says “I can’t- I can’t take this anymore! Not like this!” He sheathes his sword and takes off his helmet, holding it in his hands. His pink nose quivers as he steps forward. It is as if Frisk doesn’t exist anymore and that’s perfect. But rather than escape, they sit down, propping their chin up in their hands as they watch this encounter play out. Flowey heaves an enormous sigh, but when they give him an apologetic glance, his eyes are glued to the two. It’s like watching a soap opera.

“Like, 02! I like, like you, bro!” He smiles shyly, mouth trembling. “The way you fight, the way you talk. I love doing team attacks with you. I love standing here with you, bouncing and waving our weapons in sync.” His smile fades and his grip on his helmet tightens. “02, I, like, want to stay like this forever.”

The silence after RG01’s admission is deafening and Chara misses a step on their mental staircase of triumph. “Oh, God, Frisk, what if he rejects him? What if I was wrong?” RG01, obviously thinking the same thing, glances over at them desperately. Chara presses their hands to their mouth. They might have just split up a friendship. They might have just split up a friendship!

“Uh, I mean, um…” RG01 plasters a fake smile on his face and yells, in a quavering version of his cheery voice, “Psyche! Gotcha, bro!” His fear is horribly apparent.

“I c-can’t watch,” mumbles Flowey, even as he makes no move to turn away from the scene unfolding before them.

RG02 steps forward. “01.” He twists his gloveless hands together.

“Y-yeah, bro?” RG01 asks softly.

RG02 glances towards the ground, steels himself, then removes his own helmet. He meets RG01’s eyes. “…do you want to…get some ice cream? A-after this?”

“Sure, dude!” RG01 holds out his hand and RG02 steps towards him as if drawn. Their hands clasp together and Chara squeals. In the mindscape, Frisk has to dodge the explosions of rose petals. Someone’s been watching more anime than they’ve been letting on.

The guards look towards Frisk, who gets up off their feet and crosses their arms in front of their chest. Sparing them any further fight. The new couple smiles and, hands still linked, they stroll towards Frisk and past them, RG02 reaching out to ruffle their hair. Frisk waves goodbye as Chara continues to squeal. The fact that they don’t need air in the headspace makes it pretty simple for them to shriek forever.

‘I don’t suppose that’s satisfied your matchmaking need,’ Frisk says, putting their hands on their hips playfully.

Chara turns to the mind’s-eye with a wild grin. “Nope! Mettaton won’t know what hit him!” Rather than being satiated by their first matchmaking success, the sight of the happy couple has only encouraged Chara. They are brainstorming twice as hard now. It’s actually quite frightening. They have a feeling they won’t be able to get anything sensible out of them for a while.

“H-hey, Fr-Frisk. I was thinking. Wh-where are you g-g-going?” When Frisk tilts their head, Flowey blurts “When you l-leave the Underg-g-ground, where are you g-going?”

“Home! With Lee and my cat and my garden!” Frisk shows Chara an image of their garden, tiny and dirty and flecked with struggling flowers and pretty stones. They start to try and explain it to Flowey too, but he cuts them off.

“And is Ch-Chara going too?”

Chara drops their chalk. In their mind’s-eye, Frisk sees it split in half on impact with the floor, spilling pinkish dust everywhere. Quickly, they change it to a flower, pollen touching the dark mindscape with a hint of sunny yellow. Liking the way it looks, they morph the entirety of the mindscape into a lush garden, muted sunlight filtering in from an unidentified point.

In the middle of it all stands Chara, unmoved by the beauty surrounding them. Frisk feels very much like that split second before RG02 asked RG01 out. There’s a flicker of something in Chara’s eyes, just before they throw their shields up and smile beatifically. “Don’t answer that, Frisk. It doesn’t matter.” They reach out towards the mind’s eye and neatly slide into control, giving Flowey their most reassuring smile, one that slithers across Frisk’s countenance like a slug. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ they mouth.

Flowey looks as if he might argue, eyes shining with anger and something else. Yet he doesn’t. The Dreemurr siblings are just alike, even after so much time spent apart. Rather than argue, he rests his chin on Frisk’s shoulder and asks “Wh-what’s the surface going to b-be like?”

Frisk talks. They don’t know the answers to all of his questions, like what the stars are made of or how hot the sun is (“It’s just super hot, I dunno.”), but they know cool aboveground stories about constellations. The dragon and the hunter and the bears.

“S-so, they named one after a h-hunter?”

“That’s my favorite! His name’s Orion and he’s the easiest to find because his belt is three stars all close together. They’re called the Three Siblings.”

“That’ll be our constellation then!” Chara says, trying to be excited about it, and Frisk conveys their message to Flowey. His eyes light up.

“Y-yeah! We can h-have stars!”

“I don’t know if we can have them. Stars are for everyone.”

“D-don’t be st-stupid, Frisk. If st-stars are for everyone, that m-means we can have whichever ones we want,” Flowey explains, just as bossily as Chara. “B-besides, stars are cool. Th-they grant any wishes you want!”

“Lee always says that you don’t get wishes by wishing on stars,” Frisk points out. “He says you get wishes by working hard.”

“Yeah, but the stars scoot it all along,” Chara says authoritatively. As if he’s backing up their argument, Flowey sniffs “Th-thousands of m-monsters wishing on the st-stars can’t be wrong, Frisk.”

Frisk figures that it’s better to join in. Chara seems happy again and the thought of stars has sufficiently cheered Flowey. “When we get home, we can look up the stars’ names, okay? Then we can choose the ones we want.”

“The st-stars are going to be so cool!” Flowey enthuses. “A whole sk-sky full of them!”

“And the moon too!” Frisk spells out the word when Flowey doesn’t immediately recognize the sign.

“The moon!” Flowey crows. Then, “Wh-what exactly is the moon?” Frisk exaggerates shock and Flowey shoves their shoulder. “I’m n-not kidding, Frisk!” His little fangs show, but they look more like Asriel’s pearly baby teeth than Flowey’s crooked daggers.

They giggle, trying to keep a straight face. “The moon is like… um.” Their smile fades. Frisk thinks about all the stories they know and dismiss them. None of them are good enough to explain. So they tell Flowey the straight facts, all the ones they know. “It’s a big eye sometimes, but then it’s a smile, and it’s huge! Almost as big as the whole world!”

Flowey stares at them, his mouth working. It’s obvious the thought doesn’t compute. “It’s both?” he asks. “At once?”

“No! It changes! It has these things called phases. It grows big and wide and then tiny and skinny. And it’s always pretty. Like a big Waterfall crystal, hanging in the sky, a billion zillion miles away.” They make a hand motion to demonstrate how big it is, trying to capture in a wave of their hand the vastness of it all.

“That far away?” he asks doubtfully, wrinkling his brow.

“The sky goes on forever. But it’s always the same exact sky, no matter where you are.”

Flowey eyes the cavern ceiling. “Wow,” he mumbles. Frisk nods in agreement and wiggles between a crack in the cavern wall into the next room. The light extinguishes before they can even process what’s surrounding them.

They have a funny feeling in their belly, like heavy butterflies, and the butterflies only flap harder when they reach the only logical conclusion as to the Underground’s sudden light failure. “M-m-mettaton,” Flowey groans, having reached the same conclusion.

Their phone rings. “H-hey!” says Alphys. “A-another dark room, huh? M-mettaton really loves his dramatics. D-don’t worry! I’ll light up the room for you!”

Frisk’s eyes brighten as they find an opening and they type Aw, Alphys, you’re the light of my life.

There’s an awkward silence where Chara snorts, Frisk laughs at their own joke, and Flowey covers his face with his petals. Alphys continues typing in their ear, determined not to laugh, although they can picture her exact expression of exasperation. “Y-you really need to stop hanging around Sans,” the lizard comments as the lights flicker on. Her voice mumbles “Oh no” as if Mettaton is a naughty cat that has just swiped all her work off her desk, equal parts exasperating and familiar.

Frisk blinks and squints at the scene before them. It’s a room lined with random objects. Aside from the spotlight bathing them, however, the room is still too dim to make out the exact objects. Mettaton yells, in his highly metallic voice “OH YES! Good afternoon, beauties and gentlebeauties!” Frisk turns towards his voice and finds themself looking out into the eye of a camera, enclosed by a cardboard frame. They step towards it and poke their head out, glancing to their left. Mettaton looks back at them, shuffling his papers. He’s dressed in a very smart red suit. Discreetly, he tries to shoo them back into the frame. “This is Mettaton, reporting live from MTT News! An interesting situation has arisen in Eastern Hotland!”

Frisk winks at the camera and finger-guns it, slipping their phone back into their pocket. They’re most definitely interesting. “Flowey, make a face for the fans!” The flower immediately waggles his tongue at the camera and bares his crooked teeth. Frisk applauds him fervently.

Mettaton increases his efforts to get them back into the frame by extending one of his arms and poking them with it. “Fortunately, our correspondent is out there, reporting live!”

Frisk hops back into the frame at that and strikes a pose, shading their eyes with one hand and peering around the room dramatically.

Mettaton takes that as his cue to ham it up further, getting onto his desk and lounging across it, hand draped over his screen. “Brave correspondent! Please find something newsworthy to report! Our twelve wonderful viewers are waiting for you!”

Frisk gives the camera a thumbs-up and another roguish wink. They’re beginning to enjoy being on TV. Happily, they start inspecting the objects laid out around the room. They turn up their nose at the movie script and ignore the basketball as neither seems like a newsworthy story. Then they happen across a disc case. The logo on the cover catches their eye and they pick it up.

“H-hey,” Flowey notes. “Th-that’s-“

“Ooh la la! That video game you found.. is dynami- huh?”

Flowey holds up the case in his vines, shaking it at the camera. Mettaton’s screen goes blank. They’ve startled him. He shuffles his notes, looking for the description of their chosen story. Sheets of paper slip out of his neat stack and flutter away, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Bl- Blook Tunes Volume Zero,” he stammers, with an air of confusion that lets them know straightaway that he’s making this up as he goes along. “This, uh, soulful music has explosive bass drops as befitting any good spookwave music! The album art is bursting with passion and it features multiple guest artists, including two ghosts with star potential! No, not potential! Star power!”

Frisk glances at it and flips it over in their hands, reading the list of tracks. Napstablook has a very abstract way of naming his songs. Some of them are poetic, like “Calling Crystal Cavern” and others are odd, like “Can You Really Call This A Hotel, I Didn’t Receive A Mint On My Pillow Or Anything,” and a few are in-between, like the ominous and dramatic “Death by Glamour.” Where did Mettaton get this? Again they hold it up to the camera. Maybe they’ll get Napstablook some recognition.

“That’s true, correspondent, some songs deserve more than one listen so you can dig down into the deepest emotion of the composer.” He fixes the audience with a flashing screen. “Attention, viewers! Our correspondent has found a CD! The potential in this music is mind-blowing! Produced and composed by a self-made ghost in Waterfall, the music inside is a mix of all the top genres: spookwave, ghouliday, spooktune, nitroglycerine, and… oh my!” Frisk, who has pried the case open, looks dumbly at the red cylinder within, their eyes growing to the size of dinner plates as Mettaton narrates. “Looks like the bass drops aren’t the only explosive quality of this CD! But don’t get too excited, courageous correspondent! You haven’t even seen the rest of the room!”

The cardboard frame goes crashing down over the edge of the ground platform, taking the rest of Mettaton’s ‘studio’ with it. Frisk has to throw up their arms in order to avoid being blinded by the lights lining the area. The CD case clatters to the ground and the insides of their eyelids glow a blistering red even through their fingers. It’s like being doused in the attention of several thousand hostile suns. They think they vaguely hear Flowey mumble “Photosynthesis can’t save me now” and they giggle together.

Mettaton coughs, letting them know that their mirth has no place in his dramatic show. “Oh my!” he cries when they swallow their laughter. They squint, uncovering their eyes to see him clap his gloved hands to his screen. “It seems everything in this area is actually a bomb!”

They turn their back on the lights, squinting at the rest of the room. Their eyes immediately meet those of the Annoying Dog, who winks at them, tongue lolling out. Then it yawns, stretching out as Mettaton yells “That dog’s a bomb!” A little flame sparks up on its tail, which it looks at with disinterest.

“Is that the same dog as the one in the piano room?” Chara asks, pointing out the way that one of its legs splays out to the side. “And the same dog that you chased into Hotland? How does this dog get around so fast?” Frisk snaps their fingers in recognition. That’s where they know the dog from! The piano room!

Mettaton’s listing more items in the room that are bombs and Frisk glances around, surprised at the variety of things he could fit fuses on or in. The dog is quite possibly the most astonishing though, as they have never seen the creature so still as it is now.

“Brave correspondent!” the robot calls, drawing their attention back to him. His screen is blinking a rather irate yellow at their continued distraction. They wave at the camera again, squinting into the studio lights. With a vaguely metallic sigh, he swoops by their head, turning their attention to a second platform of land. “If you don’t defuse all the bombs, this big bomb will blow you to smithereens in two minutes!” Like a host on a game show, he makes a showy sweeping motion with his arms, indicating the oversized pink bomb beside him. “Then you won’t be reporting ‘live’ any longer!”

Flowey snorts. “Weak.”

Mettaton gives the impression of glaring at him. “How terrible. How disturbing,” he drones dryly, as if he can think of no fate more suitable. “Our viewers are going to love watching this! Good luck, darling!” Then he whirs up and out of the camera’s view, landing as quietly as possible on one of the beams that surround the area. His screen projects a holographic clock, one that starts to count down.

Frisk claps their hands and cracks their knuckles, grinning roguishly at the cameras. Even though their stomach has gone cold from the idea that Mettaton might actually kill them, they love his weird challenges and they’re determined to succeed in this one.

Their phone rings once, but abruptly stops before they can pick it up. The dog, who had just closed its eyes for a nap, opens its eyes again as its lip curls. Frisk’s own lip follows suit as they catch a whiff of the scent in the air. It’s thickly metallic and drapes itself around them like a damp coat, winding its way into their head and creating a dull throb in their skull, just behind their eyebrows. The cameras click off. Mettaton’s clock falters and disappears with an electric hum. Mettaton himself begins to whir loudly. “It seems that I am now running on battery power, darling. What are you doing down there?”

Frisk looks up at him and the confusion in their eyes seems to convince him that something’s going wrong on his show. He hesitates a moment, torn between continuing the show and becoming involved in it himself. Involvement wins out, of course. Mettaton can never stray too far from the cameras. “Never fear, bold correspondent. I used to be a field reporter myself, once upon a time.” Mettaton lands beside them and his wheel pops out of his body, sending him scurrying to check on the big bomb. “The timer has stopped! How extraordinarily lucky for you!” He beeps a few times, numbers showing up on his screen and disappearing like stage magicians as he tries to call someone. Then he goes completely blank and silent, holding up a finger. “Listen, darling.”

They do, listening to the strange stillness. Hotland is never quiet. Steam shafts and vents are always hissing, machinery is always whirring. Now there is nothing but the susurrus of lava lapping at the stone so many miles below them and Mettaton’s systems kicking into high gear to make up for the lack of energy. And a third sound joins the mix: a curious low rumble, never faltering and packed with intensity.

It is the dog, eyes focused on something past Frisk. On and on it growls. Frisk turns their head to follow its gaze and the lights flicker out too late to hide the figure standing there.

Mettaton clicks and a ray of soft light flares out from his screen, barely enough to illuminate his hands, which are moving rapidly in circles like propellers. Dust motes flicker through the beam as he spins in a circle. Frisk and Flowey spin with him, peering through the darkness in search of answers. “Someone’s in the grid,” Mettaton sings, the color of his screen light shifting as he clicks and clacks, creating a fast-paced tempo over the dog’s constant backbeat of growls. “Got you, Alphys, darling!” he crows as the lights turn back on. “You should be ashamed. That was simply too easy-“

The figure is before them now, grinning inanely as it seizes Mettaton by the screen and slams him down into the ground. From the ground, his wheel spinning frantically, Mettaton coughs “Al..phys?” even though the creature before them is nothing at all like her. It towers over Frisk, eyes nothing but blank sockets, as if whoever made it couldn’t be bothered to give it eyeballs. It is tall and misshapen and green sparks play off its features, winking out like the deaths of so many fireflies.

The dog’s growl takes a level in volume and it seems like the ground is shaking with it, a rumble akin to the roar of thunder. Slowly, the elglitch’s head twists on its neck until it is making eye contact- or lack of it- with the dog. It co*cks its head like a bird and its malicious smile widens. The lights go out again. Frisk’s breath goes out with it.

Chara inhales and adjusts their stance. Frisk has a habit of standing like nothing can move them. Chara wants speed here. A blow can come from any direction at any time, especially in the dark. They breathe out, hissing the air through their teeth. They’re determined to survive.

There’s a rush of air and they duck, falling onto their elbow on the ground. Above them, green sparks flash frenziedly, warning them exactly where the elglitch’s head had been. It must have struck at them like a snake. Chara kicks out with their legs. Frisk’s feet connect with something heavy and Chara makes a sweeping motion, knocking the creature off balance.

The lights come back on and Chara sees the second arm arcing towards them as the creature rolls their way. They scramble to their feet, crabbing backwards out of harm’s way. Flowey hisses, drawing up to a height greater than the norm. Bullets form out of thin air, popping as they fill spaces that were once empty. These fly directly into the creature’s face, peppering it with greasy white wounds. Chara laughs raucously. The exhilaration of battle has always been theirs more than Frisk’s and so Frisk sits back in the mindscape, watching the battle with alert eyes. Should Chara need help, they will slip in beside them, but until then Chara wants to have this for themself.

The skin alongside the creature’s wounds bubbles, boils, then spreads, stretching over the open gashes left by Flowey’s hate. The substance underneath fills the shallows. Yet, the creature’s grin never falters as it creaks to its feet and moves forward, misshapen paws reaching, green sparks tasting the air before their face.

The dog yaps out a challenge, then it bulls into the creature’s legs, moving so quickly that it is a white blur, only a suggestion of a dog. The creature sways unsurely and the dog dances out of its long-limbed reach, showing all its teeth in response to the masking grin. The fuse on its tail is creeping down and Frisk looks around in a panic. Realization has struck them like a lightning bolt.

Despite the larger bomb being reliant on an electronic timer, the other bombs are the sort with a fuse, dependent only on the fire burning down, and Alphys can’t defuse them remotely if she can’t get to them. ‘Chara!’ they cry, a warning.

“I heard you,” Chara says, hauling themself to their feet and running full-tilt for the nearest explosive. The extremely agile glass of water finds them first, circling around and around them as if it intends to pour its highly volatile contents over their very flammable body.

“Fr-isk!” chirps a voice at their hip, Alphys’s voice calling a warning. Chara pulls their phone out and searches the screen. If these scenes have been thought out by Alphys and Mettaton beforehand, then Alphys must have given them something else for this scene. The phone itself is squeaking and babbling and the ‘Alphys Calling’ screen keeps popping up and disappearing before they can hit the answer button.

Stop calling! they type frantically, adding about five extra ‘I’s and a slew of exclamation points. When they send the message off, they don’t even know if it makes its way through, but their phone stops flashing long enough for them to find the bomb defusing app. The glass shatters when they defuse it, but they don’t have time to address the shards scattered around the ground. They sprint away, disarming the CD with a flick of their wrist and catching the basketball with another. The dog yelps behind them and there is a sound like a thunderclap. When they turn, Mettaton is handling it. They never would have pegged him as a close range fighter, especially not a fist fighter what with all those fancy cannons NEO had on him, but there he is, throwing punches with the same carefree air he’d use to throw bombs or flowers. The punches connect with that same booming sound and the creature’s face caves in a little more every time. The dog is scampering around the creature’s feet, doing its utmost to trip it up, although its bad leg seems to be returning the favor.

Fifteen seconds.

Chara reaches the ledge and vaults onto the platform parallel to it, aiming and defusing the present with ease. They slide, then twist and scramble to their feet. They have two bombs left to go and not long before they detonate.

Ten seconds.

Frisk points out the movie script and they run at it, alarmed when the conveyor belt suddenly shifts beneath their feet, sparking green. Chara tries to run backwards, but it’s Flowey who saves the day, snagging the bomb in his vines as they skid past and nearly tip right off the edge of the platform. Thank heaven for the force fields, which push them back so hard that the air leaves their lungs with a whoosh. Blindly, they scrabble for their phone, which had left their hands when they fell.

Bomb defused! Flowey gives them a disdainful look, his vines still lying across the phone where he had activated the app.

There’s no time to celebrate. The dog screams in pain and Chara throws themself onto the vent, soaring into the air with all the skill of a flightless bird. They land hard, but Frisk grabs the pain of their wrists and shins before it can distract. The dog sees them coming. It yaps out a warning: Stay back! But there’s a ferocious cut soaking the white fur with red and its leg is acting up, forcing it to hobble at a rapid clip. To stay back would be to condemn it.

The elglitch spots them too and pants, reaching out a hand. The fingers curl, as if it is about to cup their face like Toriel would, but then they see the needlelike claws, aiming directly for their eye. Enemy or friend, they think and, with claws like that, they’re picking enemy.

Chara pulls Frisk’s stubby pencil from their pocket and twirls it in their fingers. For a split second, time is mud, gumming up the hourglass. Frisk watches the pencil make a revolution of their fingers, then Chara seizes it out of the air and jams it into the elglitch’s wrist. It continues to reach, then recoils. It has nerves, pain receptors, but they must be dulled. Pain does not factor so heavily in its mindset, which suggests that whatever made it intended to have it complete its mission or die. Chara’s eyes scan the creature, hunting for weak spots that it has to have.

“Everything has a weak spot. Nothing is perfect,” they explain to Frisk as they circle the creature warily. It’s the creature’s turn to fight, to choose who to attack. They’ve never fought as a team before, only with Kid and Flowey, so it’s peculiar to feel the thing’s eyeless gaze sweeping over them all as if it is checking their stats in return, hunting for their soft spots. Frisk abruptly becomes aware that they have many soft spots, even with the apron covering most of them like thick cloth armor. But they’re not regenerative, like Flowey, or armored in metal, like Mettaton. They’re very very vulnerable.

There’s a sucking sound, like someone crawling out of quicksand, and they watch the pencil slip out of the creature’s skin. The wound swells up, an irritated white with green slithering through it, shiny and seeping pus.

The thing pivots to follow them as they inch around it. One of its feet move forward, scraping against the ground, rasping in a metallic manner. It almost looks as if its feet are pointing at them, like a setter of some sort.

“Or a retriever,” Chara says, snagging the dog information as soon as Frisk thinks it. They remember the hollowness of the previous elglitch, how Flowey realized it was made to hold power. As if the thing can hear their thoughts, it whirls on them and Chara is caught by surprise. It moves too fast, grabbing them by the strap of their knapsack and hauling them forward. Their feet leave the ground and immediately they panic, kicking and struggling. Their pack strap slips from their shoulder as they writhe.

Mettaton comes wheeling up, only to get backhanded viciously. That strange smile is still present on the elglitch- Retriever’s- crushed face and although its teeth are bent, none of them are broken. And when it opens its mouth, there’s nothing inside but empty darkness. Another container. When Chara tries to wriggle out of their knapsack, the creature seizes on their wrist, holding them aloft. ‘Chara!’ Frisk yelps and the world pauses.

They nearly freeze right along with it, the creeping cold crawling with icy fingers up their legs. But then their soul flares hot red, the warmth of Toriel’s magic and the blaze of the sun, banishing the cold from their body. The misshapen muzzle of the elglitch dips to make eyeless to eye contact, its crooked mouth still wide. They hear its breath grating through that hole in its face, sucking in the redness of their soul. And they see what happened to Gaster happen here.

As Retriever gorges itself on stolen Determination, the fallen humans watch the indents in its head pop out, like some macabre plastic mask. It clicks. Determination allows them to reset timelines, but for monsters and creatures like this, it might do something else. They realize, as their eyes start to pulse and their fingers to twitch, that their Determination has been saving people. As their soul has healed, they’ve become more Determined. And now they’re Determined to win.

Deliberately, their struggling slows and they begin to gasp for air, eyes bulging in their head as they choke. They try to convey that it’s pulling more than they can give. It grows stronger, green sparks condensing into rays of light beyond the visible spectrum. Frisk can feel them hammering at their head. They droop in a final defeat, a flower finally wilting. When time starts again, slowly, the elglitch is whole and it reaches for their knapsack, rifling through the contents in search of something. The human in its grip lolls, rattled about like a ragdoll in the grasp of a negligent child and Retriever fails to notice the flash of red under their eyelids.

It grabs something, needle claws clicking against metal, and Flowey surges to life. Time had resumed for him first, as he’s closest to Frisk, and he had only needed a second to assess the situation and decide that he didn’t like it at all. Bullets pepper the creature’s face, pockmarking the skin like indents in putty. When that doesn’t deter it, Flowey tries something else, wrapping his vines around its wrist and pulling. Something snaps and something else pops under the pressure, but the elglitch doesn’t react until Flowey rips the hand clean off, every bit as feral as the creature itself in his moment of hatred.

He doesn’t know what this thing did to Chara and Frisk, but he’s damn sure that he’s not going to let it do it again. It is treating them as if they’re a dead thing, which means that they’ll reset at any second. He tosses the detached hand to the ground, watching it fizzle as it makes contact with the hard earth. He’ll have to make his seconds last then.

His bullets shiver into being and each one slashes open a new area of flesh on the creature’s face and throat, layers of muscle displayed like petals. Where the bullets don’t connect, his vines do. Without mercy he plunges them through flesh and bone, leaving oozing holes where there was once unbroken skin and fur.

The creature shrieks and tries to drop Frisk, but Flowey curls vines around its throat, pulling it and twisting it to and fro. The creature’s head jerks in his grip as he attempts to fold the neck completely in half. Then there’s a tickle in his stem, creeping up to flush his cheeks pink with exhilaration.

Frisk’s eyes snap open and it is then that Flowey realizes their plan: to play dead until it is distracted. They’re so Determined to follow through that some of it is leaking into him. His stem itches with new growth as leaves twitch out in fresh green. ‘Let go,’ they mouth, and he does, tucking his head into their neck as they hit the ground and roll. As they roll, they manage to slip an arm through their knapsack’s strap, and when they stand up they’re holding the object of the creature’s fixations: a badge, prized out of the severed hand. It’s so hot that it might as well be molten.

Mettaton slips back into the timestream then and assesses the severity of the situation instantly. As a famous TV star, he has to be able to read a room, and this room is an open book. Frisk’s dodge away from the creature’s clutches has opened up his options and, as Flowey and Frisk watch, Mettaton opts for a laser. His screen blazes white-hot and the creature is blinded by it. With a haughty laugh, the robot unleashes a streak of light that feels like it’s burning out every cone in their retinas and Retriever crumbles before it. Then the light fades away, leaving shadows flitting across their vision, there is nothing left but burned fur and flesh.

Frisk scoffs in Retriever’s general direction, feeling victory curl around them like a contented kitten. Chara expresses a vague disappointment at the battle not being drawn out enough and Frisk makes a face. ‘We nearly died. Again.’

“Yeah, but we got better,” Chara argues.

Frisk sighs heavily, shrugging at Flowey as they slip the badge into their pocket. The flower understands and heaves a sigh of his own, although his is more of relief. It’s obvious that their death, even if it was a fake-out, made him nervous. They’ll have to come up with other ways to become invisible to their opponents. A pressure leans against their legs, panting, and they lean down to give the Annoying Dog a gentle stroke.

“Oh my,” buzzes Mettaton, shaking out his gloved hands as if he’s the extra in a jazzy musical. “Darling, you’re on fire.”

They smile at him and give him a weary thumbs-up. They feel like someone put them in a washing machine and let the spin cycle get them, but it’s nice of him to try for a compliment anyway.

“Frisk. Frisk, you moron! You’re actually g-going to c-catch fire!” The Annoying Dog’s fuse is dangerously close to their shorts. Gently, they scoot the dog away, listening to it huff and gripe about this sort of treatment. They fish about for their phone, careful not to brush their fingers against the badge, which is still hot enough to feel like it’s burning a hole in their pocket. They aim the phone’s antenna at the dog, who grumbles again but obligingly sits still for them. They’re surprised it hasn’t exploded yet.

Just as they open the bomb defusal app, there’s a sound that tears apart the air. They cry out in the mindspace, clapping their hands to their ears. Flowey shrieks as Mettaton judders about in shock. The crumpled corpse of the elglitch raises its desiccated head and screams again, the flesh on its muzzle shiny from burns. Frisk’s Determination dances around its face and green burns with an unhealthy light in its ruined eye sockets. As it reaches out a hand, steadying itself, the elglitch flickers. Only Chara’s quick eyes make out the shape underneath the flesh and bone and they broadcast it in their bewilderment. The elglitch is made out of numbers underneath, green numbers that shine like the scales of a snake.

It stumbles to its feet and opens its mouth. Gobs of melted flesh stretch across its jaw as it opens impossibly wide. The resulting scream is claws running down a chalkboard, metal scraping against metal, pain and hatred conglomerated into one sound that rattles on and on. Even through their hands, Frisk can hear it throbbing in their head. Through squinted eyes, they chance a look at the elglitch.

Electricity snaps off its teeth in long threads. This time it goes straight for Frisk, not even bothering with the dog at their feet. Frisk dances around it, eyes wide in fear. How do you kill something that keeps getting back up? Chara’s grace makes their feet light and they hop around the outside of the retriever’s range as it stalks after them. They don’t realize that it’s herding them until their foot finds nothing but air at their back. Flowey shoots his vines down, trying to stabilize them. “Frisk,” he growls. “Fight back!” Their knees are shaking. There’s bile rising in their throat, worry and fear ready to drown them. Instead, something sparks.

‘I refuse,’ the fallen human says, planting their feet like tree trunks, as if they too have roots that spiral down into the earth beneath them. On their shoulder, Flowey contorts into strange shapes, his face a bubbling mass of flesh. His vines curl up around their neck, loops and loops of foliage glowing from within. And when his face resurfaces, it is adorned with sharp teeth and a narrow muzzle, all lit with the red of their Determination. They are pouring it into him and it is so vastly different from the Determination he felt in the laboratory, so much angrier. But above all the anger is focus. Frisk and Chara are purposely doing this, filling him with a strength greater than anything he’s ever felt and an anger that he’d never have dreamed them to possess.

They step forward and suddenly, Retriever’s ears prick. The lights flicker out, trying to cover its flight. Unfortunately for Retriever, Frisk’s soul and Flowey’s eyes are glinting red and Mettaton’s screen illuminates the silhouette of the massive creature. Another flash of light and Retriever is blown backwards with another horrendous scream. Frisk moves towards where it used to be, scooping up the Annoying Dog with one hand. The little canine yaps, nosing at their chin. If they weren’t in the middle of a fight for their life, they’d take the time to scrunch its ears and give it a cuddle.

“Focus,” Flowey hisses. The glow in his eyes has started to fade with their momentary distraction. They redouble their attention to their Determination, pushing it back to him as simply as if they were passing Lee the dish of M&Ms. His eyes blaze with red and the light catches on Retriever’s bared teeth as it lunges for their throat. Frisk slides aside and Flowey slams a bullet into its back, slapping it down. They hear something snap before the creature is sent hurtling into the ground. It is barely down a moment before it struggles back to its feet, murder etched in every fiber of its being.

Hatred. It gleams in the horrible green of its eye sockets and blisters off its crowded teeth. Frisk instinctively shoves their hands over their ears as the mouth opens. But it doesn’t scream. It speaks. And its voice is gravel and murk and the dark spots at night that seem to close in for the kill when no one is around to protect you. “You will regret this,” it spits, slime matting what remains of the fur around its muzzle.

Mettaton tries to speak in the grim silence that follows, to defuse the power struggle between the eyeless elglitch and the fallen human. He can’t form words. They glitch out as simple sounds. The dog worms out of their grip and sits by their feet, as if it can somehow shield them from the animosity. Moments trudge by in Hotland’s uncanny silence.

Then they hear it. A high cold laugh that traces a sharp finger down Frisk’s spine comes curling through the air from their shoulder. It dissolves into a giggle. He’s genuinely amused by what should have been threatening, what would be threatening if Flowey wasn’t soaked in Determination. “You’ve come to the wrong place if you expect them to be scared by that!” he whoops, leaning forward. His stem brushes their cheek. “Frisk and Chara, they never stop trying! Never!”

“Huh," Chara notes, smiling their most cherubic smile. "He's right." And Frisk lines themself up. Determination is a force of nature in itself. It is something that makes people continue to live instead of merely survive. On their shoulder, Flowey’s vines begin to bud, sprouting leaves.

Mettaton shoots, slamming Retriever into a wall. His battery whines and he slumps. Frisk follows up his attack when he can no longer keep it up. A perfect shot. A smoking hole straight through Retriever’s chest and the wall it is pressed to.

It gurgles, then giggles in Flowey’s voice. It pries itself off the wall and turns to them, still smiling. Before their eyes, wires snake through the hole and reattach, the flesh knitting back together with the last dying sparks of dying Determination. With the last dregs of power it has, it comes at them so quickly that all they can do is leap out of the way, even though Flowey snaps out with his teeth.

Too late they understand their mistake. The dog was not protecting them. Their presence was protecting it. It stands still, staring up at the advancing elglitch and, if Frisk doesn’t think too hard about the mental processes of dogs, they could almost think it looked resigned. Still, it looks back at them. A century of thoughts pass between them. The small pink mouth opens to reveal tiny teeth.

Then Retriever snatches up the still-burning dog in its remaining hand and disappears with a crack and the smell of rotting lavender. Annoying Dog’s mournful howl resounds around the cavern.

‘It got what it wanted.’ Frisk’s knees finally give out and they sink to the ground. They failed. Somehow, even with all their Determination, they failed to protect someone. Flowey sags against their neck as the borrowed power is sapped from him by their despair. The buds on his vines tremble hopefully, then, as if they have taken away the sun, they wither away and fall off.

Chara takes off the knapsack and reaches in. “Not everything. I think it wanted the badges too.” The badges are still horribly warm, although they’re cooling rapidly. The one in their hip pocket is is as warm as another living person. They wrap a sleeve around it, reluctant to touch it. It would feel wrong. The badges are tarnished now. They remember Temmie’s voice, saying that the badges were bad. But they’re part of Mr. Gaster, just as much as Frisk’s soul is a part of them. What would an elglitch want with someone's soul? Every possibility they think up is worse than the last.

They hug the bag to their chest, apologizing. Then they stand. With the absence of the elglitch, power is retuning to Hotland. Mettaton is rolling to his feet, a hand pressed to his forehead. The cameras are blinking. Any moment they’ll turn back on and Mettaton will be stranded without a show.

Frisk pulls out their phone and goes up to the robot, gently tapping his arm. We can do it again, yeah?

Mettaton takes a blink to read their message, then his screen buzzes yellow, as if he’s confused. But he flies back up to the rafters anyway and Frisk mimes running around defusing bombs for the camera as Mettaton narrates dramatically. Alphys misses her cue, still acting on Frisk’s command, but Mettaton’s pretty okay at covering for her anyway. “What? The bomb isn’t going off? Oh, human! The blackout must have defused it for you! What luck! What coincidence! What is wrong with our electrical system? Still, you defused all the bombs within your limit! Come over here and collect your prize!”

“Prize?” Flowey asks. Still, when Mettaton lands, Frisk makes their way over. He sticks out a gloved hand and their own little mitt, broken nails and all, is enveloped in it. He pumps their arm once, then pulls them closer to pat them on the back. Their breath is fogging up his screen a little and when he raises a hand to wipe at it, he whispers “What was that little unscheduled interruption?”

“None of your business,” Flowey answers smartly.

Mettaton scoffs, still speaking in a low enough voice for the microphones to miss it. “If it happens on my show, it is definitely my business, darling. Still, if that is the gimmick you choose, mysterious little human, I won’t interfere yet.” He pushes them away from him and says loudly “Thank you to my wonderful viewers for tuning in! Until next time, darling!” There’s a strange note in his voice, like he’s trying to be menacing, but can’t quite nail it.

With that, he does a funny little twist and a jump, his arms telescoping back into his body. As he rockets away, the cameras all click off, followed by the lights. They can hear a faint beeping. Frisk draws their sleeve under their nose, sniffing. ‘I like him again,’ they say to Chara, who just rolls their eyes. Frisk gives them a little shove. 'You like him too!' they singsong.

Chara shoves them back. "I just wish I'd had more time to talk up Papyrus," they admit.

'Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match!' Frisk sings, slinging their bag back over their shoulder.

“Hey. Hey! HEY! HUMAN!” There’s a thumping, like someone playing hopscotch. They turn, curious, and come face to face with bulging eyes over a burlap snout. “Hey!” yells Mad Dummy once more. “Have you seen that rectangular reject? I’ve got a complaint he needs to file up his-“

Chara groans. “Oh boy.”

Chapter 30: Maddening Conversations

Chapter Text

“Where’s a pair of earplugs when you need them?” whines Chara. As usual, Flowey looks like he’s having the same thought. Granted, Flowey also looks like he’s thought of at least six different ways to enforce silence, none of them pleasant.

The source of the siblings’ frustration is the Mad Dummy. The dummy, who has given their name as “just Mads,” hops alongside Frisk as they trek through Hotland and hasn’t yet stopped jabbering angrily. Mads hasn’t paused for breath in three minutes, but it feels more like two months have passed.

“So Mettaton is your cousin?” Frisk asks for what is probably the umpteenth time. Flowey growls as he translates, both bored out of his mind and annoyed, which is a dangerous combination.

For once, the dummy pauses and seems as if they’re seriously considering the question. Then steam shoots out the sides of its head. Chara whistles like a teakettle in accompaniment, catching Frisk somewhere between exasperated and amused. Then the dummy speaks and Frisk falls right into concerned instead. “He stopped being my cousin once he ABANDONED Blooky! He knows they’re fragile! He knows it broke their heart! And he’s still having a grand old time on television! Callous, callous, callous!” Mads vibrates, glaring at the ground with their shiny button eyes. Then their head swings back up and the buttons fixate on Frisk. “Why do you need to know?” they snarl.

“Because we’re friends, aren’t we?” Frisk says.

“I don’t need friends- I’ve got-“ The dummy checks themself abruptly, considering what they had been about to say. “A friend would be advantageous,” they conclude. Then their head whips up, a wicked look gleaming in their eyes. “Friends do things for you.”

Frisk nods before Chara can warn them against it.

The dummy proceeds to look even more wicked. “Friends tell each other things.”

Frisk nods again, a little less sure this time as to where the dummy is going with this. “Are you remembering the knives now?” Chara asks.

With that unfortunate reminder, the dummy surpasses wicked and heads straight into nefarious. “Do friends have that rectangular boxhead’s phone number?”

Frisk shakes their head, relieved. The dummy deflates. “You sure?” They nod. The dummy sags even more.

“Alphys might have it,” Chara points out, always interested in a little mischief. The dummy swings their head around to look at Frisk again, having managed to catch and decipher that sentence. It seems like ghosts can see other spirits because Mads has been addressing them depending on who’s in charge. Still, Chara’s voice seems to have sound only in Frisk’s head and Mads isn’t a mind-reader or that great of a lip-reader.

‘Will she let us have it though?’ Frisk digs out their phone without waiting for an answer and punches in Alphys’s number. Mads leans over their shoulder. They never realized that they were shorter than the dummy until now. Flowey presses himself against their neck in an effort to make some space between himself and the dummy.

“Can you dial any faster? They’re breathing on me,” he whines in their ear. Frisk huffs at him, shuffling a little ways away from Mads anyway. Their fingers poke open their texting application as Alphys’s answering machine picks up.

Hi, Alphys. Can we have M’s phone number? They hesitate, then type We miss you!

A second later, their phone dings. She has sent them his number, but there is nothing else attached to the message, not even a kitty face. Frisk’s heart hurts a little. They must have really freaked her out during the fight with the elglitch. They hadn’t meant to. When they break the barrier, they’ll apologize every second afterwards.

“The list of people we have to apologize to is getting really long.”

Frisk nods, mouth a thin line. They don’t want to think about that at all. They want to fix what is fixable now, not later. And what’s fixable right now is Mads and Mettaton’s relationship. They tap the number and tuck the phone between Mads’s head and their shoulder, stepping away to offer them a little privacy.

The phone rings twice and when Mettaton picks up, Frisk realizes it’s on speaker, probably another remnant from the elglitch fight. They’ll fix it after. “Listen, darling, unless you want to tell me about what happened during my news segment, I am very busy right now.” He doesn’t sound busy to them. His voice is too leisurely, the kind of voice used when the speaker is only busy painting their fingernails.

"METTS!" barks Mads.

There's a crash and they hear Mettaton swearing. His voice fades out for a minute, presumably as he rights whatever he knocked over. Then, tentatively: "Maddy? It's been too long!"

Frisk blinks. They had believed Mads when they had said that Mettaton was their cousin, but they must have not thought about it at all from Mettaton’s point of view. He sounds nervous. Chara bites their nails.

Mads, on the other hand, sounds triumphant. "Damn straight it has. How's Blooky?"

"Blooky? Oh, they're wonderful! Simply flooding the house with tears of joy! There is so much music coming out of them that they could be a one ghost orchestra!" Even Frisk can tell that he’s lying and they’re not even related to him. Mads looks steamed again, but this time it’s cotton that falls out of their middle as their torso teeth shred at their body. It looks painful.

"Uh huh. So you're on TV now? How's Blooky liking that? They didn’t like Hotland last I checked.”

“Oh. W-w-well-“ Mettaton sputters like a backfiring engine, trying to find an answer. “I might have left them in Waterfall, maybe.”

Mads pounces. "That's what I thought! Thoughtless, thoughtless, THOUGHTLESS! How could you do that to them? How could you leave them alone?"

Mettaton retaliates with venom so explosive that it must have been festering for years. "You did it first! You left us! You told me that ghosts have to find bodies to find work! And I found the best body! And I love my job, which is more than I can say for you!”

"You love your job, huh? More than your baby cousin?" Frisk hurries forward and tries to tug their phone away, but Mads fixes them with such a horrible glare that they retreat. "More than your family? What job is worth up and leaving?”

"You left us first!" Mettaton yells, sounding so much like a petulant teenager that Frisk startles. They’re used to Mettaton the smooth criminal, the Underground’s darling, not the Mettaton who probably grew up on a snail farm in Waterfall, who was nobody’s darling, not even his own from the sound of it.

The cotton gathers around Mads’s base as they tear at their sackcloth. "I visited Blooky every month! They always told me you were out! I brought gold like I said I would! I brought you those stupid empty books you liked so much, even though you only ever write on one page out of all of them! I thought I just had bad timing! I never once thought you had abandoned them! No note, no call, nothing! I had to watch a TV show to find you! A TV show!”

"I left them a letter! I’m not cruel!”

"Did you? Where?"

Frisk hopes that Mettaton has an answer for this.

"In my diary!"

Their hopes are dashed.

Mads's lip curls. "In your diary,” they sneer. “The diaries in your house, you mean? The ones that Blooky is too polite to look in because Silen taught them their manners?” There’s a moment of horrified silence, in which Frisk makes a half-hearted grabbing motion but doesn’t move. The drama unfolding before them is terrible to behold and they don’t know what to do. “You left them without a word of warning!" Mads sounds upset too, their voice pained as they say “I didn’t raise you like that.”

"Stop it."

"Thoughtless," Mads whispers, sinking into themself. Their whole body seems to crumple.

"Maddy, stop."

At Mettaton’s voice, the dummy seems to remember everything that is making them furious and their body begins to shake. "Thoughtless!" Mads bellows.

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!" The line goes dead.

Frisk looks at Mads in horror. They've never heard Mettaton sound like that. They've never heard him sound like everything was falling apart- not even when they-

Frisk uncurls their fingers from around the handle of an imaginary gun, feeling the cold steel against their fingertips even now, timelines later. Flowey is growling, low and angry, and the sound is an accurate depiction of how they’re feeling. The dummy won't meet their eyes, twitching uncomfortably. "Here," they say gruffly, twisting around. "Take your phone."

They do, frowning. The dummy hops away, then hops back. “I f*cked up!” The horror on their face is almost funny in how terrible it is. “I’m furious! I’m furious, right? Call him back!”

Frisk looks at them, red in the face out of frustration. They go to redial, to try and smooth this over, but a vine swoops through their fingers and neatly yanks the phone away. Flowey neatly presses the speakerphone button, turning it off.

"No.”

“What?”

‘What?’ ask Frisk and Chara at the same time. Out of all the things they were going to say, they hadn’t expected Flowey to chime in. But Asriel’s face is making a reappearance and it is coldly livid. There are odd black lines tracing up through the simulated fur of his cheeks, like tattoos.

“You’re not calling him back. You’re c-c-c- you’re coming with us instead and you’re going to apologize in p-p-p-p- in person! We don’t- We never-“ He’s gulping as he tries to force more words out, trying so hard to make himself clear. The sclera of his eyes bleed into black and he roars “You’re his family!” The words seem to hurt Mads worse than any blows ever could and they recoil, bucking as if shot.

It hurts Chara too. They’ve seen Flowey throwing a bratty tantrum, they’ve seen him cry out in fear, they’ve seen him hide behind his father in an act of self-preservation and muscle memory. They thought that his emotions were as shallow as a puddle, not like their Asriel. They have never seen him angry like this and it drains all the anger out of them like water out of a watering can.

Chara doesn’t know what to do and Frisk can feel them rifling through the file cabinets of their memories. Asriel never got angry. “Frisk, I need-“ Frisk steps aside and Chara grabs Asriel’s face, pulling it until he’s facing them, not the dummy. ‘Azzy?’ they mouth, looking into his eyes. They’re rust-red and darting in a sea of darkness, desperation etched in the way his mouth is gaping, gasping for any air it can find. His teeth are pearly baby fangs, white in the abyss of his mouth. He looks like everything is being pulled out of him, like someone is forcibly turning him inside out.

Then Chara has a hand cupped around his head protectively, fingers smoothing over his petals as they stare daggers at the dummy. ‘Get out of here,’ they mouth, each word slowly and perfectly formed so that there is no chance of confusion. Frisk points down the path with their free hand, indicating that if the dummy can’t play nice, they can go off down the road and wait for them. They even manage a thin smile, hoping to indicate that they’re not mad but disappointed.

The dummy nods as if chastened and hops away down the path. Frisk turns back to Flowey. Chara is using their fingers to rub gentle circles at the spots where Flowey’s petals meet his face. Frisk blinks and sees Chara’s bedroom wall, feels Chara’s hands smoothing the soft fur where Asriel’s ears meet his temples.

Flowey shakes his head and their hand falls away. He looks bewildered as Asriel’s soft muzzle turns into the flat pale face once more. He rears away from their shoulder, looking up into their face, meeting their eyes. “I f-f-felt that anger,” he mumbles. Then his vines start to pull away from them, slithering back up their arms and leaving only thick red pressure marks to even show that they had been there. He starts worming his way down their arm. “Fight me,” he demands, wobbling on their wrist like a demented prom corsage.

‘What?’

“Fight me.” There is no trace of a stutter in his voice, only a cold certainty. “I have to see something.”

They lower him to the ground and he plunges his roots into the dry earth. Hesitantly, they put their fists up in front of their chin the way they’d seen people do in Lee’s gangster movies. Then, to give it more accuracy, they bounce on the soles of their feet a little. Their soul tugs out of their chest. The red of it is so bright that they can easily picture the sun being cowed by it and the black veins are nothing more than strings under the surface.

Across from them, Flowey glows a pale pink. No soul makes an appearance, no upside-down heart floating in front of him. But the glow looks almost like a soul’s, a weird mixture of a monster’s white light and their own. He eyes himself disbelievingly, making brief eye contact with them to establish that this is, in fact, happening.

“Your soul looks like cotton candy!” Frisk laughs as their soul gets sucked back into their body. There’s no fighting intent in the air anymore, so there’s no reason for it to be out.

“Yours looks like a G-Gyftmas tree ornament!” he returns, his glow fading.

“Peppermint stick!”

“Lipstick!”

“Rude!”

“Rude!” he mocks, sticking his tongue out at them. Then they’re all laughing, Frisk sitting down with a bump. Flowey ducks under the earth and comes up again with orange dirt crumbling off his petals.

“What was that all about?” Frisk asks, making a gesture with their hands to indicate just how crazy that had all been.

“Dunno. It was bad though. Like back in the lab. Everything I wanted to say just-“ Flowey uses his veins to mime word vomit. “-sucked out of me. It’s l-like a m-magnet. The cl-cl-cl- the nearer we get to- to-“ He gives up and waves a vine in the air to keep them from filling in the blank. “CORE,” he says finally. “I think it’s the CORE. It feels like that elglitch.”

“The CORE feels like that thing at the lab? That sucks.”

‘Your timing sucks,’ Frisk informs them. ‘And don’t think I won’t tell Mom about that terrible pun.’

“You’re in-CORE-igible,” Chara returns, sticking their tongue out.

Frisk makes a note to see if that’s a real word and says “Do you have anything else, Flowey? We have to go through the CORE to get to Asgore. There’s no other way.”

“I know that, idiot!” Flowey hesitates and slowly turns to look out over the churning lava. “I- I’m not sure what I mean about the CORE,” he confesses. “It’s a feeling I’m getting. Like there’s something bad there and we’re walking right to it.”

Frisk sighs. It’s not much to go on. It’s not much at all. This whole journey has just been one mystery after another and they don’t see it getting any less complex in the future.

“Well, he might be wrong. Asriel used to convince himself that crazy things could happen. It's one of his most redeeming qualities,” Chara points out.

'It could also be dangerous if he is wrong,' Frisk makes a second note, this one reminding themself to keep a closer eye on him.

“You know, I’m sorry I yelled at the dummy,” Flowey says, oblivious to the exchange of emotion Frisk and Chara are having about him.

“Are you really?”

“That’d be a first.”

Flowey makes a face. “No. I’m not. But people with souls say that they’re sorry and mean it. I don’t have a soul yet, but I’m going to, right? All this boring stuff would be easier if I had my own soul.” He butts their leg with his head and peeks up at them. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” Frisk answers truthfully. “I hope so.”

“Doubt hurts hopes and dreams more than failure ever does,” he recites in a silly singsong voice.

Frisk snorts. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Asgore! He had a bunch of those! He was like a jukebox for weird advice,” Flowey cackles. Frisk laughs too (somehow Flowey’s developed another laugh, one much more catching than the other ones) and Chara laughs the loudest, contributing more Asgore-isms to the pot, like “Flowers that have thorns are often the most afraid to be picked”. He sounds like he had a saying for everything. Frisk can’t wait to meet him for real and hear all these strange sayings out of his own mouth.

Chara chuckles at their bubble of enthusiasm and mouths to Flowey. ‘Dad’s gonna love Frisk, isn’t he, Az?’

“Flowey,” he corrects. When Chara’s face crumples, he shakes his head, petals rustling. “I’m not Asriel until- until- until-“ He takes a deep breath, waits a few seconds, then lets it out. “Until I h-have my soul back.” Then he smirks. “Asgore’ll love you, Frisk.” His smirk turns into a full on grin as he says “You’re a huuuuuge sap just like him!”

Frisk gasps and pouts, folding their arms and sticking their tongue out at him. He giggles, reaching a vine up for their elbow. They extend the arm for him and he crawls back up, nuzzling into their throat for a second before settling himself. “Let’s go talk to that dummy about the values of love and f-f-family.” He squeaks his last words in what in meant to be a mimicry of them, his eyes closing and his expression flattening into neutral. Frisk ducks their head. Flowey’s face snaps back into place. “You’re not subtle, Frisk. You were just as pissed as me a-about that. Ch-Chara too. I m-might not like M-Mettaton, but n-n-nobody deserves to be treated like th-that.”

“No. They don’t.” But there has to be a reason.

Frisk trots down the little path, Flowey swaying on their shoulder. Chara floats around in the mindscape, which still looks like a lovely flower garden. Frisk keeps an awareness turned inward to watch their antics as much as possible without falling off the path. Chara forms a bubble in their hands and gazes into it like a crystal ball. Flowey's voice floats out of it, saying over and over 'if I had my own soul.' “When’d Az- Flowey- decide he wanted a soul? Did you give him a rousing speech when I wasn’t tuned in?”

‘No. He must have just decided. He’s kind of quiet sometimes.’

“Says the mute kid.”

‘Touché.’

“Bless you.”

Mads is standing by the edge, looking out at the CORE. They’re horribly still, not even turning as Frisk approaches.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Frisk asks. Flowey’s voice is soft as he relays the words. The dummy doesn’t move. Flowey starts puffing himself up again, displaying his leaves and petals to their fullest extent, but Frisk pats him back down. They don't want to fight them. “We just want to talk.”

“I’m not your friend, kid,” says Mads in a thin, tired voice. The dummy doesn’t move. In fact, when Frisk gets closer, they can see that the dummy is completely lifeless. “Over here.” They peek around it. There’s a little orange lump of matter lying on the ground. They walk around the dummy and stand over it. The little ghost looks like a more battered version of Napstablook. They wonder why they’re lying down. “Family tradition,” the ghost explains shortly. They don’t extend an invitation, but Frisk lies down anyway.

“Why’re you separated from you?” Frisk makes their signs towards the ceiling, listening to Flowey say them aloud. When they’re lying on the ground together, he barely has to raise his voice to be heard, although the hum of the machinery whirring under the earth should be deafening.

“None of your business,” Mads mumbles.

“Why did you say you aren’t you my friend?” Frisk asks.

There’s no verbal answer for a time. Then the ghost sighs. Frisk chooses to pose a third question, hoping for an actual answer this time. "You said multiple emotions were confusing. Do ghosts only feel one emotion at a time?"

"No. Depends." The ghost takes a moment to think. “Usually."

"Three different answers to one question. Most Cryptic Award goes to- drumroll please- Mad Dummy." Frisk frowns at Chara, who rolls their eyes. Still, the jab isn’t as barbed as it could be, and there’s not a hint of malice in sight. Chara’s being gentle, trying to understand Mads by joking until they hit on something true.

Mads clarifies. "Ghosts are made from an excess of magic in an environment," they recite. "Because of this, ghosts are often emotionally intense, something that normally inhibits interspecies relationships of any kind."

"So magic makes monsters more emotional?" Frisk asks, now feeling as lost as a Vulkin in Waterfall. Mads hasn't answered their question at all and has instead given them new information.

"Kind of," Chara cuts in, taking pity on them in their confusion. "Magic is emotion. Like how your Determination makes people feel. That's big magic. Life is another kind of big magic. Monsters react to it differently. The more physical a monster, the less emotional they get. Ghosts and skeletons are on the least physical side. Boss monsters and golem-type things are on the most side. Humans aren't monsters, but I think if they were, they'd be on the farthest side of physical."

‘But humans are really emotional.’

Chara shrugs. "It's kind of a rule. Like gravity."

‘But people can fly.’

"I'm not a scientist, Frisk. I don't know what people are doing up there. I haven’t even seen the goldarned sun in something hundred years. For all I know, it’s bloody purple now."

Frisk tunes back into reality as Mads starts to talk. “When I was very young, I wanted to be a dummy in a fancy store. I wanted people seeing me as they walked by, thinking I was just as good as all the nice things." Frisk rolls onto their stomach and sees Mads’s expression, so hopeful. Mads glances at them, twitching at the edges. “Ghosts aren’t really known as nice. We’re parasites, leeching off other people’s charity.”

Frisk startles at that. “I’m sure that’s-“

“I’m not asking you to pity me, kid. I’m sure as hell not asking you to forgive me. I’m explaining. Ghosts don’t have much. We have to hang on to what we have, like family. Dreams aren’t as important.”

"But maybe that's not how Mettaton felt," they point out. When the ghost raises an eyebrow at them, they elaborate “Maybe he cares more about being as good as the nice things. Maybe him running away was like your fancy store dream.”

Mads laughs gruffly, snapped out of their daydream by the sound of Flowey's voice translating. "Probably was. Poor boxhead was always too much like me," they admit. "He's braver though. Saw what he wanted and went for it. Didn't settle." They twitch again, like there’s an itch somewhere they can’t reach. "Still! His way of going about it was inexcusable!"

"Did you settle?"

"Do I look like I settled?" Mads looks at them angrily now. There’s a long scar curling down their face and the lines on their face tend to blur into a shape like a thick nose. They look a little like Napstablook and maybe a little like Mettaton.

“I am begging you to not answer that question if you value our lives,” Chara warns.

Frisk thinks, looking for another question they want answered, and settles on "Ghosts have ages, right? So is Napstablook younger than Mettaton?”

Mads visibly relaxes, although their outline continues to shudder at strange intervals. "Much younger. They're the baby. There's Silen, me, Metts, and then Blooky."

"And you're all cousins?"

"Of course! Ghosts are usually all cousins unless they want to make family units. Then the older ghosts adopt the younger ones.”

Frisk cups their chin in their hands and props their elbows up against the ground. "Tell me about them more? Is your family big or small?"

Mads looks pleased. Monsters seem to love talking about their families. Even in the bad times, Sans liked talking about Papyrus and Chara likes talking about Asriel now, even if they didn’t before. "Well, Metts has two parents who like to disappear a lot, so I took care of him myself. Silen has only themself, so I make sure they're doing okay. Blooky just has us. They're the baby, but they try to take care of other people before them, which is stupid. And they cry when they think they messed up. But they cry when they're angry too and when they're happy. So they cry a lot. But it makes it all even out because I don't cry and Silen doesn't cry."

"Does Mettaton cry as much as Blooky?" If they can just keep them talking, they can endear themself and make a new friend. That seems to be how this kind of thing works. It helps that they actually want to know these things.

Mads thinks, the effort puckering the stitches down the side of their face. "Metts didn't like crying. They- he was always trying to make Blooky feel better when they cried but crying was what made Blooky feel better."

Frisk nods. They can understand that. They hate when people cry, but sometimes you just have to cry about something.

“I get mad a lot. At everyone. Ghosts, we’re kind of intense. I like being mad, but you kind of work yourself into a rut if you get mad a lot. Suddenly, you’re mad all the time and it just makes you so tired, but you don’t really know any other way to cope. I miss Blooky. I miss the farm. I even miss the f*cking snails! But I get why Metts did what he did. It’s hard to be someone new around the people who knew you before.” Suddenly, Mads bends in half as if they’re sitting bolt upright. “Why, why, WHY am I telling YOU this? And why are you listening?”

“You need to talk and, even if we’re not friends, I like to listen.” Frisk shrugs in a practiced gesture that makes Chara snigg*r. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Mads eyes them, then lies back down quietly. “Your flower has a point.”

“My brother.” Chara’s confusion twinges in Frisk’s head. Frisk thinks over what they signed and decides it’s true, presents that honesty to Chara in a bouquet of mindscape flowers. Chara’s smile bursts into life. Frisk smiles back. They have two brothers now. Two brothers and a sibling.

Mads clears their throat. “Right. Brother. Metts gets nervous sometimes. The last thing he needs is to think I’m disappointed in him. Or angry at him.”

“Are you?”

“Mettaton gets nervous?”

Frisk shushes them in time to hear Mads.

“Yes, I’m angry! I’m always angry! But he doesn’t need to think that! I don’t want to ruin his future. I don’t want to wreck his present either.” Mads grimaces, then sighs and their voice sounds too much like Napstablook’s as they say “I’m taking up a lot of your time, kid. Don’t you have something else to do?”

“Friends come first, even if they don’t want to be friends,” Frisk tells them. “But I do have somewhere to be. You can come along if you’d like.”

“Where you headed?”

“New Home. But first, we’ve got to meet Mettaton, so we can bring you that far.” They bring their knees up under their body and pop up into a crouching position, jolting Flowey a little.

Mads nods pensively. “Yeah. Yeah! YEAH! I can come with! I need to find a new job anyway!” They swoop into the dummy body and Frisk watches with interest. They’ve never seen a ghost possess anything before. They don’t think it’s supposed to look this awkward though. The dummy rattles and twitches and they can hear little snippets of curses as Mads struggles to make it a better fit. Finally, the tan dummy turns a tangerine shade of orange and Mads’s thick eyebrows pop up out of its face. “Onward, kid! Let’s go, go, go! We have to talk about feelings and sh*t with my asshole cousin!”

Frisk buries their face in their hands. This might be a bad idea.

“Might be?” Chara asks. “This is a terrible idea.” A flash of white teeth in the headspace. “I like it.”

...

The elevator to the next floor isn’t a tight squeeze, but Mads keeps hopping around inside it in a way that makes Frisk nervous and makes Chara want to jump around too. Flowey just doesn’t comment, saying whatever Frisk’s hands say and nothing more than that. He seems drained again. Frisk finds themself thinking about photosynthesis. How would it affect flowers under the earth if they didn’t have enough sun to make energy? Where does Flowey get his energy?

The elevator doors finally ding open and Frisk steps out, mouth falling open in awe. The platform ends maybe ten feet away, but they can see the channels by which the elevator travels stretching out beneath it, and the lava far beneath that. The view is amazing. As they watch, a small group of monsters hops into a second elevator and they follow it with their eyes as it zips away with its passengers through yet another loop. They crane their neck up and see an intricate web of identical passages, all connecting different platforms higher up. The highest seems to be only a few feet away from the cavern ceiling. Frisk can see the lava churning through some of the more mechanized platforms, powering them like a heated water wheel. It’s amazing. They decide that Hotland is just as good as the other areas, wiping their sweaty forehead with the back of their equally sweaty hand. It would be better if they could get a nice, cool drink too. They had drank the last of their water bottle a few steps away from Alphys’s house and then had been too embarrassed to go back and ask to refill it.

They head down the platform and a small area comes into view, festooned with what looks at first like lace. Then they remember who else lives in Hotland.

Frisk’s first impression of the girl is that she has five eyes, all focused on them as they approach. Mads’s first impression seems a hell of a lot different.

As they remember her name- Muffet, like the nursery rhyme- they hear a peculiar thumping sound, like someone with a wooden leg trying to run. They look back over their shoulder to see Mads hopping away back towards the elevator. Chara runs after them, trying to herd them back in the original direction. “What are you doing?” they ask, and the question goes through both Frisk and Flowey to reach the dummy. “You scared of spiders?”

“Don’t be a fool!” Mads looks around wildly, as if the volume of their own voice has scared them. In a quieter tone, they say “I’m going to take the elevator to another floor. I think we missed some puzzles. Puzzles are an essential part of monster history! You shouldn’t skip any of them!”

Chara isn’t fooled for a second. “They’re backing out!”

Frisk phrases it a little differently. “Are you scared of something else here?”

“No! I’m not scared of anything! I’m just seeing if there’s another route we can take! In case you’re scared of spiders!” The bad lying has to be a ghostly trait, although they’re only lying on the last sentence. It’s impossibly easy to tell.

“It must be because you can see right through them,” Chara deadpans. They wink at Frisk, who feigns ignorance.

“I’m not scared either, so let’s keep going! I bet Muffet has some really good food at her spider bake sales!” Frisk reaches out and tugs on the dummy’s shoulder.

“If you can afford it,” mumbles Chara, disgruntled at Frisk ignoring their joke. Frisk sends a dry belated laugh their way. “Too little too late, Frisky.”

“We can’t b-buy any of her food,” Flowey points out, again reinforcing Chara’s point.

“Unimportant,” Frisk says. The important thing is that they get Mads to keep going. If they want them to reconcile with Mettaton, Mads can’t keep turning them around. Frisk doesn’t know another way to the CORE what with the way by the resort closed off this time around. “There’s a million things we have to do and we just can’t wait.”

They tug again on the dummy’s sackcloth. Mads grumbles, then says “Look, lemme borrow your sweater.”

They look down to the aforementioned sweater, which is wrapped neatly around their waist and tied into two bunny ears loops. Then they set to untying the loops, figuring it’s better to give them what they ask for rather than question it. When they’re finished, they tie it around the dummy’s neck and position the bow they made of the sleeves directly under their chin. “Good, good, good!” The dummy twists around to check on the sweater. “Okay, okay, uh. Lead the way, kid, and quit walking so slow! I don’t want to step on you!”

“Fashionable,” Chara snorts. Frisk displays a two-dimensional image of Chara themself wearing their own sweater in the same fashion. It’s where they got the idea after all. “Yes, but they’re going to get your sweater dirty. They live in the dump.”

Frisk shrugs. The dummy can’t make it dirtier than it is. They haven’t really remembered to change their clothes since Snowdin. They have been brushing their teeth every night though. Toriel was very strict about that. Their stomach twists as they think of her. A blue echo flower threatens to unfold its blossom and they kick it away savagely into the recesses of the headspace, hoping Chara doesn’t pick up on the pleading voice coming from between its petals.

Chara is preoccupied with something else however, and when Frisk reconnects, they realize that the dummy hasn’t moved an inch. In fact, it seems rather like they’re hiding behind Frisk. Flowey has turned around to regard them, disgust and bewilderment battling for dominance on his tiny, tired face. “Wh-what’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“What?” The dummy’s temper flares. “I’m not the creepy little plant here! I should be asking that! What’s wrong with you?”

Flowey and Frisk roll their eyes. Chara hisses exasperatedly through their teeth. “Such children,” they sigh. They look at Mads’s eyes, make a V shape with their fingers pointing at Mads’s eyes, then follow their line of sight. Mads, when they realize what Chara’s doing, makes an angry little “hey!” and turns their head hastily away but Chara’s already found what they’re looking for.

Muffet blinks at them, her face rippling as her five eyes open and close out of sync with each other, quite like a deck of cards being shuffled.

“Ooh, you think she’s cute,” Chara says, giving Muffet their biggest smile. Frisk co*cks their head, a mite confused. Then Chara turns elegantly on one foot and restates their comment in Mads’s direction. The dummy doesn’t understand.

Frisk immediately knows where this is going and immobilizes the mouth so Chara can’t say it again. ‘No.’

“Frisk. Frisky. Frisky Frisky Frisk. I don’t think you understand.” Chara's grin is so big that it takes up half of their face.

‘No way.’

“Hear me out. Don’t destroy their love before it even has a chance to bloom.” Chara sighs, wilting gracefully until they’re lying on the mindscape’s floor, one hand thrown carelessly across their face. Frisk stares at them until one of Chara’s eyes opens a crack to see if they’ve bought it. They haven’t. “Fri-i-isk! The meet cute!” they plead, sitting bolt upright and clasping their hands together under their chin, resorting to pleas when drama doesn’t work.

‘It can’t be a meet cute. They've already looked at each other.’

Chara stares at them a moment, then their expression turns crafty as they poke at Frisk's mental walls. “You see it too.”

Frisk twists away from Chara in the headspace so their expression won’t give them away, but Chara warps the space around them so Frisk turns a complete three-sixty. “You see the seed of love about to bloom,” Chara sings, leaning closer.

They start turning again and again Chara twists the space. Seeing how this will turn out, Frisk plants their hands on their hips. ‘Fine, I see it. But we have to get to the CORE. We have to fix Mr. Gaster. We don’t have time for this.’

“There is always time for true love, Frisk!” Chara throws their arms out to the sides, still sitting on the ground. “You’re the one who says we have to fix our mistakes! What’s the opposite of death?”

‘Life?’

“Love!” Chara pops to their feet. “We’ll be fixing our mistakes by helping them. Don’t you see, Frisk? What did Flowey say Al called your Determination? You know, when we fell asleep in the lab?”

Frisk touches their hand to their chest unconsciously. ‘Love.’

“And what did she say heals LOVE?”

‘Love and Determination.’

Chara claps their hands. “So what’s the conclusion?” When Frisk just looks at them, they dance forward, clasping their hands together behind their back. “Come on, Frisky, you know what I mean.” They twist their head on their neck. “Please don’t make me spell it out. Besides, Flowey wants a soul and souls are based on l-o-v-e. Don’t deny him the experience of seeing two people fall for each other.” They wobble their lower lip to sell it even more.

‘He’s seen literally every match you’ve made.’ Chara’s lip wobbles even more. Frisk sighs and the motion carries over into the world outside their head. ‘Love heals, huh?’ They fix their unwavering gaze on Mads, who hasn’t stopped fidgeting yet. “You think she’s cute?” they sign.

Before Flowey can translate, Mads is eye level with Frisk, one bulbous button eye staring into both of theirs. Frisk takes a quick step back. “Golly, you need to b-b-back the f*ck up.” Flowey pushes himself forward until he’s nose to nose with the dummy, an unspoken threat present in the way vines are worming up out of Frisk’s t-shirt collar and around their apron’s ribbons.

Mads ignores Flowey completely. “Look, kid, I once talked to a monster who had been completely ruined by attractive people. You’re pretty good how you are, so you being ruined would mess up your whole day, right?”

They nod hesitantly. Chara squints. “Well, I guess they do think she’s cute, but where are they-“

“So, let’s just skedaddle by this girl, okay? We can get food later.”

“That’s where they were going.” Chara is determined that their ship will not sink and so reverts to guilt tactics. The little spirit shakes their head at the dummy and points one finger at their mouth, opening it like a baby bird.

Mads groans. “You’re hungry.”

Chara nods sorrowfully, patting their stomach. Frisk ponders jumping off the ledge to save themself from Chara’s amateur acting.

Mads eyes them, then gives in. “Alright. Can’t say no to a good pair of sad eyes even if they have the worst timing. Lead the way, kid. Let’s go meet an attractive person.” Frisk nods and trots down towards Muffet’s stand. The spider monster relaxes and pretends she hadn’t been looking at them the entire time, instead straightening one of the numerous doilies on her table.

Frisk marches up to her, Mads trailing behind. The dummy immediately fixes their eyes on one of the pretty lace doilies, pretending that they aren't sneaking glances at the cute vendor, while Frisk peruses the goods on display. “Some kind of power bracelet?” Chara mumbles, examining one of the objects. Their face brightens. “Oh. It’s just a croissant.”

“See anything you like, dearie?” asks Muffet quietly. Chara gives Frisk a sly look in the mindscape, then raises an eyebrow at Muffet. The spider girl takes a moment to realize that their expression changed, then raises an eye ridge right back. All of her eyes squint closed as she yawns, her hands barely in time to cover her mouth. A second pair of arms stretches up into the air, and the final two crack each other’s knuckles. She looks exhausted.

“Tiring work making these?” Mads ventures, still looking determinedly at the doily.

Muffet swallows the beginning of another yawn. “No.” She gives another stretch. “My family makes these, so I don’t often do the work on them.” She leans over the table, trying to suppress what looks like another jaw-cracking yawn. Frisk gets a good look at the inside of her mouth and shudders when they see all the strangely-shaped teeth she has.

“If she invites you to dinner, politely excuse yourself,” Chara quips, apparently struck into reconsideration at the sight of those teeth.

‘Why’s she so tired?’

Chara examines her, their brain whirring into life. “Well, remember how she never had money when she- you know?”

Frisk flinches, seeing a little flower gently lowered onto a pile of dust and hearing disappointed voices mumble about no loot. ‘Yeah.’

“Let’s see.” Chara sniffs. “Okay, freshly-baked cobwebs. That’s a given; we’re at a spider bake sale. But, smell that?”

Frisk sniffs too. ‘Smells like medicine.’

“Like cold medicine. It’s actually a plant called eucalyptus. Spiders don’t naturally smell like eucalyptus and they really don’t get colds. It’s her magic. So,” Chara looks at a particularly rubbery specimen of spider donut, “she might be the kind of monster who gets easily tired by using her magic. Maybe she got into a fight.”

‘What’s that have to do with her not having money?’ Frisk questions, trying not to think of another monster who got easily tired out by using his magic.

“Well, she could be fighting people for money.”

Frisk rolls their eyes, banishing the images of a golden hall. ‘Like rooster fights?’

“Hey, we do it sometimes,” Chara points out. "I mean, hello, Vulkins?"

‘I see your point.’ Frisk watches Muffet point out sections of the doily to Mads for a bit. They think they hear a compliment on the sweater. Mads puffs up proudly and Frisk smiles. Then they head over to say hello to the spiders manning the webs. Chara was right. They can’t afford anything. They probably can’t even afford the crumbs.

“Who even has that much money?” Flowey complains, looking at another price sign. The spiders fold their front legs huffily and click something at him. Flowey clicks right back, waggling his head. The spiders perk up, clicking at a faster pace. Apparently, like most monsters, spiders don’t understand sign, but Flowey knows a little Spider, which is rooted in leg movements and mandible clicking.

After a surprisingly long exchange, Flowey leans into their ear and whispers “I think they said they like your shirt. But they might have also said they like to eat your kind.”

Frisk blanches and Chara howls with laughter. That sounded like a threat. “Maybe you should apologize for what you said about the prices.” They might think the Underground’s spiders are really cute, what with their roly-poly bodies and delicate little legs, but reminders that the whole species is cannibalistic never fail to spook them.

“L-look,” Flowey snaps. “I haven’t spoken Sp-spider in a really long time and th-that’s h-h-highway robbery. If you want t-to b-be nice, you try to communicate with them. I am going to be honest.” He sniffs, then says snidely “If I’m your br-brother, I d-d-don’t have to be as n-nice to you if I w-was j-j-just your friend.”

“You weren’t particularly nice to me before anyway!” Frisk protests. Of course that, of all things, would come back to bite them. They're considering sticking Flowey back outside their family tree.

“Do you plan on buying a pastry, dearie?” Frisk glances at the web before them. A spider politely holds up a sign. The price is still too high, at least nine times the amount of coins in their hip pouch.

They shake their head. “Too much money,” they tell her.

Muffet’s expression turns sour. “That’s too bad, dearie,” she says, leaving her stand to approach them. “I’m so sick of stingy people.” Something about her body language freaks them out, the way that all her shoulders hunch, bringing her secondary and tertiary pairs of arms up and out from her body like wings. Her eyes seem so big, all five of them unblinking. They can see themself reflected forever in her eyes. Reflected in her eyes, in their eyes, her eyes. Dimly they think can hear Mads talking rapidly in the background, but all that matters is the eternity before them.

“Frisk-!” Chara yelps. The mindscape is rapidly filling with gauzy cobwebs, each holding another large black eye in the center. The webs frost the flowers of their mental garden, turning each into something almost like a sugar sculpture. “Flowey! Bite her or something!” He can’t hear them, he can’t hear them, and they can’t slip into control. The flower crown on mindscape Frisk’s head is stuck to their head with cobwebs thick as rope and that’s their control device.

“You, dearie, would taste delightful in a batch of muffins,” Muffet croons. They nod. “But we don’t eat little humans here and besides, someone offered us a good deal of money for your little soul. So, darling, if you could-“

Chara conjures up a stick and, hefting it, stabs the nearest cobweb straight through the center of its all-encompassing eye. It bursts like a water balloon filled with slime. Frisk blinks, shakes their head, but Muffet recaptures their attention too quickly and the eyeball scabs back over, blinking long eyelashes at Chara in the mindscape.

“Excuse me,” barks a voice. Frisk finds themself blinking, their eyes dry and their nose and mind full of the smell of eucalyptus.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Chara whines, shaking slime off their arms. Frisk tries to help, confused at where all the cobwebs and slime in the mindscape came from.

Muffet has her back to them now, a motion which must have released them from the grip of her eyes. Standing by her stand and a frowning dummy is a guard in full armor, cooling dirt and all.

“Excuse me!” echoes a second voice. Another guard appears from around the first, her antennae waving.

The first guard’s tail lashes irritably. “Do you have a permit to sell food on the path to the capital?” she asks.

Muffet hurries back over to her stand. “I’m sorry, dearie?”

Chara begins to sweep the mindscape free of cobwebs with their stick, humming angrily all the while. Frisk has to focus very hard to pay attention to the sight in front of them rather than the one inside them.

“Neither of us is dear to you, so drop the act.” Muffet wilts and Chara looks up. “Did you know, citizen, that selling food without a permit takes money from small shopkeepers?” The second guard shakes her head disapprovingly at Muffet, who looks from one to the other.

“I-“ She sounds dazed. Then she regroups. “I do not have a permit because my funds and earnings go directly to benefit the spiders in the Ruins. By doing such, I have proven myself to be a charity.”

“What I’m hearing is that there’s no permit.” The guard tsks. “That’ll cost you a fine and the money it takes to buy you an appropriate permit.”

Muffet hunches a little when she hears ‘fine’ and glances toward the cashbox on her table. “What I’m finding hard to understand, dearie, is the fact that I’ve been here for a year and neither of you has brought up a problem before.”

“We got a report,” says the second guard apologetically. “Guy said you used an attack on him to make him buy your products.”

The first guard points a pen at Muffet. “And that’s the look of someone who knows exactly what we’re talking about.” She sighs. “Citizen, you know the law as well as we do. Using aggressive magic on another monster without express consent is illegal.”

“Told you,” Chara says, but their voice is hushed. Their stick has disappeared as their focus shifts. Frisk feels them press up into their eyeballs, looking out with concern.

Muffet’s elbows jut out as she folds her arms. “It was- he was-“ Then her voice goes cold. “Do you have evidence or are you just here to accuse me?” Her arms begin to spread out again and from behind she looks like a strange angel. Frisk has never truly had to fight Muffet before, but her current stance and the previous display of her mesmerizing power is so frightening them that they’re praying they won’t be made to fight her now.

“Don’t try intimidating us, citizen,” the first guard says tiredly. “We will not hesitate to shut down your little bake sale and arrest you.” The dummy straightens up at that, staring aggressively at the guards’ backs. Then, as Muffet argues, Frisk watches Mads struggle out of their body and slide under the tablecloth.

“What are they doing?” Chara wonders.

Muffet’s argument reaches its peak and the first guard takes a step back at something she says. Frisk snaps their attention back to them, but they’ve already missed it. Whatever it was must have been offensive. “Watch yourself, citizen!” snaps the second guard. “That little comment caught you your second infraction. Get a third and we will not hesitate to penalize you!”

Muffet goes ramrod straight as Frisk inches around her, but droops, a pretty marionette with her strings cut. Her aggression has been diluted significantly with the threat of arrest. “How much do I owe?” she spits, wrapping her arms around herself.

Frisk ducks to look under the table. Mads isn’t there. They drop the tablecloth, looking back at the empty dummy and then at the guards beyond it. Their eyes squint as they try to observe them as well as Chara can.

The guard sighs, scratches her helmet, names a figure. Muffet shudders as if the number is a physical blow, but starts around her table. “I’ll have you know,” she says, producing a key from a chain around her neck, “that this money is meant to help the spiders, not pay off an unsatisfied customer.”

“Duly noted,” replies the first guard, holding out her gloved hand. Frisk sees something dangling around her wrist. Before they can make out what it is, the guard checks herself and switches hands. There’s a story there. Frisk creeps closer, trying to get a better look. The guard fixes them with a glare and balls her fist up against her side.

Chara fills them in absently, still staring at the table. “Royal Guards 04 and 03. 03’s gloves don’t fit correctly. They were made for a different monster. She wears them anyway and hasn’t told anyone.”

‘What about 04?’ Frisk asks, looking at her glove. It had looked something like a decoration of some sort. A bracelet.

“Hiding something important.” Chara shrugs, eyeing the feline guard. “She’s... proud of her job. The cooling dirt is freshly applied, so she takes good care of herself and her armor.”

Muffet makes a choked sound and they watch as she tips the box over on the table. Gold showers down. Two of her hands are cupped over her mouth, fingers curled as if she's trying not to cry. Her face is bent towards the table, her pigtails dangling by her face like the tassels on a closed curtain. Without a further word, not even a biting comment, she pushes the stack of gold forward. 03 shuffles her feet. It seems that, when Muffet isn’t actively resisting, the two guards are ill at ease with their own actions.

After careful deliberation, during which Frisk imagines the guard is mouthing numbers under her visor, 04 plucks three coins off the top of the stack and sets them back down on the counter. The rest she puts in a pouch at her hip. Frisk slides their own coin pouch into their shorts pocket. Then 03 produces a notepad and holds it out. 04 offers her pen. “Write your name and place of address,” 03 says softly. “We’ll mail you a receipt and your permit application.”

Frisk has to look away from what is striking them as a deal with the devil. Muffet looks absolutely crushed and they can’t help but feel bad for her, even if she just tried to steal their soul. Everyone’s done that at least once and have still managed to become their friends. Chara hums in agreement, but mostly they’re laser-focused on the fact that Mads has just disappeared to somewhere.

Muffet hands back over the notepad. Flowey watches the guards march away, one after the other rather than side by side. Then he turns back to Muffet and Frisk turns with him. She has the cashbox open again, the three coins the guards spared her clenched in her fist. The expression on her face is unreadable, but a soft sound slips out of her mouth.

Mads slithers back out from under the table and, still below the level of the tabletop, wiggles back into the dummy. Almost as soon as the eyebrows pop out and the button eyes of the dummy regain their light, they’re speaking. “Look, lady, it was the only thing I could think of.”

“My name,” she snaps, “is not lady or citizen.” She closes her eyes as the cashbox clicks shut, taking a breath. All of her eyes open again, but not with the endless mire of eternity in them. Instead, she gives them a tiny, tired, but genuine smile, her lips pressed together to conceal her teeth. “Call me Muffet.”

“Mads,” the dummy returns, obviously relieved. “These morons are Frisk and Chara, and the little guy’s Flowey.”

Frisk waves timidly, Flowey clicks something in Spider, and Muffet’s smile grows a little wider. She lays the three coins flat on the table, three clicks in a row. “They’re simply darling. Here, I’d like it if you could stop into my parlor in an hour or so. I’d like to have a spot of tea with you four.”

“Oh!” Mads looks taken aback. “Thanks! What about your stand?”

She giggles, although at the mention of her business her body has drooped a little again. “Ahuhuhu, I appreciate the concern, dearie. But do you really think I’ll have any more customers today? After that little incident? No, no, dearie, word will have spread. This spider’s business is temporarily dead.” She giggles again, looking lost. “I’ll have time to make more treats. Lots of time.”

Mads nods. Then, to them, “C’mon, kid, I haven’t been in Hotland in forever.” They pause then, making a face. “Wait a minute!” they yell, rounding on Muffet. “How do you expect us to find your place?”

Muffet raises an eye ridge, unfazed. “Just follow the path, of course! I live just before Volcanicity! However, if you do manage to get lost, the spiders would love to show you the way!”

“Got it. Follow the spiders.”

“Exactly,” Muffet affirms.

“Cool,” the dummy says, mouth quirking. Frisk has to double-take because the mouth in their torso is smiling too.

“It never stops amazing me how quickly monsters love,” Chara comments conversationally. “See, me, I’m a bit prickly. Monsters just need a bit of time, a nice word, a hug, and they’re set for life, for better or worse.”

‘Those are wedding words.’

“Yeah? Well, that’s what it feels like sometimes. Like I’m watching a wedding. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

‘That’s weird, Chara.’

“I’m not a poet, Frisk. I’m a cynic.”

'Do you know what that word means?'

Muffet waves to them as they walk into the next room, which is full of vents. “Aw, by the dog, I hate these things,” Mads grumps, hopping up to the first one. Their next hop is a mighty one, sending them tumbling end over end into the air. Frisk’s sweater flutters half-heartedly behind them like a striped cape.

Frisk would follow, but their phone rings. They dig it out of their pocket and press speakerphone, typing Yello? into the messaging app.

“H-hi, Alphys here!” chirps Alphys. Then “Oh, uh, you p-p-probably knew it was me, huh? I p-put c-caller ID on your ph-phone.”

Hi, Alphys! they type, hoping to head off another round of self-deprecation before it begins.

“Hi!” she returns. “So, the puzzle in this room is just like the one we saw before. There are two puzzles to the north and south and you have to solve them both to proceed!” She pauses “A-also, I’d like to say! I don’t really…Like giving away puzzle solutions. But if you need help, just call me, okay?”

They nod, but she’s speaking again. “Actually, wait! I have an idea! Let’s be friends on UnderNet! Then you can just ping me when you need help!” They can hear her claws clicking and they try to type faster to save her from humiliation, but her voice is already shuddery. “Wait, we’re already friends, aren’t we? I signed you up, didn’t I? You’ve been reading my UnderNet posts this whole time.”

They locate the nearest camera and mouth ‘Sorry!’ at it. I liked your Mew Mew arguments! they try.

“O-oh. Thank you! Wh-when you come back, we- we can watch some!” A few more keys clack. “S-so, wh-what did you have to say to Mettaton?” She sounds genuinely curious, which makes them sorrier. She’s Mettaton’s friend too. "I mean! If that's not super nosy or anything!"

His cousin wanted to talk to him.

“Oh! Napstablook? I l-liked them!”

They cringe. No. The other one.

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. “The o-other-?” Static rushes through the phone speaker as she puzzles it over. “I, uh, h-have to go f-feed the Amalgamates. Bye!” Click…

“Oh sh*t,” Chara says, summing up Frisk’s feelings on the subject very well. That sounded like a lot of concerned disapproval. Has Alphys met Mads? Did Mettaton call her to complain?

“Guess you’d b-b-better st-start puzzle solving,” adds Flowey. “She’s not going to help you now.”

“Hey! Kid! Come on! We’re never going to get anywhere if you just keep yapping! Let’s go!” Mads calls, cartwheeling past on a gust of hot air. Frisk fakes a smile and hops after them.

It feels good to play the puzzle games. Shooting the blocks helps them feel less stressed, even if the little logo that they’re supposed to hit looks uncomfortably like a human soul. They purposely mess up just so they can keep hitting the blocks for a bit, then Mads demands a turn. While they don’t have arms, they can steer the blocks around with their nose and then press the trigger button that way. They’re decent at puzzles once they stop shouting.

When they head back out of the game chamber, they chatter comfortably with the diamond-headed boys, both of whom are wearing striped shirts. The boys are unsure whether or not Frisk is a kid, but then Chara shows them that their shirt under their apron is striped. Apparently, because of the variations in monster sizes, striped shirts were agreed upon as a monster child dress code. Chara shrugs. “There’s a lot of things you can do with stripes, but the possibilities aren’t really limitless.”

Alphys doesn’t call them again. Frisk, fingers curled around the silent phone in their pocket, imagines her calling Mettaton. They imagine Mettaton angry, cannons blazing. Their body ripples in a shudder as they rise up to their tiptoes in order to sniff the flowers on a cactus. They imagine Alphys shaking as badly as she had when Mettaton had first appeared. In the last puzzle room, they point and shoot and the little white shape splits neatly in two.

They drop their hands from the button as if it has burned them, turn and run, and run right into Mads. The dummy fixes them with an unflinching stare, then bends their head into their chest, pulling at the loops Frisk had made of their sweater. The sweater they drape over Frisk’s head like a blanket. “How the hell are you shivering in Hotland, kid? Better not be getting sick. I don’t do puke.” Despite the irritation, Mads’s words comfort them, prompting Frisk to hug them, still shaking. “By the dog. I don’t do hugs either, you moron,” grumps the dummy, but they rest their muzzle atop Frisk’s hair. The sackcloth of their middle smells peculiar and it’s too scratchy, but they press their face into it anyway. Flowey makes a little noise and angles himself as far away as possible. The ring of teeth around the dummy’s middle has shrunk a little, presenting more the visage of worry, or at least some form of annoyed concern, but they’re still big teeth and Flowey is still a small flower. Frisk just cuddles closer.

“You lovebug,” Chara says affectionately, snuggling close. “Must have been killing you to go almost all of Hotland without a cuddle.”

‘As a matter of fact, it was,’ Frisk sulks. ‘Mettaton didn’t hug me back at the cooking show. Hurt my feelings.’

Chara makes a mock-sympathetic noise and Frisk’s smile curls across their mouth. Mads must feel it because they nose at Frisk’s face, having had enough. “You’re good. Release. Release.” Frisk does before they can say release again, giving Mads their sunniest smile. The dummy looks a little unnerved, but musters up a sort of smile of their own. Then their eyes glance up to the puzzle and they sigh. “Couldn’t save a turn for your pal Mads, could you?”

“Sorry,” they say.

“That was the last puzzle, right?” Mads hops out of the puzzle room and gives a triumphant squawk. “Yeah it was! C’mon, kid! We’re gonna be late!”

‘For a very important date,’ Frisk finishes, winking at Chara. They had decided that Mads was rather a nice creature beneath all the bristling; it was just that they spoke so fast that their mind couldn’t catch up to their temper and the two ran rings around each other while all the while Mads remained angry. They’re beginning to relax around them, which has endeared them to the plan of getting Mads and Muffet to become at least friends.

“Clever rhyme,” Chara comments as they hop onto the nearest vent and go twirling through the air. “Maybe you’re the poet.”

Frisk lands and holds out their arms like the gymnasts they’ve seen on television. Chara applauds, assisted by the tinny applause track Frisk imagines to be playing. Chara soon tires of this game as easily as Frisk does of spinning and flipping and they’re both relieved when the conveyor belt appears, though not so much when the lasers flip on.

“Frisk, go still! Still!” The laser catches them anyway and the smell of burning wool sears their nostrils. “We were still, you dumb f*ck!” Chara yells at the lasers. “Still! I hate lasers! When we get back to Mom and Dad, I am having lasers outlawed!”

“Chara says they want lasers outlawed,” Frisk tells Flowey.

The flower nods his head sagely. “I'd like to see you t-try,” he comments, smug as the cat who has eaten the canary and had its cream too.

Chara makes a face at him and he makes a face right back. “Come on, that’s weak!” he complains. “Do your creepy face. Or maybe you can’t do it anymore. Maybe it’s been too long.” He’s teasing, baiting them, and Chara caves almost immediately, manipulating Frisk’s face to the farthest it can stretch and rolling their eyes almost back into their skull.

“Wargh!” They’ve forgotten Mads, who neatly trips over their own stand and then shoots about three feet up into the air, lifted by some ghostly self-preservation skill. “What, what, what was that?”

Chara looks up, their face still frozen in contorted grotesquery. Carefully, they relax their muscles and give the dummy Frisk’s normal smile. ‘Oops,’ they mouth. ‘Sorry.’

“You better be! Nearly scared me out of my body! Or worse! You nearly scared me into it!” Mads drifts back down to the ground and gives themself a good shake, eyeing Chara as if they might also need one. Frisk obliges them, shaking their head and body out as if they’re a dog just out of a rainstorm. Chara opens their mouth, vocalizing absently, and listens to the sound rattle around with Frisk’s movement.

‘Are you a ghost, Chara?’ Frisk asks, their mind rattled onto a new track of thought.

“Asking for a friend or are you afraid I’m going to fully possess you?” Chara chuckles, washing Frisk in the ludicrousness of the idea. “Ghosts don’t possess living things. They can’t. Plus, you’ve seen my soul. Human as anything.”

Frisk thinks of the black color twisting through their soul like veins. It’s gotten less obvious as they’ve journeyed, as if the veins are retreating back into their soul, but it doesn't look much like Frisk's.

‘But you could steal my soul, couldn’t you? That’s what you always did when you did your really creepy face,’ It’s strange how Chara never really frightened them at the end. Seeing them, corporeal and real enough to hug, it always comforted Frisk. Beneath the horrible smiling mass of inky blood and cracking skin was someone who cared about them. And when Chara had killed them, Frisk had never felt a thing.

“I never stole your soul, Frisk.” Frisk blinks. “You gave it to me. I would ask you to put the knife down, to let me take over, and you would, no matter what the voices said. You were very brave, Frisk, every time. It was weird, but,” Chara smiles, “I always thought of it as your last stand. Any old monster can take a soul, but you gave it. And that gave me the power to-“ Their face falls. “I’m sorry I had to.”

‘Not your fault,’ Frisk reassures them. ‘And you always brought us back. Besides we wouldn’t be doing so much good if we were dead or still puppets, right?’

“Right.” Chara smiles and links their fingers in Frisk’s. Frisk squeezes their hand.

“Kid, quit zoning out like that. I don’t have time to come back and grab you whenever you trip into la-la-land! I have a lady to talk to and a cousin to save!”

“I’m like seventy-six percent sure the person we’ll have to save Mettaton from is Mads.”

Frisk shrugs their way into a nod. Chara’s probably right. Still holding hands with them in the headspace, they mouth another apology to the dummy and scramble to Mads’s side. The dummy hops forward. Frisk hops too, their feet pressed together to mimic Mads’s stand. This is the way they enter the spiders’ lair.

Frisk’s boots start to make peculiar sounds on the ground and the soles of their feet stick oddly whenever they touch down. They separate their feet to make for easier travel, hop-skipping on. Mads doesn’t have that option, although they are levitating a little more with each hop. When the sole of their boot nearly comes off, Frisk stops to frown at their shoes. Their eyes travel from the toes of their boots to the ground. They’ve been walking on empty cobwebs. They should have remembered this, honestly.

They struggle onwards anyway, following Mads’s lead and avoiding the cobwebs whenever they can. Still, the webs begin to catch them like constrictive cotton candy, great white wisps stirred up by their footsteps. Mads is in a similar predicament, although theirs involves a lot of cursing and fighting.

A sound reaches Frisk’s ears, like someone tapping a key on a keyboard. They look up, searching the ceiling for the source. They don’t have to look far. A spider, dangling directly above their head, is clapping. They recognize the beat.

One by one, the other spiders join in. The spider dance is beginning.

Frisk watches as the spiders jump around their head in synchronized arcs. Each comes very close to brushing against their head and all of them come close enough that even in the dim lighting of Muffet’s cave, Frisk can make out each individual hair on the tiny bodies and the sheen on each set of fangs. With a jolt, they remember Flowey’s misunderstanding and the idea that they might be a tasty tidbit for a family of spiders makes their mouth go dry.

Flowey snaps at the next spider to swing too close. Frisk might not know how to wiggle out of the webbing, but they do know that what Flowey’s doing is a very bad idea, no matter his or the spiders’ intentions. If he hurts a spider, they doubt they’ll be able to work Muffet around to the idea of letting them go.

They shake their head wildly next time he lunges for a dancer. Their flying hair lodges itself in his mouth and pushes him off balance. Angrily, he turns on them. “Wh-what do you expect m-m-me to do?” he asks. “I c-can’t ch-ch-chew off the webbing; I’ll get stuck!”

Frisk just shakes their head again with minimal flying hair this time. They hope that he’s getting the message that he can’t bite a spider. They’d sign an answer, but their hands have managed to get wrapped to their sides. They look like a mummy.

The spiders begin to click amongst themselves. Their clicks form a rhythm, slow and steady and sinister. “Did you hear what they said?” Muffet’s voice sings through the darkness. Mads goes silent almost immediately and Frisk stills. If this is going to turn into a battle, they intend on listening to the entirety of her pre-battle speech. They had never gotten to know Muffet before and usually these little speeches give them some sort of clue about how to proceed.

“They said,” Muffet continues, “that a human in a striped shirt would come my way. I heard that they hate spiders. I heard that they like to stomp on them. I heard-“ here her voice rises to a shriek “-that they like to tear their legs off!”

The lights rise only slightly and they make out the silhouette of Muffet sitting in the middle of a massive cobweb, her legs crossed. “I heard,” she says, almost conversationally, “that they are dreadfully stingy with their money.” She stands up. And they hear a smile in her voice. “I must have heard incorrectly.”

Frisk blinks and squints at her. They had been very ready to fight for their life. Instead of pulling their soul from their body, Muffet calls “Charlotte, could you turn on the lights? Our guests can’t see a thing.”

There’s a click. The lights flicker on. She is smiling as she walks across the web to meet them, spiders skittering out of her path as they weave a thin bridge for her. “I apologize, dearies. You stepped on the webs and my family must have thought you were very large insects. They get overexcited sometimes. Anansi, Arachne, could you please cut down our human guest? I have my sewing scissors, but you know how much time that could take and I do wish to hurry. After all, it is time for tea.”

The dance pauses as two particularly large spiders hop onto Frisk’s cocoon. The two are about the size of small dogs. Although Frisk isn’t very scared of spiders, these two make them nervous.

“Octa, my dear, could you check on the kettle for me?” Muffet snips another bunch of threads on Mads’s cocoon. “Remember, if it is steaming, do not touch it.” A third massive spider scuttles away into a smaller cave.

The spiders release Frisk from their cocoon and they wobble out. The sensation of spider legs crawling up and down their body is not one they’ll soon forget.

“Whoa, kid, you okay?” As soon as Muffet cuts the last threads, slower than the other spiders, Mads hops over to them, nosing at Frisk’s face and hair. “Buck up, you moron. It was just a little fluff!”

They nod, but they keep a hand on the dummy’s nose until their legs no longer feel like gelatin.

“Here, I’ll pour some tea,” Muffet says. From the voluminous pockets of her jumpsuit, she produces four mismatched teacups.

Again the spiders leap into the space between her web and the ledge on which they had been trapped. A bridge appears from the mess of whirling spiders and floating strands of web. Muffet beckons them over as she walks across. Mads hops the gap, only hesitating when they realize how close she is to them. Frisk, unable to leap long spaces in a single bound, inches over. The bridge isn’t made of sticky web, but they’re cautious anyway. Muffet has already trapped them once- twice if they count the attempted hypnosis (“Oh, I’m counting that,” Chara says peevishly.) They don’t intend on being trapped again.

Deeper into the web they go and Frisk begins to see furniture webbed to the cave walls. Muffet stops their little party in an area sparsely furnished with a couple of rickety wooden chairs and a chipped table that appears to be growing mold. “Welcome to my parlor,” Muffet says sweetly. “Please have a seat. I’ll be right back with the tea.”

“What are the spiders saying now?” Frisk asks as Muffet walks away. Her high stepping motion doesn’t vibrate any web strands but the sudden surge in spider clicks sets the strands to singing.

“They’re singing. ‘Time for tea, time for tea,’” Flowey translates.

Mads sets themself down on one of the chairs, a crease forming in their middle where they have bent themself perpendicular in order to feign sitting. The spiders pair up to perform a high-stepping dance before them, each pair moving only across a single strand of web as if it is a tightrope and they are circus performers. Spiders without partners are thrumming unused web strands for a twanging accompaniment and clapping to a completely different rhythm than the one before.

“You’ve never seen the tea dance?” Mads asks, bobbing their head to the rhythm.

Frisk shakes their head. “I’ve never seen spiders doing any dances. Surface spiders don’t dance.”

“That sounds dreadful!” Muffet exclaims, reentering the area with a warped tea tray. “Do they not know any songs?”

“Maybe they just don’t know how to dance,” Flowey suggests. “Maybe they have… six left feet.” He snickers at his own joke, looking around at the group with a wink and his little black tongue sticking out.

Muffet stares blankly. “Is that a possibility in surface spiders?” she asks.

Flowey stutters a minute, then looks at Frisk for help. They shrug. He shrugs back, mumbling “Ch-Chara would’ve laughed.”

‘No, that was really bad.’

Flowey sulks.

Muffet decides to dismiss that and sets the tray down. The table wobbles. “Wouldn’t you know, my informant spoke of you very differently. They said you would go out of your way to crush poor little spiders!” One of the larger spiders scuttles in with a teapot on its back. It looks anything but poor and little.

Mads is insulted in their stead, something that makes Frisk smile. “Whoa, hey, the kid doesn’t do that! Who told you they did?”

Muffet drums ten fingers on the table as her other hands pour tea. “They had a very strange smile.” She hands the large spider three cups and it scuttles around handing them out. Muffet’s expression turns pensive. “They were very insistent that I not see their face. But I thought that I saw them in the shadows, changing shape.”

Frisk looks worriedly at Flowey. Chara bites their nails loudly as the garden in the headspace melts away in clouds of pollen. The pollen rearranges itself to form Chara’s drawing walls. “At least we know it’s not Alphys,” Chara volunteers, taking their hands from their mouth in order to write a few notes.

‘That’s true,’ Frisk allows. ‘What if it’s another elglitch? We didn’t defeat the last one.’

“Or maybe it’s Mettaton.”

‘Mettaton can shift.’

Chara throws their hands in the air. “Of course! He’s so dramatic that this makes perfect sense! He’s going to be so mad that his plan didn’t work. I mean, I don’t know how he hid those big old laser wings, but maybe they fold in?” They do a rough mockup of Mettaton NEO on the wall underneath his box form.

‘Thank God that’s resolved.’ Mettaton they can figure out how to deal with.

Muffet clears her throat and Frisk jolts, blinking at the ripples dancing across the surface of their cup of tea. “And now, for the reason I invited you here.” Muffet picks up her cashbox, setting it on the table. “I can’t accept this.”

“Accept what?” Frisk asks. Muffet looks levelly at Mads and so Frisk turns to them too. “Accept what?” they repeat insistently.

Mads ducks their head.

Muffet sighs, taking the key from around her neck and fitting it into the lock. “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but I can’t run a charity, dearie, no matter what I say to those guards. It would hurt my pride.” Muffet pops open the cashbox and swivels it around. The box is full of gold coins.

Frisk boggles. That cashbox had been emptied! They gesture at Mads, looking for an explanation.

One is not forthcoming because Mads seems to have taken offense to what Muffet said, this time on her behalf. “Would you rather be in debt to the crown? Would that be a source of pride for you?” the dummy snaps.

“Of course not, but now I’m in the debt of some dummy I’ve only just met! You have to understand that I can’t do that!”

“Well, you can pay me back!”

“That’s what I was afraid of!”

“Just let the kid have a donut!”

Muffet blinks all five of her eyes in unison. Then she does it again, slower this time to convey her disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Give the damn kid a donut. It’s the only reason we came this way anyway. Kid was hungry. Besides, I gave you a lot less than the price of your donuts. Give ‘em one that’s like a day old. Those are usually cheaper and then you can get mad at me for robbing you and karma can take its course.”

“O-oh.” Muffet hesitates, thinking it over. Her fingers tap on the table again and rattle the coins in the cashbox. She gives the money a conflicted look. It doesn’t take a mind-reader to tell that she really wants to keep the coins. “If I give you a donut, we will consider the debt null and void?”

“If you got a pen, I can even put it in writing for you.”

“Lovely.” She moves back across the room, heading for the little cavern.

Frisk eyes Mads and the dummy feels their eyes. “What? What? WHAT? Shut up!” the yell even though Frisk has said nothing. “You’re getting your donut, so stop looking at me!”

They avert their eyes, but sign “What did you do?”

“I phased into her box and slipped some gold in there after she had paid the guards. She wouldn’t have enough after they fined her.” They pause and say quietly “I’ve, uh, seen that kind of look on people a lot. Besides!” they continue with their usual bluster. “Nobody has enough money on them for her crazy prices. If she surprised the guy, he probably didn’t have his life savings on him in case he wanted a donut.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that myself,” Muffet deadpans, reentering the area with a pastry wrapped in wax paper. She hands it to Frisk and then pulls a pen out of her pocket. Mads reaches out for that and she pokes it in their mouth for them.

“What do you want me to write?” Mads asks, struggling to enunciate with a pen in their speaking mouth.

While they quibble over the legality of the document they’re writing out, Frisk takes a bite of their long-awaited donut. It’s thick and fluffy and has a peculiar bitter taste hidden under the initial burst of sweetness. “That’ll be the spiders,” Chara says.

“The spiders?” Frisk repeats, so surprised that they sign it out loud too.

Flowey groans, despairing of their intelligence. “Exactly what part of ‘made for spiders, by spiders, of spiders’ did you not understand?”

Frisk looks speculatively at their donut. That little black thing they thought was a spice cluster of some kind is most definitely a leg now that they look at it. They had known that the spiders ate each other (they had watched nature documentaries about it too), but somehow they had managed to not connect the idea of delicious donuts to that particular practice.

Flowey rolls his eyes and leans in, taking a bite of the donut. He pokes his tongue around, then sticks it out. Curled up on the tip is an entire spider corpse. “See?” he garbles. “A whole one!”

They set their donut down in their lap and sign “Put that thing back where it came from or so help me” so quickly that they’re surprised it comes out as clearly as it does. Flowey waggles his tongue a bit, but inevitably slurps it back into his mouth, swallowing without chewing. Frisk brushes the crumbs and slobber off their pants.

“She started doing it a while back,” Flowey confides. “It made people real nervous at first, but then it just kind of got confusing. It’s a fun little Hotland novelty now, like the echo flowers in Waterfall. I guess it’s for the spiders.”

Frisk hears someone clear their throat and looks up guiltily. Muffet taps her fingers in the crook of her elbow, looking pointedly at them. “Dearie, I’d prefer that if you have questions, you address them over here to me rather than hissing amongst yourselves like nasty little snakes.” She makes a few hissing sounds through her teeth, giving them a bit of a smile as she retakes her pen from Mads.

Flowey’s wearing his cute face, which always means he has a terrible idea. “I’ve got a question! Why do you b-bake spiders in your pastries? Isn’t that m-murder?”

Frisk slams their face into their hands so hard that they feel their eyeballs wobble in their head.

Chara snickers. “If there was a less tactful way for him to say that, I don’t know it.”

‘You only think this is funny because you can pretend to not exist when I have to bail us out,’ Frisk complains, peeking back up at the adults. Mads is giving Muffet a look that could be apologetic and could be a ‘they’re a stupid kid, don’t kill them’ look. Either way, Muffet gives them a pat on the shoulder.

Then she strides over to them and Frisk leans back in their seat as she leans down. They’re almost eye-to-eye. Frisk immediately fixes their eyes on a point just over her shoulder. It’s rude and they can’t smell eucalyptus, but they’d rather not be hypnotized anyway. “Here, dearie, let me sit with you.”

They blink, but scoot over. Despite her puffy pants, Muffet is just about skinny as them and doesn’t take up much space. “The answer’s simple, dearie. When spiders lived in the Ruins together, the only food sources were the flies that followed Froggits around. But Froggits weren’t very smart even then and confused monster spiders with . Spiders became scarce. Froggits found them much more appetizing snacks than flies. The spider baker then, Lilli, made herself a coat of webbing and hid as many spiders in it as possible. And she dug a tunnel out of the Ruins to take herself and her family as far as she could. Lilli made two trips and then she froze to death in Snowdin. Because of her bravery, spiders made a new home in Hotland, but food was much scarcer here then than it is now. When their next baker came to them, she suggested a solution. Spiders were already naturally inclined to eat each other, which disturbed many a monster. She merely suggested that we refrain from following our more violent instincts and eat only the spiders who have died. She became the first true baker and the baking of the dead became a funeral rite. We call it the web of life, and it has since extended to all things.

“It is a spider’s responsibility to the web to feed others once they have passed and you are not allowed to take another creature’s life unless it should keep you and yours alive.” Muffet laughs to herself. “Since the influx of monsters to Volcanicity happened, we’ve discovered a better and steadier food source in being pest control, which makes the feeding others part of our duties difficult.”

“So you turned it into a t-tourist thing?”

Muffet bristles a little. “I’d like you to remember, dearie, that although we seem to be flourishing here, the spiders in the Ruins need to be united with the rest of us and money seems to be the only way to make that happen. Bakers like myself cannot travel through the regions anymore.”

Mads scowls. “What? Why’s that?” They hop closer, but not too close.

“Because bakers die,” Muffet says simply. “I would enjoy nothing more than to travel and peddle my wares, but bakers like myself have brittle limbs and vulnerable joints. I’d have to move quickly through vast areas of snow and damp in order to keep from falling ill or simply dying and I must confess that I do not have enough legs to hasten my speed.” She swings her legs back and forth to demonstrate. “My weaknesses could prove fatal and I am too important to my family for them to lose me.”

Mads tilts their head and the motion catches her attention. Muffet tilts her head as well, looking at their still full cup. She rises. “Mads, is the tea not to your liking?”

Frisk immediately grabs their own cup and gulps half of it down. It tastes like regret.

Mads, on the other hand, shrugs. “I’m incorporeal. I’m waiting for it to evaporate so I can drink it.”

Muffet claps a hand to her head, followed by two to her mouth. “Of course! I didn’t realize- I have ghost options, Mads. I don’t want you to have to wait for that long. Please, give me your cup and I’ll go get another.” Mads levitates the teacup into her extended hand. Again she trips across the web, her footsteps light and soundless. Not a drop of tea spills from the overfull cup.

Frisk blinks away tea-induced tears and licks their lips to try and banish the salty taste. “Why do you have to wait for it to evaporate?”

“Tell you later. I’m thinking,” Mads answers brusquely.

Muffet reappears with a new teacup. “I’m sorry, dearie, I gave you the history of my people rather than answering your question,” she says to Frisk. “The reason spiders are baked into my pastries is because the urge to feed others is the closest thing spiders have to religion.” Muffet sets the cup on the coffee table. “The entire Underground looks to Asgore as their God-King, the dogs have their own thieving beast to pray to, and the spiders have merely the web of life.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Mads mutters, levitating the cup. Frisk watches with interest as a ghostly blue liquid trickles out of the cup and into Mads’s torso mouth. They slam the cup back down onto the table and give Frisk a look.

They wince, but with such an example, how can they not follow? It would make Muffet happy and they do want to be friends. They brace themself, cross themself, and down the rest of the cup, determined not to gag.

Chara however has no such reserve. They stage an elaborate death scene instead, calling the garden back into being so that they might die beautifully among the flowers. “Need.. donut!” they gasp. “Taste buds.. dying!” Frisk takes a mouthful of pastry and Chara immediately sits up, smiling beatifically.

‘Drama monarch,’ Frisk teases.

“Hey! I resemble that remark!” Chara says mock-indignantly.

Frisk smiles and snuggles back into their chair, licking crumbs from their lip and plucking them off their shirt. Flowey reaches over and takes another bite of the donut. “Hey,” he whispers. “I could definitely be a Venus flytrap if I’m eating spiders.”

They chuff and break off another piece for themself. Muffet and Mads are kneeling around the coffee table, talking in low voices. Frisk could get up and eavesdrop, but they’d actually really like a nap. Flowey takes the donut when they offer it, munching away happily. They stretch in the chair, then snuggle into a more comfortable position. Their eyelids close and the night sky bursts into view in the dark space. The stars seem to grow massive, balls of fire approaching at immense speeds.

Pain sears through their leg as if someone has just pushed them side first into a fire. They sit up sharply, fingers ripping at their pockets. Their fingers touch heat and suddenly the feeling is gone as quickly as it had started and a badge is in their hand. They stare at it in horror. They had almost forgotten their original purpose.

“Mads, we have to go,” they start to sign, but Muffet unwittingly interrupts them by shrieking in joy and wrapping all eight of her arms around Mads. As they watch, somewhat dumbstruck, she plants a kiss on the side of their head.

“Good golly,” Flowey says, having finished the donut. “They work fast.”

Frisk waves at him to be quiet. Chara is doing their happy dance in the background of Frisk’s mind, but their mission is firmly in the foreground and if Mads still wants to go see Mettaton, they have to move now.

“Mads, I’m sorry, but we’re running out of time. Mettaton’s opera show starts in-“ they check their phone “-twenty minutes and I don’t know how close we are to Volcanicity.”

Mads nods and Muffet releases them. “I’ll just pack you some spider cider for the road. Wandering through Hotland can make you very thirsty.” She titters as if she’s just made a joke.

“I’ll help you!” Mads shouts, hopping after her.

‘Why are you right all the time?’ Frisk asks, yelling the question into the mindscape.

“Because I’ve had hundreds of years of experience in reading people, I'm the matchmaker extraordinaire,” Chara replies loftily, doing their floating about again.

‘Oh my god,’ Frisk groans. ‘We’re gonna be so laaaaate. And Mettaton’s gonna hold us up even more.’ They do a little jig, signing “Mads, we have to go! Come on!”

“Hold your horses, kid!” Mads hops back out of the little cavern, Muffet close behind. Mads has a bottle of cider clenched in their torso teeth and Muffet’s holding another, which she presents to Frisk as if she’s giving them a very valuable treasure. “You had best stay on your best behavior, little human. Some monsters are not as willing to give you a chance as spiders.” She gives them a half-smile, her little fangs peeking out.

The spiders weave them a bridge back to the ledge and Frisk and Mads cross the length of the cavern towards Volcanicity.

When they step out, Mads’s smile just drops. They’ve walked onto a set straight out of a historical romance. Frisk runs out onto it, arms spread wide and bottle of cider trailing from their fingers. It’s all lit up with pretty garden lights and there are flowers and picturesque little trellises everywhere! They don’t know where to look first, so they stick their head into a garden of flowers.

“Human and Humanoid: A Tale Of Star-Crossed Love,” Mads reads.

Frisk looks up from a flower, blinking. The dummy is standing before a poster, cider bottle clenched so tightly between their torso teeth that it looks like they might unwittingly shatter it. Coming up behind them, Frisk puts a comforting hand on their shoulder. “He might not like me very much,” they say “but you’re his family. He’ll talk to you.”

“I know that!” Mads barks. “It’s just- he always wanted-“ They scoff, but it’s more rueful than mocking. “You're right. This is his fancy store. This whole set-up.”

They wait. There’s more. They can hear it.

“He ran away from home, kid. Remember what I said about ghosts not being nice? What if- what if he’s thinking that too?” Mads gazes at the poster a moment longer. Then they shake their head. “Screw that, huh? If that’s what he thinks, then I’ll go home. I’ve got nothing to lose but a cousin.”

“That’s a lot to lose.”

Mads gives them a smile, horrible in its bitterness. “Yeah. It could be.”

Frisk hesitates a moment, then gives Mads a hug from behind. They don’t think that they can find any words to suit this situation, but they think of a little pink house key and a tilting pink house. There has to be hope there.

“Kid, what did we say about the hugging thing?” Mads’s voice sounds strange and Frisk gives them a final squeeze before stepping back. To their surprise, they think they see tears tracing down the sackcloth face, washing away some of the grime. Then Mads shakes their head and they decide it must have just been a trick of the light catching on the dummy’s button eyes.

They head down the street into Volcanicity, Mads’s stand against the cobblestone the only sound.

“Hey,” Flowey says before they reach the end of the street. “What’d you say to her?” Frisk slows. They’d actually like to hear this too. In the mindscape, Chara pricks up their ears.

“I made her a promise, that’s all.” Mads shrugs. “I said that when I came back, I’d help transport a couple of spiders out of the Ruins. My stuffing’s pretty warm and I don’t get cold or sick enough to die, so I figured it was the least I could do for offending her.”

Frisk smiles. “You know, ghosts sound pretty nice to me,” they sign. And before Mads can register what Flowey is translating, they run out into the spotlight waiting for them.

“Oh? That human…” murmurs Mettaton’s voice as the cameras whir. “Could it be…”

They squint and the spotlight diminishes. There is a balcony above them and standing at its edge is Mettaton, wearing a pale blue princess dress. His grip on the balcony seems to tighten when he sees them, but he clasps his hands before him, the picture of a yearning lover. “…my one true love?” he whispers.

Chara cheers.

Chapter 31: Luck of the Draw

Chapter Text

Mettaton descends the balcony with all the grace of a vacuum cleaner, but his grip on his skirt remains perfect. Good. He thinks that if he manages to wrinkle this dress again, he will have to rip out his own battery. This dress was the most difficult aspect of this set-up to arrange.

The little human is making gestures in their nonverbal language off-stage. The cameras don’t extend that far and his spotlights are following a preprogrammed pattern, so he can’t see what exactly they’re stowing back there. It doesn’t matter. Probably some poor idiot they’ve also roped into adoring them.

Now Frisk has found the microphone he left for the flower and is busily attaching it to the aggravating flora’s face as the cameras stay on Mettaton. He does a few poses to hold the audience’s attention, then spins dramatically, wishing he had a sound crew to attach the microphone. Maybe a make-up crew to emphasize the beautiful color of the flower’s petals. He hadn’t been able to find anyone for this show on such short notice, so if he wanted that, he would have to do everything himself.

But maybe, he thinks, as the little human waves at him, stowing a bottle in their bag, maybe it’s necessary. After all, if you want something done perfectly, no one else is capable of doing it. It’s not like anyone really needs to see how pretty the flower’s petals are. It’s not like anyone really needs to notice the roses in the little human’s cheeks from Hotland’s intense heat. Besides, no one else could hit all the notes on this lovely song he composed for this show, not even if they were part of the ensemble.

“Oh my love,”he starts, wheeling forward.“Please run away.”To his surprise, the human steps forward and takes his hands, looking into his screen with only the faintest hint of a smirk.“Monster King-“he gasps as they twirl him as best they can. They’re a little too short, but the attempt is simply adorable.“-forbids your stay.”He twirls them now and they spin out, holding one hand towards the nearest camera dramatically.

“Humans must-“they drop to one knee, holding their hands out to him“-live far apart.”He spins away from them.“Even if, it breaks my heart.”His gloved hands touch his screen, pretending that his heart has been broken, when he’s actually delighted. The human is dancing their way into improv. He hadn’t even factored for that. It makes for a much better show than he could have imagined and his audience deserves the best possible show.

He cues up the rose petals- a MTT staple- and the human looks absolutely beside themself with delight. As he watches, they capture several petals in their hands.“They’ll put you,”he sings“in the dungeon. It’ll suck. And then you’ll die a lot.”

Frisk looks surprised, dropping their petals. Their genuine bewilderment makes ratings hop a little. People think they’re acting.

“Really sad,”he hums, wheeling back over to them and putting his hands on their shoulders. They put their hands on their hips, glaring at him.“You’re gonna die. Cry cry cry. So sad it’s happening.”

The music starts to fade out and he clasps his hands together. “So sa-“ he starts and then the disc gets stuck.“So sad it’s happening!”he sings again, glancing toward the stairs. When he had set up this stage, the disc player hadn’t been able to connect to the speakers on the ground. So he had been forced to hide it in the little cupboard under the stairs. And now it’s stuck. The human is none the wiser, looking at him with those big eyes, but the flower seems to be guessing that something’s up.

He can’t wheel over to fix it himself; he’s the star! If Alphys was here, she’d just slip into the cupboard and fix it without even being seen. This hasn’t been the first time he’s wished that they were still on speaking terms, but she’s the human’s friend now and he’s been being so horrible to both of them that he doubts she’d respond to a text even if he begged. And Mettaton does not beg. He has to hire someone for next show as soon as this one concludes. Screw perfect; at this point, he’ll settle for functional.

He has to sing three more “So sad”s before the infernal disc player finally shuts off. His shoulders relax as the music disappears. “It’s so sad,” he says. “So sad that you are going to the dungeon.” He wheels away from them, his screen dim with despair. From the pockets of his dress he pulls a remote. “Well, toodles!”

The floor opens up and swallows them. The flower shrieks. All the human does is make some sort of hand gesture that could translate as easily into fear as it can into something unforgivably rude. He’ll have to download a translator before he sees them again. Mettaton opens the panel underneath himself as well and turns on his rocket, floating down after them. The panels seal up as the human turns to face the dastardly tile puzzle he has set before them. “Oh no!” he cries, clapping his hands to his screen. “Whatever shall I do? My love has been cast away into the dungeon!”

“This is my least favorite play ever,” the flower says lowly. The microphone broadcasts it, of course. The flower grins. “Test, one, two, three!” he sings and then gives a smirk that is at least a nine on a wickedness scale. Mettaton begins to have regrets about giving them a microphone in the first place. It was there so Flowey could translate for Frisk without his voice being lost, but the flower seems to have other plans. In example, when Mettaton begins to describe how terrible the tile puzzle is, Flowey punctuates every other word with a raspberry. It’s juvenile humor, and it’s thusly particularly effective on children, so Frisk is obviously in hysterics.

He gets his own little revenge of course. “You must already know all the rules then!” he declares. Flowey’s raspberry fizzles out, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as Frisk glares at him. “Great! I won’t waste your time repeating them! And your time is precious, darling, because if you don’t get through in thirty seconds-“

Frisk jumps as the jets burst into flame and whirls around. The sight of the fire makes them blanche, their face almost as white as the lace on his dress. Mettaton carries on cheerfully. “If you don’t get through in thirty seconds, you’ll be incinerated by these jets of flame.” He giggles, then starts howling with laughter. “My poor love! I’m so filled with grief that I can’t stop laughing! Good luck, darling!”

..

Chara is chanting“f*ck”almost rhythmically as Frisk runs from tile to tile. They’ve never done this puzzle; they’ve never had to deal with most of Mettaton’s jokes and tricks. He was always waiting at the end. He had never tolerated them as much before because they had never given him a reason to. Now they’re a novelty, something to show off to the underground. They hop onto a purple tile and go sliding into water, covered in lemony soap. The piranhas brush against their ankles, but don’t bite them.

“Thanks for the water, Mettaton!”they say, mock cheerfully.“It was getting a little heated over here!”

The robot is still serenading them, albeit with a much faster beat. When Flowey translates, Mettaton’s voice temporarily goes flat before he picks it right back up.

“Pissing him off is definitely the correct route to take metaphorically,”Chara snigg*rs, patting them on the back as their mind races to find the solution.“But in the maze, take the green tile. Those don’t seem to do anything,”they suggest. Frisk hops onto it with both feet and it chimes lightly.“I stand corrected. They make pretty music.”

‘Glad we told Mads to stay put.’

“They’d probably try to fly us over.”Chara smacks their fist into the palm of their hand.“Aw, we should have brought them!”

Flowey is examining the ceiling. “How high do the jets go?” he wonders aloud. “If I can just reach, I could pr-probably swing us over…”

“That’s cheating!”Frisk exclaims just as Mettaton says “Cheating isnotallowed on the air!”

Both Chara and Flowey look insulted. “You’re all l-losers,” Flowey mumbles. Frisk missteps and gets zapped and Flowey’s teeth rattle like tiny castanets.

“Wouldn’t be losers if you had stopped being dumb so we could hear the instructions!”They retrace their steps and start from a safer point.

“Point Frisk,”Chara says, wincing sympathetically.

“H-hey, you were the one laughing!”

Chara switches sides, cringing in secondhand embarrassment.“Ooh, point Flowey.”

Frisk hops onto another purple tile and slides with a chime onto green.“I don’t think any of us are taking this seriously enough.”

As if to punctuate their point, the tiles underneath their feet all fade to grey and Frisk looks around in alarm. The timer has stopped counting. Mettaton, floating high above them, laughs like a maniac. He has stopped singing. “Ooooh, I’m so sorry! Looks like you’re out of time! Here come the flames, darling!”

“Well, I’m taking it seriously now.”

Mettaton’s screen glares an awful yellow and Frisk freezes like a deer in the headlights. On all sides, the wall of flame is advancing. It’s not a trick, not a hologram. They can feel the hungry heat. Flowey hunches on their shoulder, spitting bullets at the fire in a desperate attempt to pretend that he’s not flammable. Their mind is racing, looking for a solution, looking for a kill switch on the jets, a puzzle to solve, a rope from which they can swing over the fire. Mettaton can’t have created this situation without also creating a way out.

In reality, salvation drops through the ceiling and onto its face, screaming into the ground “DUMMY BOTS, ATTACK!”

“Mads!”Frisk signs, caught between gratitude and alarm. If Mettaton thinks they’re cheating, he might mess up their whole plan to kill them right now.

Mettaton turns ever so slightly to see the newcomer and is immediately hit head-on by a flurry of tiny magical attacks shaped like robotic dummies. One dummy bot lands on the tile by Frisk’s foot and immediately grows eight long legs. It scuttles up their leg, flies across to their opposite arm, and comes to rest peacefully on their empty shoulder. Mads stands like a soldier at the edge of the puzzle, not moving to immediately help them, still acting on their signal, bless them.

The dummy bots might not solve the problem of the firewall, but their presence relaxes Frisk enough to let them think. They might be Determined to make it through this battle, but fire is not vulnerable to Determination. However, machinery is vulnerable to another force of nature, one who definitely came up with a way to beat the heat. They dial a number on their phone. They don’t even enter the final digit before someone calls them instead.

The fire stops inching forward. The jets click neatly off and sink back under the tiles, which slide back to accommodate the machines. “I-It’s okay, Frisk!” cries Alphys. “I’ve disabled the firewall!” She sounds triumphant, as if she’s pushing her glasses up her nose in typical anime victory. “N-now! Let’s-“ Something crashes on her side of the phone as she takes in the scene before them. “Mettaton!” she shrieks.

A laser blast dissipates the dog pile of dummy bots and Mettaton, his shoulders hunched and dress ragged, wheels to an upright position. His hands grip his shoulders in an unintentional spare signal, seething, humiliated. “How could this happen? Foiled again by the brilliant Doctor Alphys!”

There’s a pause as Alphys presses buttons and turns pages. Mettaton doesn’t prompt her. “Th-that’s right?” she tries. He gives the faintest of nods. “Come on, Mettaton, g-give up! You’ll never be able to defeat- defeat us. Not as long as we work together. Your show’s over.” Her voice turns gentle. “Now, go home. Leave us alone.”

“Show? Over? Alphys, what are you talking about? Did your great, big brain forget that we still have one more show? One more show and your little human dies.” He sounds as if something’s glitching, his voice catching when he says the last word. Still, he tries for a villainous laugh, addressing his next words to Frisk. “You may have allies in strange places, darling, but even I know better than to go up against the great Doctor Alphys on her home territory. See you tonight, darling.” He twists and jets up and away, slamming through the ground vengefully.

Frisk hears a whining sounds as all the cameras zoom in on their face, then, en masse, they click off.

“Hey!” Mads yells, hopping their way. Frisk braces themself for a barrage of insults hiding a lecture on sense and self-preservation, or something like that, but the dummy goes right past them. A twist and a jump, just like Mettaton’s, and Mads soars through the hole Mettaton left, in hot pursuit of their cousin. “Metts! Hey, wait!” Frisk can hear them yelling for almost a full minute before they fly out of earshot.

The dummy bot on their shoulder looks expectantly at them as if it thinks that they too will make a fancy and dramatic exit. Frisk takes the stairs. They walk directly into a wave of heat so strong that it pushes the breath out of their lungs. It hadn’t been this hot when they were dancing, had it? They sit down on the steps to catch their breath, still too far from the top.

“Th-that was Mettaton’s cousin?” Alphys asks, her fingers tapping on the keys of her computer.

Yeah, that’s them. Are you mad at me?they ask hesitantly, pushing back their hair from their sweaty forehead. They know it’ll make her feel bad if they ask, but they want to be able to apologize for her being mad at them before she gets really mad.

Alphys makes a noise as if her breath has gotten caught in her throat. “I- no? I w-wassurprised. I d-didn’t know M-Mettaton had another c-cousin. I- he told me- what’s th-their name?”

Mads.Their shoulders relax, but only a fragment. Another problem has occurred to them.Have you talked to Mettaton?

She titters in a way that lets them know she has no intention of answering the question. “You j-just heard me t-talking to him!”

Outside of the show. I think you should talk to him. You’re his best friend. There’s something sad about him right now.They don’t want to explain the situation with Mads, but they try their best to do so, omitting the most personal of details.

“Oh. Okay. I’ll call him. O-or m-maybe I’ll just text him.” She falls silent for a moment, and Frisk listens to her claws tapping. “M-Mads, huh? It suits them.” A few more taps and a beep, like she’s received a ping on the UnderNet. “Mettaton’s going to be mad too if I know him.” Alphys sighs, clicking her mouse. “We’re j-just lucky he’s, uh, sticking to the script.” They hear her flip through a sheaf of paper, presumably said script. “Mostly sticking to the script,” she corrects. “He’s been doing little, um, little video segments after each show to say what his thoughts are on the whole thing. People love them. His ratings are skyrocketing.”

Frisk smiles.Good.

“Good?” Alphys echoes.

I don’t want to be a star, Alphys. I want to go home and I want to break the barrier for you. If Mettaton wants fans, then he should have them.

“O-oh. Well, the lottery is probably helping with that.”

Lottery?

“Remember that group that really likes you? SaveTheHuman?” Alphys asks. “W-well, they’re going to get a nice surprise on the next segment. I’ve been calculating the odds of the lottery and my calculations are saying that one of their members might just win. It-it’s really, uh, exciting. I m-mean, I bet it’s kind of scary for you right now- he’s being kind of intense- but, uh, his fans are going crazy.”

Something snuffles into the phone and Alphys laughs. “The Amalgamates are interested too. Some of them w-were Mettaton f-fans.”

Alphys,they type patiently,what lottery?

“O-oh, I never posted it. Sorry. Um.” Her fingers fly. “He’s giving fans a ch-chance for a backstage visit and a p-pass so they can hang out with him during the commercial breaks.” She whistles. “Commercials are going for a l-lot of money. L-looks like you’re g-going to have a l-lot of time.”

Frisk thinks about this for a minute.So he’s trying to get them to see him as a good guy again.They smile bigger.Neat.

“Yup.” Alphys laughs a little. “Hey, Frisk? You did a really great job on camera.”

They roll their eyes.You were the one who saved us. All I did was stand there.

“What? Oh, no. Frisk, all I did was shut down the fire. You- you stood up there and acted like a hero. You were the one doing everything cool. I mean, you couldn’t have known Mettaton wouldn’t kill you, but you didn’t attack him or anything. Th-that’s really cool.”

Frisk feels a warm, fluttery feeling in the center of their belly.

“H-hey, this might sound really strange, but c-can I tell you something?”

They nod. Alphys takes a deep breath. “B-before I met you, I d-didn’t really… I didn’t really like myself very much.”

“Aw, Alph.”

Flowey ducks his head, curling tighter against Frisk’s neck despite the heat.

“For a long time, I f-felt like a total screw-up. L-like I couldn’t do a-anything w-without… W-without ending up letting everyone down. B-but!” Another deep breath and a voice tinted with a smile. “I met you. A-and you m-made me realize that- that I’m not as much of a screw-up as I thought. That I can do something right! Like- like guiding you and b-being someone’s friend. So… thanks. Thanks for letting me help you.”

There’s a huff, like someone breathing into the mouthpiece, and Alphys laughs. Whatever Amalgamate was listening in on the conversation has made their viewpoint on Alphys’s anxieties clear. “Anyway, we’re almost to the CORE. It’s just past MTT Resort. Come on! Let’s finish this!” She hangs up and the cameras whirr away.

Frisk sits down on the stairs and gives the nearest camera a big smile, knowing that it’s no longer functioning as Alphys’s eyes.“I’m dying of dehydration,”they sign.

“Let’s b-break open the sp-spider cider then!” Flowey demands.

Frisk looks at the bottle and sighs, cracking it open.“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You didn’t th-think cheating was a good idea either and we nearly got vaporized,” Flowey points out.

Frisk shrugs, toasts him, and takes a swig. Tastes like a bad decision.

“Uuugh, it’s salty! Spit it out, spit it out!”Chara begs.

Instead, Frisk gives Flowey a smile and pretends like they’re going to drink the rest of it. As predicted, Flowey yanks the bottle away from them and takes a drink himself. His face turns a strange shade of grey. “Good,” he croaks. He gives them a huge fake smile and tries valiantly to swallow the cider, before giving up and spitting the entire mouthful down the stairs. “Augh,” he sniffles, “you’re the worst sibling. I surrender my crown.”

Too determined to give up like he had, they swallow the cider and a shudder of revulsion shakes them down to their toes. They’re even thirstier than they were before, as the odd, salty taste has taken the time to burn every inch of their throat on the way down. Flowey is giving them a squint of disappointment, probably feeling the exact same way. Sometimes the complexities of flavor in monster food are not such a good thing. They recork the bottle and stow it in their pack, wrapping extra sweaters around it as to avoid breaking it.

With the city on their mind, they ascend the steps into the next cavern.

Frisk’s eyes light up when they see the Nice Cream Guy leaning on his cart. Chara lights up at seeing the Royal Guards sitting together. Flowey doesn’t light up at anything, but he does straighten his stem a little at the thought of refreshment.

Chara takes control and drags them over to the cart. The metal is so blissfully cool that they stretch out over it. Flowey even slips off their shoulder in order to better take advantage of this unexpected reprieve from the heat, spreading his vines out over the surface.

The Nice Cream Guy looks at them in concern. “You’re not looking so great, buddy,” he informs them, sucking on his lower lip. Frisk turns their head to better see him, pressing one cheek to his cart. He laughs and splays his hand out over them. There’s a smell of pine needles and suddenly their body feels as if its nerve endings have been lightly frosted in cold. He chuckles. “Any better?”

Frisk nods, but then shakes their head. They’re still thirsty. Chara holds out their gold pouch pleadingly.“A lemon ice, maybe?”they think.“Or even just ice.”Anything to keep their mouth from feeling like the desert and tasting like liquid spider corpses.

“Gosh, I’m sorry. I’m all sold out.” He glances up the stairs behind them. “And I don’t think you can’t get food from the resort because it’s shut down already.” He starts packing up his stall as Frisk sits in shock. The only way to the CORE is through the resort. It can’t be closed.

The Nice Cream Guy is still pondering their dilemma. As they watch, he folds the umbrella and leans it on his shoulder. “Hm,” he says and now he’s biting his lip, deep in thought. His front teeth are oversized, like a regular rabbit’s. “I think,” he mumbles, turning to face them and tapping the umbrella on his shoulder. “I think I might be able to help.” He gives them an exaggerated wink that reminds Chara so heavily of the day spent at Alphys’s that Frisk hears an anime theme tune wafting through the headspace.

The Nice Cream Guy twirls his umbrella like a parade baton. It slides neatly into a slot on the side of the cart. “I know a guy,” he says, about-facing sharply and signaling them to follow him up the stairs. They do so eagerly, nearly stepping on the heels of his bright red sneakers several times. He catches their hand, swinging them up to the step beside him. His socks are lemon yellow and their hems just poke out in the space between his rolled up red slacks and his red shoes. They decide they like him, at the very least for his fashion sense.

“I’d like him better if he gave us something to drink,”Chara mutters. Frisk can’t help but agree.

The resort rises up before them, the structure blazing with magical electricity even as the windows are all darkened. It looks like a high-class restaurant. There’s even a red carpet rolled out before the door. The rabbit pauses to look, then leads them to the left of the construct, down into a dark alleyway.

Frisk squints into the darkness, clinging to the vendor’s hand. There’s a sputtering hiss as someone strikes a match. A tan-furred face swims up out of the darkness, lit by a tiny flame. Burgerpants lights the end of his cigarette, then waves the match out, producing a long tail of smoke. “Whaddya got, Ness?” His expression looks pained, but Burgerpants very rarely has any facial expressions that don’t look like he’s having cramps.

“Burgy! Hi!” Ness taps his big feet and, in the light from the resort windows, Frisk can see the glint off his front teeth as he smiles. “I, uh, wanted to ask you a favor.”

“Huh.” Burgerpants inhales. “Uh huh.” Smoke curls out of his mouth and he convulses a little in a suppressed cough. “What- ack- what kinda favor?”

Ness glances down at them, smiling comfortingly and squeezing their hand. “The kiddo here’s in really bad shape. Is it possible- I mean, I have money- could you-?” He looks frustrated, trying to figure out how to word his request.

Burgerpants squints and words just spill out of Ness in a string of sound Frisk can’t decipher, finishing up with a smile and a chirpy “Okay?”

One of Burgerpants’s ears twitch and then the other, both revolving like satellites. He takes another drag of his cigarette, managing not to choke on this one. “Okay.”

“How did you understand that?” Flowey wonders aloud.

“I’m betting on witchcraft,”Chara says.

“Maybe he has a decoder ring?”Frisk ventures, completely mystified.

Burgerpants glances at Ness and crouches down to their level. “Well, little buddy, when you’ve dealt with people as long as I have, you pick up a few things.”

“He’s like sixteen, what does he know?”

“I bet I’ve dealt with people far longer than you have,” mumbles Flowey.

Burgerpants raises an eyebrow. “I’ve wasted nineteen years trying to understand people, little buddy.” He sucks on his cigarette. For a second, they think he’s going to blow the smoke on them, but instead he swallows it, probably by accident judging by the way his eyes bug out. “Doubt you can top that. You’re just a kid,” he wheezes, thumping his chest as he tries not to choke.

“I’ve been dead a hundred years and alive only two or three,” Flowey responds breezily.

Chara snorts.“You tell him, bro.”

Burgerpants is unruffled. They can’t tell whether he just didn’t hear them over the sound of his own choking or if he just thinks Flowey’s lying. “Nice to meet you, little buddy. People call me Burgerpants. ‘S a sh*t name, but whaddya gonna do about it? If the boss calls you something, so does every other schmuck in the place.” He straightens and flicks his cigarette away into the garbage can. He misses and shuffles awkwardly over to pick it up and throw it away. Then he produces a ring of keys from his slacks’ pocket. “C’mon, kid, Ness. Let’s go get a round of drinks.”

The resort is just as empty as Frisk always finds it, but this time all the lobby’s lights are out. The fountain splashes merrily in the darkness. “Watch out,” Burgerpants warns. “There’s a wet spot somewhere. Boss keeps telling me to put a sign down, but I’m too slammed to get to it.” He pauses. “Could do it now.” A scratch of his chest. “Nah. I’m busy.”

He leads them across the vast hotel to the MTT Burger Emporium, where he again produces the massive key ring and lets them in. Ness lifts them onto a stool and Burgerpants slides around the bar. “Okay, little buddy, only thing to drink here are starfaits and those cost a lot of money.”

Their eyes glint at the thought of the drink Mettaton had given them during the cooking show. They thump their money pouch down on the counter, feeling quite satisfied at the weight and the sound it makes. Ness cranes his neck around to eye it. “Goodness!” he utters, having obviously not noticed its heft when he had first seen it.

“Wow.” Burgerpants sizes it up. “How many starfaits you want, little buddy?”

Frisk holds up four fingers.

Burgerpants whistles. “They don’t come in transport containers, kid.” They nod. They know. “Alright, little weirdo, whatever. Hey-“ They’ve grabbed his arm. Looking at him with wide brown eyes, the expression on their face makes him rethink calling them that. They look haunted in a way no little kid should ever look. The old turtle in Waterfall looks that way sometimes when kids ask him about the war. Kid looks like they’ve been through Hell, real Hell, and not the mystical location he jokes about when he’s beyond pissed off. Kid gives him the willies if he’s been honest. He shakes them off. “Calm down, little buddy. I get it. I never liked being called weird either.”

Frisk searches his face a moment longer, hoping to impress upon him the importance of never calling them that, then they relax. Flowey peeks through their hair, licking his lips. He has no clue of what that moniker means to them; all he knows is that he’s thirsty. Frisk starts to sign and Flowey chants the word they’re signing rhythmically. “Star-fait, star-fait, star-fait.”

Burgerpants, obviously accustomed to worse pressure in his career, rolls his eyes and turns to the many machines lined up behind him. Frisk leans forward in their seat. Despite what they remember of him saying he hates his job, he’s surprisingly good at it. His hands are fast at shuffling drink containers through the conveyor belt and he pours, froths, mixes, sprinkles, and serves with an alarming dexterity that doesn’t suit his thick fingers.

When he turns around, starfaits in their tall glasses balance carefully on his arms. He dishes them out one after the other and they slide across the counter to stand before Frisk in a perfectly sparkly military line.

“Wow! You could be in a movie!”Frisk signs, awestruck, but Flowey has already dipped his face into one of the starfaits, submerging himself in fruit juice and honey and edible sparkles. Frisk empathizes, but they pull out their notepad first and rewrite their compliment for him. Burgerpants looks like the type of person who doesn’t often receive compliments.

He gives a dry chuckle after reading their words. “Funny you say that, little buddy. When I was a naïve little kid, I wanted to be an actor.” He glances up abruptly and Frisk follows his gaze to the camera resting above the doors. “At least I’m always on camera.”

Frisk slides a starfait his way and pats the seat to their right, flashing him a sympathetic smile. He looks guilty a moment, then conjures up a smile, a real one. The other starfait they slide over to Ness, who looks delighted to be included. With a monster sitting on each side, all of them drinking what amounts to an Underground root beer float, Frisk half-wishes they were sporting a leather jacket and dark sunglasses, anything to complete this picture of an old-fashioned soda shop.

“Would that make old Beep a soda jerk?”Chara jokes.

Frisk fakes an obnoxious laugh that sends Chara into paroxysms of laughter. Grinning, they poke a hole in the top layer of honey and sparkles with their straw. ‘Beep?’ they ask, sucking at the drink.

“Beep,”Chara confirms, conjuring up an image of a starfait for themself.“B.P. Beep.”

‘Cute,’ Frisk replies.

“Isn’t it?”Chara takes a gulp of their fake starfait and swishes into control, tasting the sweet flavor.“I am so lucky to be dead right now. These weren’t around when I was alive.”

‘Really? What was?’

“Penny candy, peppermint sticks. Chocolate only started getting good toward the end, when I was too sick to eat much of it, which sucked. Mom and Dad and Azzy went all sorts of places to find some for me. And, ooh! Nice Cream! Nice Cream was so good. They only started off with one flavor, did you know that? Echo Flower Fizz. It tasted like electricity.”

Frisk wrinkles their nose, making a face around their straw. ‘Ew.’

“Not like that. Like what electricity should taste like. It made my mouth pucker. Sour.”

Flowey surfaces, licking honey off his face. Then he takes a bite of the decorative star. He chews thoughtfully for a moment while Frisk watches in disgusted concern. A swallow, a decisive nod, then the rest of the star disappears into his mouth.

Frisk looks suspiciously at their own star.“Frisk-“Chara starts warningly. Flowey snakes his head over and takes a quick bite, nipping off the top point before they can snatch it away from him. They huff an outraged breath through their nose, swiping the star away. Honey and juice spatter the counter.

Burgerpants lunges to his feet. “Hey! Hey, knock that off!” he snaps, pulling a rag off his belt loop. Frisk cringes, scribbling an apology as he swipes at the dribbles of their drink. The honey just smears.

Ness reaches up over their head and takes his friend’s arm. “Burgy,” he says softly.

Burgerpants stares at the counter a minute more, then sticks the soiled rag back in his belt loop. Frisk taps his arm as he sits back down. He gives them a weak smile at their apology. “Nah, little buddy, it’s fine. I’ll get it later. Not like anybody’s around to yell at me. Or play albums about how bad I am at my job.”

“Whereiseveryone?” Ness asks, leaning back from the counter to look around.

Burgerpants scoffs and looks around himself. Frisk watches Ness use the distraction to quietly scrub the honey off the counter with a napkin. “Mettaton’s got some shindig going down tonight at the CORE. Everybody’s there.” When Burgerpants turns back around, Ness crumples the napkin in his fist and smiles.

“But not you.”Frisk takes a bite of their star. It’s made of honeycomb.

“I spend enough time with the guy. I don’t want to have to see him outside of work too.” Burgerpants ignores the straw in his drink and knocks it back the best he can. The slow-moving honey makes his dramatic motion a little comical, given how long he has to wait for it to drop into his mouth before he can casually wipe his mouth on his arm and slam the glass down. “Still, even that kid from the Art Club went.”

“Wow, really?” Ness leans his cheek on his hand, astonished.

Burgerpants jerks a thumb over his shoulder, licking the yogurt from his whiskers. “Sign down the hall says ‘Art Club cancelled tonight. So Sorry.’ What else would he be doing?”

“He could be ill.”

“He just came in, talking like crazy to a couple of floating kids. He was almost skipping. He looked anything but sick and he definitely didn’t look sorry.”

“Did Mettaton come in tonight?” Flowey asks.

“In, out, and never once got off the phone to say ‘hey, Burgerpants, you can go home for the night,’ the boxy bastard.” Burgerpants stares at the far wall, his expression moody. “So it’s just me running the place tonight. Everybody else must have gotten the a-okay to leave. Even those two girls-“

There’s a thump, two thumps, and a high shrill sound like mosquitos squealing just slightly out of harmony. “Oh no,” mumbles Burgerpants. Frisk turns around curiously.

“Burgerpants!”

“Like, Burgerpants!”

“Let us in!” they scream in unison. “They” are two girls, one a tall alligator, the other a short alley cat. Both are pressed lightly to the resort’s big glass doors, their breathing creating clouds of fog on the glass.

Burgerpants leans over and spins the top of Frisk’s stool. They swivel back to face the wall and its row of starfait-making machines. “Do not make eye contact,” he hisses under his breath. “Never ever make eye contact with attractive people.”

They want to ask if he ever told that to an angry dummy who likes to repeat themself.

Something about this advice perturbs Ness, who turns around in his seat too. The girls scream again and pound on the windows. “Why don’t we just let them in?”

“Those girls are the real and actual devil.” Burgerpants reaches over and spins Ness’s seat around too.

“Oh, come on, Burgy,” Ness wheedles, scooting his stool around to face the windows again. “I’ll even buy them a couple starfaits.”

“I’m not supposed to let people in,” Burgerpants points out, ignoring the look Frisk shoots him. “That’s Dinah’s job.”

Ness considers. “Then make two more starfaits and we’ll take it all outside.” His smile is so bright that Frisk pretends to have to shield their eyes.

Burgerpants wavers a few moments, trying to display his willpower in the few seconds before he caves. When he does, he flushes pink and looks away from Ness’s face. “Okay,” he grumbles. “But the little guys have to come with. I can’t leave two kids all alone in the hotel.”

Frisk acquiesces, hopping off their seat. Flowey grabs their starfaits off the counter with his vines and hands them down. Ness waves them on. “Me and Burgy’ll be right out,” he says cheerily. “Go on and say hi.”

They squeak across the empty lobby, holding their starfaits tightly, one in each hand. A light frost of condensation has already clouded over the glass doors, hiding the girls from view. Frisk hands Flowey back the starfaits and uses their free hands to scrub out a peephole.

The purple cat, being shorter, notices them first. Frisk had assumed she was loud from her ability to be heard through two glass doors, but they’re absolutely blown away when she opens her mouth to squeal. They clap their hands futilely over their ears as she yells “Bratty! Bratty! Look!”

A yellow eye peeks through the peephole too. “Cute!” the alligator says. This must be a code word or something because they start squealing again.

“Jiminy cricket, someone shut them up,”Chara begs.“I am going deaf in here.”

Frisk recognizes the names they call each other. Bratty and Catty. These are the girls from down the alley. They’d never met them, but they had certainly written some, uh, interesting letters.

“They also had Mettaton’s house key,”Chara says, suddenly taking interest. Frisk taps their money pouch, trying to calculate how much they have. Chara’s plan will likely require the house key and if Frisk knows vendors, they won’t give the key away without a hefty price tag.

“Ladies, hi!” Ness says and Frisk steps aside for him. He pulls open the door with the few fingers he can spare, then pushes his foot into the gap. Frisk yanks the door open for him. The girls step back as he kicks the door open. “Anyone order a starfait?” he asks, handing each one a tall frothy glass topped with a honeycomb star.

The girls scream shrilly, accepting the dainty glasses with looks of pure awe. “Omigosh!”

“Like, omigosh!”

“Nestor, you’re so sweet!”

“Thank you so much, Nestor!”

Ness laughs and loops an arm over Burgerpants’s shoulders as the cat exits the restaurant. Burgerpants smiles nervously, his facial features warping to become softer as Ness announces “Thank Burgy here! He made them especially for you lovely ladies!”

The girls seem stunned into silence. It doesn’t last. “Omigosh, Catty.”

“Omigosh, Bratty, that’s so sweet.”

“Like, totes sweet.”

Together they squeal “Thank you, Burgerpants!”

“Inside voices!”Frisk begs, unable to bear it anymore. Flowey doesn’t even have a chance to repeat their words before the girls continue squealing.

“And, omigosh, you are so cute! You look just like the human on Mettaton’s show!”

Frisk sighs. Monsters can be so silly.“I’m Frisk.”Flowey catches this one, poking out from behind their hair and translating.

At the sight of him, Bratty and Catty exchange glances, their eyes wide and mouths forming little ‘o’s. Like, Catty-“

“Like, Bratty, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Do you, like, know Mettaton?” they squeal in unison.

“Girls, we could tell you stories…”Chara sighs.

‘But we will only tell the good ones,’ Frisk warns.

“Rude.”

‘Not as rude as you would be if you told them mean things about their hero.’ Frisk gives the two girls a big grin.“Mettaton’s my costar!”they sign. It’s gilded truth, but still truthful, although Mettaton probably wouldn’t phrase it that way.

The girls scream and Frisk again is forced to clap their hands over their ears. This time, Bratty takes notice and makes a pinching gesture by her throat. Frisk sneezes when they catch the wave of violets. Catty continues to scream. Bratty rolls her eyes and makes the same pinching motion by her friend’s throat. Catty’s shriek immediately dwindles into a sound rather like a fly screaming, smothered by Bratty’s magic. “Like, Catty, chill!” Bratty snaps, in a much quieter voice. “Obviously, they can’t handle us! We’re, like, too wicked intense!”

Catty clears her throat and it sounds like a mouse. She splays out her hand by her throat, causing a wave of a citrusy scent, and now her voice is also normal. “Omigosh, Bratty, you’re so right? Sorry, little pal! It’s just like, Mettaton’s totally my robot husband?”

“Catty, Catty, no. He’s, like,myrobot husband?”

“We can totally share him though.”

“Yeah, totally! He’s, like, larger than life so we can totally share! Like, he’ll be my husband when he’s onstage and yours offstage?”

“Omigosh, you’re brilliant!”

Burgerpants groans. “He’s a box! I can’t understand how everyone thinks he’s so attractive!”

The girls release each other and take a few offended steps back. “Like, excuse me?”

“Excuse me?”

“You bought a kit to make yourself more rectangular, so like, obviously-“

“Obviously, you think he’s cute too.” Bratty snaps her fingers by her hip and Catty sticks her tongue out.

Chara outright grins.“I think they got him there.”

“You did what?” Flowey snigg*rs.

“I don’t have to stand here and take this!” Burgerpants sputters.

“Then, like, sit down. Duh.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we’ll be here all day.”

The girls high-five as Bratty crows “Ooh, you got him, Catty!”

Frisk has to cover their mouth to keep from smiling. They have a feeling Burgerpants wouldn’t be too pleased with that.

“Hey, hey, come on, guys,” Ness pleads. “We’re all friends here. No need to be mean.” He holds up his hands and makes a settle down motion.

Catty sits down on the red carpet, crossing her legs underneath her. “Like, okay, we’ll stop with all the mega awesome burns and all. But only because you’re super nice, Ness. And because, like, Burgerpants gave us these wicked starfaits. So, thanks.”

“Yeah, thanks, I guess.” Bratty slumps down next to Catty and Frisk sits with their back to the doors. Burgerpants continues to stand, chewing on his straw, but Ness sits down and leans happily against his friend’s legs.

They all slurp at their starfaits for a while, then Catty asks “So, like, is Mettaton as super duper dreamy as he is on TV? Like, my sister says it’s all super fake, but I know she’s totally wrong.”

“Your sister’s totally wrong about loads of stuff, Catty.”

“I know that, Bratty! But, like, she’s my sister, so she keeps dropping all this advice on me? The other day, she said I should dye my streak green? Like, no, I am not going to take fashion advice from a girl who thinks big thick armor is chic.”

Frisk tilts their head, but they’ve already moved onto a new topic. “Did you know that Alphys made Mettaton? Like, we’ve texted her, asking for tips on him, like-“ Catty wiggles like a Moldsmal and Bratty giggles.

“Like, whoa, Catty, stop. Save it for our robot husband.”

Catty grins, unabashed. “That kind of stuff, you know? But she never ever texts back, so she’s gotta be super busy.”

“But, like, she’s never at any parties? And she never makes anything else? It’s super weird.”

Catty leans in conspiratorially. “Her lab assistants disappeared or something.”

“Catty!” Bratty smacks her, giggling. “We, like, totally don’t know if that’s true.” She turns to them. “Like, Alphys used to live here with her mom and dad when we were little, when this whole place was a big boring apartment building.”

“And we lived down the road! She was like a big sister!”

“I mean, like, if your big sister…”

“Takes you on trips to the dump. She was always collecting weird cartoons.”

“She showed us the coolest places to find trash. Gave us a huge leg up on the competish.” Bratty gives them a wink.

“Short for competition.”

“Then she became the Royal Scientist.”

“We haven’t seen her in forever.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“Like, duh, Bratty! Of course she’s okay! She’s a garbage girl! Garbage girls are forever!”

“Catty, that’s, like, really cheesy,” Bratty says disapprovingly.

Catty’s ears fold back.

Bratty breaks out into a smile with lots and lots of teeth. “I love it! Garbage girls forever!”

Catty laughs as Bratty gives her a one-armed hug, holding her starfait high with the other hand. “Toast to garbage girls!” she declares. “Both living the life and locked up in gross labs!”

Frisk obligingly holds up their half-empty glass, hoping that Alphys is looking at the cameras right now. Ness laughs like he doesn’t know what’s going on anymore, but he raises his glass anyway, tapping on Burgerpants’s kneecaps until the cat sighs and does the same.

“If we’re making toasts, how about toasting to my nice customers?” Ness proposes. “My whole stand got bought out today!”

Bratty and Catty squeal, setting down their starfaits for a moment to lunge over and grab Ness’s elbows in congratulation. Frisk finds themself squished into a group hug that somehow includes Burgerpants’s knees too. His legs are soft, so that’s okay.

“To Ness and his success!” Burgerpants says, trying his utmost to stay upright. Bratty and Catty cheer.

They keep making toasts and the toasts grow more and more inane until Frisk’s stomach hurts from laughing so hard and Flowey’s gotten the hiccups. Somewhere along the way they’ve started playing some warped form of truth or dare where everyone has answers to questions no one asks and asks questions no one answers. Burgerpants can come up with some horrifying answers, honestly, and they’re not quite sure they’ll ever want to know what the questions are.

But Bratty comes up with the most out of the blue question yet: “You guys want to see the weirdest thing we’ve found at the dump?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief and Frisk nods, reaching out to hold her hand. Catty takes the other. The two girls heave them up into the air and swing them gently as they head towards the right alleyway where their shop is stored. Frisk kicks their legs, rather delighted at this turn of events.

Catty releases them first in order to rummage through a dangerously unbalanced stack of objects. Bratty joins her and Frisk steps back. Bratty and Catty’s little corner of the world boxed in by garbage cans and buildings. It should look cramped or dirty at the very least. But instead, there’s a broom leaning against a dumpster and handmade signs are plastered to the walls. The bricks under their feet look as if they’ve been swept already today, and there’s even a cute little mat, although it says ‘Granny’s House’ instead of ‘Welcome.’ Frisk quite likes it, despite the lingering smell of mildewing garbage. There’s even a little plant on top of one of the garbage cans, which they point out to Flowey and Chara says is called a jade plant.

“Oh, I like the new sign!” Ness says, pointing it out.

Catty glances at it and beams. “Thanks! The kisses were my idea.” There are indeed fat pink lipstick prints around Bratty and Catty’s names.

“Nice,” Burgerpants comments. He’s lit a new cigarette, which he’s trying to twirl between his fingers.

Catty’s eyes widen at the compliment. “Thanks,” she says awkwardly. “Bratty did the lettering.”

“Here it is!” Bratty pulls a shoebox out of the pile, which immediately collapses, sending boxes flying in all directions. Frisk bends to pick them up a split second before the alligator says “Just leave it. We have to, like, reorganize anyway. We need a system.”

“So, like, drop that box, Nestor!” Catty shouts, pointing a finger dramatically.

Ness almost does and Bratty shrieks. “Are you crazy? Don’t drop that one! Do not!” Ness tightens his hold on it, his ears pressing against his head in alarm.

“What is it?” he asks.

“A bomb?” Burgerpants suggests, looking curiously at it. Ness immediately holds it as far away from himself as he can manage.

“Don’t be stupid. Why would we have a bomb?” Catty takes it from Ness and cradles it in her arms. “It’s just a gun I found in a dumpster!”

Frisk freezes.

“You’re kidding,” Burgerpants says. “A real gun? Like the one in the stories?”

Bratty shrugs. “We think it’s real.” A sharp look from Catty makes her amend her statement. “I think it’s real.”

“It’s really small and rusty-looking,” her friend explains, rolling her eyes. “The gun in the stories had to have been bigger. With, like, spikes or something. It was, like, evil, Bratty!Friskcould use this one!” Catty looks at them for a moment, considering their small stature and rounded face. “Well, maybe not Frisk,” she drawls, setting the box on top of the stack. The whole thing topples again. This time, the box bursts open on impact, sending a shower of colorful construction paper scraps everywhere.

The gun skids over and Frisk steps away.“No thanks,”they tell it. Burgerpants finally picks it up, pinching it between two fingers like an insect. He doesn’t try anything cool, like twirling it by the trigger or flipping it between his fingers, instead just handing it back to Catty. She taps it on her palm for a second or two.

“Want to hear the story?” she asks Frisk. “I mean, you’re not, like, from around here. But if you do know it, never mind.”

Frisk shrugs. They like stories, but they’re not sure they want to hear this one. Still, if Catty wants to tell it, Chara might like to hear it.

“Okay. I like stories.”As Catty begins to speak, Chara warps the mindscape into a shadowy, black-and-white silhouette show.

…

Once upon a time, there was a human. They left the Ruins already reeking of dust. Dust was their everything, the air they breathed, the ground upon which they walked, the trail they left.

They were Justice, they said, they were an avenger who had ascended the mountain to punish the monsters below. They said the word monster as if it too was dust and dust it became.

The child stole through the night, punishing any who dared attack them. When the Underground woke, the dust was everywhere.

The monsters were frightened of this child who was dust and tried to stop them. But the child had a powerful weapon. The weapon too was dust and turned whomever it touched to dust also.

Monsters amassed around the barrier, intent upon taking this soul before it could harm another. But the human was sly and dust was in their soul. They never came to New Home, for when they felt the monsters gather, they retraced their steps through Waterfall. And dust was in the water, and dust grew on the flowers, and dust drifted through the lantern light. And when the dust gathered inside the human, they knew the dust and called it by name. And the dust came when called, turning all else to dust also.

The powerful weapon was discarded in favor of the dust inside the human. And the monsters were frightened because the human had become something other. Something colder.

The great king of monsters knew that the human would not stop unless forced. So he walked through Hotland, through Waterfall, to Snowdin, his heavy trident at his side. This would be the first of the seven he would meet, but not the child he would kill.

In Snowdin, a child saw the dust and could not be afraid. They were Snowdin’s child and the dust made them angry. And Snowdin’s child resolved to save their home. Snowdin’s child was determined.

The human child entered the forest. The human child entered the forest and the trees became silent, the snow stiff with dust.

Snowdin’s child entered the forest. Snowdin’s child entered the forest and the trees were silent, the snow stiff under their feet.

The king of monsters entered the forest. The trees were dust and the ground was dust and the children were dust.

And the monsters had no more reason to be frightened.

…

Frisk stares up at Catty. They had never heard a story like that. Their bedtime stories had been rife with helpful monsters and clever humans and evil witches, but never had Lee told them a story where a human murdered all the monsters in cold blood. This story sounds more true than all of them.

Flowey is chewing on the straw of their starfait and Frisk can hear Chara biting their nails in the mindscape. Something about the story has alerted them.

“Why would they do that?”Frisk asks.

Catty shrugs. “People say that humans are just naturally bad. Like, born bad.”

“That’s not true!”

“Well, there have been plenty of stories about good humans!” Ness says, patting their back. “What about Kindness?”

Frisk looks up at him hopefully. He smiles. “She was amazing. My grandmum met her. We still have a teapot she gave her. She must have given gifts to everyone in Snowdin.”

“She was a rumor! Kindness wasn’t real!” Bratty argues, having given up on finding her especially weird thing.

“Yeah, she was,” Burgerpants chimes in. “She lived in Snowdin for like a week before she left. I guess someone told her to get out.”

“She lived in that house on the edge of town.”

“Those crazy skeletons live there now. You know them?” Burgerpants asks. “I mean, you went through Snowdin to get here, didn’t you? The big tall one’s in the guard.”

Frisk nods, smiling now.“Papyrus- the big tall one- is my friend!”they tell him. They play with their hands a minute, then ask“Did Kindness make it out?”

“Out? Of the Underground?”

Burgerpants scoffs. “No one ever makes it out.” He stubs out his cigarette on the wall and Frisk watches the ash fall, their face pale.

“Catrine? Hilde? What’s going on over here?”

Flowey gulps audibly, coughing as he swallows a gulp of Frisk’s starfait the wrong way. Frisk whirls. The female royal guards are standing before them. 04 has her hand by her sword hilt.

“Quatriè, omigosh, you can’t be here! You’re going to suck the fun out of everything!” Catty wails, getting to her feet and stomping over to 04. She pushes feebly on the feline guard’s breastplate, trying to move her along.

“Is that the human? Catrine, get behind me.” 04 shoves Catty behind her and gestures to the others. “Hilde, boys, come here now. Slowly. Don’t startle it.”

03 raises her weapon.

“Hey! Hey! No need for that!” Ness tries, holding up his hands. “They’re friendly! They’re friendly!” His palms crackle as ice spirals out from the center of his hands.

Frisk moves quickly towards him, intending to hug him or push him out of the alley, anything to get him out of the way.“Don’t!”Chara shouts and 04 hisses “Get away from him!” releasing her sword hilt to swipe a hand through the air. The fingers of her gloves are missing and pearl-hued claws slide from her fingertips. A magical attack that smells like almonds slams Frisk off their feet, sending them skidding backwards into Bratty and Catty’s pile of stuff. It collapses around them and Flowey throws up a shield of greenery, folding it around them like a canopy. “Ow, ow, ow,” he grits out through his teeth as boxes bounce off the vines.

Ness groans, swaying on his feet. His hands dangle at his sides, palms wet from snowmelt. Whatever magic he had started to produce is gone, swept away by 04’s attack. The guard takes a step back. She must have only meant to hit them.

Frisk gets to their feet. Flowey shoves boxes away from them, then turns with a snarl towards the guards. Chara just whispers“Slow and steady wins the race.”

“What did you do?” Burgerpants demands, worming himself under his friend’s arm to hold him up. He pats at Ness’s face, trying to get him to focus. “Did you hurt him?”

“It’s only a temporary neutralization, citizen. The guard will reimburse you for any injuries sustained as a result, but he should recover quickly with no permanent damage,” 04 says, her voice trembling. “Now kindly remove yourself from the vicinity.” Her hands shake and she drops them.

Ness stares at her, eyes dim and dazed. Burgerpants just glares. Frisk holds themself still although they want to run over and push them out of the way. 04 has proven herself to be skittish around them now that she knows they’re a human. If her only exposure to humans has been the story about Justice, they think they might understand that.

Burgerpants leads Ness towards 04 and out of the alley. Tre keeps watching Frisk.

Catty pokes her head out from behind her sister. Her eyes go first to Ness and Burgerpants, checking that they’re okay, then to the alleyway and the mess Frisk has made out of it.

“Our stuff!” Catty wails. “Quatriè, you’re being mega embarrassing right now! And super rude to our friends! So, like, stop!” She stomps her foot to emphasize her point.

04 draws her sword, still staring in Frisk’s direction. They stay perfectly motionless, watching her as well. “This is a human, Catrine. If anyone is being embarrassing right now, it’s you, embarrassing me.”

Catty takes a step back, hissing and rolling her eyes. But she returns, demanding “But, like, you’re Miss Manners! And you’re-“

“I’m sorry, but manners don’t matter right now, Catty. Don’t you want to see the sun?”

“I’d totally rather get Mettaton tickets,” Catty answers snidely, folding her arms.

“True,” Bratty agrees. “The sun sounds, like, totally overrated.”

“And you totally can’t take their soul because Mettaton really super needs them for his show?”

“Catty. Get out of here before I arrest you and your friends for aiding and abetting.” Bratty bolts a few feet away, her curls flying. Catty doesn’t move and 04 finally does. “Catty, I swear, I will try and get as much of your stuff as possible, but you cannot be here for this. I promise I will make this up to you, okay? Just go home.”

Catty’s ears fold back on her head, but she looks at Frisk and Frisk nods. Burgerpants grabs her arm and runs, dragging her along after him. Ness stumbles alongside. Frisk watches their friends disappear.

“Orders?” 03 asks gently. She raises a hand like she might touch 04’s shoulder, but hesitates.

04 sighs. “Team attack, I guess.” The women’s stances shift, drawing their swords in a single motion and beginning to bounce on the balls of their feet. The other guards had done that too. Frisk wonders why it doesn’t make them tired.

“Focus!”Chara says and Frisk yelps, dodging a sharp attack that looks like claw swipes. 04 grunts in irritation. 03 moves to take a swipe of her own, but her glove slips. Hurriedly, she cuts off her attack to readjust it. The resulting crescent of magic flies through the air like a wobbly Frisbee and, like a wobbly Frisbee, it completely misses its target. Frisk might have been in mortal peril though had they been standing three left to the left and dancing a drunken jig.“I need to start training you or something. We should just call up Undyne and be like-“

Frisk spares the guards and ducks and jumps in quick succession to avoid their sword swipes.

“-‘hey, Undyne, I’m a wimpy loser and I don’t pay enough attention to what’s going on-‘”

‘Shut up, put away your Plan-aton, and give me a hand.’

Chara stretches out in the headspace and, when the attacks stop coming, Frisk holds out their flower crown, their manifestation of control. Chara takes it and their half becomes a copper chain. One blossom twists around and forms itself into a heart-shaped charm. Chara is sharing the control now. The spirit twists their wrists, twining the chain around their hands and pushes agility through. The flowers on Frisk’s half burst into bloom, most of them streaked with orange. ‘I think we have to ask about the glove.’ They breathe in.

“Good idea.”Chara breathes out, focuses, and when the monsters attack, their body ducks and weaves deftly around the approaching attacks. Chara steers them close enough to 03 that they can reach out and touch her glove. She shies away from them immediately, but her glove slips from her wrist.

“03, try and bind them!” 04 commands, ducking forward to take another swipe at Frisk. Flowey bats her away with a vine.

“..okay.” 03 lifts the hand without the secret, hiding the other behind her back. Her glove comes right off and the appendage underneath is the claw of a praying mantis. The tip of it straightens out. Her magic smells like white chocolate, overly sweet and a little cloying. Frisk’s teeth ache at the scent. She draws a sigil in the air and brings her claw down in a swipe the same way 04 had. Then something’s flying towards their face. Rather than dodge, they drop backwards onto the ground and onto Flowey’s vines. Flowey yelps, but he’s ingested so much starfait that the magic repairs him before he can even complain. Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like anything in their bag is broken.

Their expression stubborn, Frisk walks right up to 03, Chara dodging any attacks, and taps on the elbow of the arm she’s trying to hide.“Why?”they ask.

“Why?” she asks, as if she’s never heard the question before. “Because, I suppose.”

They frown. That’s not an answer of any sort; that’s something grown-ups like to say when they want kids to stop prying. But secrets don’t help anyone. They reach forward again and tap her elbow.“Why?”

“I don’t think you would understand,” she says softly.

“Try.”They step back. As if drawn, her arm slips out from behind her back. There’s a bracelet on it, twined tightly around her wrist. A soul shape dangles from it. Chara rattles their chain, showing off their heart charm as they make the connection. It’s a friendship bracelet.

04 looks like she’s stopped breathing. “03, is that..?”

“Yes. Go ahead. Make fun of it.”

Frisk has an inkling of what is about to happen just before it does. 04 tugs off her own glove, displaying the exact same friendship bracelet. “No, I have mine too.” She pauses. “Tre, I’m sorry. I thought you hated me. We did so many horrible things to each other.”

03 laughs and the sound is startlingly pretty. “What, because of that old drama? Forget about it. I, well, I requested to be partners with you. I wanted to be friends again so badly, but I didn’t know what to say.”

04 laughs too and it hums and zips in the air. “After this, you want to go get something to eat?”

“Honey sticks?” 03 teases.

“You know it! Uh-“ 04 turns and co*cks her head, trying to figure out Frisk. They have a big smile on their face. “You’re, uh, not much of a fighter, are you?”

They shake their head. Shrug.

“Yeah, you’re kind of a dancer. Dancers don’t land good hits. You’re not dusty either. So either you’re a dainty murderer with good hygiene or you’ve never killed anyone.” They nod to the last. “Oh, that figures. Look, get out of here. We’ll pretend we never saw you.”

Frisk nods, bows, and scampers past them. As they leave, they hear the two guards planning all sorts of fun things to do together.

Just as they burst out of the alley, they are seized roughly by the arms and pulled around the corner. Still a little in fight mode, Flowey summons a handful of bullets.

“Hey, like, don’t shoot!” Bratty lets go of their arm and steps backwards. All the teens are here, gathered by the mouth of the alleyway. “We figured if Quatriè was going to kill you, we’d, like, come to your rescue.”

Burgerpants lets go of their other arm. Ness immediately leans over him like a drooping sunflower. The rabbit monster looks a lot less confused and a bit more nauseated, off-color and sweaty. Frisk immediately walks over to him and offers a hug. He takes it gratefully and they try something. They can easily give Flowey lots of Determination for fighting, but Alphys said she used Determination to heal people. And she failed, but only because she used so much. So they give Ness only a little, just a little jolt of it.

The rabbit’s ears stand straight up and his posture straightens. At his sides his fists clench, but his color looks better, bolder. “You give great hugs!” he tells them, wrapping his arms around them as he kneels to their level. They put their arms around his neck instead. He still smells a little like pine needles. But what he said reminds them.

They let go and give Ness an exaggerated wink. Then they start fishing around in their pockets. Their fingers brush the badges. All three clink into each other. Frisk hurriedly pulls their hand out of that pocket and tries the other one. Ah-ha! Triumphantly, they thrust a piece of paper into the air.

“You’ve got… a Nice Cream wrapper?”Chara asks, confused.“What are you doing with that?”

Frisk sends them a light blue color, thinking ‘have patience,’ then bestows upon Ness the wrapper. He takes it and looks confused. “Uh, no, you’re supposed to keep it,” he says.

Frisk frowns.“I gave you a hug, and now you have to give someone else one!”

“Oh!” Ness looks delighted, his teeth flashing as he smiles. “Let’s see then.” He pretends to consider his friends, then winks at Burgerpants.

The cat rolls his eyes. “Okay, c’mere, you wei- you dork.” He opens his arms and makes a ‘come here’ motion with his paws. Happily, Ness hugs him, picking him up off the ground and spinning him. Burgerpants clings like a tree frog, tail bushing. “Uh, Ness?”

“Shush, Burgy, we’re having a nice hug. I won’t drop you.”

“No, I was just going to say that you’re not allowed to puke on me, so no spinning.”

Catty taps Frisk on the shoulder and they turn away to smile at her. “It was really really nice what you did for Quatriè and Tre. They were super good friends when I was a kitten, but there was this thing, and, well, my sis has never been fun while they’re fighting. So, thanks.”

“We’re gonna give you a discount!” Bratty announces. “Any item from our store, half price!”

“Whoa, Bratty, that’s a bit much.”

“Like, we’re still making a huge profit? We get all the junk for free anyway.”

“Yeah, but it’s really good junk!”

“Yeah, well, Quatriè cooks super good when she’s happy and stuff and I have never been able to find stew as good as hers, so you better shut up, girlfriend, and think about that stew.”

The two gaze into the distance for a moment, then Catty says “Seventy-five percent off” in such a serious voice that no one argues.

The two guards stroll out of the alleyway and Frisk is shoved violently behind a trashcan by Bratty. The girls lean in front of the trashcan, talking gaily about the garbage dump until they leave, then Catty hauls Frisk to their feet and propels them back down the alley. Before Frisk can even sign a thank you, Catty grabs their hands. “Look, don’t say anything, just buy.”

“And maybe, like, tell your friends about us?” Bratty volunteers. “When you get to the surface, I mean.” Catty looks askance at her. Bratty shrugs. “I want to be a cool monster story.”

The possibilities hit Catty then and she grabs onto Frisk’s shoulders. “Can you, like, say we’re married to Mettaton?”

Frisk gives them both a thumbs-up, trying not to laugh. Then they start hunting through the boxes. The girls sit on either side of them, telling them stories about this and that thingamabob Frisk digs out. At some point, Burgerpants and Ness come down the alley and sit too. Burgerpants looks dazed now, but it’s a happy daze. The Nice Cream wrapper is clutched in his fist. Ness is smiling too, one arm slung around his friend.

Frisk knocks the key aside at first, looking through one pile of junk. Bratty seizes on it. “This is it! This is the weirdest thing!” Frisk immediately reaches for it. “You want this? It’s like, probably to someone’s house. Your house?”

“My friend’s house. He lost it a long time ago. How much?”They take out their money pouch.

“One fifty,” Bratty says, handing over the key before Frisk even hands her the money.

“You got Mettaton’s house key!”Chara exclaims. Frisk wants to strike a pose, but instead they just give the key a secret smile and put it inside the pouch with their leftover coins.

“You’re gonna go see Mettaton now, right?”

“That’s the plan!”

“I’ll give you a thousand g if you get him to sign my butt,” Catty says solemnly.

Frisk makes a face at her.

“Yeah,” Burgerpants chimes in, “but I’ll give you five thousand if you kick his butt.”

“I’ll give you Nice Cream if you do neither of those things,” Ness vows. They give him a thumbs-up, then go over to give him a second hug. “Stay sweet, Frisk,” he says pleasantly.

Burgerpants ruffles their hair and they ruffle his fur right back. “Seriously, kid, have a good time. Don’t let him make you do anything you don’t want to. And maybe kick him a little.”

They snuggle into Bratty and Catty’s group hug. “Just, like, picture us with you if you get stage fright!”

“Yeah! We’ll be watching the whole thing! Promise!” Catty leans over and links pinkies with them. “Pinky promise, even!”

Happily, Frisk squeezes her pinky.“I’ll tell everyone about you!”they promise.

Burgerpants and Ness take them back into the resort, cleaning up the starfait glasses on the way, and then Burgerpants unlocks the door to the CORE. Frisk looks down the long bridge to the glowing entrance. They take a breath in, Chara breathes out. Frisk breathes in, Chara breathes out. Then, they take a breath together and take a step forward. One foot in front of the other, they cross the bridge, lit by strange streetlights and hemmed in by darkness. When they reach the other side, they turn to wave.

No one is there.

Frisk falters a moment, then they feel a pressure on their shoulder. Flowey gives them another squeeze and a smile. “Let’s go, Frisk. We’re so close.”

Chara grabs onto their hand in the mindscape and their smile is wide and excited.“We're so close,”they repeat, and their thoughts are full of the smell of butterscotch and cinnamon.

And Frisk enters the CORE.

…

Mettaton beeps softly as he scans the camera feeds. Something’s wrong with the damn Hotland feed. It keeps cutting out and back in. Alphys has left her monitor for something else, probably helping the human, so it was easy to slide into control. A little too easy if he thinks about it too hard, but he has to dismiss that. If he thinks too hard about everything, he’ll never look carefree. Besides, he prefers to live in the moment. Still, it’s suspicious.

“..mettaton?” asks a little voice, one that echoes and fades. Mettaton’s systems glitch and the feed cuts out. Biting back a curse, he swivels around. Every time he has thought he’s heard that voice, it’s been a memory, a fragment of a dream, guilt. But there’s the makeup artist he hired, a mustard-colored dragon who runs the Hotland art club, and beside him-

“Napstablook! What are you doing here?” He leans casually on the wall, then realizes that it’s too casual and strikes an overly interested pose instead. His soul feels like it’s being torn in two.

Blooky’s big blank eyes get bigger and misty around the edges. “i’m a musician. solomon said you needed a dj. so here i am. oh. maybe i’m too late. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to waste your time.” He begins to fade.

“No! Never!” He wishes his speaker wasn’t modulated to change his voice into a harsh metallic one. Even when he’s trying to be gentle his voice comes out obnoxiously loud, and grating to boot. It might be the only thing he misses about before, his soft voice. “Fans- fans never waste my time. I was simply a little starstruck, that’s all, darling.” Napstablook still doesn’t know. Mads must have torn through the property looking for him without giving an explanation. He soul roils at the thought of his angrier cousin. Mads is still floating somewhere around, looking for him. Probably to yell some more, maybe to drag him back to Waterfall. The thought makes him sick.

“starstruck?” Napstablook ventures. “you must be thinking of someone else.”

“No, I would be absolutely delighted to have you as my DJ, Napstablook!”

“…you sure? i mean, it’s no big deal. i can just go home if you need to hire someone else.”

“You’re joking.” Mettaton wheels up to them. He traded his ability to touch them in favor of corporeality. He can’t touch them, but maybe his words can. “You wrote the lovely Spooktune, right? And you’re the composer behind the UnderNet phenomenon BlookTunes?” It truly is a phenomenon. Monsters from all over listen to Blooky’s music. He had been their first listener and he still gets excited when the UnderNet pings him about an update.

“..um, well…yes. that’s me. heh.” Napstablook smiles. “i think i might have a song for the encounter tonight too… do you want to hear it?”

“Of course, darling!” Mettaton enthuses, clapping his hands together.

The little ghost goes baby blue around the edges. “um, okay.” Their headphones levitate up and hover in front of Mettaton. A click, then music bleeds out of the speakers, and if Mettaton had a stomach he knows it would have already dropped out of his body.

Blooky is looking at their headphones. “it’s called, uh-“

“Death by Glamour,” Mettaton finishes.

“oh. you know it…yeah… i wrote it for my cousin.” Napstablook looks sadder than ever, tears bubbling in their eyes but refusing to fall just yet.

You wrote it for me, Mettaton thinks. It’s my song. He can’t say that of course, so he doesn’t. “Your cousin won’t mind, will they?”

“no. i don’t think they would.”

“Do you mind?”

Napstablook gives him a very strange look as the song pauses. Their headphones float back to them, settling around their face. “…no. i don’t mind. i want to remix it though, just a little. if that’s okay.”

No, he thinks. It’s perfect how it is. “If that’s what you feel you have to do, Blooky darling.” The nickname slips out before he can catch it, so he covers up with “Do you mind if I call you Blooky? You look rather like a Blooky.”

Napstablook gives him an even stranger look now, but nods.

Mettaton claps his hands again, tittering. “I love the song how it is, but you are the artist. Final say is up to you.” He waves a hand, trying for friendly dismissal. He needs to get his cousin out of here before he says something that really gives him away. He’s never seen Blooky mad before over anything, but he really doesn’t need two cousins angry at him. At this rate, even Silen will come up from the Ruins to give him one of their most disapproving looks with their remaining eye.

“Excuse me, mister Mettaton,” the dragon ventures as Napstablook floats away. “You said you needed make-up, but, um, what palette do you need? I’m so sorry, but who’s this for?”

“It’s going to be a big surprise, darling, but you’ll need some pinks and different shades of grey. The pinks should be eye-catchingly gorgeous and the grey should shine.”

“So sorry, I’m so sorry, but what products? Eyeliner in grey? Lipstick?”

“Paint,” Mettaton says firmly.

The little dragon claps himself in the forehead, staggering back. He very nearly spears his hand on the pencil sticking out from behind one of his long ears. “P-paint?”

“Yes, darling. Here’s my cell. Don’t put it on some fanblog. When you find shades that look good, send me pictures. You wouldn’t want to buy something you won’t use. And don’t worry about the prices; bring me the receipt and I’ll add it to your pay.”

Solomon looks awestruck. “Of course, mister Mettaton! Thank you, mister Mettaton!”

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome, darling. Now, I have a video to film, so if you could just-?” He makes a shooing motion.

“Oh! So sorry, mister Mettaton! See you for the show!” Solomon retreats and the door slides shut behind him. Mettaton listens to him run down the hallway and a thud that sounds like him tripping. The little creature has tripped over himself at least four times since Mettaton’s met him.

He links back into Alphys’s cameras. She’s still away from the monitor. Odd. The CORE entryway camera screen pops into activity.

Mettaton presses the record button and starts his spiel. “Hello, beauties and gentlebeauties!” he booms, tracking the motion in the entryway camera. “Are you ready for a show?”

The human has entered the CORE.

Chapter 32: Echo(location)

Chapter Text

“And here are the cleaning supplies,” Grillby says, swinging open the closet door. “Next time you decide to paint something, kindly put down newspaper first.”

His sister has the decency to look apologetic, mumbling a host of ‘sorry’s under her breath, but Ska is preoccupied with picking paint flakes off her hands. f*cku jams an elbow in her ribs. “Ska!” she hisses. Absently, the girl nods and mechanically presses a kiss to f*cku’s temple. Amused, Grillby watches his little sister flare blue and stammer for a minute before she regroups. “I didn’t mean that! The other thing!”

“Oh,” Ska drawls, looking at a point just past Grillby’s head. “Sorry for.. getting paint on your floor.” Her big black eyes are huge with feigned regret. Ska never feels sorry about anything; instead, she fixes the mistakes she’s made and doesn’t do them again. She’s the perfect match for apologetic f*cku, the calm to her storm.

He nods at her and leaves them to clean up their mess. As he sets foot on the staircase, he can hear f*cku complaining about having to wear the gloves he uses for cleaning. She goes through the same spiel every time and if he listens closely, he can hear Ska filling in the spots where she hesitates, egging her on gently. He shakes his head, crinkling his eyes in amusem*nt, and heads back up to his apartment.

The girls and Papyrus had gotten extremely worked up about Frisk’s escapades on Mettaton’s show, especially about Papyrus’s own involvement, and while Papyrus had been on the phone and Grillby was trying to walk him through making a cake, f*cku had found some old chalkboards he had been using for the day’s specials back when he hadn’t had a clear menu and had the bright idea to turn them into signs. Unfortunately, as is a f*cku staple, she hadn’t quite thought it through and the result was a lot of paint on the restaurant’s floor. She had been thoughtful enough not to do it in the kitchen however, so that was one health code violation he didn’t have to worry about. He has to check on Papyrus now though because he left him alone with some fabric markers and he has no doubt that the skeleton has gotten at least a little overexcited with them.

“so, what, now i’m being ridiculous? better take a look at what you’re saying, doc,” Sans snaps as Grillby ascends the steps. The fire elemental pauses, uncertain if he should climb further. Every time Sans calls the man ‘doc,’ Grillby feels like he’s using it as an insult, differentiating Doctor Gaster from his father.

Papyrus chimes in, with words that sound too strange for his voice. “I AM SAYING THAT YOU’RE BEING CHILDISH ABOUT THIS. YOUR GRASP OF REASON AND LOGIC HAS BEEN ERADICATED TO MAKE ROOM FOR THE SINGLE GOAL OF MONITORING A CHILD. YOU ARE BLIND, SANS. THERE IS NO WAY POSSIBLE THAT YOU COULD BE ALLOWED TO GO TRAIPSING ABOUT BY YOURSELF. YOU COULD BE WOUNDED IN THIS STATE. YOU COULD DIE. PERHAPS YOU DON’T REALIZE THIS, BUT I DO. NO MATTER HOW BRAVE YOU MIGHT BE, THERE IS SOMETHING OUT THERE, SOMETHING TERRIBLE. IT KNOWS YOU, SANS. IT HAS SEEN YOU BEFORE.” Grillby realizes whose words he’s really speaking. He’s interpreting for his father, who wouldn’t be able to communicate with Sans otherwise. Papyrus’s voice shudders on his last words and he cries, in a distressed voice all his own, “SANS, PLEASE SIT DOWN!”

Sans’s voice takes on a peculiar cadence as he responds, one prompted by Papyrus’s obvious dismay. It’s the same voice he uses on the human, measured and slow and condescending. “I’m not going to die from a splinter in my joints and I don’t have a target on my back. I’ve been living my life like this for twenty-four f*cking years, doc. I think I can manage.” Grillby starts taking the stairs two at a time, hoping to reach the top before disaster strikes. Sans is his friend and he hates to see him hurt, but he’d hate it even more if Sans hurt someone else.

“SANS SERIF-“ Papyrus translates, sounding like he might cry if he has to keep this up.

“Enough, doc. Leave him alone.” Just a few steps from the top, Grillby presses his palm into the wall. He can hear Sans’s footsteps as he stumps away from the couch and towards the stairs, presumably toward Papyrus. Grillby’s chest is constricting, fear and anger and abominable pity twisting up around his core. He hates this. He hates when the brothers get upset. He’s only seen it happen a few times before, but that had been enough. They had been so happy a few days ago. Sans had been talking about college, joking about applications years overdue and reading Shakespeare in empty bars, and Papyrus had been so pleased to hear his brother finally considering doing something. And then there was the fire. And the human. And now there’s Gaster and Sans is blind and everything bad is coming back and Grillby hates it.

That jolts him out of it. Whatever is going on isn’t enough of his business that he has the right to hate it. Shame prickles his face. He’s not sure how his mind made the switch from unobtrusive bartender to active participator, but he’d prefer it switch back. So Grillby shakes off his thoughts and drums his feet on the stairs to announce his presence. Then he strides up the next few steps, burning orange as confidently as if he’s oblivious to the tense atmosphere of his apartment. Papyrus, poor thing, is standing between Gaster and the couch, looking as if he truly just wants to hurl himself out the window in order to escape it all. Sans has positioned himself between his brother and Gaster, looking like he wants to shatter the same window and use a glass shard as a weapon. Gaster just looks shell-shocked and confused, an expression that hasn’t quite left his face since he arrived. However, when Grillby enters, he picks up the corners of his ruined mouth as if it’s attached to strings. It’s too thin a smile. Too sharp. If Grillby allows himself to dwell on it, the man unnerves him. He’s like a blot of black ink on an otherwise cheerful family portrait.

He chances a glance back at Sans, who is still staring blankly at his father, hands balled into fists at his sides. There are cataracts over his eye sockets look like ice over a frozen lake, shot through with lines of purer white. It's better than seeing the inside of his head, but not by much.

“Papyrus, Sans,” he says softly, waiting until the skeletons turn in his direction. “I was planning on taking a walk to the shop. I don’t think I have enough arms. Can I borrow yours for a minute?”

Papyrus is already nodding at his brother, jerking his chin in a motion meant solely for Grillby, but Sans is completely silent and still, a snow sculpture of a skeleton. Sans prefers to leave when things get too tense. He always has. If he can’t defuse the situation with a well-placed whoopee cushion or horrible joke, he likes to skedaddle. That’s how it’s always been. But there’s something lurking in his face now, as if he might stay and fight.

“SANS! THERE IS NO NEED TO BE RUDE! YOUR FRIEND NEEDS THE HELP OF A STRAPPING SKELETON OR TWO AND YOU ARE JUST STANDING HERE LIKE A LUMP!” Gently, Papyrus pushes at Sans’s shoulders, a very young movement for someone approaching his twentieth birthday. He can remember Papyrus doing that whenever Sans pretended to be too tired or too busy to play or spar.

Now the elder brother snorts at being referred to as strapping and some of the light returns to his face as he nudges an elbow into Papyrus’s knee. Still, his eyes are fixed in Gaster’s direction, even as he addresses his brother. Even his tone, light and lazy as it always is, carries hints of tension. “sorry, bro. you coming along?”

Papyrus allows a moment for deliberation, but the way his eyes are glinting suggests that he’s already made up his mind. “I THINK THE GIRLS ARE CALLING FOR MY EXPERT ASSISTANCE ON THE POSTER DESIGNING,” he answers, cupping a hand around an imaginary ear. “BUT YOU ARE STRONG AND GRILLBY IS STRONG AND TWO PAIRS OF ARMS SHOULD BE ENOUGH, ALTHOUGH YOU WILL MOURN THE LOSS OF A PAIR AS NICE AS MINE.” He flexes to demonstrate, then winks at Grillby conspiratorially. Gaster doesn’t seem to move, but suddenly he’s staring at Grillby too. Grillby rather wishes he was an air elemental rather than a fire one so he could turn invisible. Then he wishes that Papyrus were more subtle. Gaster’s eyes seem to be dissecting him like an insect.

Papyrus shuffles past him and lunges down the stairs, calling “I KNOW YOU WILL HAVE FUN, SO I WILL NOT WISH THAT YOU WILL! BUT ENJOY YOURSELVES WITHOUT MY BLESSING!” Grillby realizes that Papyrus is wearing a half shirt over his battle body. He wonders where Papyrus put the rest of the shirt.

“yeah, sure,” Sans says, amused at his brother’s confidence and completely missing the uncomfortable atmosphere of the room. He takes twelve measured steps and holds out a hand. His fingers tap the wall. He doesn’t show any surprise at the contact and Grillby watches him walk over, the trail of his pale fingers on the wall the only sign that he can’t see. His bones dig ever so slightly into the plaster as if he depends on it to hold him up.

When he reaches the end of the half wall by the stairs, he pauses and tilts his head up. “you’re over here, right?” The only sign of his uncertainty is a tremor in his light voice. Grillby pretends not to notice and clears his throat, keeping eye contact with the empty sockets. Alerted to the sound, Sans stumps over with a rueful grin. “close enough,” he remarks.

“How are you even doing that?” Grillby asks him, heading down the stairs. The structure vibrates as Sans follows after him and the bannister thumps as if he’s suddenly realized that he should use it. Grillby glances back, for just a second, and his eyes meet Gaster’s and the shadowy monster is frowning with his horrible mouth. Downstairs, someone turns the volume of the little television up and Mettaton’s droning voice filters through.

“measured the room while you were working. i might be lazy, but i’m not helpless.” Then Sans misses a step and collides with his side. Grillby stumbles, arms flying up immediately to catch him. There’s a soft sound, a sigh. “sh*t,” the skeleton mumbles into his vest. He watches him heave himself back up using the railing, steadying him himself when Sans looks as if he’s about to pitch forward again. When Sans has righted himself, he says brightly “so that’s what they mean by falling for someone, huh?”

Grillby laughs, his face warmer than usual, but uneasily glances back to where he saw Gaster. He’s gone, probably swishing back to his blotchy notes or hopefully slipping back under the bed to lurk with his fellow bogeymen. Perhaps that last is harsh, but Grillby has the most awful feeling in his core that Gaster is not as benevolent of a presence as he would like to seem, that something about him is still wrong, still missing.

Papyrus and the little cleaning team call goodbyes as they stride through the dining room, Sans taking two steps for every one of Grillby’s. He’s walking too fast, but there’s the crawling feeling, too strong to ignore. He pulls his long black coat off the coatrack and kicks his house slippers under its legs. Stepping into his boots, he adjusts the legs of his pants so they fall neatly rather than bunching up. It’s only when he opens the door for the both of them that he realizes Sans has stolen someone’s coat. The coat is too big. He’s rolling up the sleeves, has rolled them up twice already without his fingers coming into view. It must be one of the bears’ coats, but Grillby doesn’t understand why Sans needs it. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Sans gives him a thumbs-up. “everything’s coat-acetic,” he answers, teasing but also reassuring. If Grillby hadn’t heard the little scene upstairs, he might have been taken in by it, which is clearly what Sans intends.

Still, the pun makes him relax his shoulders, even as he worries. “Come on then,” he says, holding the door wider. Sans shivers when the cold hits him but doesn’t make a sound.

They walk side by side through Snowdin Town, Grillby covertly slowing his pace. This Sans takes smaller strides than the one who could see, but his steps are just as quick as ever. The too big coat trails behind him, sliding over the snow like a liquid shadow. Skeletons don’t get cold if nearly a decade of watching Papyrus run around in shorts in the dead of winter means anything. He’s worried.

“thanks for that,” Sans says, as promptly as if he’s been reading Grillby’s mind. He always hated being worried about.

“Sorry,” he answers without thinking. When he realizes his mistake, white sparks pop into existence alongside the orange ones. His friend smirks up at him as if he can detect the excess heat in Grillby’s face and he involuntarily brings to the forefront of his mind every instance in which Sans has picked up on his temperature shifts. He’s in trouble. “What were you thanking me for?”

“getting me out of there. we were getting down to the bare bones of the situation.” For a second, Sans looks towards his feet. Then he shakes himself out of it. “what were you apologizing for? something burning you up?” He’s definitely picked up on something this time.

“No,” Grillby lies. His voice is smooth and measured, but still a shower of sparks shoot out of his mouth along with the words and fizzle out in the snow before them. Mortified, he claps a hand over his mouth. There is no way Sans missed that. The sound alone will be enough; where f*cku was nearly always successfully in her romantic adventures, Grillby had seen too many awkward first dates and crushed crushes and Sans has been there for each and every one. He’s too familiar with the sound of sparks for someone not born in a hearth. He knows full well that fire elementals start spitting them when they’re attracted to someone.

Now Sans folds his hands behind his back and steps around to walk backwards before Grillby. “someone on your mind?” he asks innocently. “it better not be asgore, grillbz. guy’s goat enough to deal with without half the underground in love with him. baaad idea to crush on him.” Grillby makes no reply, still trying to gather his self-control, and Sans takes his silence as a challenge. “maybe it’s that guy who hangs around selling nice cream? don’t tell me he’s been giving you the cold shoulder. you’re snow flake, grillbz, you should tell him how you feel.”

Now Grillby’s laughing. Sans is being just the right amount of absurd to make him smile. “A crush on the competition? Never!” he exclaims. He’s almost sad to open the door to the Snowdin Shop, but Sans relaxes in the warmth and the bell gives a welcoming chime.

Behind the counter piled high with wicker shopping baskets sits a very bored Kid, who kicks the underside of the counter rhythmically. They brighten when they see customers. Annie, the shop’s owner, is nowhere in sight. “Hey, guys!” Kid chirps, wiggling as if ready to jump from their stool. Then, remembering something, they sit and recite “Welcome to Snowdin Shop! Auntie A’s out right now, so can I help you find what you’re looking for?”

“depends. what do we look like we’re looking for?” Sans asks, suddenly dead serious although just moments before he was shaking with laughter.

Kid considers them. Decisively they say “Funny hats!” This time they do hop from their chair. They’re so small that only their spines and ribbon are visible until they come out from behind the counter. It is only when they wiggle with excitement, looking from one to the other that Grillby realizes what Sans has done, essentially excusing himself from having to carry anything.

“You,” Grillby whispers to him, “are a nuisance.”

“you love me anyway,” Sans replies, allowing Kid to latch onto his sleeve and pull him over to the hat rack.

Grillby just barely manages to swallow down the sparks that threaten to burst from his throat. He instead plucks a wicker basket from the pile and starts to examine the shelves, wrenching his mind to attention. Still, he can’t help pulling his phone from his pocket. f*cku has had many dates, girlfriends and boyfriends and enbyfriends alike. He considers asking her for advice on how to smother down sparks, but then he remembers all the times he’s had to help her patch the burned rugs and curtains. Fire elementals spark as often as blood-filled creatures blush at the sight of their loved ones and f*cku prefers to blaze like a wildfire while Grillby tries to be a tame little kitchen fire. She’ll just say that he has to burn something down sometime, that he can’t be quiet forever. Mechanically, he knocks food items into his basket while Kid’s shrieky howl and Sans’s low chuckles rattle around his head.

It’s astonishing how often Sans can hit the nail on the head. Grillby is either as obvious as a lamppost in the forest or Sans simply knows him too well. He had thought that he was being subtle about it and of course he was positive Sans didn’t reciprocate. Skeletons usually didn’t fall in love. The majority of the ones he’d met at college were much happier when focused on their field of study rather than the people around them. So Grillby had adapted. He had only lost control once, on a day during the grand opening of Grillby’s, when he had been so ready to scream that Sans coming in the night after and reading to him had let him lose control of himself enough to accidentally set a table on fire. And now Papyrus had caught him stifling the sparks when he had thought Sans was flirting with him and Grillby is pretty sure that Papyrus has stealthily begun trying to matchmake. He curls his hand around the bag of flour he’s holding. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Mr. McFrye! Mr. McFrye!” Grillby turns to see Kid doing an almost boneless dance to try and get his attention. When he looks over, Kid snatches up a purple hat in their teeth and rushes it over, skidding to a close halt before him. Their lips curl away from their teeth in a pleading smile. “Frr oo!” they explain through their grip.

Grillby drops the bag of flour in his basket and takes the hat from them, settling it on his head with crinkled eyes. Kid squints one eye for a moment in order to size him up, then nods approvingly. And they scamper back to where Sans is leaning on the wall.

He turns back to his shopping. There’s an obnoxiously loud sound and Kid screams with laughter. Just because Sans is unable to see something does not keep it safe from the arsenal of pranking tools he keeps hidden about his person and it’s obvious that Kid appreciates the unknowable amounts of whoopee cushions Sans hides.

“Mr. McFrye!” Kid calls again and Grillby returns to them in the process of putting a parcel of sea teabags in his basket. The basket shakes as he laughs, teabags slipping from the fingers that curl around his mouth. The two monsters are wearing hats that are truly- for lack of a better word- outrageous. Sans’s hat is electric yellow and bears an unfortunate resemblance to a cake Grillby once made when he was younger, complete with a dingy green trim that looks terribly similar to frosting. The skeleton tilts it back on his head, grinning about a mile wide in his direction. Grillby’s core feels as if it is smoking and if he says anything, the resulting sparks might set fire to the floor and he definitely doesn’t want to do that. It had been hard enough lying to Sans about the reason that time with the table. He doesn’t want to have to explain in the wake of possibly burning down the shop.

He settles for using applause rather than saying anything. The basket slips into the crook of his elbow. Kid, in a puffed abomination of lace and red velvet, takes a bow. The ridiculous hat slides on their head. When they straighten back up, their breath is coming in happy little gulps and their face is the exact same shade of red as their hat. “You ready to check out, Mr. McFrye?”

Sans clicks his teeth at that. “i sure am.” Grillby nearly drops the basket. Kid gives them both a funny look.

Conceding that he probably won’t get anything done with Sans saying things like that, he trails the little monster to the counter where they scramble back up on their stool, hat sitting jauntily by way of being caught on one of their spines. Their feet swing up from under the countertop and begin to type on the register. “Two bags of flour,” they note, leaning over to take a look. Click, click, click, ding! goes the register with every new item Kid discovers in Grillby’s basket. When the basket is devoid of objects Kid has not seen, they suck the moisture from their sharp teeth and lean over, mouth open. The receipt pops up from the little machine beside the register. Daintily, they take it in their teeth and, with a swift jerk of their head, neatly tear it away. This they offer to him.

“here,” Sans says. “give me your hat, grillbz.” Grillby hands it over and, when he comes back, Sans takes the basket off the counter too. Grillby must make a sound of protest for Sans slips it over his own arm, saying “i’m just doin’ the job you brought me to do. don’t act like a basket case over it.”

Grillby huffs a sigh at him and his breath is warm wood smoke. Sans grins at him. Helplessly, Grillby smiles back and they exit the shop together.

They walk together in silence, lit in reds and greens by Snowdin’s decorations. Most people are inside again, as it is getting too late to be out. There’s not a hint of snow above them besides the fragments that their steps kick into the air, little specks of white touched by the Snowdin lights.

Sans shivers and says cheerily “i’d glove some mittens right about now.” He holds his hands out in front of him and the sleeves of the overlarge coat slip back to wrinkle at his elbows. He stops walking. “hey, grillbz, give me a hand here. put ‘em right next to mine.”

Grillby does so, stretching out his fingers. Sans has smaller hands in general, but his fingers are longer. Gaster has similar hands. Grillby grimaces at the thought, then nearly jumps out of his skin. A cold hand has wormed its way into his own. “huh, whaddya know?” Sans says, holding up their entwined hands. Grillby’s fingers have closed of their own accord, sealing Sans’s hand in a pocket of warmth. “my hypothesis is correct. your hands are warm. i’ll need further investigation to see how they hold up against gloves.”

He says nothing in response, staring at their hands as if they’ll fall apart if he blinks. Sans releases his grip, sliding his hand from Grillby’s awkwardly. “sorry, grillbz. just making a joke. no need to get all fired up about it.”

Grillby becomes very aware of how his flame has turned nearly white in response to having his hand held, as goofy as a child with their first crush. The heat must have alerted Sans to something wrong. He doesn’t say anything, going over what had just happened in his mind, and Sans looks toward him nervously. “i’m sorry, grillby. i guess that wasn’t funny, huh?”

He exhales and even on the calmest of breaths, a few sparks gleam and go out. He wonders how his parents can stand it, how they can look at each other every day and not set the whole world on fire. Then he takes Sans’s hand in his own.

Little by little, the bones warm up. The skeleton looks in the direction of his hand and makes a soft sound. “it was me you were sparking about, huh?” For Sans, it is so much easier to be blunt. So much simpler to just tear the cloth from his eyes and not make a fuss about it. Still, he seems sad and there’s something strange about how he says that.

“Yes.” There’s nothing else to say there in the light from the Snowed Inn’s windows. Sans twitches his wrist and his fingers twist around Grillby’s. It’s odd how something new can feel so familiar. Grillby taps his fingers against Sans’s knuckles. The skeleton flinches, but holds his hand tighter.

“you know, when you set that table on fire, i guessed something was up.”

Grillby laughs. “You did not. That was ages ago.”

“well,” Sans allows, “i had a year to figure it out. every once in a while i’d drop by the bar and you’d do something a little weird.”

“A year?”

“roughly. heh, usually I wouldn’t be able to come in until yesterday or the day before.”

Grillby catches on and his flame burns low. “The resets,” he says.

“bingo.”

“I didn’t- I did?” Sans gives him that particular look he has, the one that implies that he knows exactly what he will say. Without the effect of his dark eye sockets however, with his eyes entirely white and cloudy, the look seems to be begging him to say anything at all. Saying ‘I existed?’ sounds self-centered even in his head, but he’s still reeling from the information. Of course he existed in the other timelines; everyone else had. And yet the thought of another Grillby walking around, hundreds of other Grillbys, distresses him a little more than he’d thought it would. He’s a little jealous of them if he’s honest with himself. It sounds like they had more time than he has had.

“i think the only reason you’re not burning drinks in this timeline is because there’s weirder stuff going on.”

“I burned drinks?” No wonder Sans has him all figured out.

“there was actual fire, yes.”

Grillby groans, covering his face with his free hand. “That’s embarrassing.” He’s not quite so jealous of the other Grillbys anymore, not if they were that obvious.

Sans pats the back of his hand. “very cute though. you always got so flustered about it. i didn’t really notice then, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. great now that my regular sight’s zero.” He taps the ridge of an eye socket.

Grillby reviews the conversation and can’t stop a chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “This is insane. This is actually insane. We’re off our collective nut.”

“screwy,” Sans puts in, his eyes crinkling up. “maybe a little daft too.”

“Barmy,” Grillby tells him. “Absolutely bonkers.”

“plum out of our skulls.”

“Out of our minds.”

“lost our minds.”

“Lost our marbles.”

“i wasn’t aware we had any to begin with.”

Grillby chokes on his own laughter at that point. He wishes he had said something earlier so that they might have dispensed with this awkwardness before the events of this timeline, especially if Sans had figured it out on his own. He mentions as much and Sans makes a soft sound of dismissal.

“this is the best possible outcome, grillbz, believe me. i’ve seen the others. do we need to get the groceries back to the restaurant?”

“Not unless you want to go back.”

Sans grimaces, obviously thinking of Gaster and Papyrus and socialization in general. “when you put it like that, i could use a walk.” With a tug to Grillby’s hand, they continue on, strolling past the restaurant with no purpose in either of their minds.

Grillby tries to choose his words carefully as the lights of the restaurant pass over them. “Is there something going on? I heard raised voices when I was coming up the stairs.”

Sans looks embarrassed, angling his face away. While he can’t see Grillby’s expressions, all of his are on display and he is painfully aware of it. “not exactly. get me and gaster in a room together and it’s like we’re on a camping trip.”

“In-tents?” Grillby asks.

“it’s like you’re reading my mind,” Sans deadpans, before his solemnity returns. “there’s just something weird going on with him. like he’s never been a dad.”

“Sorry?”

Sans flaps his free hand as he tries to explain and the sleeve of the coat balloons and deflates. “dad wasn’t like that. he never used my middle name for one thing. i mean, he didn’t usually use my name at all. it’s one of those little things, but-”

“What did he call you then?”

“nicknames. lots of ‘em. the guy was a fountain of nicknames. jellybean, kiddo, sunshine, anything like that.”

Grillby fights back a smile. “Jellybean?”

“and tiger, and funnybones, lazybones, ace, bug, smiley, snickerdoodle, etcetera, etcetera.” Sans grins at the thought.

“That is adorable.” He thinks of the quiet shadow at the top of the stairs and tries to picture him as a man who doted on his children. He tries to remember him that way and comes up short, hearing only the harsh words in Papyrus’s mouth and seeing only the snarl on Sans’s face.

Sans keeps talking, caught up in what he remembers. “i know. when i got older, i started telling him not to call me those anymore. he never listened. it was just who he was. no one was safe either. if he could shorten your name, you’d be called that forever.”

“Like ‘Grillbz’?”

Sans looks like he’s never considered that. “i am becoming my father,” he says, and if he hadn’t looked like Grillby had given him a hearty whack to the face with a brick, Grillby would have laughed. “it’s not even that, though, i could handle no nicknames. it would be perfectly fine if he just called us sans and papyrus. he’s just- he’s telling me i did things i don’t remember.”

Grillby furrows his brow as they enter the neighborhood on the edge of town. “Like what?”

Sans hooks a finger into the corner of one of his eye sockets and tugs, thinking. “according to him, i jumped whoever was in control of frisk. i pushed them out of control and then i killed frisk to send them back. i told him that was crazy. couldn’t have been me. i had the blasters, the bones, but if i could have done something like that, why wouldn’t i have done it first? he’s telling me i have some special power and that means that i was too stupid or too scared to use it. i don’t even know what it is! does he think i would let them kill- let them kill papyrus over and over again if i had that kind of magic?”

Silence covers them like snow. Grillby squeezes his hand as gently as possible. Sans leans into him, probably seeking warmth. “Is that what you were fighting about?”

“i pissed him off. said if i really was some kind of magical prodigy, i could be more helpful to the kid, even without eyes. he was furious.”

“Ouch.”

“i don’t even know if he’s right. i pulled him out of the void and i know i can’t do that. i know that’s not something i can do. i can’t transcend dimensions! it’s not in my-“ Sans pulls a face. “-code? code. it’s not something i know how to do. i don’t know how i did it.”

“Could you say it makes no sans?”

Sans chuckles. Then he laughs outright. “you could. nice.”

Grillby laughs too. “I’m sorry that I don’t know what to say. I studied magical theory and none of this makes sense to me. I understand that magic can be magnified by emotion, but to the extent of tearing holes in other dimensions? It sounds impossible.”

“it probably is.” Sans stops. Then he claps a hand to his head, barking laughter like a seal. “grillbz, i’ve been calling the kid an anomaly for ages. i’m the anomaly!”

Grillby looks at him. “Or the data has been tampered with. Perhaps the rest of us are anomalies and you and Frisk are the only ones following the regular pattern.”

Sans thinks this over. Then his face lights up. Grillby relaxes and smiles back, only for Sans to say “hey, let’s go see if the basem*nt burned with everything else.”

He stumbles over this subject change. “Your basem*nt? Why?”

“because i’m pretty positive i remember something and i need a pair of eyes to tell me if i’m right. so, lead on.”

“What about the groceries?”

“bring them too.”

There’s a door built into the ground among the rubble of the skeletons’ house and Grillby thinks it’s possibly the saddest thing he’s ever seen. He’s certain that it must have looked impressive and imposing at some point, but that point is not now. The edges are warped and twisted like melting glass, so it’s easy for Sans to reach his hand into one of the peeled-away edges and fumble with the lock on the other side. Grillby almost thinks he can hear the tumblers inside clicking, fancies he does because this sort of thing deserves some sort of soundtrack beside the sound of himself shifting and his head crackling and snapping against the cold. He could never be a secret agent; his entire body is noise and light.

It’s with a flourish that Sans swings the door open, narrowly missing his own shin. “here’s hoping,” he says. When Grillby simply stares, Sans misinterprets his silence. “i actually locked the door and threw away the key last time i was down here.”

Grillby’s fairly certain there’s a sort of logic there, but he’s wise enough to avoid trying to puzzle it out.

The basem*nt is dark and dreary and smells overpoweringly of burnt plastic, but it seems to be the one place the fire could not penetrate. The cold air follows them down the steps and Grillby tastes the musty air trying to escape. The basem*nt must have lain undisturbed for years before the fire.

Grillby leads the way, both because of his illumination and because Sans has been demonstrating an alarming lack of balance if his near fall down the restaurant stairs means anything. Still, he can hear Sans stomping on each of the stairs with extreme prejudice, testing them for structural weakness. The space under the ground is quite vast, vaster than the space his imagination had conjured up. It is also very dark, for the lights don’t go on when he flicks the switch.

“a bulb broke,” Sans says lamely. “never got around to fixing it.”

The contrast of the darkness and the flickering light Grillby casts makes things at least twice as eerie as they have any right to be. Grillby doesn’t believe he’s scared, but he’s very thankful when Sans bumps into him. He wouldn’t much like to be down here by himself. The darkness feels suffocating.

Sans moves further into the basem*nt, nudging around him when he doesn’t immediately step aside. Grillby watches him vanish into the shadows, then revolves very slowly to take in the space around him. In one corner there is a hulking shape that looks rather like something crouching there. When Grillby investigates, however, it proves to be some sort of strange machine, concealed under a sheet.

He turns his attention to the wall, which, upon closer inspection, reveals four drawers, each slightly open as if someone forgot to close them. He goes over with the intent to do just that, but finds himself easing the drawers open curiously. They’re crammed with ruined folders and melted photographs. When he sifts through them, the scent that wafts up is laced with lavender. Sans must have destroyed these if they smell so strongly of his magic.

Sans feels around the walls, looking for something. When he bumps into the same machine Grillby had been investigating, he ducks under the sheet, fiddling with the switches. It makes no sound, emits no light, but he jolts backwards as if he has been shocked. His sightless gaze turns speculatively towards the center of the room.

Grillby pauses when his investigation uncovers an intact image, a loose drawing scribbled in crayon. There are three shapes on the paper, lovingly detailed, and all in different colors with big happy smiles. ‘don’t forget’ reads the childlike scrawl above the image, a thick print that Grillby couldn’t overlook if he tried. “Sans-“ he begins, only to be cut off by a thump that manages to sound triumphant. He turns, picture still in his hand, to see Sans standing victoriously above a hole in the floor. Floorboards are stacked haphazardly at his side.

“good thing i remembered this,” he says, as smugly as a cat who has found the cream. Then he crouches and sticks his arm through the hole all the way up to his elbow. “come here and shed some light on the subject, grillbz.”

“What am I, a flashlight?” he teases, absently putting the picture in his pocket.

“what? no, you’re the light of my life. now come here before all this darkness boards me to death.” He nudges a floorboard with the toe of his slipper.

Grillby rolls his eyes, swallowing sparks again. Still, he comes over and squats by the hole in the floor, flickering curiously. “Why do you need me? Don’t you know what you hid here?”

“it’s been twelve years and a lot of resets. i’m surprised i still know which way is up.” Sans’s expression shifts. “what’ve i got? a blanket?” He pulls his arm up with a fistful of cloth trailing down back into the hole. Grillby grabs it himself, surprised at the weight of the thing, and together they yank it up until the blanket is spread across the floor. Sans pats the edges, prodding at the stitches. “so?”

“It’s a quilt.” He touches the squares. It’s a full-size quilt too, big enough to wrap the both of them up with enough room for a baby boss monster. Grillby loves quilts. Just looking at this one makes him want to curl up in it with a mug of something flammable.

“huh.” Sans does a little more prodding. “mine or papyrus’s? should say in a corner.”

Grillby lifts the corner nearest him and burns a little brighter. “Judging by the name,” he answers, running his fingers over the neat stitches, “it’s your father’s.”

“huh. must’ve thrown it down here with the rest.” Sans plunges his hand back into the floorboards. “there should be two more. we all had ‘em.”

Grillby tears his attention away from the quilt and squints doubtfully. “Exactly how big is this hole?” When Sans tells him, Grillby gives a long low whistle and inches away from the edge.

“i think dad used to hide our gyftmas presents in here,” Sans explains, tugging at the second quilt. They pull up a total of three quilts, each as big and careworn as the first, and Grillby starts rolling them into a bundle while Sans lies on his stomach before the hole in order to be able to reach farther. The quilts smell like bones and mint.

“ha!” Grillby hears a scraping sound and looks up to see Sans with both hands in the hole, straining as he pulls at something inside. First a corner emerges, then an edge, then the object comes into the circle cast by Grillby’s light. It’s a thick book, which Sans holds to his chest like a lifeline. “grillbz, what’s it say?”

“19XX-200X,” he reads. The stickers on the front glint in his firelight, the last X peeling a little.

Sans laughs, sitting back on the quilt Grillby was trying to roll up. “glad little me didn’t remember this was here. probably would’ve destroyed this too.” He flips it over onto his lap and lifts the cover. His hands trace along the edges of pictures he can’t see, pressing at the corners that weren’t adhered to the page properly. “i think it’s a photo album. from when me and paps were small. we woulda missed this.”

Grillby crawls over to sit beside him again. Together they look at the book, legs dangling carelessly over the hiding place. The pictures inside are mostly of Sans and Papyrus, the latter usually blurred at the edges and the former with a heartbreakingly happy smile. Most of these are oversaturated or underdeveloped and Grillby recognizes them as old instant pictures, the kind that he used to watch f*cku shake until the image appeared. Some of the photographs include a chubby reptilian girl who won’t look directly at the camera. Others- the bottom of his stomach drops out and he grabs onto the edge of the book, staring intently at the page.

“Sans. That’s- that’s f*cku and me.” He taps the picture before he realizes his friend can’t see the gesture.

“funny how that happens.”

“Did you kn-?”

“nope. my brain’s like a priest.” Sans bows his head as if in prayer.

“What?” His first thought is that his friend has brain damage.

“it’s holey.” The skeleton shrugs, holding his palms up and grinning as if he expects a rimshot.

Groaning at the pun, Grillby examines the children in the picture again as if they might disappear if he blinks. The f*cku pictured is young enough that her figure is naturally wavering and the bear in her arms looks brand new. Currently the bear sits on her shelf. It’s missing an eye now and its middle is curiously void of stuffing. She had gotten it when she was barely two, long before they’d ever met the skeleton brothers.

He turns back a page and meets the eyes of a skeleton he doesn’t recognize. The man is looking up at the camera as if startled. Papyrus, standing on the back of his chair, is waving frantically. “Who-?” he begins. Then his eyes catch on a crack in the man’s skull and follow it up his face. “Your father. By the dog. Your father yelled at us when the mint spilled.” He can’t remember it, but the thought clicks into place like a key into a lock. It would make sense. Gaster must have been there for at least a few of their escapades. No wonder he knows him as “the McFrye boy” rather than Grillby.

Sans chuckles. “well, I think we’ve done our pen-mints for that one. Don’t worry about it.” He nudges his shoulder.

“Why do you remember this? Why do you remember these things and I can’t? It was obviously just as much a part of my life as it was yours.” Frustration is making him blaze and hurriedly he deposits the book back in Sans’s lap before it can catch.

Skeletal fingers rub at the worn edges of the album. The merry mood has evaporated. “it would have been easier,” Sans agrees quietly.

“Easier’s an understatement. You could have talked about it! We could have talked about this. We could have had more time.” He takes the book back, snatches it, and flips back a few pages, then a couple more. Every picture is captioned in a hand he can’t read, but the numbers are clear enough and that’s all he cares about. “Sans, we met sixteen years ago.”

“you’re kidding.” Sans grabs for the book, missing by a mile. Grillby hands it off to him, crackling angrily.

“No. I’m not kidding. I wish I was.” Sans runs a hand over the raised edges of the photographs. “What happened that we forgot? That everyone forgot?”

Sans just hunches over the book as if Grillby’s words are bullets. He doesn’t get angry, he doesn’t fight back with puns and shenanigans. He just sits there on the edge, holding the photo album to his chest like a security blanket. “i don’t know. it had- it was something to do with dad’s big project,” he says, picking his words carefully as he tries to puzzle them out. “i knew what it was just a second ago.”

They have a moment’s silence. Grillby swings his legs in the yawning hole in the floor. It is a very large hole, much larger than Sans’s casual leaning into it made it seem if Grillby’s legs can extend this far. He pulls his legs back up into his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

“paps will probably want to see this book.” But Sans doesn’t move, staring intently at the book in his lap as if it will catch fire if he stares hard enough. “grillbz, i can’t make everything picture perfect for you. i don’t know enough about what’s going on. i don’t remember enough. i’m sorry.”

Grillby glares at the hole in the floor a moment longer, then his shoulders slump. He’s burning down now, red from guilt and frustration at his own ignorance. “I know. I’m sorry. I just keep thinking what if you had found this before? Image-ine that.”

Sans smiles like Gaster, sharp and tired. They look nothing alike and somehow everything alike. “i wouldn’t have known what it was. maybe i would have even destroyed it. maybe every picture would just be blank. i remember the resets, but things that happen before, even some things in the resets, don’t fit. i’m like a bad puzzle. heh.”

“No. You’re a puzzle with a few pieces missing. Eventually someone will upset the sofa and find them. Keep your chin up.” Sans stares in his direction until Grillby starts feeling embarrassed. He stands up, dusting off his pants. Black pants and an ashy basem*nt do not complement each other. “We’d better get going. Someone will be missing us.”

Sans shrugs and lurches to his feet. “here, you take the groceries. i’ll get the rest of this junk.” He holds his arms out and with a flick of his wrist, the grocery bag is hanging from two of his fingers. They make an exchange- Grillby somehow finding Sans’s hand in his own again- and they head for the stairs.

“Do you think f*cku and the rest will let us back into the apartment?”

“the real question is will the mess let us in?”

Grillby pictures the way f*cku paints and, in coupling that image with the way f*cku cleans, finds himself biting back a groan. If he’s lucky, he’ll only have to scrub the dining room for an hour.

Sans elbows him. “check your phone. maybe they’ve sent an update.”

He does so, thumbing the power button. Sans busies himself rolling the quilts into an improbably tight cylinder. When the screen finally lights up, so does the messaging application. He scrolls through a little ways, finding that most of them are button mashers and all capitalized screaming. The most recent text says “Going home taking Rus w/ us. Tell Sans. G’s gone for a walk. Love you!” He conveys the message and Sans frowns.

“papyrus went to hotland? he hates it there. the conveyor belt puzzles drive him crazy.”

Grillby scrolls down, momentarily releasing Sans’s hand in order to shift the bag of groceries up to his shoulder. As he starts up the stairs, he recaptures his friend’s hand. “Apparently, he received a phone call from Mettaton.”

He has never seen someone do a double take outside of films, but Sans pulls it off fairly well. “why?”

“He won some sort of contest or raffle. Free tickets to some show. He’s very excited about it. f*cku is also very excited about it.”

Sans mulls this over as Grillby tugs him up the steps to the basem*nt door. They have to go slowly so Sans doesn’t trip over something and kill himself, so Grillby says “Talk to me about what you do remember.”

“i remember dominating at candyland.”

“If I remember correctly, that was because you made up new rules and Papyrus liked to help you cheat and only you.”

“you’re just bitter that the princess made a decree about the red gingerbread man.” Sans wags a finger in his general direction.

Grillby scoffs. “You two made me hide out in the licorice forest for a turn every time I was in the lead.”

“sorry, but speaking of cheaters, i seem to remember someone throwing snowballs at us and claiming that we couldn’t throw them back because he’d fizzle out.”

“It was true! I’d get frost burns!”

“one day, grillbz, i’m going to melt your coal-d heart.”

“I think that is the most nonsensical thing to come out of your bone box all day. I will never love the snow. It’s completely against my base nature.”

“who said i was talking about snow?” Sans winks and Grillby laughs, finding that it’s his turn to be taken by surprise. “look, you can’t hate the snow and live in snowdin.”

“You’re a royal guard who hates work. I see no difference.”

“i’m a sentry. there’s a big difference.”

“I am a fire elemental.”

“if you live in snowdin, you have to like snow. no exceptions. It’s…” he pauses, then a grin spreads over his face. “it’s elemental-ry, my dear grillby.”

Grillby sets the groceries down on the stairs. Silently, he sits down beside them and covers his head with his arms, hiding his face in his knees. Sans, confused, taps on his head a few times, then touches a hand to his shoulder, feeling him shake. “grillbz?”

A muffled voice says “That was the worst joke. Hands down.”

…

Wingdings slams his hand down flat on the table, any sounds of displeasure caught in his gelatinous throat like flies in amber. Grillby’s apartment is littered with crumpled balls of paper and there’s ink staining the fingertips of his working hand (probably more smeared across his face from his habit of rubbing his face when frustrated). He’s completely emptied the notepad of usable paper, having covered both sides of each sheet with equations that add up to nothing and words that scramble their letters and charts and graphs that are nothing more than pretty lines on a page. The knowledge rattling about his skull is just out of reach. He can feel it there, but it refuses to become coherent thought. Ever since his return from the laboratory, his mind has been growing increasingly murky. It’s terrifying him. His mind is all he has left; what with one child who doesn’t remember him, another who hates him, and a body that melts and folds in on itself. Once upon a time in the Void, he knew everything, but had nothing. Now, when he’s traded the Void for home, he knows nothing and no one.

With shaking fingers, he plucks the nearest paper ball off the floor, uncrumples it, and tries smoothing it out against the table edge. The smoothing cannot save it from his frustrated scrawls. The paper is unsalvageable, every inch of it covered in worthless work, and then covered again with frustrated scribbling, like the work of a babybones.

A frenzied popping fills the room as he cracks the knuckles of his right hand and stares at the paper, trying and failing to decipher the wingdings script beneath the layer of ink. The popping slows. He might not be able to understand what he wrote originally, but he’s seeing another pattern. What he had thought was just a scribbly equivalent of lines slashed through unusable work has a very specific pattern. It is neat and precise, unlike his handwriting. Only a few symbols poke out in the gaps it did not manage to cover. He leans down and picks up a second ball of paper. It is much the same. Curious, he begins to spell out the symbols he can see. “W-I-N-G-“

It’s his name, spelled over and over again, the letters plucked out of whatever notes he had been writing. He hadn’t intended on doing that. He checks the second sheet. Again, his name, spelled out several times. Somewhere in his head, alarm bells are ringing violently. He picks up another sheet, then another, looking for any variants, anything that might clue him in as to how this could have happened.

Then he sees it. A little symbol, like a lowercase N with a circle attached. In wingdings, the symbol is a B, a letter not present in any of his names. “W-E-B-D-I-N-G-S,” he spells out carefully, hating how much time it takes him to decipher the script he was named for, hating how he keeps missing letters as they scramble themselves in front of his disbelieving eyes. “Webdings,” he says to himself.

“Doctor Gaster! You have a visitor! It’s the Royal Scientist!” A nudge to his shoulder, a pull on his lapels as someone straightens them. “Look sharp, Winnie,” the voice says, laughing as he swats at them.

“Look sharp indeed,” he teases. “How can I possibly look sharp when I can’t find my glasses?”

“Your Spectacles Are Atop Your Head, Gaster,” says a voice from the entryway.

Wingdings finds himself reaching for a pair of spectacles that aren’t there. He corrects himself, adjusting as best he can the spectacles melted to his nose ridge. His mind struggles to contemplate the significance of the memory. It is not one he had held onto within the Void, not like his name, not like his signing. With the disorganization of his mind, it seems that this memory should never have resurfaced at all. But seeing a name not his own had prompted the memory.

Underground scientists spread their knowledge through many different fields. They are jacks of all trades and masters of none. Some are brilliant, some are sensible. Wingdings had chosen to study far more suitable sciences than those of the mind and he is now wishing he had spread out his field a little farther. He barely knows anything about the mind. He knows that some monsters have brains to store memory and others store memory in their souls. It is not a conscious action. Some monsters never have conscious actions and instead run solely on instinct.

As he catches the faintest sounds of barking, he finds himself internally praising the Dogi for their seemingly perfect balance between instinct and intellect. Dogs often accredit this to being the protectors of the Underground, although most books label it as a side effect of the dogs’ remarkable longevity, one that is surpassed only by that of the boss monsters. A few select tomes even accredit it to the influence of-

His thoughts come to a screeching halt. If he has never studied memory, how can he be thinking of it? How can it be present in his mind? A dog barks somewhere close by, and then does so again. He wishes they would stop. Between them and the television music downstairs, his mind is in a bit of a tailspin.

There’s a scraping sound. It seems to echo around the entire apartment. His eyes fly to the window as if he has known that something would appear there and, indeed, something has. About halfway up the glass, there is a smeared red paw print. And beyond that, there is something sitting out there on the roof, fixing him with boot-black eyes. As he watches, it very deliberately drags four claws down the window again. Something very badly wants to come inside.

When he gets up, his left arm hangs uselessly at his side. He thinks very suddenly of the Big Bad Wolf as he undoes the window latches one-handed. But the eyes of the thing outside are kind despite their darkness. It’s a dog, he realizes as his head spins, a little white dog.

It barks as he hooks his fingers under the windowsill and he hesitates. It turns away from him, sticking a small black nose into the wind. Something in the distance screams and his entire body shudders. There’s a huff from the dog, as if it has been satisfied by that scream. It yips then, telling him that it’s safe now. He pulls the window up just a crack and the dog slips in, wiggling through the narrow space as if it has no bones at all. The tip of its tail is wagging gently, pulled against its body, and its expression is somehow kind yet troubled. He didn’t know aboveground dogs had such a range of emotions.

It pushes its head into his hand, skull neatly fitting the hole in his palm. He sees briefly an image of himself. He has a lost look on his face. Attached to the image is a question. The image is incomplete, so what is he missing?

“My memory,” he signs.

It huffs, then shakes itself apologetically, nosing at his fingers, one paw on his knee. He dances them over its face. Another image, this one of a hand in the darkness, snatching up an object, a treasure. The dog sneezes. Not a treasure then, just something very important.

“You’re talking to me, aren’t you?” Silence. The dog rears onto its hind legs and paws at his fingers. A wash of agreement and a warning that he has to be touching it for it to speak. He’s heard of odder magics. His hand follows the dog down and buries itself in the loose skin and fur at the back of its neck, summoning two extra hands to sign for him. “They were stolen?” More agreement and an image of a dog biscuit. The sharp twist in the memory must mean sarcasm, as if it’s saying What a brilliant deduction. He laughs. “I’m sorry. I won’t repeat the obvious. I just don’t understand how you know these things.”

The dog grumbles low in its throat, as if telling him to not look a gift dog in the mouth, and raises one foot to scratch at its ear. Wingdings moves his hand to scratch at the ear, making the dog mumble happily and setting its tail to wagging. He can almost hear it thinking on how to get him to understand. Then he sees what looks like a shadow relief, a great horned shape who reminds him of sunlit gardens he’s never seen and a smaller shape that kicks and writhes in a death dance. The smaller shape ran through Hotland’s laboratories, eyes glinting poison green as they dusted everyone they could find. The viewpoint of the image changes and he sees the dog itself, standing over a crumpled shape. Blood is everywhere, on the dog’s fur, on the shape of the girl on the ground. Her hair is the same brilliant red and the dog growls loud enough to wake the dead as the king, the captain, and the dancer fight. The captain hurls the dancer into the wall and their head smashes open like a rotted pumpkin. The dog crouches over the girl, pressing comforts into her head to drown out the sounds of violence. Her remaining eye sees only these sunlit visions. A tear slips from her eye, soaking into the earth beneath her cheek.

Trees burst up from the ground, already dusted in snow, and a small shape walks through them, a dog in their arms. The snow crunches underfoot and each footfall stirs up more dust in small gusts. “Sync!” calls a little voice, high and whistling through a missing tooth. He is only ten years old, the same age as Frisk, but too young to see what happens next, too young to have witnessed what he had. The shape whirls- “Get out of here, Winnie!”-, the dog cries out, and there’s a gunshot.

The gunshot echoes and ripples the scene and a sneakered foot slaps through it, followed by another smaller foot. It’s a puddle and there’s a child- two children- running through Waterfall. Their panting breaths are loud through the dog’s ears, but something is louder, the footfalls of an enemy.

Wingdings snatches his hand away from the dog, horrorstruck. It blinks up at him as if asking why he’s no longer scratching its ear. Then it flattens itself to the floor, ears folded against its skull. It’s apologizing.

“What was that? Who was that?”

The dog inches forward, wagging its tail as if awaiting a blow. He reaches down again, pets it between the ears, and receives an image of himself laughing as he apologizes to the dog and asks for elaboration. “I realize that I asked, but I don’t understand.”

An image of a clock, the hands locked in perpetual motion. A dog in a kennel, chewing on the latch until it unlocks. A dog slipping through the darkness until it enters the light of Grillby’s restaurant. A dog hopping up until it reaches the roof. A dog scratching at the window and himself opening the window. He, who looks like the CORE and the darkness and is as hollow as a locket.

“You’re excessively long-lived, aren’t you? Most dogs are. That doesn’t explain-“ The dog nips him with frustration. Wingdings squeaks and snatches his hand away, but not before he has received an image of the barrier.

“Why?” he asks, now just as irritated.

The dog mumbles and grouches, then slaps a paw on his knee again. A book, read and reread until the spine breaks and the pages flutter away. It’s impossible to read a broken book and the audience already knows the story, so is there truly a point to reading it anymore? The view follows one page as it lands and is immediately swallowed up by darkness. And there the image of Wingdings is again, collecting pages in his arms, his lab coat fluttering as he gathers loose documents for the gutted book. The book itself will never be the same, but the contents will soon be in order again.

“Where do I go?” he asks it.

Places flash through his head as the animal crawls into his lap. The dog doesn’t know. Somewhere where everything changed. Wingdings volunteers the CORE and is immediately nipped again. The CORE is definitely not where he should go, no way. What place could have changed him? Does he know?

He goes to say no, petting its back, and instead finds himself realizing that he does.

The dog tilts its head, pawing at his unresponsive arm, throwing the image of himself at him. Does he know now?

His expression answers for him. “Did you put the answers in my head?”

The canine barks laughter, but does not respond. Wingdings hears something scream again out in the wildness of Snowdin Forest. The dog pricks an ear up, listening and drawing its own conclusions. It licks his hand in farewell. Then it trots back out of his lap, turns to face him, sits down-

And disappears.

It’s only then that Wingdings processes the fact that there’s blood on the floor, in a strange circle around him, probably from when the dog shook itself. The helpful little (talking?) dog had been bleeding. It’s on his hand too. Bright red.

The air coming through the open window is sweet and sharp. He inhales it, leaning out the window. Finding a small white dog in thick white snow would be impossible. So he looks at the empty path through town. He thinks he hears a noisy crackling, the laughter of Sans’s friend Grillby, and hurriedly he looks down the road, hoping that they are not back so soon. No, he sees Sans holding the door open for his friend as they enter Snowdin’s little shop. He exhales, guilt like a hard little knot in his soul. He should leave a note.

He takes the cardboard backing of the notepad, straightens it, then tries to compose a comprehensive note without getting any dog blood on it. He winds up with ‘Going to Hotland. Be back soon’ and then he doesn’t know how to sign it. He doesn’t feel like their father, not enough. He feels protective of them, yes, but he hasn’t been their father for thirteen years and innumerable resets. So he doesn’t sign it, but he manages an ‘I love you.’ At least that’s the truth.

It has been a very strange week so far, so the wisdom of a talking surface dog seems quite normal. A talking surface dog who speaks fairly cryptically and whose presence clears away the clouds around his skull is a little out of the ordinary, but it is not alarming. The pattern in his writing is alarming, the void is alarming, but the dog is somehow comforting.

There is only one place in the Underground where he would be so at ease. Only one place he would make the bulk of his memories.

So he takes a shortcut.

Wingdings finds himself not in Hotland’s oppressive heat, but buffeted by cold. He stares at the snow-covered trees, mouth gaping. Shortcuts don’t miss. Shortcuts never miss unless there is some sort of outside interference or a lack of focus on the behalf of the user. His mind feels clearer than it has in years. He thinks of how the dog had inserted thoughts into his head, like the study of memory in monster dogs, and wonders if this is part of its influence. As soon as he forms the idea, he dismisses it. The dog might be able to send feelings and memories, but making them sounds like an entirely different type of magic. He feels as though there is something important he must do here, someone he must find. He’s north of the town, however; people don’t come here.

He takes another shortcut and drops out of thin air into the snow. Grumbling, he collects himself and tries a third time. This time, the magic all but hurls him face first into the ground. He decides to quit while ahead and stands, brushing himself off. The snow is like powder today and he has to focus on his own corporeality to keep from absorbing the flakes into himself.

“Tra la la,” hums a voice and he turns around to glare at someone he assumes is River, the by now very elderly monster who maintains the Underground’s transportation systems. But he stops short, staring uneasily at the cloaked figure. A few flecks of snow slip into his body and he shivers, the cold seeping through him as they melt underneath his surface. He doesn’t recognize the riverperson, although they are bobbing serenely on a small boat and that had always been River’s mode of transportation in Snowdin. “Tra la la,” the figure says again and he realizes that they do not sound like River at all. Their words seem to click rather than float, as if their concealed face features very many teeth. “Those who know nothing must be sensible, for those who know everything are often otherworldly. Do you know nothing or everything?”

He shrugs and the robed person nods their head as if he has given them a perfectly valid response. Then they pose another question to the clearing at large. “Am I the riverman or the riverwoman? Does it really matter?” They take a moment to reflect on this, then comment “I love to ride on my boat. Would you like to join me? It is only a little ways to Hotland.”

He nods with some trepidation. The Riverperson slides back to allow him some space and the scuttling sound coming from beneath their robes reassures him that they are corporeal enough to steer their boat, although he sees no steering mechanism.

When he is settled, he looks to the Riverperson. They look ahead down the river and he follows their gaze. If he squints, he can see the Waterfall caves ahead. Riverperson begins to hum a jaunty little tune. Someone barks.

The prow of the boat, although it had been solid and serviceable wood moments before, twists as if it is made out of putty. He had not given any thought to the figurehead prior to stepping aboard, but now he takes a step back. A doggish face peers at him with eyes made of knots in the grain. He definitely does not recall that feature on any of River’s boats. The dog’s eyes rove over him, then it faces forward again.

The boat lurches and he stumbles, grabbing onto the prow as the boat rises away from the shore. He has only a moment to wonder at the practicality of a levitating boat before they’re off. Snowdin rocks by them and when Wingdings turns back, he sees water splashing up behind them. Curious, he kneels on the the deck, peering over the side. The boat has legs. It is running on top of the water. River’s boat definitely did not do this. He hangs on for dear life, watching the world rocket by. Trees turn to glowing flora and that then shrivels when met with Hotland’s relentless heat. The dog-boat starts to slow, trotting down the river as if it is taking a leisurely evening stroll.

The Riverperson turns to him and says genially “Beware the man who speaks in hands.”

He takes a moment to stare at them. “Excuse me?” he signs, rather at a loss for words and more than a little offended.

The Riverperson is unashamed, nodding at his hands as if he’s proved their point. “He must beware the one from the other world, the inbetweener.”

Wingdings is unsure why Hotland’s lighting makes nonsense always sound so sinister, but a chill ripples through him. The River he knew was always right, one way or another. He doesn’t intend to challenge anything they might say. “Do you mean the dog?”

“Dog? No. The dog was a gift.” The Riverperson pats the prow of the boat. “A saving grace. A friend, perhaps.”

He poses the question to them twenty different ways, chasing them around the confines of the boat as it skips over the water’s surface. Then he gives up, clapping a hand to his face. Apparently, cloaked or uncloaked, riverpeople are all the same. When they don’t want to discuss something, they give very unsatisfactory and evasive answers.

He returns to his place at the boat’s side and flinches when he sees the bloody handprint he’s left on the boat’s edge. He does his best to wipe it away with his arm but when he comes very close to absorbing the boat itself, he gives up and covers his face. Then he realizes that there is now dog blood on his face and starts rubbing at that.

“Worry not about the boat,” the Riverperson tells him, leaning over his body as if their own form is boneless. “The boat appreciates the blessing of the dog.” He stops rubbing at his face, looking up at them. The shadows around their face clear just a little and he thinks that just for a second, he sees a small smile. Then they draw away, scuttling to the prow again.

“Do you know the dog?” he asks, standing and crossing to them.

“The dog knows everyone! And we all know of the dog. Captor or savior? Enemy or friend? Is it all subjective? Can you be both?” The Riverperson sounds as if they are mocking him. Somehow he finds it familiar. Then they look at his hand and he can hear the distaste in their voice as they say “We are surrounded by water. Get rid of that.” He turns it over, looking at the blood still wet on his palm.

Even in Hotland, the river water is freezing. Especially when he leans down to touch it and they’re moving so fast that he winds up getting ice cold spray in the face. Riverperson just laughs at him, even when he takes a moment to flick water at them, mouth twisting as he tries to keep from laughing himself.

“My stop,” he tells them when they pull up to the dock. The dog-boat sinks until its legs are no longer visible above the water and pulls up tightly to shore. It could be just another boat if its dopey smile and panting breath didn’t give it away as something a little more magical in nature. He disembarks, waving.

“Thank you for your patronage!” the Riverperson chirps. “Goodbye, W.D.!”

His head whips around on his neck, but the boat is already standing and zipping away. The question trembles on his fingers with nowhere to go. They know his name. He hadn’t introduced himself, had he? And they aren’t River; he is sure of that. Irritation swells as he tries to rationalize it away. Riverpeople always know strange things, don’t they? As he stalks up the steps into the main cavern, he finds that he can’t remember.

Alphys’s laboratory is here. He must have been visiting. Must he? No, that can’t be right. Yes, He Would Like To Visit The Laboratory Very Much. He shakes his head and hooks a finger in one of his eye sockets, trying to think. He had been going to see the laboratory for something, not for a visit, although he would like to see how Alphys is getting on. He sets a hand against his face, eyeing the laboratory door. Oh! Yes! He had been coming to the laboratory! How he forgets these things he’ll never know.

He counts two hundred and four seconds before the door to the laboratory opens. Alphys has been gathering her courage on the other side of the door for about one hundred of those seconds. He continues to make a knocking motion for a second or two before he registers that there is no longer a door there and looks down. “H-hi-!” Alphys squints up at him, just realizing he’s not who she had been expecting. “Doctor Gaster?” she ventures. “Are you alright?”

For a second, he has no idea what she’s saying. The cloudy feeling has descended over him again as if the empty space in his skull has been stuffed full of cotton. Then he remembers and he rather wants to turn around and go back to the boat. He had been able to think there. Instead he asks Alphys to let him in. He asks again when she doesn’t move and continues to look at a point an inch to the left of his eyes. Alphys has a bit of a problem with eye contact, but there’s no need to stare.

“You, uh, is that… Um?” She points to her own face. He touches his own and grimaces at the red on his fingers. He doesn’t know how that got there. He hopes it’s ketchup, although when he had ketchup, he doesn’t know. It’s-

The dog. The window. The blood. “Doctor Alphys, let me in.” He has no idea if she understands anything he’s just said, but she steps aside. He takes a step forward, then his way is blocked by a mound of yipping fur, almost as tall as he is. Even though Endogeny has no teeth to menace with, is, in fact, the opposite of menacing right now, he still jumps.

“Whoa! H-hey! Sorry, Doctor Gaster, they’ve been a little wound up since Frisk got to them. Endogeny, down!” The dog stops trying to leap on him and gives Alphys a look that manages to be betrayed while not relying on the dog having any facial features to speak of. She grabs them under their front set of legs and drags them backwards as if they are an oversized stuffed animal. Its remaining four legs trail, but its tail thumps happily on the tile. Wingdings follows the strange little party into the laboratory. “Fr-Frisk pulled some Determination out of them, I think, and now they’re all cuddly. I- I think they’re excited.” As soon as Alphys releases the dog, it scrabbles back onto its feet and zooms straight back to him, leaping up and planting its front feet on his shoulders. The void of its face is level with his own face.

Alphys laughs. “S-sorry. They m-must really like you.”

“Quite alright,” he laughs. He Laughs And Laughs. What Abominations. What? He Didn’t Do That? Why Not? His laughter cuts off as he cringes. A headache has caught him, but it’s alright. He remembers. “Alphys, I must go down to the laboratories. There is something of mine down there.”

She tilts her head. “Oh! Here, I’ll get you your-“ Someone taps on Gaster’s arm. Mrs. Drake hands him a pad, her feathers trailing through his arms. “Th-thanks, Mrs. Drake! Now you just need a-“ His other arm receives a touch and he reaches across himself to take the pencil from the birdlike amalgamate. Unlike the others, the bird is unformed and has to keep jerking its head to keep from dripping little bits of itself all over. “O-oh. Thank you, Reaper Bird. Um. S-so, what were you saying?”

He writes it for her. “Sure, you can! I mean, M-memoryhead- they were my lab assistants- is still down there, b-but everyone else is up here! So, you won’t be bothering anybody! I mean, j-just don’t g-go looking for them, I guess.” She blushes. “N-not that you’re a bother at all!”

“Frisk pulled Determination from them?” he asks now that permissions have been dealt with.

“From Endogeny and Mrs. Drake.” Alphys nods. “Mrs. Drake has feathers. Endogeny’s, well, more doggish.”

Endogeny pants by Wingdings’s feet and he bends down to pat it. It does have fur now instead of just slime. Even more of a surprise is the variation of lengths and patterns in its fur. It looks like a quilt; fitting, considering that it is made up of the entirety of the old Canine Unit. The fur is even soft. He rotates the shoulder of his useless arm, considering. If Frisk had done the same with him, why was his arm useless and Endogeny was in complete control of itself? He poses the question to Alphys, as she is the resident Determination expert.

“Uh, I’d n-need more t-t-tests,” she explains. “Determination is t-tricky.”

He pats her on the shoulder as he passes, heading for the elevator. He Snaps Her Neck. Ignorant Little Twit. Look At Her, Pretending To Be A Royal Scientist. He Scoffs And Drops Her Body On The Floor. Garbage. What? He Didn’t Do That? W h y N o t ? He closes his eyes in pain, but jabs at the down button on the elevator. When the doors open, he steps in. He catches Alphys’s eye as the doors close and panics a little. She looks, not worried, but confused. If he disappears in the laboratories, she won’t know why. She’ll blame herself. He lunges forward too late. The doors have closed. Going down.

He paces around in the elevator. He knows that this is the right course to take. He knows that. Then why is he so frightened? He knows these laboratories like the back of his hand. He practically lived here when he graduated college, while he was going to college even. He hates the elevator. It’s Too Slow. So Slow. He’s in no hurry. He Must Hurry. He flattens himself to the wall. Why is he thinking like this? The headache is stronger.

The doors open with a hollow ding. It sounds like a summons to whatever is down here in this badly-lit basem*nt. He remembers that Alphys had said there was another Amalgamate down here. He had never met this Memoryhead, but if they are as friendly as the others, he supposes he has nothing to worry about but them startling him. His breathing is too quick, too frightened. He pops his knuckles, pulling and cracking his joints. There Is Nothing To Be Scared Of Down Here. He half-smiles. There's nothing to be scared of down here. Next thing he knows, he’ll be rattling his bones like a frightened toddler. Wingdings enters the True Laboratory.

The doors close behind him with an air of finality. He has made his choice.

Gathering his courage, he moves forward into the darkness, listening for any sound that might signal the approach of a curious Amalgamate. He does not wish to be taken by surprise, not down here, where a chill creeps up what remains of his spine and his soul trembles like a mouse. He calls out a garbled greeting, hoping to fill the silence with the sound of his voice, hoping to alleviate the nerves that twist at his innards.

Instead he hears someone calling back. “Anyone want to lend an ear?” And the room is crammed with people, scientists in white laboratory coats, a school trip with their teacher, even the king rushes past him. He blinks and they’re gone again. It could be possible that they never existed. It could be possible that he’s losing his mind in a long-abandoned laboratory.

Once upon a time, Wingdings Gaster might have been called brave. He forged his own paths, protected those he loved fiercely, went to extraordinary lengths to obtain knowledge. But this Wingdings Gaster is a shadow of that one. He is tired and frightened and very badly wants to just give up and go home. Home. But home is where his sons are, home is eleven years ago. He can’t leave without his memories of them.

So he soldiers on. There has to be something here. He knows without a doubt that he’s in the right place.

There’s a click, like claws on tile. He turns back towards the elevator. It hasn’t gone anywhere. As if he is moving through quicksand, he turns back around. The click comes again, just down the hallway. What had Alphys said about Memoryhead? That they were her laboratory assistants? They must know the way around here. He’s afraid he’s quite forgotten it. So he follows the clicking as it moves away from him. They seem to be in no hurry, meaning that he can easily catch up. He Has To Catch It.

He pursues them into the labyrinthine laboratory, following the sound they make as they walk. But as he follows, it seems as if his coat flaps behind him, that doors swing open invitingly, that papers spill out of his arms. Voices call names over his head, requesting input, advice, audiences. If he focuses on these things, they fade, but the clicking is ever louder, moving away from him, so he cannot stay in this lively ghost town of half-forgotten memory. He Has To Catch Them.

He rushes past a room filled with dusty children’s books and hears the scientists’ young shrieking as they outwit their caretakers. When he stumbles, he catches himself on a doorframe and suddenly finds himself staring down a well-lit lecture hall, crammed with monsters. None of them have faces. From the door, he stares at the symbols on the chalkboard until they and their audience disappear. The clicking rattles around his head and He Has To Follow.

Wingdings chases the sound into an office. As papers materialize on the desk and the lights fade on, he recognizes it as his own. Three figures dash around within, lab coats flying. One, a woman, seizes on another, trying to adjust his lapels as if he is her wayward young. She has no face and the image has no sound, but he knows her words: “Look sharp, Winnie,” laughed as the young man before her swats her ministrations away. He knows that the man will respond with “Look sharp? How can I possibly look sharp when I can’t find my glasses?” All three freeze very suddenly, their bodies halted. As if they are machinery, they begin to turn towards the doorway. He flees without prompting from the clicking this time, not wanting to see his own face.

The amalgamate leads him down hallways and through doors and into rooms that are simultaneously crowded and as silent as the grave. Then they increase their pace, running away from him now, flying. The walls go on forever down here, a twisting claustrophobic maze. He doesn’t remember it ever being this big. Follow Me.

When the pressing need to follow vanishes, he is standing before a desk, gasping for a breath that is slow in coming. This office has been untouched by both Alphys and whatever manic spirit has been turning back time. The top of the desk is littered with dusty papers and pens and before it is an overturned chair. He bends down to right it and he’s sitting in a chair that is far too short, his knees practically tucked up against his chest, his bones rattling as his superior turns around to look at him. The chair clatters to the floor, jolting him out of the memory.

This had been the Royal Scientist’s office. He would be delighted that he remembers that if he wasn’t overwhelmed with the urge to turn himself back around and get out of here before she finds him. Wingdings forces a chuckle, leaning down to right the chair again, this time with no memory attached. Judging by the state of this place, she is long gone, hopefully retired to her Waterfall home.

He crosses around to stand behind the desk, rattling the locked drawers and examining the papers. Some of it is just notes in a precise hand, but as he flicks through, the writing begins to deteriorate. A different style begins to appear out of the ruins of the old, a spidery, horribly familiar script. He seizes on the sheet, scanning the contents. One word, looped over and over, the S’s curling into the W’s, the S’s curling into the W’s. His name, over and over and over again in his own handwriting.

“Good Morning. Webdings, Is It?”

“Uh, Wingdings Gaster, Doctor Mnemosyne.”

“Please, Call Me Quinn. Do Sit Down, Wingdings.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, ma’am.”

“Quinn, Wingdings. Quinn.”

“Quinn. Now, about my concern. I believe someone has stolen my blueprints.”

“Have They Now?”

The memory fizzles out and he finds himself methodically tearing the paper to strips, cutting his name perfectly in half across the horizontal. In a daze, he makes himself drop the paper, watching the strips flutter to the desk. There’s the clicking sound again, so close, but no one is in the room with him unless they are completely invisible. Something touches his more solid hand and he swats at it with the responsive one, jumping backwards. His back collides painfully with a bookshelf.

He screeches, his voice static and mud, pulling a face as he edges away from the offending object. Tucked in his unresponsive hand is a scrap of paper. He tugs it out of his half-curled fingers. Memoryhead, written in his own handwriting again. The name of the amalgamate.

He sets the paper down on the desk. He should leave this office. There’s no reason he would have left any memories here. He’ll check the others. He Will Not Check The Others. He Should Stay Here. He goes to walk around the desk and something gives his solid arm a sharp tug.

It has somehow gotten caught in the desk drawer. Odd. He had tried that drawer just a moment before and it had been locked. Curiously, he pries his fingers out, leaning in for a look.

There’s a hand in there.

His brain catches up a split second later, when he has already pressed himself against the far wall in horror. It had not been a real hand. Indeed, when he ventures back to investigate, he finds that it is composed of hard shiny plastic, like the hand of a child’s toy. The amount of joints it possesses is astounding, especially if it had been a simple plaything. But, if it had been a toy, then the size of it would make no sense. Even a boss monster child would be too small to play with this doll. He reaches in and lifts it out, turning it over in his hand. Then he sets it aside. In the drawer there is something else. Papers. Blueprints. He unfolds them. His blueprints, for the CORE. He remembers drawing them. But there are notations here he didn’t make. This isn’t simply an energy source anymore, it’s a-

The clicking sound happens again. The room picks up the echo of it. It’s in here with him. He thinks suddenly of a study he had read on echolocation. He had read of some animalistic monsters who had used it to figure out their locations. In nature, the blind or those with weak vision used it to find prey by emitting a noise that would reflect back to it.

He flicks the plastic of the hand. It makes a hollow tock sound rather than a click. Perhaps a clock? No, that would tick rather than click. It had sounded so much different. Like claws or teeth.

He had thought it was an amalgamate. Amalgamates slosh. Endogeny was not much more than a puddle before Frisk got to it. What could click? What could click?

Bone. He hears the click again and this time looks at his left hand, the only hand that could be the most like bone. The fingers tremble. Then click together.

The light drains from the room. The pieces snap into place, one by one. Snap. He had not fallen into the CORE alone and he had not left it alone. Snap. Mnemosyne means memory. Snap. The Royal Scientist never left.

Memoryhead fills the doorframe, staring in at him with eyes that drip down her several faces like egg yolk. Where would a memory hide but inside a memory monster? How had he missed that?

Her bulbous eyes blink slowly. Her body is a thick mass of dripping magic and there is little form to it. She is far bigger than him, bloated with Determination she could not handle and memories she did not make, both stolen. She has him cornered and has had him cornered since he stepped into the laboratory. There is no reason for her to rush. He is a caged mouse in a snake’s company.

“Doctor Mnemosyne,” he manages. The hesitant movement of his hands diverts the attention of all her eyes.

“Do That Again,” she commands, staring expectantly at his fingers. He pulls at the joints, popping and cracking them in fear.

Then he spells his name.

A smile splits her lowermost face in half and he expects her to crumple like a balloon, fetid air whooshing out of the opening in her face to freedom as the rest of her deflates. Instead she laughs and his entire body recoils. Her voice is fingernails scraping their gradual way down a chalkboard, setting his teeth on edge and his hands to curling around his head.

“Wingdings Gaster,” she sighs and the sound of his name strangles him. “I Thought So.” Her mouth opens wide and she lunges for him.

…

Sans turns and lunges back down the stairs, slamming into Grillby’s stomach like a cannonball. The photo album digs into his breastbone as the two go tumbling back down the stairs. Grillby lands hard on his back. Groaning, he tries to sit up, only for Sans to grab his hand and roll them both over to the side, away from the stairs.

“If this is some insane skeleton courtship ritual, I am outlawing it right now,” Grillby tells him. Sans hisses something and Grillby falls silent. Under the cataracts on Sans’s eyes, a muted blue light sparks a moment before going out. “Sans?” He sits up and Sans slides backwards until he’s sitting against Grillby’s knees. “Sans?”

“grillbz, be quiet!”

There’s something slopping down the stairs. Grillby would think it was simply a slime, but there’s a weight to each step that slimes lack. His flame sputters, burning low. Whatever is approaching, he doesn’t like it. He reaches out, trying to read the approaching entity, and finds nothing. Sans’s soul is a quiet fire and he can read the exhaustion off it as easily as if he was looking into Sans’s face. But the thing coming down the stairs is completely hollow. There’s no soul to pull into battle, no level of violence anywhere to be found, no magic. He can’t even find a conscious.

Sans has frozen, listening so intently that he might just be a statue. Then he stands, pulling Grillby up with him. “don’t let it touch you.”

The elglitch enters the basem*nt. It’s doglike, like the creature Sans and Frisk had described seeing that first night. It’s also sparking, bright green sparks that hiss out of its face.

Sans presses himself to the back wall and creeps toward the stairs. Grillby stays put. If he doesn’t move, the creature might think that the firelight is simply lamplight. Sans never said they were intelligent. He doesn’t realize that Sans has come back towards him until something grabs his sleeve. He doesn’t speak, Grillby doesn’t move, but neither gives in to the other’s inaudible argument. If Grillby moves, he might give their location away. If Sans leaves, Grillby will be alone with the elglitch.

It finds them.

Its attention is a vortex, pulling Grillby’s attention, pulling his spirit. It has nothing of its own, so it wants to take what is his. His fear, his frustration. It likes it. Sans has gone completely rigid, fingers pulling at the corners of his eye sockets like he would rip himself in half if only he could.

But Grillby reaches for his friend. And he refuses to give in.

A jab of his fist forward and a gout of fire bursts from his knuckles like a shockwave. The momentary light illuminates the hollows where the creature should have eyes. The sight snaps Grillby to attention.

He grabs Sans under the arms, hearing the brief cough as the air is squeezed out of him, and bolts up the stairs. The elglitch pounds after him. The open door seems to bounce down towards them.

Then they’re out.

The elglitch lunges out of the basem*nt, roaring.

Grillby kicks it full in the face. The force and heat of the kick knocks it backwards with a tail of smoke like a comet. He hears it crack as it falls against the door.

Its face is smoking as it sits up and the smell is one of burning wire. The side of Grillby’s sensible black boot has been burnt off his foot. He’ll have to replace them. He hadn’t expected to get in a fight, and so these boots are waterproof, not fireproof.

He releases Sans and the skeleton lands neatly on his own two feet. They have not been brought into a real fight, for neither of their souls are involved in combat. Something that doesn’t have a soul probably can’t engage in honorable combat. He has a suspicion that Sans’s soul couldn’t handle it anyway.

Now the elglitch is stalking back and forth in front of the basem*nt, as if it expects them to try and go back inside. In the light, it looks more like James the ice wolf. Grillby watches it pace. If they just left, would it attack them?

Curiously, he takes a step back. The elglitch is upon him, teeth bared in a dented grin.

A snowball slits open its cheek. Grillby recognizes the work. Sans used to make those kinds of snowballs when sparring with Papyrus. Skeletons are much less likely to be cut and a little ice packed into a projectile makes it less resistant to breaking apart. .

The elglitch whirls on Sans, who aims with the utmost of care. The next two snowballs tear open the thing’s dry black nose. Just because Sans is blind doesn't mean he's lost complete possession of himself. Fluid oozes from the cuts. If not for the color, Grillby would think it was oil.

He slams a foot down into the ground, sending a wave of fire forward through the earth. As he had hoped, the action distracts the elglitch’s attention, which locks on him like a machine. The jaw unlocks with an audible click, as if it truly is made up of whirring gears and sparking metal. An unholy rattle emerges from the darkness behind its teeth.

A fireball slams straight into its chest. It stumbles backwards and a snowball bursts apart on the back of its head.

Something snaps like kindling and it yowls, in a voice like rot, “You will regret this!”

Sans’s next snowball is thrown with much more venom and Grillby has to step back a few paces to avoid it. The skeleton has missed the creature completely, despite having had perfect accuracy up until this point.

A match is struck in Grillby’s head. Information. If the thing can speak, if it is not just parroting speech, they can talk to it. It may clear up a few of the mysteries here.

Pain flares straight through his shoulder as it knocks him down, taking advantage of his momentary distraction. He flares white, driving a fist down into the center of the creature’s head. Its jaw only locks tighter on him although the heat he’s giving off in panic must be burning it. He can smell it burning. Snow showers him, another snowball, and he screams. The feeling of tiny frost burns makes the immense cold of the thing’s teeth seem even worse. He strikes at it again, burning brighter. Its teeth are tightening on him. It’s going to bite off his arm.

Footsteps pound against the ground. Sans is saying something, he can see his face with the sparking and dying blue eye, he can feel Sans shoving at the creature and only driving its teeth deeper. There’s a persistent sound rattling around Grillby’s head. Like drums. Or barking.

The creature’s head wrenches back and through blurry eyes, Grillby can see an arm around its throat. Rather than being in a blue sweatshirt however, the arm is clad in black robes. “(In the name of King Asgore Dreemurr, I demand you present your soul for honorable combat or else surrender yourself!)” yips Dogaressa as she seizes on the elglitch’s ears.

Sans shoves himself under it, fingers worming into the space between its mouth and Grillby. Its teeth leave his shoulder with a wet squelch. It tries to go for Dogaressa, but she nicks it smartly with her axe blade and whirls it away from her. “(Good evening, Grillby! A little dog told us that it smells horrible here and I must agree!)”

“Indeed! Nothing like dog or bones or fire!” Dogamy darts out of the way of the spinning elglitch and reiterates Dogaressa’s ultimatum. “Surrender it is then!” he yelps as the creature tries to take a bite out of him next. The smell of wet dog is overpowering as he then brings three manifested axes down around the elglitch, caging it in.

“(Nasty,)” Dogaressa hums, touching her nose to the tear in Grillby’s shoulder. His flame is burning white in pain. The elglitch’s teeth had sunken through the layer of fire right into the molten rock that makes up the rest of him. He’s going to have some dents there.

“grillbz, are you-“

“I’m fine,” he mumbles. “’Ressa, could you please?”

“(If you’re certain!)” There’s the distinct smell of smoking fur as Dogaressa sniffs at the wound. Her magic is slow and hesitant. Grillby winds his fingers in the pocket of his coat, trying to ignore it. Foreign healing magic always puts Grillby on edge and the Dogi know this. His own magic is so warm that everyone else’s feels numbing and cold by extension. The feeling of it is occasionally worse than the scrapes he suffers, but in this case, he’d prefer the tingling cold. Still, Grillby focuses on Dogamy’s leaping and whirling antics, trying to pretend that the cold seeping through his shoulder from Dogaressa’s hands isn’t painful.

“Hup! Hup! Hup!” the dog barks as the elglitch shrieks. It has its only hand sticking out of the space and is trying desperately to catch Dogamy on its needle-sharp claws. As Grillby’s vision clears, Dogaressa catches up her axe again.

“(Sans, dear, would you give us a hand?)”

Sans taps his head against Grillby’s, then points his fingers at his eyes. “sorry, ‘ressa. i’d throw you a bone, but i can’t reach my magic right now. i can give you a tip though. this thing doesn’t have a soul to surrender.”

“(How dreadful,)” Dogaressa yips. “(But not unexpected, is it, pookie?)”

“Not at all, snooku*ms,” Dogamy calls back, landing and returning to her side. Their tails wag as they touch noses. “And (it makes it much easier),” they say in harmony. Their feet shuffle through the snow as they fall into old positions.

Dogamy’s axe barrier drops and, in perfect unison, twin axes whiz from the dogs’ paws to lodge firmly in the elglitch’s legs just below the knee. It wails. Dogamy blows Dogaressa a ring of heart-shaped bullets in a kiss. She winks back at him as the elglitch is caught in the ring. It constricts around the creature, which grabs at the bullets recklessly. It will kill itself if he lets them attack it and they will be left even more in the dark.

Grillby throws out a fire shield. It’s more wavering than normal when directed with his left hand, but it blocks the bullets.

“(Grillby, what are you doing?)” barks Dogaressa.

“Information,” he manages, getting back to his feet with only minor protests from his shoulder. Although healing magic can often reignite the flame layer of his ‘skin,’ the molten rock underneath is still broken and will need time. “We know nothing.”

“Then ask,” hisses a sibilant voice. Even the elglitch’s words remind Grillby of cold and damp and he shudders a moment before advancing. Sans stays at his side, his expression guarded as they approach the void that is the elglitch’s presence.

Dogamy whines softly and Dogaressa growls, but they both step aside. Their bullets remain spinning however, a warning that should the elglitch attack, they will have no qualms about destroying it.

“Who sent you?”

“He knows. Fly away home, little ladybug,” the elglitch coughs. It was not made for speaking. Its teeth rasp and its empty mouth holds no organs made for speech. Still, the meaning of its words are clear and Grillby looks to Sans. The skeleton has pulled his hood up, his fingers twisted in the fur.

“What does that mean?” Grillby crackles, angry now. He’s sick of this. Sick of people knowing things he doesn’t.

“It means that you’re his last resort. He’s hiding behind you now, not his father, not the king, not his brother, not-” Grillby’s arm wrenches down and the shield drops. Dogamy and Dogaressa are too slow to stop their bullets and they crash straight into the elglitch, every single one of them. The ruined face freezes, waxy skin bloody blue from the magic’s light. Then it dissolves, not into grey dust, but into venomously green numbers that glitter like cold eyes.

Grillby shakes Sans’s hand off his arm. Part of him is relieved. The emptiness of the elglitch had been exhausting to be near. The Dogi even look thankful, nosing at each other in a comforting manner as they hum the dogsong. But a bigger part of him has the notion that Sans is trying to hide something, that he knows more than he’s saying. “What were you thinking? It could have told us everything!”

“but it wouldn’t.” Sans shakes his head empathetically. “it doesn’t give answers away for free.”

Grillby turns on the dogs next. “It wasn’t unexpected? You knew it wouldn’t have a soul?”

Dogamy hesitates, but Dogaressa nods. Both of their tails slide between their legs. “(We were warned.) It had the same scent as the one a few nights ago. (No doubt there will be more.) No doubt there have been more. (It was too polished to be one of the first.)”

“What do you know about them?”

“(They follow.) They hunt. (They steal.) They kill. (And they first showed up thirty-five years ago with the Justice human.) They cause death wherever they go. (We had thought they had finally been hunted to extinction eight years ago. But they have reappeared.) Someone is calling them. (The fabric has been patched.) Sleeping dogs can no longer lie. (We shouldn’t say any more.) We should not be interfering.” A flurry of distant barking reaches them from a host of different canine voices and Dogamy and Dogaressa each lift an ear. “The others are calling. Something else is happening. (Goodbye, Grillby! Goodbye, Sans! Take care!) We are sorry we cannot say more. (Be safe.)”

“Thank you for your help.”

The dogs wag their tails happily, assured by his thanks that they are still good dogs. “Of course! (If we didn’t help the hand that feeds us) or the one that gives us pats, (we’d be bad, bad dogs.)” With that, they lope back towards the town.

“if you want answers, grillbz, get your raincoat. we’re going to waterfall.”

“Why?”

“we need to go see my old boss.”

For a split second, Grillby draws a blank as to why King Asgore would be in Waterfall. Then he remembers that Sans has had many jobs over the years and only one would make him as terse as this. “You think she has the answers?”

“usually does. she’s been around a while.”

“Can you handle this?”

“probably not. but that’s why i’m bringing you. you’re good at helping me handle things. and you want to know about this stuff more than i do.” Sans grins. He’s not happy about this any more than Grillby is. But they need answers and they can’t ignore that anymore.

“We don’t have any other options?”

“dogs don’t want to say any more. it’s a doggone shame, really. i’m not allowed to ignore my problems either, which is also a shame.” Sans sighs, shrugs, and reaches out. Grillby takes his hand.

The restaurant is very quiet when they return, making it harder to hide their own silence. Grillby roots around in his closet for his raincoat. He’s rather glad that Sans is blind at this point, because he’s forgotten how hideously yellow his waterproof ensemble is. At least his umbrella is cute, with its goofy firefly pattern. Some aunt in Hotland had gotten it for him when she’d heard he wanted to keep living in Snowdin. He twirls it over his shoulder as he jams his hat onto his head. Honestly, what had possessed him to get the whole slicker set in yellow?

“grillbz?” Sans’s head pokes up above the top stair. He’s returned the coat to the coatrack.

“Coming,” he answers, pulling on his raincoat.

When they step back outside, the Riverperson is waiting for them.

…

Wingdings flees, hoping with every fiber of his being that he can outrun the seething, frothing mass that once was Quinn Mnemosyne. The hallways again become a maze, shooting past him and seeming to double themselves before his very eyes. She’s in his head, she’s changing what he sees.

A flicker of memory flutters through his skull and he almost smiles in relief. If she’s in his head, he can be in hers. Two can play at that game. Manifested hands fly past him towards her and he doesn’t have to turn around to know that they’ve successfully poked her in her sticky eyes. Her screech of rage is all the confirmation he needs, plus the distraction forces the hallways back into focus. The experiment is a success. Despite her stolen memories, or perhaps because of them, Memoryhead is just as distractible as he himself is.

Another row of hands forms a blockade behind him as the Determination Extractor comes into view. He’s closer to the elevators than he had anticipated. He doesn’t even have a plan for stopping her.

The elevator dings cheerily, ignorant of his horror. “Doctor Gaster?” calls Alphys, her voice quavering. “Doctor Gaster? Did you find what you were l-looking for?”

Memoryhead screams as she runs into the blockade.

“Doctor Gaster?” And Alphys is running his way.

He heads in her direction, hoping to intercept her before she can see. They collide at the entrance to the Determination Extractor room. He steadies her and then Endogeny butts into his chest and he winds up on the ground with it.

The young scientist runs over to the blockade. “Doctor Gaster, what did you do to them?” she asks furiously, prodding the manifested hands. “I explicitly told you to- to not rile them up!”

“Alphys, don’t! She’s not your lab assistants!”

She, although still fuming, walks back to him to read the words on his notepad. “W-What are you talking about? I injected the D-Determination into them myself. I- I know who they are.”

“Alphys, that’s the Royal Scientist. Her name is Quinn Mnemosyne and you need to get very far away from her.”

“Al-phys,” Memoryhead whines, her voice a static cringe. Alphys obviously can’t understand her, taking out her phone and turning it on. Wingdings shivers when he hears her voice doubled, hissing plaintively through the speakers. The voice on the phone is much clearer and truly reminds him of the powerful woman the Royal Scientist had been. “Alphys, Let Us Out.” Alphys doesn’t seem to hear the calculation in her voice, the same cool tones she had once used on Wingdings when discussing the dissection of his children.

“Alphys, don’t,” he begs as she heads back to deconstruct his barrier.

Alphys hesitates, sparks snapping off her claws. Her expression is incomprehensible and, for a single moment, he believes she might tear down the blockade. But she muffles the sparks in her hand instead and comes back. “Wh-what makes you so sure?” she asks, burying her hand in Endogeny’s fur. The amalgamate coos as she scratches behind its ears, thumping two of its legs against the floor.

“Alllllphys,” drones Memoryhead again, annoyed by her hesitation. When Alphys just holds up one finger, the woman seethes, her body roiling and all her mouths stretching wide. “Alphys!” she snaps.

Alphys makes a point of making deliberate eye contact. “Mem, give me a minute please. You’re not s-suffering. I j-just want to h-hear out Doctor Gaster.”

“He’s No Doctor! He’s A Traitor To All Monsterkind!” roars Memoryhead, her body flying into pieces behind the barrier. One of her many faces slams against the hands, screaming wildly. Alphys steps back and Endogeny snarls, coiling around her as its fur prickles. “Plotting The Assassination Of The Royal Scientist, Depriving The World Of Her Genius! My Genius!”

The phone hits the tile with a clatter. “No no no no.” Alphys curls her claws around her face, staring through her fingers at the mass of hatred waiting behind the barrier. “If she’s not- Oh dog-“ Her scales have blanched. Endogeny, acting on visceral instinct, rushes the barrier, putting its front paws on it and barking fearsomely.

Memoryhead snarls, drowning out Endogeny’s voice as she rakes her dripping eyes over them. “What Is This? The Dog Guard Returning To Their Former Glory? How Could That Be?” The eyes lift to fix on Alphys, whose knees tremble. “Not By Your Hand, Of Course. You Have Never Done Anything Properly And Never Will.” Alphys gives a muffled scream and Wingdings realizes just how right his initial impression of her had been. How could the laboratories be anything but a cage when Memoryhead has been preying on Alphys’s insecurities the entire time?

He stiffens when Memoryhead turns her gaze on him. “Wingdings Gaster, Did You Have A Hand In All This Change?” A force presses on his head, the same exact force that she has been using on him this entire time, and he bites back a sound of his own as she rifles through his memories the same way she’d tear through a file cabinet in search of the correct folder. Frisk springs to mind, grinning happily as they reach out to hold the hand he’s manifested for them, and he tries desperately to clear his head, building as many barriers as he possibly can. If she sees Frisk-

Pain. She has discovered his attempts at subterfuge and savages them, peeling back his defenses to look into his mind.

Frisk’s face flits past, so close as they try to press his face back into shape, setting every nerve on fire as Determination bursts from their fingertips. Frisk’s face again, dribbling blood from their lip as they lose Determination to him, their damaged soul retaliating horribly. So That Is What They Can Do. I Had Heard About Their SOUL Ability, But It Is Stronger Than I Had Expected. How Wonderfully Useful. I Shall Have To Find Them.

He’s aware of Endogeny’s growl growing louder. Hazily, he thinks of the dog. If the memory it had given him was correct, all dogs are connected to it. The old Canine Unit would know evil when it saw it. He reaches back through the connection she has made and shoves that certainty through, the certainty that she is evil, the image of the dog. A pressure lifts from his head.

He lifts himself from the floor, wincing and pressing the palm of his hand into his eye socket. Memoryhead had turned his own trick against him, using misdirection to undo his tenuous magical abilities. She is advancing now, no longer confined by his barrier. Faces bubble up from the tile, seeping forward like toxic smog.

Lightning flashes, Endogeny’s voice like accompanying thunder. The faces melt away and Memoryhead startles.

Alphys steps in front of him and he looks up. The set of her shoulders is familiar, the way her hands have balled up into fists. Like her mother. The proximity of all his memories shifts in relation to his distance from Memoryhead. “Where are my lab assistants?” Alphys yells, nary a trace of a stutter in her anger. “What did you do to them?”

Memoryhead stills, tension coiling in her as she takes offense. “Laboratory Assistants? You Foolish Little Girl. Do You Truly Believe You Were Important Enough To Have Assistants?”

“My fr-friends then! Missy and Chancery and Angora! Where are they?” Memoryhead’s constant belittling of her dips her shoulders only a little, but Alphys had been a leader in other timelines, when things were bleakest. He can see a little of that leader in her now, refusing to back down even as her body trembles with sobs. The sight breaks his heart. The little girl he knew doesn’t deserve this. No one does.

“Perhaps They Escaped! They Received Enough Of Your Tainted Determination To Wake Up! They Left You Here As Soon As They Opened Their Eyes, Staggering Home As Far As They Could Before Their Legs Began To Melt. Imagine Their Fear!” Memoryhead cackles raucously.

Wingdings attacks. Forgoing magic, he simply balls up his fist and punches her in her middle face. The way her body caves around the blow would be impressive if not for the fact that her top eyes begin to glow with malevolence.

Her jaws unhinge like those of a snake and a hiss emerges from their depths, made worse by the fact that she’s using his voice to create it.

His nerves prickle and he roars back. She smells like rot and his mint. Her magic before had smelled sterile, like chemicals, but their tumble into the void has changed her the way it had him. While he has struggled back to life, she has pulled the void tighter around herself, reveling in her hatred.

“You Wretch,” she hisses. “Give Me My Life Back!” She grabs for him, gnashing her teeth. He just barely dodges, pulling a row of hands up from the floor and crowing in triumph as she bashes into them. Endogeny joins the fray, wagging its tail in a way that demonstrates its obvious love of violence. Memoryhead’s bone-like tail deals it a blow and it bursts apart like pollen.

Lightning strikes again and Memoryhead recoils as Alphys shakes out her wrist, brown eyes glinting behind her glasses. “G-give him his life back. That’s wh-what you t-took. You t-take lives through memories.”

“And You Fancy Yourself A Goddess, Do You Not? You Give Life To Those Who Should Have Passed Simply Because You Think You Have The Power. You Are An Affront To Nature.”

Alphys looks as if she has just swallowed her tongue and all her courage besides. “Th-th-th-“ she chokes. The fragments of Endogeny gather together again by her side and it presses its head into her hand as Wingdings leaps away from the hungry face-shaped attacks chewing through the floor. Another lightning bolt fries the face nearest him and it melts away. Alphys sets her jaw. “I did!” she answers Memoryhead. “I did my best and th-that wasn’t enough, was it? But, um! I saved them! And- and I’m going to fix all my mistakes! Wh-when this is over, you’re all going home. You’ll be happy again. I- I am sorry for the trouble I c-caused you, but you c-can’t t-take his l-life from him. He n-needs it.”

“I Need It, You Stupid Girl! I Deserve It! I Am Accomplished, I Am Brilliant! He Is A Spiteful Nobody From Snowdin Who Ruined Everything! Everything! I Can Avert The Coming Crisis! You Cannot! You Are Mere Children, Playing In The Dark With Entities You Cannot See! There Is Something Reaching For The Underground. Something We Knew Would Come Ages Ago. The Angel Will Come And The Underground Will Go Empty, The Dogs Said, And We Listened! We Never Considered That It Might Not Be An Angel At All!” Her words garble as her body liquefies a little more. “I Have Heard It Calling In The Night. I Turned Your Machine Into A Protection Against It, A Machine That Would Give Me The Knowledge To Defeat It. I Would Have Been Hailed As A Hero. All My Calculations Were Perfect. All I Needed Was A Sacrifice. You Would Have Been Wiped From Existence. No One Would Have Cause To Mourn A Boy From A No-Name Town On The Outskirts Of The Underground, And So They Would Not Remember You. No One Would Have Been Harmed In The Activation Of The CORE Because You Would Never Have Existed. How Perfect It All Was.” Her voice is dreamy.

“And Then You Ruined It. You Reached Out And Murdered Me. Suddenly, We Were Both Gone. It Would Not Have Been So Offensive If History Had Remembered Me The Way It Should Have, But The Way We Fell Altered Everything. History Remembers You As The Royal Scientist. And It Erased Me.” Her voice grows cold and perfect in its rage. “It should have been you,” Quinn Mnemosyne spits before static consumes her once more. “I Deserve To Take Everything From You That You Took From Me.” She advances so slowly, so deliberately, that Wingdings does not notice, hypnotized by her rendition of events he barely remembers.

Then she swallows him. Her body had lost most of its form during her speech and so she melts easily into him, turning two separate individuals into one in a way that is horribly, terribly familiar to Alphys, so much so that she doesn’t react fast enough. Endogeny does. With a howl, it leaps. Its teeth tear at the new form and the amalgamate of Doctor Gaster and Doctor Mnemosyne wails in two voices. “No no no, Doctor Gaster!” Alphys cries.

The amalgamate’s eyes glint green in response to her horror. “AlpHys,” they whimper in a voice that must be Gaster’s. “AlPhYs, ALphYS, PleAse. I CaN’T-“

Before he can finish, the thing tosses their head back and laughs in Mnemosyne’s cold tones “By All MeAns, DoCTor AlphYs, TrY To HeLP Him! I Could Use A GooD LauGH!” Fat tears begin to trickle down their face and they bend their head, wrapping too many pairs of arms around themself. “I Just LOVE DeTERMInation. ThAt FoRM HaD AbiLITIES ThaT Made All ThIS Too WonDERFUlly PoSSible. Oh, LiTTLe GiRL, WoULD YoU LiKE To Join The FuN? I Do NoT BeliEVE YoU ARE QuITE DeTERMined EnOUGH, HoWEVER. WhAT A ShamE.” They raise their head, looking at her through maddened eyes. “StiLL, A NeW SacrIFICE For The CORE CoUld Be NecESSARY. I NeVER ReceIVED My KnoWLEDGE FroM The Other Worlds, After ALL.” Their hands, some with fingers fused together, claw at their face, pulling the matter there like taffy until it hangs independently of their form. Doctor Gaster is trying to slow her down. Endogeny doubles back to Alphys, skittering away from the form of the doctors.

Alphys has never seen a monster behave like this, not even in her textbooks, not even when the Amalgamates first formed. They were confused, not angry, not vengeful. She holds out her hand and snaps her fingers, shaking in a way that undermines the authority of the pose. A few sparks flicker off her claws. She shakes her wrist out as the abomination staggers towards her, matter sloughing off its form like a snakeskin. Fear is a hard knot in her throat. Of all the ways she thought she would die, it never would have happened like this. It never would happen like this. Not when she’s starting to make a friend, not when Undyne’s finally noticed her, not when Frisk needs her. She didn’t want to go like this. A few more sparks die on her fingertips. Just accept it, Alphys, she thinks bitterly. You weren’t using this life anyway.

Something leans against her legs, Endogeny giving her support. Her hands stop shaking just enough. Hollowly, she snaps her fingers one last time and lightning flashes, dazzling them all. When the lightshow fades, the amalgamation on the floor makes a strangled noise, caught between a cheer and a scream. Her lightning bolts have woven an electrified dome over it and it has to press itself to the tiles to keep from being electrocuted.

She stares dumbly for a moment, her mind trying to fill in the blanks. “O-oh my gosh,” she mumbles. “I d-did it?” Then she catches up. There’s no time for celebration. She has to separate the both of them. What would Undyne do? She winces, picturing Undyne with a spear at the ready. She probably won’t do that. When she thinks of Mettaton’s reaction, the response isn’t much better; just replace Undyne with Mettaton and a spear with a chainsaw. What would Frisk do? Frisk would consider. Frisk would ask her what she would do.

So Alphys has to think quickly. Determination. That’s the root of all this trouble. If she hadn’t been experimenting with it, Memoryhead might never have come into being. She almost stops there, but Endogeny whines and pushes its head into her hand. She crouches and scrunches its ears. If she hadn’t experimented with Determination, Endogeny wouldn’t be alive. Her fingers rub at the softness of the fur on Endogeny’s short ears. Frisk did that. Frisk pulled Determination from Endogeny and made it into more of the people it used to be.

Alphys slowly looks up. Somehow, she finds herself ensconced in serenity, turning thoughts over and over in her head. Like a promise of doom, the Determination Extractor hangs over all their heads. She has never liked it. But perhaps, this time it can serve another purpose. Frisk isn’t here to be gentle and Alphys has never claimed to be anything more than a screw-up. If her method of fixing things is more painful or horrible than Frisk’s, she won’t be surprised in the least. But she has to try and there is no time for tests.

“Stay,” she commands. “Guard.”

Endogeny barks an affirmative and begins to prowl around the captive amalgamate. She’ll have to call it away from the site before she activates the Extractor. She really doesn’t know what this will do, if it even works.

Her hands shake as she slides open the panel. The touchscreen lights up her face, glinting off her glasses. The code keys in, the machinery hums and whirs, and the Determination Extractor stretches into motion. She watches the great skull shape twitch and click its jaws. Although she knows that it’s just the machinery warming up and that it will stop in minute, it looks as if the Extractor is somehow alive, as if it has just woken up.

“Endogeny!” she calls and the amalgamate lopes to her side, wagging its tail. She gives it a scratch under its left ear. “Good dogs,” she praises. It hums and turns its lack of a face towards the form on the floor. There will be time for praise later. She’s stalling.

Alphys clears her throat loudly. “I- I’m giving you one last chance!” she says, almost dazzled by her own courage. She sounds like an anime heroine. Although she’s sure Mew Mew wouldn’t be shaking so much. When the amalgamate howls and claws at the tile, Alphys pushes up her glasses. “Mem, I’ll give you until, uh, the count of three! One! Two!”

The electrified dome falters as hands made of magic claw at it, curling fingers through the mesh. “Alphys, now!” yells Doctor Gaster. Memoryhead roars and Alphys throws the switch, a sleeve thrown over her eyes. The space behind her eyelids turns yellow. A woman screams, high and wordless and animal in its fury. Another voice, a man’s, comes up under hers, shrieking and crying out horribly. Endogeny slips from Alphys’s side. There’s a yelp. Alphys grabs for it, keeping her eyes squeezed shut, but her fingers pass only through air. The woman’s voice is consumed by static, the man’s by murk, but the dog guard begins to sing a slow refrain, as if it is singing them to sleep and not into separate beings. The other voices wail away into quiet and Endogeny’s voices echo. For a moment, the laboratory sounds as if it is filled with dog guards, all joined in mournful song. The song cuts off into a reverberant bark and Alphys pushes the switch back. The yellow glow retreats from her eyelids, leaving her in the dark.

When she opens her eyes, she panics before realizing that her glasses have fogged up from the heat. The fog lifts in seconds and there is nary a trace of Memoryhead to be found. There is, however, a thick pool of sludge that is absorbing all the light shone upon it. Endogeny sits proudly beside it. As Alphys watches, the sludge defies gravity, slithering up into the air and painstakingly picking out the form of Doctor Gaster. Endogeny lowers its head to sniff at his motionless form, then sneezes violently, the sound catching in its orifice and ringing around its head. It shakes itself over Doctor Gaster, then prances back to Alphys, wiggling itself and dancing.

She rushes past it, not giving a thought to the pats it so obviously wants. “Doctor Gaster?” she asks, falling to her knees next to the form. Her hand hovers just above his shoulder. Some of the amalgamates can take different shapes and she has been surprised one too many times by Mrs. Drake accidentally turning herself into a fridge. Her fingertips crackle with leftover energy.

Doctor Gaster stirs, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He blinks twice, then his eyes travel over to her with such a strange look that she’s even more uncertain as to his identity. “Doctor Gaster?” she tries again. “Are you okay?”

He frowns, the crack in his face turning completely upside down. His hands cast about on the floor, tapping his fingers. Endogeny’s nails click in reply as it trots up, dropping Gaster’s pad onto his chest. It starts to sink in before he rescues it. He gestures at the dog, scratching with one finger at the pad.

Alphys recognizes the gesture and pulls a pencil from the pockets of her lab coat. He plucks it from her fingers. As he writes with one hand, he pushes himself into a sitting position with the other. Then, with an expression of glee, he flexes the fingers as if they’ve only just started working. When he’s situated, he turns the pad around. “I am glad,” the pad says. “I am so glad I got to see you be as brilliant as we knew you were. Thank you, Alphys.” His hands are like ice when she takes them to help him stand. Endogeny does its wriggling dance again, shuffling around them like a shepherd guiding its flock.

A thought strikes Alphys hard and she drops Doctor Gaster’s hands as if they’ve suddenly become unbearably cold. She turns her focus inward, checking her soul for any excess violence points. If Memoryhead as truly dead and she had killed her, she should have wound up shouldering at least a level. But her level remains steady at one. “Doctor Gaster, you didn’t-?”

He shakes his head, manifesting his stats between two of his hands. He’s Level Two. Alphys flinches backward almost before she can stop herself. His real hands scribble frantically. “That’s from a very long time ago, Doctor Alphys. The magic that governs us has never considered Quinn’s trespasses as any fault of mine. She had plenty of dust on her own hands.”

“H-had? So, she’s, um-?” Endogeny nudges Alphys’s free hand, looking for attention, and it’s attention she gives it, reaching for its soul. The shape of the dog guard’s soul is more like a flower with five soul-shaped petals. The violence meter would be difficult to read, given that it’s five different meters crushed into one, but Alphys has become rather adept at reading strange things. Her eyes drop and she releases Endogeny’s soul. “She’s, uh, she’s-“

“I know. As soon as she began to separate from me, the dog attacked. You must have heard the dogsong.”

“D-dogsong?”

“The dogs do it when they kill. Granted, they also do it when one of them has won a sparring round, when they win a drinking contest, etc.”

“It’s a v-victory thing, then?” Alphys asks, as Endogeny pushes happily at her hand, sure now that it deserves praise.

“Undoubtedly. Shall we go upstairs? I don’t wish to remain down here.”

Alphys looks around the dark laboratory, then up at the Determination Extractor. She can’t quite stop a shudder of revulsion. “Okay. It’s a h-huge mess up there though.”

Doctor Gaster just grins as if saying that he believes he’s seen far bigger messes than that.

“O-oh, wait! I have to shut down the Extractor!” Alphys jogs back over to the wall panels and starts keying in the shutdown code. “It’d be really stupid of me to leave it running, huh?”

Doctor Gaster pads towards her, Endogeny clicking after him. Alphys keeps typing in the code, saying evenly “She had you, didn’t she?”

He makes a soft noise of curiosity.

“She had more of you than you had of you, was that it? I mean, a sheet of paper doesn’t rip perfectly in half naturally.” She presses the keypad back into the wall and turns. Doctor Gaster watches the Determination Extractor lose its light. Alphys almost repeats herself, but he shakes himself back into focus. His eye lights are clear and sharp.

“Nothing about that could have been called natural,” he writes drily. “You’re right though. She found an anchor in me that she used to crawl back into this plane. Our forced proximity enabled her to steal a great many things from me.”

“H-how? I mean, you should have been j-just as removed as she was. Do you m-mean the way history changed?”

“Should have. Those are the operative words. Things are very rarely as they should be, right? I was part of some very strange experiments about twenty-five years ago and what Quinn saw as my greatest failure kept her grounded here.” Alphys must look confused, for Gaster guides out his soul and shows her the holes punched through it. Unlike the canyons in Sans’s soul, his are neat and clean as if they were just cut out. On closer inspection though, the edges are ragged, like paper pulp. “Reverse amalgamation, if you would like,” says the pad, sliding in between her face and his soul.

“Sans and Papyrus,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Right?”

He beams and gives her two thumbs-up with his real hands. Hesitantly, she returns the gesture, smiling when his face lights up. “Right! The two of them and my memories formed a lifeline back home. A trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow back. Quinn could steal all of the latter, but she couldn’t steal my sons.” He laughs at her expression. “I am perfectly fine, Doctor Alphys. My soul is not shattered. It is simply missing a few parts. I’m actually surprised you don’t remember hearing this.”

“Why?”

He smiles. “In another universe, your mother and father were the best friends I had. They made me your godfather.” His smile folds uncertainly at the edges. “I am sorry for not being a better godparent.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Alphys pauses, looking askance at him as her claws twist together. “D-do you mean another universe literally, or…?”

He taps a finger in the air as if conducting a miniature orchestra. “That.” His pen underlines it twice. “That is a problem. I remember you. I saw you nearly every day for the first eleven years of your life. At least a ghost of those days should have lodged in your memory.”

Alphys hesitates. There is- there has always been something there. Weird things, little ones, like arguments she used to have with Sans. She used to fall into such familiar paths with him, as if they’d argued about the same topics for years. There was the fact that when she met Doctor Gaster, he had called her by name, and she had wanted to respond with a name she doesn’t know, a name she’s never known. If he’s right, she’s known him all along, she’s known all of them all along. She has to shake her head. But she doesn’t know. “Sorry to d-disappoint.”

“No, Doctor Alphys, you haven’t disappointed at all! You are just a part of a great big mystery!”

Despite herself, Alphys smiles. “I- I do like b-being a mystery.”

“Do you think the effect is widespread? Do your parents-? No, if you don’t remember me, I doubt they would. My sons initially didn’t remember me either. Sans recovered the memories very rapidly somehow and Papyrus seems to recall a little of his own, but then, he was very young when I disappeared. He may never remember me.” His mouth opens suddenly, lower jaw sagging as his eye lights dim. Then they spark back into life and green spirals out of the sockets in gorgeous patterns. Alphys steps back, bumping into the wall. “That’s it!” he scribbles. “I’m scattered, Alphys!” He looks as if that’s the best piece of news he’s heard all day.

“T-that’s good?”

“No! But it explains everything! There are bits of me just floating around somewhere! She had my arm and my brain to control. Maybe my eyes too.”

Alphys sticks her tongue out, crinkling her nose. “Ew.”

He considers this. “I suppose it’s a little disconcerting.” He only looks disturbed for a minute though before his writing hand scrabbles back into life. “In the Void, Doctor Alphys, you are in a sort of limbo, neither living nor dead. When she stole Determination from your laboratory assistants, she pulled herself out enough that she could access the Void, but not remain in it. She could feed off me until I was nothing and the Void would always build me back because while I was there, I was a part of it! I knew everything, could see everything, but I was too fragmented to focus!”

Alphys pulls a tablet off the wall and types. She doesn’t know anyone who majors in the study of the Void, but her mother will certainly enjoy hearing about an alternate dimension of this sort. The way Doctor Gaster describes it, it is a sort of in-between place, a prison outside of reality. “D-do you still know everything?”

“No. When Sans pulled me out of the Void, I lost that ability.”

“S-S-Sans did what?” Alphys squawks, fumbling the tablet.

“He reacted much the same,” Doctor Gaster comments.

“B-because monsters c-can’t do that in the real world, Doctor Gaster! He could- he could have- he could have pulled us through the Barrier with something like that!” Alphys flicks her claws against the tablet’s surface, creating a horde of exclamation points.

The way Doctor Gaster is blinking suggests that the thought had never even crossed his mind. Not for the first time does Alphys wonder about what Hotland Laboratory was like when Doctor Gaster worked there. Obviously it was not nearly as Barrier-oriented as it is now. She wishes she had been working there back then. Most of the other scientists- her parents included- had left the laboratories soon after the CORE’s explosion. Her mother doesn’t even like talking about her work there anymore. “Look,” she says, “we have to tell Asgore about this.”

He brightens. “Yes! Asgore! Let’s go see the king!”

There’s a clicking of tiny claws on tile. Her hand buries itself in Endogeny’s fur. It has bristled in defense and its fur prickles the palm of her hand between her scales. Doctor Gaster looks toward the sound with interest rather than fear. A little white form comes trotting toward them, its body shedding the gloom of their surroundings as it enters the ring of light from the light bulb above them. It’s a little white dog, one with a silly sweet smile. Alphys would squee, but Endogeny makes a noise like a garbage compactor, so she has to compose herself quickly in order to keep it from lunging.

Unperturbed by its near brush with death or, at the very least, injury, the dog sits down and begins to lick at the already spotless ruff of fur on its chest.

Doctor Gaster signs something at it, crouching down as if the dog might need to see him better. It looks up lazily at him, tongue still sticking out of its mouth. Alphys wishes she didn’t need to hang onto Endogeny so tightly; the dog would photograph perfectly for the UnderNet.

“Greetings. I am the Dog,” the creature says, in a voice so soft that Alphys first thinks she’s dreaming it. She almost feels as if she should bow. “I have been watching over your world for some time now. Your triumph over the Memoryhead creature has not escaped my sight. It is a pleasure to finally speak with you.”

Gaster signs again, repeating his first hand motions and the dog continues to ignore him. Frustrated, he extends a hand. The dog inches away, taking notice of that. “Be still,” it commands and, stung, Gaster retreats. In a kinder tone of voice, the dog says “Look here, good doctors, I have brought you news. Your human friend is nearing Hotland’s CORE. Shortly, they will engage the machine in battle. You have a duty to them. If you wish to help your human friend, you must destroy the CORE.”

“I- I can shut it down-“

“No!” the dog barks. Endogeny ceases to struggle and cowers instead. The dog’s face had, for the briefest second, bared every single one of its small white teeth. For a moment, it had looked bitter and predatory. It is more relaxed now, readopting its sweet smile. “No, dear doctor. The CORE must be destroyed. The creatures spill from it, the ones who come from another world.”

“The elglitches?” Alphys asks tentatively.

“Is that what you have been calling them?” The dog stands and shakes itself. “I tire of you. I have informed you of what you must do and urge you to act with haste. You are running out of time.”

“Running out of-“ The dog dissolves as if it has simply been deleted from the room, leaving Alphys’s question hanging in the air. She sighs. “Doctor Gaster, did you know that dog?”

He frowns. “I thought I did. Did you happen to notice any wounds on it?”

“W-wounds?” she squeaks.

“No, you’re right. I thought not.” He looks at his hand, still with red caught in his joints. “I believe we need to get to the CORE and quickly.”

“N-now?” Alphys asks, running to keep up with him. All this chasing people around must be good for her, but she can’t imagine the benefits over the sound of her own wheezing.

Gaster slams the up button on the elevator. “There is something very strange going on here. I can go alone if you don’t want to come, Doctor Alphys. If I was asked to come along, I would wish to refuse as well.”

“N-no! I do want to come! I think, um, that it would be fun-“ She cringes. Fun was not the right word for this. “But, um, I have a th-thing?”

“A thing?” Doctor Gaster asks as the three of them file into the elevator. Alphys pushes Endogeny’s head away from the panel and presses the up button again.

“Y-yes,” she manages. “A thing.” She’s being too vague. He’s going to ask about it.

“Gracious, why didn’t you tell me when I came in?” he asks, looking distressed now.

Alphys pinks. Now he’s feeling bad about it and she’s feeling bad about it, oh no. “W-well, it might not really be a thing?” she hazards. “I m-mean, Undyne was t-telling me she had a letter for me. And she wanted to h-h-hand deliver it.”

“Ah. I’ll be off then.”

The elevator doors open just as Mrs. Drake picks up an envelope from the floor. “Al..phys!” she calls pleasantly. “Mail!”

Alphys freezes. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

As if cued, a knocking begins, rapping out no particular pattern. Mrs. Drake flutters away from it, still clutching the letter. Wingdings watches her land on top of the video monitor. Alphys squeaks as if she hasn’t just faced down an eldritch abomination. “I- I have to get dressed!”

He raises an eye ridge. “You’re already dressed.”

She waves her hands at him as if he’s an absolute idiot. “I have to be better dressed than this, Doctor Gaster!”

Wingdings surrenders, raising his hands as he scribbles out “Would you like me to get the door?”

“Pl-please!” Alphys gives him a grateful smile, then scampers up the escalator.

When Wingdings opens the door, he is greeted with a bouquet of rather lovely flowers that, surprisingly, do not glow. Undyne must have gone to New Home to get them. He looks up from them into Undyne’s surprised face. “Hello,” he scratches out. She is dressed very nicely. He begins to get an inkling of why Alphys thought she had to be better dressed and of what her ‘thing’ might be. “I like your jacket.”

“Uh, hey, Doctor Gaster. Thanks. Is Alphys here?” Undyne lowers the flowers, trying to surreptitiously stow them behind her. The scarf knotted around her throat is also floral.

“Yes, she is. She’s getting ready. Would you like to come in?”

“Hello?” Alphys quavers. Undyne looks about to respond with a joyful greeting of her own, the flowers behind her back trembling. Alphys continues on, however, and doesn’t come down the escalator. “Y-you’re sure? I- I mean, we’re- h-he’s- yes. Yes, okay. Thank you.” She must be on the phone. Her voice drops in volume as she continues to talk.

Wingdings gestures for Undyne to come in. As soon as her boots strike the tile, Endogeny comes crashing down the escalator, barking its head off (thankfully, not literally).

“Hiya, Captain!” Undyne says, relaxing as she leans down to scratch at Endogeny’s chest. The dog guard grumbles, thumping two of its back feet with pleasure. As she strokes its fur, she looks at Wingdings and asks, in an undertone, “Did she get my letter?”

“Uh, Undyne! H-h-h- hello!” Undyne glances up and her mouth falls open. Alphys is wearing a cleaner lab coat, but underneath is a short polka dot dress that looks spotless. When she waves, her claws catch the light.

Wingdings bends his head towards his notepad to hide his smile. They’re just children, really, flustered and nervous. His eyes catch on his previous writings, reminding him of his mission. “I’ll take my leave of you now,” he scribbles.

Alphys toys with her claws. “W-well. You could. But, um, I just got a call from the studio. The CORE is crawling with Mettaton’s hired help. They’ll probably flag you if you try to get anywhere near the places you need to be.”

Wingdings wants to roll his eyes. It seems like everything has to be so complex nowadays. He can’t even commit minor acts of destruction without needing a multiple step plan. “What does that mean?”

“I-It means that I am essential t-to your q-quest! Oh, wait.” Alphys hops down the escalator’s last steps. “U-U-Undyne. I was wondering, I mean, you don’t have to, but, um.” She’s sweating.

Undyne looks about herself, then pulls the bouquet from behind her back and tugs the cloth ribbon off that. It unties into one strip of fabric, which she hands to Alphys.

“Oh! Uh, thank you. Undyne.” Alphys pats at her face with the cloth. Undyne sustains a wide grin for three seconds before the bouquet collapses. Without the ribbon to hold it together, Undyne’s awkward hold on the paper shell is rather ill-advised, and the paper splits open easily, pouring an assortment of bright flowers onto the laboratory floor. “sh*t!” she yells, diving after them.

Alphys freezes, cloth still pressed to her face. Her eyes are glued to the flowers. Wingdings never even tried botany, but he can identify at least two of the flowers as roses, which he has heard are very romantic. He leans down to help Undyne and finds himself being brushed aside. Undyne receives the same treatment. Mrs. Drake hums, sweeping the flowers into a neat little stack on the floor. The Vegetoids that make up her eyes babble pleasantly at Undyne, before the amalgamate wanders away, having finished mothering for now. Wingdings notices that the letter is gone.

But Undyne scoops up the now very ruffled bouquet with a nervous smile. “I tried to bring you flowers. I grew them and I heard- Papyrus’s manual said-“ She takes a moment to collect herself. Then her eye bugs. “I appreciate your passion for things and very much want to know if you are available tonight!” Then she bows quickly and holds that position, flowers above her head.

“O-oh. Oh my gosh.” The strip of cloth pats more vigorously at Alphys’s scales. She’s pink now. Her eyes dart over to Wingdings. He shrugs. Romance is not his forte. This is subsequently not his division. After a very long pause (Undyne’s arms are starting to shake), Alphys says “U-Undyne, Mettaton sometimes sends me things from his shows. Um, sometimes he sends me posters. A-And sometimes it’s figurines he finds.” Undyne looks up and her expression is apprehensive, waiting on whatever Alphys might say next. “But, uh, tonight his studio sent me a backstage pass for me and whoever I wanted to bring with me. So, if you r-really aren’t doing anything tonight and, uh, actually want to spend time with someone like me, Undyne-“ Alphys takes in a very deep breath, her knuckles paling. Undyne’s mouth is open. It takes Alphys over a minute to collect herself and Undyne’s eyes never waver. “Would y-you like to accompany me to M-Mettaton’s performance tonight?”

It is so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. In the case of the amalgamates, you could hear a silverware drawer dropping. Wingdings hastens to deal with it himself so the two currently staring at each other like they’re the only monsters on the planet won’t be snapped out of their moment. As he plucks forks off the ground, he hears Undyne scream “Holy crap! Would I!”

Chapter 33: Vino el Apagón

Chapter Text

Mettaton sits in his dressing room with an oil can, oiling the joints of his legs. It’s not really much of a dressing room if he’s being honest, just a corner of the CORE where he’s strung up a curtain and erected a few walls of boxes. Still, he’s never had a dressing room or means to dress up, so this is as close as he’s ever gotten and he loves it.

He stretches out his leg and smiles at it. He still can’t get over the nuances of having legs, like the sinking feeling in his soul when he takes a step and the floor rushes up to meet his boot. It’s a dangerous sensation, one that makes movement all the more alluring. Humming a snatch of one of Napstablook’s songs, he leans to reach his knees. His hair stays stiff and still over his incomplete eye, blinding him. A sigh flutters out of him. It is practical to have hair that doesn’t move when he poses or dances, but it isn’t realistic to reach up to brush it back and have his fingers be met with a metal sheet. Even Undyne can tuck her hair behind one of her fins if it gets in the way of her eye. But even if he had wanted to complain about it, he doesn’t have Alphys to complain to. They’re on different sides now. She’s chosen the human and he’s chosen his fans.

Speaking of fans, he has to finish up here before his lottery winner gets here. He might not get to show off this beautiful body of his, but he likes to have it in peak condition before such exciting events. His soul glows happily, rosy in its pink-tinged container at his waist. Adella, the monster who runs the front desk at the resort, had put through the call to the lucky lottery winner for him, although he had recorded a quick voice clip of himself with which to preface the message. It was a shame that he was too busy managing everyone else to do it himself, but he does get to meet the lucky winner.

There’s a vibrant voice calling over excited greetings to the monsters he had hired for this show. Disbelieving, Mettaton stands, putting down the oil and letting his body dwindle back into the rectangular form once more. Could he possibly be recognizing that cheerful voice? Could its owner possibly be here in person? His wheel pops out last and he skids forward as soon as it does, pulling aside the curtain with a cheery “Hello, darling!” buzzing through his speaker.

His voice cuts out when he sees the monster before him. The skeleton is striking a pose almost equal in perfection to one of his own. His weight is evenly distributed, his chin is tilted, his boots are fabulous, but when Mettaton takes in the whole, his facial recognition systems run a match. Even if they hadn’t, there’s no way he could miss that face. He’d spent far too long running through the archive blogs of the SaveTheHuman activists to mistake those shining eyes.

Before he can even write a program on how to react, CoolSkeleton95 has extended a hand to him and is saying cheerfully “SALUTATIONS AGAIN, METTATON! I AM PAPYRUS, SOON TO BE THE ROYAL GUARD’S BEST RECRUIT!” In a bold move, his shirt has been cut to display his spine and it looks like someone has taken a handful of fabric markers to it. ‘SaveTheHuman20XX’ is printed across the front.

He hadn’t seen this coming.

“Papyrus,” he ventures. “Not the same Papyrus who called in for my cooking show?” He can’t deny the identity of that voice, but he tries anyway, hoping.

“THE ONE AND ONLY!” Papyrus declares, still waiting for his handshake.

“Oh. Hello then, Papyrus,” he replies mechanically, extending his own hand. Papyrus shakes it twice, then lets go. Mettaton has to tell his own hand to do the same. The skeleton has a marvelous handshake. Usually Mettaton’s is just as good, if not better, but he currently feels like someone has just used him as a washing machine: a little dizzy, a little sick, and very confused.

“THANK YOU FOR INVITING ME!” Papyrus exclaims. “I DIDN’T EVEN ENTER A LOTTERY!”

“It was random. It picked from my followers on the MTTTV site,” Mettaton manages, trying to focus on something besides his growing sense that everything is waiting to crash down on his head.

He’s never had a live studio audience comprised of anyone but his employees before, so he’s never had a show that could be sabotaged. It’s only now, looking at the fluorescent orange lettering on Papyrus’s shirt, that he realizes that these activists have the power to actually ruin this for him. And he gave their ringleader a backstage pass.

He looks at Papyrus and takes note of something else. The skeleton’s head is twisting around in an attempt to take everything in at once, which reminds Mettaton that Papyrus is an outskirts monster. CoolSkeleton95’s blog identified him as being from Snowdin. Mettaton at least had the privilege of growing up in an area near Hotland, a hotbed of technological advances. Papyrus’s Snowdin upbringing must make the CORE seem so high-tech. It’s rather endearing annoying. He shakes himself. For all the state-of-the-art machinery entwined with his soul, Mettaton is doing a remarkably slow job of processing. Something about this situation, this skeleton, is throwing him off.

“Have you been here before, Papyrus?” he asks, politely and pointedly ignoring the way his guest gawks. He can use this. He has the upper hand, being at least familiar with the CORE.

“I DON’T THINK SO,” Papyrus answers, squinting at the walls. “I’VE BEEN EVERYWHERE ELSE, BUT I NEVER CAME TO THE CORE THAT I CAN RECALL.”

“Well, darling, let me assure you, the CORE is marvelous. Allow me to give you a tour.” Mettaton gestures for Papyrus to follow him. He wheels along the splendidly smooth tile, pointing out the particular beauty of the lights, all of which have somehow been turned green for this performance. He’ll have to find the CORE’s light technician and thank them profusely for the lovely show. The green against the blue looks like something out of Waterfall, and perhaps its just his roots showing, but he thinks it adds to the splendor of the area.

When they come upon a corner, Mettaton presses a finger to his screen. Then, with caution, he peeks around the wall. His screen flashes a soul shape happily. Monsters, at least fifty of them, stand outside the doors to the theater area, waiting to be let inside. Knight Knight stands by the doors, writing names down on her clipboard as she ushers them through. Beside her, with a massive grin on their shadowed face, Madjick spouts the rules in between admonishings of “please and thank you!” to the few who try to rush through the line. Final Froggit and a few of its comrades stamp the palms of monsters entering.

“WOWIE,” Papyrus whispers. He is leaning over him and the end of his scarf is resting on the top of Mettaton’s box. He can see the fringe at the ends as it intrudes into his screen. “THAT’S A LOT OF PEOPLE. YOU MUST BE EXCITED!”

On the inside, Mettaton does smile, flushed with his achievement. But on the outside, his screen blips faintly and he turns back to Papyrus, feigning disinterest. He must remain professional. “Indeed I am, darling, but let’s talk about you! Come along.” He begins to wheel away down the hall and Papyrus takes long strides to keep up. “What’s your favorite Mettaton Moment^TM?”

Papyrus considers. His eyebrow ridges draw together adorably as he thinks. He thinks for a good long time. Just when Mettaton begins to worry that this skeleton is a few chips short of a motherboard, Papyrus makes an approving sound, nods to himself, and says “MY FAVORITE PART IS THE BEGINNING!”

Mettaton stops so fast that his wheel screeches. The beginning? The beginning is his favorite part too, the opening credits against a background of showering rose petals (rose petals are so soothing), his voice narrating with the utmost of care, but it’s really not a Mettaton Moment^TM, not the kind of thing he could use in a movie montage for his website. His montage voiceover would just override his narration. “Could you perhaps elaborate on that, darling?”

“NYEH,” Papyrus hums, tapping his chin with a gloved finger. “I LIKE WHERE YOU SET UP THE STORY! I LIKE BEING READ TO AND, WELL, A METTATON STORY IS LIKE AN UNOPENED BOX OF PASTA!”

“I… don’t follow.”

“FULL OF ENDLESS PASTA-BLITIES! NYEH HEH HEH!”

Oh. My. Dog. He’s funny. Mettaton giggles in surprise. “Well. Well.” Oh, he doesn’t know what to say. This skeleton is precious. “Welly well well, I’ve never thought of it quite that way, darling.” He might never be able to put Papyrus’s testimony on a montage, but he has no doubt that his narration moments will take an uptick in quality.

Papyrus nods knowingly. “WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE METTATON MOMENT^TM?”

Mettaton finds himself caught off-guard. He’s never been asked that question before. “Oh, um,” he hedges a moment. It would be simply unoriginal to repeat back what Papyrus had just said, even though it’s the truth. He’s starting to wish he’d done real press interviews, not the mock ones where he is both the interviewer and interviewee. “Darling, what is this, an interview? I wasn’t aware I had let the press backstage.”

Papyrus starts to stammer, trying to apologize, but Mettaton waves his words away with a hand and a quick “Lighten up, darling.” He reaches out and takes Papyrus’s elbow, leading him around another corner. “Talk to me as if I’m one of your friends. What are you interested in?”

“PUZZLES, COOKING, AND JAPERY!” the skeleton recites, almost before Mettaton’s speakers have stopped producing sound.

“Who is your best friend?” Mettaton presses before Papyrus can turn the question on him.

“UNDYNE! SHE’S THE BEST FRIEND EVER! SHE SAYS I’M HER BEST PARTNER TOO!”

Mettaton almost says something about Undyne having a heart after all, but Papyrus looks so eager to talk about his best friend that he simply doesn’t, listening as best he can to a recitation of Undyne’s favorite things and how great she is. Papyrus moves his hands a lot when he talks. Mettaton likes this. It’s cute. He watches the gloves flash around as Papyrus tells a story. “-AND THAT’S WHY SHE THINKS THAT FAVORITE COLORS ARE STUPID! BECAUSE SHE BELIEVES IN COLOR EQUALITY! WHO’S YOUR BEST FRIEND?”

“Alphys,” he says without hesitation, too preoccupied watching Papyrus gesture. The hands still and Mettaton refocuses on Papyrus’s face. “What is it, darling?”

“NOTHING, METTATON.” Papyrus shifts his arm and suddenly Mettaton realizes that he’s been holding onto his elbow for far too long. He lets go and Papyrus takes his hand. A straight shot of warmth makes his soul blaze and his free hand goes to his screen, as if the cold metal could give him away. It doesn’t, it can’t, but he fancies he can still feel his face burning. This never would have happened at home in Waterfall. There he had been just the happy ghost, one in a set of four. Here he is Mettaton, a star, and a cute monster is holding his hand, delighted to be around him.

He only has Alphys to thank for this, says a little voice at the back of his head. He freezes, replaying the conversation. Any warmth he had temporarily felt evaporates. He hadn’t meant to say that. Alphys was his best friend, but she has chosen to side with the human. Oh, it’s all so frustrating. He knows it isn’t all black and white, not just humans and monsters, but sometimes it’s easier to act like it is. He misses her.

“MY BEST FRIEND HAS A CRUSH ON YOUR BEST FRIEND,” Papyrus says eventually, made uncomfortable by Mettaton’s accidental silence. “IF THEY GOT MARRIED, WOULD WE BE BEST FRIEND IN LAWS?”

Mettaton can’t help it; he starts to laugh. He hadn’t expected that to be so cute. Papyrus happily ‘nyeh-heh-heh’s along with him. “I think that would be wonderful, darling.” Somewhere along the way, his guard has fallen. He doesn’t care that maybe this skeleton is some sort of activist. Maybe it’s because Papyrus doesn't look like the type to ruin anything. Maybe it’s the certainty that Papyrus is pleased to be around him (and who wouldn’t be? This box is ridiculously photogenic and Mettaton is unbelievably charming), or maybe it’s the euphoria of the thought that once the human gets here, the biggest show of his life will begin, or maybe it’s just the realization that he misses his best friend, and he hiccups very suddenly, a sure sign that he’s on the verge of tears. Hurriedly, he wrestles it down.

“METTATON? DO YOU NEED SOMETHING TO EAT?”

“I don’t eat, darling. That was just a little glitch in the system,” he lies. His hands twitch. He’s angry that he has to lie, that his ridiculous ghost soul cries at the drop of a hat.

Papyrus’s face falls. “OH. I DIDN’T MEAN TO BE RUDE!”

“Rude?” Papyrus can’t possibly know that Mettaton’s angry. He carefully crafts each second of his voice to be pleasant and teasing and mysterious by turns. Had he sounded angry?

“ABOUT YOU NOT EATING! I DO MY UTMOST TO NOT COMMENT ON PEOPLE’S DIETS! EXCEPT MY BROTHER’S! BUT THAT’S BECAUSE I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR HIM AND HIS HORRIBLE DECISIONS! ALL THAT GREASE IS DISGUSTING AND UNHEALTHY AND LIKELY CONTRIBUTES TO HIS TERRIBLE HABITS!” He pauses guiltily, sinking out of his rant. “BUT I AM SORRY ABOUT BEING RUDE ABOUT YOUR DIET! ROYAL GUARDS SHOULD NEVER BE INCONSIDERATE LIKE THAT!”

Mettaton laughs again, relieved. Papyrus must just have apologized when he thought he had stepped over his bounds. Mettaton’s façade hasn’t slipped at all. “No, darling, I can’t eat. I don’t have a mouth with which to take in food or taste buds with which to taste it.” Papyrus looks so sad and sympathetic at this that Mettaton has to change the subject before those sad, dark eye sockets draw him into self-pity, or worse, make him spoil the existence of Mettaton EX. “I do enjoy looking at food, however. The fluid shapes, the expressive colors, the textures. It’s all lovely. I see food as an expression of the chef who creates it.”

The skeleton brightens. “WELL! I BROUGHT YOU SOME HOMEMADE SPAGHETTI! I’M SORRY THAT YOU CAN’T EAT IT, BUT MAYBE YOU WOULD LIKE TO LOOK AT IT LATER.” Papyrus produces a lunchbox, one Mettaton is pleased to recognize as part of his brand. The clasps snap open when Papyrus presses his thumbs to them and he removes from it a plate of spaghetti, wrapped with plastic to keep it from getting everywhere. Mettaton takes a peep at the inside of the lunchbox and sees another neatly wrapped plate of food, two forks, and a thermos. Papyrus shuts it hurriedly, almost as if he didn’t want Mettaton to see.

In a voice made merrier by mischief, Mettaton says “Darling, we are going to sell Glamburgers during the show.”

Putting the lunchbox away again, Papyrus hastens to respond. “OF COURSE YOU ARE! BECAUSE YOU ARE VERY CONSIDERATE OF YOUR FANS AND THEIR WELLBEING! BUT, UM, I HAVE A VERY STRICT MEAL SCHEDULE AND I DID NOT KNOW WHEN FOOD WOULD BE SELLING AND I DID NOT WANT TO MISS A MOMENT OF THE SHOW! ALSO, I DID NOT WANT TO BE IMPOLITE AND BOTHER YOUR VENDORS!”

Mettaton takes the plate of pasta he’s being offered. There are little blobs of edible sequins dotting the pasta hills. “Oh, why would you think you were being impolite? They are there to serve.”

“THEY WOULD LIKE TO WATCH THE SHOW TOO!”

Mettaton considers this. He doesn’t doubt that his employees would like to watch his show, even that ungrateful cat-bear-person Brentworth. But he never thought of it beyond that. He always treats his employees well because that’s the best way to run a business. They get raises sometimes and he even has a suggestion box somewhere, although he hasn’t checked it in a while. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Papyrus, but it is their job to serve, not watch me, unless they’re on break and not selling my merchandise. I am paying them.”

“I UNDERSTAND THAT!”

“You seem to understand quite a lot, darling.” Mettaton thinks again of Papyrus being able to detect when he's angry. Perhaps emotional sensitivity is a skeleton ability?

“OH, YES. I AM VERY UNDERSTANDING. MY BROTHER SANS TELLS ME THAT I AM QUITE INTUITIVE. IT MUST BE A FAMILY TRAIT. HE TOO IS OBSERVANT. EXCEPT WHEN IT COMES TO HIS FRIEND, GRILLBY.”

“Oh?” Mettaton lets Papyrus recapture his hand, fluttering the other one playfully and balancing his pasta plate in the crook of his arm. “What’s going on with your brother and this Grillby?”

Papyrus seems very content to chatter about his brother’s romantic life to him. Every so often, to punctuate a point, he’ll squeeze Mettaton’s hand and Mettaton will make an approving or disapproving sound depending on where the story is going. He’s enjoying himself. If he doesn’t look at Papyrus’s shirt, he doesn’t have to think about what might turn sour when the show goes on. He can just watch a skeleton’s eyes sparkle as he explains the complex relationship between his brother and people. His brother Sans seems to be rather at odds with social interactions, quite the opposite of charming Papyrus. Sans's interactions rely on shock humor and terrible jokes, much like Alphys's fall back on technobabble and self-deprecation. But Papyrus obviously adores him, so Mettaton will have to meet him. From the way Papyrus describes him, Sans is simply a more relaxed version of Alphys. Or perhaps that’s just how Mettaton is perceiving it.

He needs to call Alphys. He should call her. If Papyrus can forgive Sans his various trespasses (such as a year or so where he wasn’t allowed to plant flowers in the window boxes and Sans had filled them instead with ketchup bottles), then Mettaton can put aside his hurt and talk to Alphys. Besides, no matter what he keeps telling himself, he rather misses her. Sure, she’s a huge dork with her goofy cartoons and, yes, she totally stabbed him in the back, but she’s his friend the huge dork and he’s never once known Alphys to do something without a reason. She’s always trying to help people, although she has a disturbing tendency to pick the wrong people to help.

“Darling,” he says, patting Papyrus’s bicep. The skeleton shuts his jaw mid-sentence and stares at him with an expectant look. “I have to make a call. Could you hold that thought for just a moment?”

“OF COURSE!” Papyrus chirps. “MAY I BOTHER YOU FOR A PICTURE AFTER YOU MAKE YOUR CALL? MY FRIEND f*ckU IS A BIG FAN OF YOU.”

Mettaton’s screen lights up. “Of course you can, darling!” Anything to make this adorable skeleton keep thinking of him in a positive way is alright in his book. It’s funny, but he thinks he would feel the same way even if Papyrus wasn’t with the human-saving activists. He is about to wheel away, but the loudspeaker crackles into life. “Human…zzz..approaches,” croons Knight Knight. He has to get that girl a coffee or something.

“Already?” he asks, rather startled. Turning to the skeleton at his side, he flashes a series of exclamation points. “Darling, I’m so sorry. We’ll have to cut our chat short. I promise that you’ll get that picture after the show, but I have to get ready and you have to go find your seat.” He presses Papyrus’s hand affectionately, then yells “Solomon! Adella!”

“Sir!” responds the little dragon, running in and adjusting his little beret over his headset. The beret has an M bedazzled on it in pink, courtesy of Mettaton, of course.

“I need you to make a call for me. Where’s Adella?” The monster with a hand for a head comes walking purposefully towards him, unruffled by his frenzy. “Adella, would you kindly escort Papyrus to his seat?”

Adella takes a moment to look Papyrus up and down. “So this is our lottery winner,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.

“HI!”

“Hello. Come along.” She is curt, as usual, and ignores the warning look Mettaton gives her. Papyrus keeps up with her without a problem, as his long legs only have to take one step for every two of hers, and Mettaton watches them head into the stage area.

“Sir?” Solomon asks. “You said something about a call?”

He snaps out of it. Now is no time to be mooning over a skeleton from Snowdin. Not with the human nearly here. “Call Doctor Alphys and give her as many backstage passes as she needs. Just get her here. Tell her that there are people all around the CORE, so she has to show them her pass to use the elevator.”

“…Sir?”

“Just do it, Solomon!” he snaps, wheeling back to his dressing room as Solomon begins to dial, scurrying along beside him. The plate of pasta he holds between his two hands as if it is something precious that might escape.

…

The CORE is a mass of wiring and glittering green accents on blue walls. Frisk doesn’t like it. They especially don’t like the unsettling feeling the whole place gives them. It’s like they’re running in circles over and over, around and around. They’ve been texting Alphys nonstop for help and directions, but she’s only sent them a blueprint of the place so far. They can see her typing, but she hasn’t sent anything yet. The monsters at the entrance of the CORE had shooed them away from the elevator, even though they’re certain that it’s a shortcut straight to the show. And now they’re lost and maybe they’ll never get to Mettaton’s show. That would serve him right. They look at their phone again, turning the blueprint around in their hands. They’re so tired.

“We could leave a breadcrumb trail,” Chara suggests.

‘If Mettaton was a witch in a candy house, that would be a great idea,’ Frisk retorts, dripping sarcasm. Their eyelids are so heavy. They rub them.

Chara sets down their chalk and puts their hands on their hips. “Okay, what’s up with you?” Of course Chara's not tired. They're dead and they probably don't need sleep if they aren't piloting. Frisk just wants a nap.

‘Nothing!’ Frisk lies. ‘I just need stupid directions!’ With that, they plop themself down against the wall, resting their chin on their knees and squishing themself into a ball. They have Alphys’s map pulled up on their phone, but none of it makes sense, even when they turn it upside down. They don’t know where they are, they don’t know where they started. They never had to navigate the CORE on their own. They never had to navigate the CORE, period. They could just step into the elevator and come out straight where Mettaton was. But when they had walked into the CORE this time around, the elevator had been busy. The only thing they’ve found following Alphys’s map is a dead end. Granted, it was a dead end with 100 G in a garbage can, but they don’t remember being able to buy anything more after the resort, so the money is pretty useless.

“Maybe you can bribe Mettaton into not fighting you?” Chara ventures, settling down beside them and opening their hand to look at the money.

‘But he’s a bazillionaire,’ Frisk mumbles miserably, rubbing at their eyes again.

“Okay. Well. Let’s put that down as Plan B, then.” Chara taps their chin, looking up at the map of the CORE they’d been drawing on the wall. So far it just looks like a drunken squiggle, complete with some zigzags where Frisk threw a complete fit and started running all around one hallway, looking for imaginary secret panels.

“Do you know where we are?” Frisk demands of Flowey, looking up from their phone.

He startles, then his expression contorts, trying his darnedest to dredge up anything he can on the CORE. “N-no. I never w-wanted to come in here. I, uh, usually just took the elevators. But i-it’s creepy in here.”

They have to agree. Despite the pretty blue in the walls and the general bright lighting of the area, walls are chipped away, revealing internal wirings and piping. Once, they saw that a left-hand wall had been gouged by something with very big claws and another time, they had seen footprints burned into the floor. These could easily be traces of a monster worker, heaven knows there must have been many of them working on this place, but the markings turn their skin into gooseflesh. And hadn’t the beacons at the edges of the walkways been red, not green, in the timelines before?

Chara draws nearer, squatting down beside them. “Maybe you’re being paranoid,” they soothe, rubbing their shoulder in a comforting manner.

‘Maybe,’ Frisk allows. But the color green hasn’t meant nice things for them lately. They want to know why, but no one seems to have the right answers. They get back on their feet, trailing their fingers on the wall as they turn the corner. Another dead end, another trash can. When they look in, they find an entire Glamburger, still in its case. They pick it up and put it in their bag. They don’t mind a bit of dirt, if that can even affect monster food. They’re too Determined to give up, but they’re tired as well. Fear and adrenaline only last so long and they’ve been walking all day.

Flowey swings his head back and forth, examining the hallways. “I think,” he ponders, “we came from this way.” He jabs a vine towards the right fork. “But,” he allows, “the CORE is perpetually shifting and no way is ever the same twice.” At their looks of astonishment, he says sheepishly “That’s what Asgore said anyway.”

“What else did Asgore say?”

“Um. Not much that I remember,” he admits. “It’s been a long time since I t-talked to him w-w-without the- the, um, you know.” He mimes a stabbing motion with a vine, awkwardly curling it back up.

Frisk sinks down against the wall again, looking at all the lights. They know what he means. “I wanted to take the elevator. I’m tired of walking.”

“At least you have legs,” Flowey points out, settling against their neck. It smells like ozone in here. That should fill them with Determination and a powerful curiosity as to how the CORE works, but they just want a nice, long nap.

“Do you miss your legs?” they ask, determined to distract themself from their feet, which have just piped up with an account of every ache and pain and bubbling blister that they ignored while walking.

“Nope. I don’t miss anything,” Flowey says, far too quickly for that to be the truth.

“Wow, what am I? Brussels sprouts? Faker, faker, faker,” Chara sings, drawing a comical and wholly unflattering picture of Flowey on the wall. It’s a testament to how tired Frisk is that they laugh at that instead of telling Chara to be nice. Chara gives them a smirk and returns to their map.

“Wh-what are you smiling at?” Flowey asks, craning his neck so that he and Frisk are nose to nose. Tiredly, Frisk leans their forehead against his.

“Sorry,” they sign. “I want to go home.”

Flowey’s mouth turns down. He bumps his head against theirs and his vines give them a little squeeze. “K-keep telling yourself that. M-m-maybe you’ll even get there.” His voice changes on the last word, goes so light and high that they have to rub at their ears. He’s trying to be funny. They can appreciate that. Maybe not right at the moment, but they can appreciate that.

“I have figured it out!” Chara announces, tossing their chalk up in the air and catching it again. “We’ve taken completely the wrong path. We should have gone right at the elevator!”

No, no, they shouldn’t have, they discover, staring in horror at the flames that crawl unchecked in the room to the right of the elevator. They beat a hasty retreat back to the entrance and run straight into the Whimsalots again.

“f*ck,” says Chara succinctly.

Luckily, the Whimsalots recognize them from the first time they tried to get on the elevator and just nudge them away from the elevator again without any inclination to start another fight.

Frisk sticks their tongue out at the monsters and trudges back down the left hallway. Dismayed, they once again face all the forks in the hallway before them. Flowey reaches a vine into their pocket and pulls out the phone. “C-call her.”

“Why?”

“You gotta.”

“She’s not gonna pick up,” Frisk warns, but they start typing in Alphys’s number anyway. Then they nearly drop the phone when it starts to ring like crazy, blasting a song about a punk rock princess.

Hello??? they type. That’s not Alphys’s ringtone and they know it. Who is this?

“Ay, punk! Bet you can’t guess who this is!” shouts a familiar voice. The name pops up on their phone screen.

It all makes sense now. Alphys did handle the ringtones for their phone. They wonder what Toriel’s ringtone is. Chara and Flowey exchange looks. “I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Flowey deadpans. “Could it possibly be Undyne?”

In an unnecessary undertone, Chara asks “Does she not know we have Caller ID?”

“You bet your butt it’s Undyne! Guess where I am!” Through the phone they hear a droning hum.

The elevators? they hazard.

“Whoa, two for two!” Is she mocking them? “But I bet you can’t guess who I’m with right now!”

“Oh my god, please be Alphys, please be Alphys,” Chara chants. Frisk rolls their eyes, but does guess Alphys.

“Ooh, sorry, kid, you’re only half right! Doctor Gaster’s here with us too! Say hey, Gaster!” The phone emits a gargling sound as Undyne presumably shoves the phone in Gaster’s face.

Hi, Mr. Gaster!

“I’d make you say hey to Alphy too, but she’s doing some science stuff on her phone right now!”

“A-actually, Frisk, if you want to know, I’m rerouting some of our energy into backup generators. Things should run a little slower now, but it’ll all be worth it when- if the CORE goes down.”

“Oh, c’mon, Alphy, don’t be pessimistic! The CORE hasn’t blown up in thirteen years! Why would it start now?”

Alphys giggles in a high voice. Frisk’s phone pings with a text from her: ‘Doctor Gaster’s going to blow up the CORE how do I tell Undyne?’

Your call, bud, they text back. You two on a Date?

‘0///0’ is the only response.

Their phone pings again and this time it’s Undyne. ‘Me and Alphys are TOTALLY ON A RAD DATE!!!’

^-^ they answer as Chara snigg*rs. What’s Doctor Gaster doing on your rad date?

She answers this one out loud. “Gaster’s with us because he wants to tour the CORE or something like that! Alphys got us tickets to a Mettaton show!”

“Oh my,” Flowey snarks. “What a coincidence. We are also going to a Mettaton show. Perhaps we will see you there. IF WE EVER GET THERE!”

Chara pats his head condescendingly and Flowey sticks his tongue out at them.

Alphys’s voice gets closer. “Th-the map isn’t working? O-oh my. H-hang on, I’ll f-f-f- I’ll fix it for you.”

Undyne laughs. “Yeah! Alphys can fix anything, right, Al-?”

“Uh, that looks nothing like my map. W-where are you?”

“Would you believe that we called you to ask the very same question?” Chara asks pleasantly, their eyes dripping black murk. Frisk ducks into the headspace to press the ooze back into their eyes. It’s too disturbing to deal with right now. It’s only when they touch their companion’s face and exhaustion washes through them that they realize Chara is just as tired as they are, and Flowey must be too. They’re all too young for all this adventuring, even if Chara tries to be the wise teenager. “Hey now, I am the wise teenager. Flowriel here doesn’t count.” Frisk snorts, patting Chara’s arm for a brief second as they listen to Alphys fret.

“Uh, hey!” Undyne interjects, trying to distract from Alphys’s confused mumbling. “Papyrus told me all about the saving you thing! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU WERE AN UNDERNET STAR?”

‘I’m a what?’ Frisk thinks, bewildered.

“I’m even wearing my shirt!”

‘Your what?’ Their confusion doubles.

Over the phone, they hear Undyne’s voice grow distant. “Doctor Gaster, can you take a picture? No, no it’s that button. Point and shoot. Like a camera.” There’s a yell and a scrabbling. “Turn the flash off!” Gaster’s voice mumbles something.

Their phone pings again and a picture of Undyne pops up on their screen, flashing two victory signs as she leans against the wall of the elevator. She’s wearing a white t-shirt. On it, written in what looks like marker, are the words ‘Save The Human 20XX’. Alphys’s face is half in the frame.

“Totally gonna post this,” Undyne says distantly. Frisk feels Flowey’s stare boring a hole into their skull.

“No one told me they were making t-shirts!” they say defensively.

“Tell her to get rid of it,” Flowey hisses. “The box head’s an egomaniac. He might do something.”

“Frisk! Hey, try the hallway to your right, okay? I’ll make sure you’re okay!” Alphys’s voice is the calmest they’ve heard it yet, but there’s a near imperceptible quiver in her throat. She’s trying to be an adult.

Phone to their ear in case anyone wants to offer advice, Frisk steps into the hallway and goes as white as a sheet. Chara hums something that sounds caught between a funeral dirge and the Imperial March, although they know there’s no way Chara knows that. Flowey just whistles, long and low. “A-are you tr-trying to kill us?” he questions, examining the conundrum before them with an impressed eye.

“N-no! Wh-why would you say something like that?”

“Well, if you were, this would be a f-fantastic way to do it. Impassable blue lasers, maybe a robot chasing us. We’d be cut to ribbons.” Frisk pulls a disapproving face. “Wh-what?” Flowey asks.

“Bl-blue-? Hang on, I need to-“ Alphys’s voice trails off. Then she curses, although it’s not in a language Frisk recognizes. “I’m going to turn the power off for the node. Th-then you can walk across.”

Frisk bends their knees in preparation. When the lights dim, they sprint, Chara keeping a worried eye on the lasers above them. Suddenly everything flickers and Frisk skids to a stop, Alphys screaming “WAIT!” in their ear. Blue bars surround them, a cotton candy-colored cage. Frisk holds their breath.

“Holy heck, kid, are you okay?” Undyne roars. Gaster makes concerned croaking noises. Frisk can’t respond. If even a hair moves, they’ll be zapped. Luckily, most of the questions seem to be rhetorical.

“The power’s turning itself back on!” Alphys breathes. “I don’t know how it’s doing that. Where is it even getting the energy…? I.. I’m going to turn it off again. Don’t run.”

The power again clicks off and Frisk edges along the narrow strip bit by bit. Flowey is squeezing them like a boa constrictor, his face turned towards the lasers as well. Lights flash like a disco ball, Flowey tries to squeeze the life out of them, they stop. Shafts of ice blue light imprison them.

“It’s okay! I’ve got this!” Frenzied clicking. “Go!”

They walk now, the human on what could be death row. They’re beginning to wish they had saved more often. They swear, once they get to the end of this, they’ll make twenty save points, one after the other.

“That’s not how save points work and you know it, Frisk.” Chara throws out an arm to block their control of the legs and Frisk stops. The lasers immobilize them once more, but salvation is so close. So close.

Alphys turns off the power once more and Frisk abandons caution in favor of safety, charging forward. The lights rattle and click. Frisk’s heart climbs into their throat. Flowey screams as they lunge.

They land and roll, head smashing into the floor as their feet fly over them, like their own personal gravity has reversed. They land on their butt, every part of them aching from the rough landing. A little pained noise escapes them.

“Frisk! Are you okay?”

Fine, they answer, rubbing their butt ruefully. Then they crack the bones in their neck, staring back at the lasers with a baleful look. They’re beginning to agree with Chara about the lasers. Wouldn’t it be a better underground if all of them were shut down? Judging by the sigh Chara heaves, they suppose not.

“No, you’re right. It’d totally be better, but lasers are stupid monster history,” they say. “The historical society would lose its mind if we abolished them without ‘sufficient reason.’”

Quickly, Frisk saves, focusing briefly on their success. The save star’s a bit weak, but it only needs to work once. ‘That’s dumb,’ Frisk says in response to Chara’s answer, dusting themself off as they get to their feet. They follow the northerly path. And it leads them straight to a crossroads. They groan. Alphys?

“I- I don’t know? Try left. O-or right? I- I’m sorry, Frisk. Doctor Gaster, do you know?” There’s a series of sounds from Doctor Gaster, all sounding a bit like someone’s drowning. Alphys returns to the phone. “H-he says that the CORE he d-designed didn’t move.”

“Hey! What if you just keep going north!” Undyne suggests. “New Home’s to the north, so you’re bound to get there if you just keep heading that way. The CORE can’t change your internal compass!”

“Do we have one of those?” Chara asks.

Frisk considers, then exits the texting screen on their phone, scrolling through the countless apps Alphys put on it. ‘We might have a compass app.’

“Ooh,” Flowey says. “Could we shoot through the walls? Sh-she gave us a laser!”

“Um?? No?” Alphys interjects. “Th-that laser only activates in M-Mettaton’s presence. Y-you were supposed to get to use it in the opera show, b-but Mads came and h-helped you instead.”

“Oh.” Flowey looks disappointed, pressing a vine to the touch screen and scrolling himself. The apps fly by at a dizzying rate as Flowey looks for anything remotely destructive. He reads much faster than Frisk and Chara. “Why d-didn’t we get a chainsaw too?” he asks.

“B-because you are l-like two years old and Fr-Frisk is what? T-ten?”

“Wh-what?! I’m ages old!” Flowey sputters. “Just because I’ve only been alive for two years doesn’t mean I’m a k-kid again!”

“Uh huh,” says Alphys and they can picture her squint.

Frisk shrugs. She has a point. It doesn’t stop them from agreeing with Flowey though. A chainsaw would have been seriously cool.

Flowey keeps looking as Frisk takes the north path and follows it straight. Straight into a wall, that is. To their right, there is a barely lit bridge that makes the hair on the back of their neck stand up. They’re not fond of dark spaces. Never have been. But this is the farthest north they’ve gotten. At least, it’s the farthest in one direction they’ve gotten. They still have no idea which way’s north. On the surface they had been able to guess because of the sun. They sit down, crossing their legs and looking at their phone. Flowey still hasn’t found the compass.

They nudge his vines away and tap the search bar at the top of the screen, typing in ‘compass’. There it is. They open the app and rotate the phone, watching the needle continue to point through the wall before them.

“Maybe one of the paths you missed leads farther north?” Undyne asks.

Frisk nods, standing up.

“Frisk,” Chara warns, drawing their eyes back to the compass. Slowly, the needle creeps across the compass face although Frisk isn’t moving at all. North is now to their right, leading them across the badly lit bridge.

“The CORE m-must have shifted,” Alphys soothes. “J-just walk across. You sh-should be okay.”

Frisk groans. They’ve learned that ‘should be’ and ‘will be’ have become two very different phrases. Bravely, they quell their fears and step onto the bridge, following the still needle.

They make it halfway across before a large shape swings itself onto the bridge like a gorilla and yanks them into an encounter.

“It’s Knight Knight!” Flowey calls. “Watch out for her morningstar!”

“Her what?” Frisk asks. They jump backwards as the shape whips out a fearsome blade and stabs it down into the spot where they had previously been standing.

“Her morningstar!” Flowey yells, gesturing at the blade.

“He f*cking hired Knight Knight?” Undyne shouts through the phone. “What the f*ck is wrong with him?” In the heat of the moment, she’s entirely forgotten to censor herself.

Do you know her? Frisk types.

“Yes! She gave up being a Royal Guard for money! For money!” They can hear Undyne stomping around and Alphys in the background cautioning her to be careful. Gaster burbles and the sound slides past the phone, then near it again, as if Undyne’s rocking the elevator and Gaster’s sliding all over the place. “And if she hadn’t quit, I would’ve fired that traitor anyway! f*cking narcoleptic would’ve gotten herself killed! At least Sans wakes up if something’s wrong!”

‘What’s narcoleptic?’ they ask Chara. The little spirit doesn’t quite seem to know, examining Knight Knight with narrowed eyes.

Frisk hops away as Knight Knight tries to stab them again. Chara recognizes a weak point and directs Frisk’s attention to the way she moves. Her movements are more sluggish than they’d previously thought. In fact, the beaky mouth in her middle yawns tiredly, mumbling “Close your eyes.”

“Do you remember any lullabies?” they ask Flowey.

“Wh-what! I’m not singing her a lullaby!” he protests. “She’s trying to kill us!”

“Don’t be stupid. Everyone tries to kill us.”

“Sing!” Frisk signs.

Flowey shoots them an aggrieved look as Knight Knight’s morningstar begins to glow. Then he sings, badly, the same song he had sung with Shyren. Knight Knight’s morningstar dims as she listens. On the other end of the phone, Gaster stops talking and the stomping ceases.

Through the receiver, Frisk can hear Undyne start singing along, her voice soft. They remember suddenly that Toriel and Asgore would sing it to their children and that now it makes monsters hold their hands over their hearts. Is it monsterkind’s national anthem? Whatever it is, they decide, it’s pretty.

Knight Knight’s motions have slowed enough that they just walk around her attempted jabs at them. Flowey comes to the end of the song and starts it again. Frisk tries signing along this time, picking out the signs for ‘starlight’ and ‘memories.’ They don’t know all the words, so theirs is a rough translation, stunted by the phone in their hand as well.

The face in Knight Knight’s middle closes its eyes and falls fast asleep.

Frisk creeps around her and continues on. What’s that song?

“It’s called His Theme,” Alphys says dreamily, sounding as if she herself had almost been lulled to sleep by Undyne’s singing.

“No, it’s not. It’s called Memory,” Undyne corrects. “Asgore likes to sing it to his plants sometimes. He’s such a big softy that he thinks singing to plants makes them grow better.” She snigg*rs. “He let me have a bit of garden for myself.” There’s a pause. “I got kicked out of his garden once for yelling at my plants for being wimps. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him get so mad. He has a real soft spot for golden flowers.”

Frisk can practically see Alphys’s expression. The persistent rumbling from the phone stops with a ding. “O-oh,” she says hastily. “Th-that’s our cue! Come on, Undyne, Doctor Gaster! Frisk, do you want us to wait for you?”

“Y-you’re already there?” Flowey whines.

“Y-yup! We’re even-”

“Alphys, darling!” calls a familiar buzzing voice. Mettaton’s voice is suddenly very loud and very close. “Is that the human? Hello, darling, where are you?”

Lost.

“Lost? Didn’t Alphys give you the map? Alphys, didn’t you give them the map?”

“O-of course I g-gave them the m-map,” Alphys says. “B-but the CORE keeps shifting, s-so the map’s useless!”

“Oh, honestly, who would be rearranging the CORE?” Mettaton asks. “We’re already too far off schedule. Knight Knight said you were coming practically ages ago.” Into the phone, he says “Human, sweetheart, you’re verging on unfashionably late, which is extremely rude of you. There are people here I want to impress.”

Hold your horses, they chide.

“Let me see that map of yours, Alphys.” Mettaton clicks his fingers. After a few ‘hm’s and a couple mutterings, he says “This looks correct. Do none of you know how to read maps?”

“NGAAAAH! C’mere, you toaster!” There’s a series of sounds, one after the other, and Frisk assumes from Mettaton’s scolding and Undyne’s screaming that Undyne has just suplexed Mettaton into something.

“H-hey! Wait! We only just saw Kn-knight Knight! How could she know we were coming?” protests Flowey over the shrieking.

“What, do you think that I wasn’t having you followed the entire time? Darling, I am both beautiful and bright. As soon as you set foot in the CORE, I knew. You’ve been wandering around for nearly half an hour and Knight Knight called twenty minutes ago.” Mettaton pauses. “You only just fought her, you mean?”

“She’s been following us the whole time?” Chara asks. “Where was she? Did you hide her in the walls?”

“Yeah, we just fought her.” Flowey twists around. “She’s dead asleep.”

Mettaton sighs heavily. “Of course. Just stay where you are. I’ll send someone to collect you. And you three! Get to your seats!”

“Okay, Mettaton!” Alphys says. Frisk hears him zoom away, then Alphys leans in close to the phone.

“Listen, I know he doesn’t seem it, but Mettaton can be a really sweet guy.” Flowey makes a face and scoffs. Alphys laughs. “I know, I know, b-but I’m serious! He’s mean sometimes and petty and, yeah, it’s about him a lot, but I don’t want you to hurt him. A-And I know! That you d-don’t want to h-hurt him either. S-So, I’m going to tell you something important. There’s a- there’s a switch on his back. M-maybe you s-saw it last night at the lab. If you throw the sw-switch, it t-triggers a t-transformation sequence. H-his, uh, new form loses battery faster. If you just keep him talking, it’s p-probable he’ll j-just sh-sh-shut down from exhaustion and, uh, no one will have to get hurt! D-d-do you understand?”

I’m about to shut down from exhaustion myself, Frisk jokes.

“We got it,” Flowey says, rolling his eyes at them. They shrug and grin.

“It’s fine, Alphys. I’ve got a plan.” Chara pretends to inspect their fingernails, smirking.

Alphys might not be able to hear Chara, but Frisk can and now they’re curious. They had known Chara had a plan, but no one’s told them what it is yet. ‘Enlighten us then, oh fearless leader.’

Chara just looks smugly at them. The phone clicks. Frisk glances at their screen and sees ‘CALL ENDED.’

Time drags its bloated body past, and Frisk waits by Knight Knight’s snoring form. And waits. And maybe they hear-! Nope, they wait some more. They take out their phone and endeavor to teach Flowey how to play solitaire. They don’t really know how to play solitaire either, but there’s no go fish app. After three straight bad hands, they decide to cut their losses and open a drawing app instead. Flowey draws several cruel pictures before Chara takes over the hands and doodles little pictures. Flowey’s eyes blink rapidly, then he starts drawing response pictures. These turn into joint comics, which feature plenty of cool weapons with long and intricate names.

Frisk is soon absorbed in the adventures of the God of Hyperdeath and the Nameless (that’s Chara’s character, apparently, and it doesn’t escape Frisk’s notice that the Nameless looks almost exactly like Chara with their dripping eyes or that the God of Hyperdeath resembles a grown-up boss monster). The Nameless and the God of Hyperdeath are currently discussing the Nameless’s plan for Mettaton, serving the dual purpose of satisfying Frisk’s curiosity and amusing Flowey. Chara has thoughtfully even given Frisk a little side character to voice their concerns. Frisk, after some deliberation, had named their little character Francis, which so tickled Flowey that every time the God of Hyperdeath says ‘Francis,’ Frisk and Chara are treated to a closeup of his eyes. Frisk is asking through Francis (closeup of Hyperdeath’s eyes) what they’re going to do after the defeat of Mettaton when they hear the rapid tick-tack tick-tack of sharp feet on tile.

Chara quickly saves the drawings. Frisk drops the phone into Flowey’s vines and stretches their arms up above their head. Astigmatism stands across from them, arms folded across its grinning mouth. “You’re late, stupid,” it tells them.

Frisk squints at it. “Don’t pick on it,” Chara warns. “You’ll just get involved in a hate fest.”

So they rearrange their frown into a pleasant smile, standing to follow it. “You have lovely eyelashes,” they have Flowey say, although he rolls his eyes so hard at having to do it that his eyes look like they might fall out of his head. Astigmatism glares at them, but its body language visibly relaxes and it trots ahead of them as if it’s escorting a conquering hero. They follow it back along the bridge to where Knight Knight kneels, snoring softly from her chest mouth. Astigmatism knocks on her armor. “Come on, moron!” it shouts. “Good morningstar, you’re boringstar!”

Knight Knight stirs and the eye inside her mouth blinks open, glaring at the Astigmatism with a bloodshot iris. The rest of the body rouses itself, clanking horribly as the jointed pieces of her armor clash. When she’s standing again, she rests a hand on the Astigmatism’s head and pats it maybe a little too roughly. From where they’re standing, Frisk thinks they see the monster’s head indent and then pop back into shape. Astigmatism seems unruffled, blinking languidly as it turns smartly on its heel. Frisk wonders if Astigmatism too had been part of the Royal Guard.

Knight Knight swings herself back down under the bridge. Astigmatism taps its foot, looking after her, but then remembers that it has Frisk to attend to. It leads them through three rooms and then bows, pointing with a sly smirk to a fancy door. They smile and give it a thumbs up in thanks. It nods back, heading through the door itself, scurrying off to the side.

“Everybody know what we’re going to do?” Frisk asks, checking one last time.

“Yes,” groans Flowey, slipping their phone back into their pocket. They have to put it in the other pocket. The badges are nearly burning a hole in their hip and they don’t want to even entertain the possibility of them burning through their phone.

“Wait until I give the signal,” Chara reminds them. Frisk taps their fingernails on the house key in their pocket and nods, conveying the message to Flowey.

*Everything is going to plan.
*It fills you with DETERMINATION.

Frisk enters a dark room. Their footsteps echo. Music begins to play, slow and ominous, as the door slides closed behind them. Each note drifts by them, wrapping them in a cocoon of deliberate sound. The lights come up to reveal Mettaton on a platform. He presses a gloved finger to his screen in a gesture for quiet, which strikes Chara as a bit of an asshole move. It’s not like they could say anything. He beckons them and little lights flicker on like fireflies, illuminating a set of stairs built into the side of the platform.

“There you are, darling. It’s time to have our little showdown, hm?” His voice is as quiet as it can be. “Did dear Alphys tell you that this was a show? Was she being honest, as she wanted to?” He glances over toward the edge of the platform. “She’s a wonderful person, isn’t she? The great Doctor Alphys Centauri, as brilliant and bold as Waterfall’s stars! But she can’t outshine me, darling! I have no desire to harm humans. Far from it, in fact! My sole desire, my truest dream, is to entertain. After all, the audience deserves a good show, don’t they? I would hate to deprive them of what they’ve craved for so long!” Mettaton beeps in triumph. “Here we are, darlings! My final show before I reach the surface world! Featuring real bloodshed, real drama, and the very real reaping of a human s-soul!”

Chara smiles.

Frisk looks towards Flowey. They can just barely see his silhouette as he gives them one of his armless shrugs. If this and a couple monsters are the worst the CORE has to offer, he’s fine with that. Frisk resigns themself to having another delicate battle. Mettaton NEO will break if they so much as breathe on him too harshly and they certainly don’t want to hurt him or Alphys. They really wish they could have a battle with someone that was more like a snowball fight, playful and fun and not dangerous for anyone involved.

When they reach Mettaton, ready to rumble, he lifts his arms from his sides, twitching his fingers, of which he has ten now. The music climbs in volume just a smidgen. Mettaton begins to snap his fingers along and a bass line thumps into play, matching the beat of Frisk’s heart. One hand settles on Mettaton’s side, just above his dials, and his other arm thrusts into the sky. Lights burst into life with a sound like flashbulbs and the music snarls, transitioning from a harsh beat to a full-fledged roar. Or perhaps the roar is just the sound of the crowd.

Frisk turns around in awe. They’ve never been to a concert, but they wonder if this is what it feels like. They are surrounded on all sides by monsters in the stands. The audience, previously following Mettaton’s instruction to remain silent, is now creating a wall of sound, prompted by the sight of their superstar and the little human onstage. For Frisk, the noise is deafening, the faces blurry. The energy pulses in their ribcage, the music tangles in their soul, their eyes brighten.

They love this.

Synths come into play over the bass line, weaving and looping over it. A screen behind Mettaton registers them as hot pink ribbons of sound cascading across the surface. Frisk pops their stance back onto one foot and raises their fists like a boxer. A smile plays over their lips. This sounds like it’s going to be fun.

Screens all around the area turn on and they see themself magnified, multiplied, three Frisks and Floweys twenty feet tall. Then the stage shifts under their feet. They stagger, and then they fall to their knees. The beat drops harder than the bottom of Chara’s stomach. Gravity seems like it’s increased, but instead the stage is rising swiftly into the air.

“Not that anyone’s counting, but reason four hundred and thirty-six why he and Papyrus should be together: they both like to make me nervous,” Chara remarks, trying not to look over the edge as Frisk staggers back to their feet.

“Listen, darling. If you continue on this way, trying to avoid conflict at all costs, Asgore will take your soul. Truly it’s inevitable. With your soul, he will destroy humanity. Neither of us want that, so if I take your soul, I can stop Asgore’s plan! I can save humanity from destruction. I’ll cross the barrier and then! Then, darling, I’ll become the star I’ve always dreamed of being, the star the world deserves! Millions will watch me on their television screens! Glitz! Glamour! I’ll finally have it all! S-so what if a few people have to die?” He ticks like a time bomb. “That’s show business, baby!” His hands tremble and he wrings them.

Chara reminds them of what they have to do and that they have to do it now. His metal body is invulnerable, Alphys said, but his newer form consumes battery faster. They just have to not hit NEO and it’ll all be okay. They have to hope that Chara’s plan will work. Frisk points at their cheek, grimacing.

“Do I have something on my screen?”

They nod, gesturing behind him. Come on, step one.

“Thank you, darling, that would be rather embarrassing, wouldn’t it?” He swivels on his wheel to check his image in the massive screen. Just as Alphys had said, there’s a large red switch smack-dab in the center of his back. They charge forward, the audience screams, Mettaton whirls- but he’s too late. Frisk flips the switch.

“Did you,” he starts, voice cracking and squealing. “Just flip.” He rolls forward, his arms jutting out at strange angles. His wheel retracts and his rectangular body slams onto the floor, screen blaring a warning red. “My switchswitchswitchswitch?” The word ‘switch’ reverberates as Mettaton begins to rattle and shake, his screen flashing yellow exclamation points.

“Duck and cover!” Chara yells. Frisk glances wildly about for a hiding place and has to settle for covering their face and praying to whoever governs stupid decisions that this one won’t be the end of them. The explosion hits them like a brick wall, their apron whipping around in the breeze. They bend their knees to hold their stance. Flowey has to cling to their neck for dear life as his petals threaten to tear from his face.

The audience screams and a deep voice hums, in tones that buzz only the slightest, “Oh yes.”

Frisk uncovers their face, Flowey tugging at their shirt collar. At first, all they can see are the clouds of smoke obscuring the stage. But then a pink heart shape comes bobbing towards them like a will o’ the wisp. A statuesque silhouette forms around the heart as it stills, lit from behind by the stage lights. They frown. It’s the wrong shape for NEO, far too sleek and small. Who is this Mettaton?

“Oh my,” the voice purrs. “If you flipped my switch, that can only mean one thing. You’re desperate for the premiere of my new body. Doctor Alphys truly must have told you everything. Even my little surprise. How rude… Lucky for you, I’ve been aching to show this off for a long time. So… as thanks, I’ll give you a handsome reward. I’ll make your last living moments… ABSOLUTELY beautiful!”

Fans located in the rafters whir into life, blowing away the haze. The audience goes crazy.

Flowey whistles long and low, obviously just as startled as Frisk. Chara screams and starts slapping at Frisk’s arm. “Holy sh*t, holy sh*t, holy holy holy on high,” they babble. “He’s hot? What? WHAT?”

Frisk extends their arms out in front of them and gestures at him. “What am I supposed to do with this?” they ask anyone at all, completely bewildered.

The first thing they fixate on is the boots. Thigh-high stilettos in a shade of hot pink that acts like it wants to blast out their retinas. He uses them to emphasize the length and shape of his legs, which Frisk compares to those of models in magazines. Chara decides that the legs of the models can’t even compete. They think that’s probably a good thing.

He has hair swept over one side of his face, artfully arranged to look tousled. His eyes are big and bright, like Napstablook’s, and the wry twist of his mouth is one they’ve seen on Mads, and these features blend together seamlessly with the rest of him to create a startling silver whole. He might be the prettiest person they’ve ever met. It bewilders them.

Then he strikes a pose, laughing, and their jaw drops. Onscreen, a caption pops up under his face and they fingerspell it. “It’s Mettaton EX!” Great. Now they have to change his sign name to something other than ‘box star’.

“What a turn of events!” Flowey gasps, sarcasm and actual disbelief waging a war over his expression.

Chara is scribbling furiously on their shipping wall and cannot be reached for a comment at this time.

“Lights! Camera! Action!” Mettaton calls, kicking a leg up in a perfect arc. It comes swinging back down like the blade of a guillotine and Frisk snaps out of their beauty-induced trance just in time to dart away from the offending appendage.

The new beat of the music is delightful. It makes them want to dance and jump around, but Mettaton keeps kicking out at them in one fluid attack. If they hesitate even a second, there’s a high probability that he will kick them right off the platform, which has now reached an absurd height and is still rising steadily through the air. So they hop around like the Energizer Bunny until Mettaton pauses long enough for it to be considered their turn.

‘Is it time for your plan now?’ they ask.

“Not yet.”

“Chara says it’s not time yet,” they tell Flowey.

“Wh-what? Charaaa,” he whines.

“Shush! Just keep avoiding his attacks!”

Frisk glances around. The audience seems to be expecting them to do something. They puff out their chest, stick their own little leg out, and strike a pose. The audience nods.

Mettaton turns to the large screen behind him. “Ooh, darling, look at those ratings,” he comments, delighted.

Frisk watches a little line arc upwards through the numbers. Their pose just boosted the ratings by twenty viewers. They smile. Looks like being fabulous is one way to an audience’s hearts. That’s good. They like that sort of thing. It gives them an excuse to dance.

When Mettaton poses again, so do they, mimicking his posture and poise as closely as they can. Flowey hurls a line of bullets at the approaching bombs, knocking them high into the air where they explode like fireworks. Gold glitter rains down on them and Frisk dodges that too, just in case. The audience sounds delighted, cheering.

Frisk, rather than pose again, starts to dance, waving their arms around and stomping their feet enthusiastically. They may not be graceful, but the audience seems to appreciate their passion. Ratings leap up.

Mettaton's chest opens up, releasing a tiny swarm of robot attacks that surge up into the air. They remind Frisk of Mads's dummy bots, but these blow kisses and float down like Mary Poppins with their cutesy parasols. Mettaton himself throws a kiss to the cameras and all four screens display his sly smile.

Frisk laughs and blows a kiss of their own, ducking and twisting around explosives. The cameras zoom onto them as they twirl. Flowey is bobbing on their shoulders like a floral rooster. It takes them a minute to realize that he’s dancing. They laugh, reaching inside their sleeves to take his vines and dance with him. He produces a third vine and pretends to throw a kiss, instead sending the vine spiraling into the air. The tiny robots are skewered on it, each one exploding into fine gold glitter that showers onto their heads. On their shoulder, Flowey cackles.

Then everything pauses and the screens say Time for Our Commercial Break!
Frisk pants, looking all around like an owl. There are no projectiles. No bombs. Nothing. Just an advertisem*nt playing on the big screen for a store in New Home they've never visited. Their heart pounds like a drum. “This is fun, huh, Flowey?” they ask.

The flower does his best to hide the exhilaration on his face by rubbing grumpily at his petals. “Stupid glitter. We should have killed him first thing.”

“But what about the dancing?” Mettaton is waving down at the audience. The sound of his fans applauding is mind-boggling.

Flowey sighs, but there’s a smile growing on his face. Chara gives him a poke. “Knock it off.” They poke him again, pressing a fingertip into his cheek and blowing a raspberry. His smile’s in full bloom now as he blows a sigh upwards. “Fine. The dancing's pretty cool. But you’re never going to get that out of your hair.”

“Good thing you don’t have that problem then.” Frisk shakes themself like a dog, spraying glitter over him. Flowey yells and bats at their face with a vine. “Stop it!”

Mettaton twists deftly on his high heels and struts to the side of the stage. A pair of ears appears, followed by a fat little dragon in a black beret. There's sweat beading on his forehead, under the brim of his hat. He's not used to such exertion or excitement.

"Hello, Solomon, darling."

The little dragon rolls himself over the side of the stag and staggers to his feet. There’s a big, albeit exhausted, smile on his face. "Hi, Mister Mettaton!" Solomon unstraps a tube of canvas from his back and shakes it out. It pops into the shape of a folding chair, one with an M picked out in glittery stones on the back.

Mettaton sits down in it, crossing his legs at the knee and propping his chin in his hand. "What do you think?" he prompts, smiling in a teasing manner.

"O-of you?" Solomon chuckles. "I'm thinking I sh-should have bought more sparkles." From a pocket in his vest, he takes a tiny case and unfolds it.

Frisk draws closer, curiosity reeling them in. Flowey keeps a strict eye on Mettaton, just in case he tries a sneak attack.

At the press of a button, Solomon's box springs open to reveal tubes of paint and paintbrushes in all sizes. The dragon, biting his lip in concentration, dips the smallest brush in paint and brushes it across Mettaton's eyelids. A trail of cold pink follows the brush, creating highlights over Mettaton’s eyes.

Chara wants to look closer, but Frisk leaves the make-up session and looks over the edge of the platform. MTT employees, distinguishable by their hot pink jackets and silver caps, sell Glamburgers and Starfaits and Legendary Heroes to the crowds below. From what Frisk can hear, the prices are greatly reduced from their Burger Emporium prices and people are responding extremely positively towards that. They feel the money in their pocket. Maybe after the show, they’ll duck down there and grab some Glamburgers.

"FRISK!" calls a voice. Unable to believe their ears, Frisk turns and is seized up in a hug. Papyrus grins at them. "HELLO! ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR TIME WITH THE WONDERFUL METTATON?"

They nod, pressing their face into his shirt. It smells like Grillby's. Happily, they just rest in his arms a moment.Then Chara gets curious and Frisk translates. "How did you get here?" they ask.

"I WON A LOTTERY!" Papyrus freezes, his eye sockets darting. A pair of hands snake past his neck, draping themselves loosely over his breastbone.

"That you did, beautiful," Mettaton croons, his hands curling around Papyrus's shoulders. Papyrus is tall, but Mettaton EX is almost a head taller and he rests his chin on Papyrus's shoulder with ease, smiling a cat smile at them through freshly painted lips. "Hello, my lovelies. Our commercial break is almost over. Papyrus, could you go back to your seat? I'm sorry, darling, but your being up here could make some people think we're, mm, up to something." If possible, his smile gets wider.

Papyrus laughs, almost nervously, and gives Frisk a squeeze. They can see the sweat beading on his skull despite the CORE’s glorious AC. "OF COURSE, METTATON! ALTHOUGH WHY PEOPLE WOULD THINK SUCH THINGS OF ANY OF YOU IS BEYOND ME! NYEH HEH HEH... HEH." Before he can put them down, Frisk grabs for him. His attention and scarf are caught by the motion. “WHAT IS IT, FRISK?”

They take out the badges and show them to him. “For Mr. Gaster,” they say. And then, “Do you have the other one?”

Papyrus takes the pieces of metal from their hand. “I DON’T BELIEVE SO, BUT THESE LOOK VERY FAMILIAR! WHEN I GET HOME, I WILL ASK SANS!”

Frisk gives him a grateful nod, then permits him to put them down. He waves goodbye. To Mettaton, he gives another of his wide smiles. With a somersault, he leaps backwards off the stage, laughing as he goes. Mettaton’s mouth quirks and he presses a gloved hand to it before strutting away.

"He didn't defend his own honor about the ‘up to something’ thing," Chara notes, rather gleefully.

'Probably thinking about stuff,' Frisk suggests neutrally, although they know precisely what Chara’s thinking Papyrus is thinking about (“Try thinking that five times fast”). They take a quick inventory of their pockets, which feel far lighter without the badges. Their fingers close around the heart-shaped handle of the house key. ‘Now?’

“Not just yet. Wear him down first. Strike when he’s vulnerable.” Chara’s smile knifes across their face. Even though Frisk knows that they have good intentions and that the plan is one that should wind up with minimal repercussions, they still have to suppress a shiver. Their friend looks wicked when their plans are coming together.

...

Papyrus lands on his toes without a sound, having used some of his gravity magic to slow his leap. He makes his way back to his seat. The Whimsalot hovering by it nods at him gravely. He tries to nod gravely back, but only gives them a bigger smile, still giddy from his second encounter with the marvelous Mettaton. The Whimsalot seems so serious that he wants to try and cheer them up. “HELLO AGAIN!” he says. “WOULD YOU CARE FOR SOME PASTA?”

They glance at him. He has become very adept at reading faces under armor and so he thinks that they look rather confused. Tucking the badges into his scarf, he opens his lunchbox, propping it on his knees. The Whimsalot flutters nearer, examining the plate of pasta. It has been artfully arranged to depict one of Papyrus’s favorite scenes from Mettaton’s show. The Whimsalot gives him a questioning look. Obviously they have not seen that episode.

“OR PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE SOMETHING TO DRINK?” Papyrus unscrews the top of his thermos and pours a little milk into the lid, offering it up. The Whimsalot sheathes their double-bladed spear after a moment’s hesitation, then pounces upon the thermos lid. Somehow they manage to drink the lid dry again. A peculiar slurping sound comes from under their mask as they offer him the lid. They sound as if they are licking their lips. They must have been very thirsty.

“I THOUGHT THAT MILK WAS ONLY GOOD FOR BONES! I SUPPOSE THAT IF IT IS GOOD FOR SKELETONS, IT MUST BE GOOD FOR WHIMSALOTS AS WELL!” He hands them the entire thermos and unwraps his pasta, taking a quick bite. As usual, the pasta is delicious. His teeth squeak on the edible sequins and he can only close his mouth after apologetically sticking a finger in his mouth to worry noodle shards out from between his teeth. But it is delicious! The handiwork of the Great Papyrus cannot be anything but! “MIGHT I TROUBLE YOU FOR MY THERMOS?” he asks the Whimsalot.

They lower the thermos guiltily, shaking it a little. The barest inch of milk remains. Papyrus musters a smile peppered with char and edible glitter. “YOU MUST HAVE BEEN VERY THIRSTY,” he tells them. “I AM PLEASED TO HAVE BEEN OF ASSISTANCE. AND LOOK, YOU EVEN LEFT SOME FOR ME!”

The Whimsalot shines a little as he drinks the rest of the milk. Then it bumps into his shoulder. “OH? WHAT IS IT?” With its spear, it points down the stairs. Papyrus leans forward to look where it’s pointing. There is a little stand by the stage, the MTT logo emblazoned across it in gold. “A REFRESHMENT STAND?”

The little monster pushes a gold coin into his cheekbone, tapping the edge on his skull. “WHAT? DO YOU WANT ME TO GET YOU SOMETHING?”

The Whimsalot shakes its head and pokes him with the coin. He tries again. “YOU WANT TO PAY ME BACK?” A nod. “NO, NO! THE GREAT PAPYRUS NEEDS NO COMPENSATION! YOU REQUIRED A DRINK!” The Whimsalot sighs and all but hits him over the head with the coin. “IT WOULD OFFEND YOUR PRIDE SHOULD I CONTINUE TO REFUSE?” It nods with the fury of a thousand suns. Papyrus takes the coin. He doesn’t want to offend his new friend, should it wish to be his friend. The Whimsalot produces another. And then another. And every time Papyrus protests, it gives him a fierce glare. Soon there is a pile of gold coins cupped in his palms and the Whimsalot nods to itself, finally satisfied. The fight onstage has resumed, so Papyrus is loathe to go and trouble the vendor. The Whimsalot, eyes fixed elsewhere, assures him that the employees rarely watch the show anyway and that they owe him a drink.

Papyrus makes his way down to the refreshment stand, discreetly picking sequins from between his molars. Although he does not want to use the Whimsalot’s money, his cooking does taste much better with milk to wash it down. He decides that he will get the Whimsalot a drink as well, with his own gold. Guarding the VIP box must be thirsty work.

The vendor perks up at his approach, her pointy ears swiveling like satellites. She appears to be some sort of manticore. Rather than the hot pink jacket of the other employees, this manticore is wearing a striped shirt under a sort of green cloak and there’s a pair of red flats visible through the glass front of the stand. He would think she was a child if not for her voice, which tickles the back of his mind as if he’s heard it before. "How may I help you?"

"DO YOU HAPPEN TO SELL MILK?"

The monster behind the counter grins, glancing at the menu. "The only drinks selling here are starfaits, highly recommended and distributed by MTTTV and its associates. Would you like to buy a starfait?"

Papyrus looks at the image of a fruity drink with some doubt. He really just wanted to see if they had milk. "WHAT GOES IN IT?" he asks.

Languidly, the manticore reads off the menu, pulling down her glasses frames. The glasses don’t have any glass in them. He had thought they were supposed to. "Yogurt, honey, seven different types of fruit and vegetable juice, edible sparkles, and a honeycomb star. Would you like one?"

Papyrus checks around him. There's no line to hold up by asking questions. "IS THERE A POSSIBILITY THAT I CAN ONLY GET THE JUICE?"

"No. Says here that starfaits come premade from the MTT Burger Emporium." It’s odd, but he thinks that he can smell rot. Perhaps the food has gone bad? If so, why does it smell so cold, like Waterfall’s caverns and not at all like bad food?

"THANK YOU THEN, BUT I WOULD NOT LIKE ONE. ENJOY THE SHOW!"

The manticore gives him a sharp smile. He takes a step back. She has two sets of ears, one set floppy, the other pointy."I believe I will. You also, Papyr-"

"PAPYRUS!" yells a familiar voice.

"Undyne?" he asks, looking around him in bewilderment. He doesn't see her anywhere. Had he been imagining things? When he turns back to the stand, the manticore has vanished as well.

Then the Captain of the Royal Guard jumps down off the top of the food stand and catches him in a headlock. "PLEASE DON'T NOOGIE THE SKELETON," he squeaks, pulling against her hold. She noogies him a bit anyway, because no one can tell Undyne what to do, then she releases him, putting her hands on her hips in order to better regard him.

"Aw, look! One of us has to go home and change!" she grumps, gesturing at her shirt. Papyrus squints. Is that his jacket she's wearing? Then he reads her shirt.

"OH! WELL, I WORE MY REGULAR CLOTHES UNDER MY SAVETHEHUMAN CLOTHES! I CAN JUST CHANGE IF IT BOTHERS YOU!”

"Papyrus! I'm kidding! Your shirt looks great, you nerd!" She hugs him, and he, managing to forget who he's hugging, throws his arms around her. It should come as no surprise when she suplexes him. He's surprised anyway, but the surprise also stems from the fact that he can see two scaly yellow feet standing before him on the upside down ground, claws tapping anxiously.

"IS IT REALLY-" he gasps "-THE GREAT DOCTOR ALPHYS!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Undyne's hold on him tightens warningly. "DID UNDYNE TELL YOU SHE NEEDED HELP WITH A-?" Before he can wink, Undyne flips him back onto his feet.

"Papyrus. We’re here to watch the show.” She leans in, pressing her palm to his face so her webbed fingers nearly cover his eye sockets. “I am handling this.” Her fins flap.

"OKIE-DOKIE!" he replies, leaning around her and wiggling his fingers at Alphys in a wave. The shadows beside her shift, opening dark eyes wider at the sight of him, and Papyrus realizes- “DAD! YOU’RE HERE TOO!”

“Papyrus, what on earth are you doing here?” Dad asks, bewilderment etched in the cracks on his face.

“I WON A LOTTERY!” Papyrus explains proudly. “SO I GET TO WATCH METTATON AND ALSO SUPPORT MY BESTIE!” He jerks a thumb at his shirt. Then his mind touches an unpleasant possibility, prompted in that direction by the increasingly uneasy look on Dad’s face and the voice in the back of his head saying that Dad near the CORE is a bad idea. When pressed, that little voice offers up no details, just a faint dread. “DAD, WHY ARE YOU HERE? IS SOMETHING WRONG? YOUR NOTE SAID YOU WERE GOING TO HOTLAND.”

“This is a part of Hotland still, is it not?” Papyrus must make a face indicating that the CORE is generally regarded as a separate area, because Dad then says “I suppose not. I went to visit Doctor Alphys actually.”

“O-oh, yeah! He did! And, um, then Undyne came to visit!”

“HECK YEAH I DID! And these nerds invited me here!”

Papyrus grabs onto Undyne’s arm. “THIS IS PERFECT!” he says. “YOU CAN ALL SIT WITH ME!”

“Fuhuhu, that’d be awesome, Papyrus!” She glances over at Alphys, then back. “But I bet Alphys has certain seats.” Alphys nods, holding up her phone. The look on their faces is identical, hopeful.

“OH DRAT,” he says, disappointed but not surprised. Undyne’s had a crush on Alphys for ages and he knows a ploy to get him out of the way when he sees one. He figures that he might as well help them along. ”WELL, DAD, YOU CAN SIT WITH ME! WE’RE GOING TO CHEER FOR FRISK AND ALSO METTATON!” He gives Undyne a wink. He will also be cheering for them, he wants to tell her. She sends him a look so pointed that it could pass for one of her spears. He gives her a big, cheesy wink to make her smile.

Dad pops his knuckles worriedly, looking at Alphys. The dinosaur nods at him, her eyebrows raised to accentuate an unspoken point. “How about,” Dad signs with a big smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “you show me to where we’re sitting, Papyrus? I mean, goodness, look, we’re missing all the action!”

“OH GOODNESS GOLLY, LOOK AT THAT!” Papyrus cries out with dismay as he turns to the screens. Frisk and Mettaton fly around the stage, dancing and fighting in one choreographed scene. “COME ON, DAD, WE’RE MISSING OUR CHANCE TO CHEER FOR THE HUMAN! GO, FRISK!” he trumpets as he charges up the stairs, Dad following.

“Doctor Gaster, remember that you have that r-r-really important thing to do,” Alphys calls, her voice fading as she allows Undyne to drag her along.

Papyrus turns around just in time to see the guilt on Dad’s face in the split second before it vanishes. His heart sinks. He never wishes to be anything less than the highly perceptive Papyrus, but sometimes he wishes that he wasn’t so perceptive in a family full of secrets. Still, he takes the high road, pretending he saw nothing as he strikes a pose. “DAD, WE’RE GOING TO MISS EVERYTHING!”

“I’m right behind you,” Dad reassures him. Papyrus frowns. Maybe that’s true, but his father’s mind is miles away.

When they reach the box, the Whimsalot branches its spear across the entrance. For all that it knows, Dad could be a kidnapper or something worse! Papyrus intends to put its mind at ease.

“FRIEND WHIMSALOT, THIS IS MY DAD! I ASKED HIM TO COME SIT WITH US!”

The Whimsalot shines like a small lantern, bowing from the waist to Dad. “There is still hope,” it says softly when it straightens. Dad lowers his eyes, nodding imperceptibly.

“ALSO! TAKE YOUR COINS BACK! THE MANTICORE MANNING THE REFRESHMENT STATION SAID THEY DID NOT SELL MILK HERE!”

The Whimsalot tilts its head. “Manticore?”

“YES! SHE READ THAT MTT RESORT DOES NOT SELL ANYTHING OTHER THAN ITS OWN REFRESHMENTS.” He takes the fistful of coins out of the pouch he’d made in the loops of his scarf.

Whimsalot’s wings generate a small breeze as it puzzles over the coins. “Incorrect information..” it mumbles, looking inquisitively at the unmanned stand. Then it spells a rope of moths across the aisle before their seats. Two extra moths appear at its shoulders and these flutter forward. Papyrus’s crawls comfortably under his scarf. Dad and his moth stare each other down for an uncomfortable moment, then it splits itself neatly in two and affixes one part to each of his sleeve cuffs, like cufflinks. “I will return,” says the Whimsalot, making another bow as it flutters away down the stairs.

When Papyrus turns back, Dad is pretending to watch the screens. His hands, arguably the most expressive part of him at the current time, are jittering and he keeps cracking his knuckles one after the other.

Papyrus can’t do this again. He can’t stand by while his family just falls apart like this. But he doesn’t know what to say. So instead he says “WHAT DO YOU THINK THE MOTHS ARE FOR?” even though he knows their purpose exactly.

“They’re identity badges,” Dad says. Is that gratitude in his eyes? Could Dad be feeling just as awkward as Papyrus? Indeed, he takes a hold on the offered conversation rather quickly. “You see, Papyrus, the moths are all part of one attack, a chain of sorts. You have all different links. What the Whimsalot has done is give us two links of the chain, therefore adding us to it. Clever, isn’t it? The moths recognize their kin.”

Something at Papyrus’s throat burns. He reaches up to touch his neck and the badges clink against each other. He dips a hand into his scarf and brings them out. “DAD, FRISK GAVE ME THESE FOR YOU!”

His hunch that he had seen these badges before is only enhanced by the recognition on Dad’s face. “I shall have to thank them,” Dad signs, taking the badges in glowing green hands. These orbit around his shoulders as he plucks the badges out of them one by one. It’s as if something shocks him, for his body lurches and his eye lights flicker into life. A groan seeps from the gash serving as his mouth. It almost sounds like a word.

“DAD?”

“Papyrus, I have to destroy the CORE.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? THE CORE IS YOUR INVENTION, ISN’T IT?”

“Yes. That’s precisely why I have to destroy it. It isn’t an energy source, Papyrus. It’s a doorway. I designed an energy source, but the blueprints were modified. The energy isn’t being extracted from the magic in the atmosphere- I doubt it ever was.” Dad is growing agitated, all his words hasty. It is only Papyrus’s superior understanding of the language of hands that lets him keep up.

“DAD, I’LL COME WITH YOU!” Papyrus gets up and takes Dad’s hands. His father weighs almost nothing as Papyrus pulls him to (his feet?) a standing position.

“No, Papyrus, I can’t ask that of you. You must want to see this show.”

“I DO! BUT METTATON IS FOREVER. I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN THIRTEEN YEARS, DAD! I WOULD RATHER BUILD A PUZZLE THAN COMMIT AN ACT OF DESTRUCTION, BUT WE ARE GOING TO DESTROY THINGS IN THE NAME OF FAMILY TIME!”

Dad looks startled at first, but then his eyes crinkle and both corners of his mouth turn up. Rather than sign anything, he reaches out. Papyrus doesn’t pick him up when he hugs him this time. He almost doesn’t have to. Dad’s head comes up to about his shoulder now and both his arms are the stiff texture of a heavy coat rather than slimy. It’s not tactilely pleasant to hug him, but it’s nice.

Then Dad leans back to look him in the eye. “The destructive tendencies of you and your brother are intensely perturbing. I hope you realize that.”

“DAD, YOU CANNOT RUIN THIS MOMENT.”

“I can’t? Well, that sounds like a challenge.”

“NO, DON’T TAKE IT AS A CHALLENGE, DAD! OH, NOW YOU’VE DONE IT! MOMENT OFFICIALLY RUINED!” Papyrus folds his arms, looking accusingly at his father, who is wheezing with laughter. “I HOPE YOU’RE PROUD OF YOURSELF,” he says, a bit cross now.

“Sorry,” Dad says. He doesn't look the least bit sorry, but the highly intuitive Papyrus can tell that he’s sincere.

“COME ALONG, DAD, LET’S GO FIND THE CORE. BEFORE YOU RUIN YET ANOTHER MOMENT.”

They pass the Whimsalot on their way out. It’s examining the empty stand, but looks up immediately at their approach.

“THERE’S A FAMILY EMERGENCY,” Papyrus explains.

The Whimsalot nods. “I’ll tell the boss.” Again it looks at Gaster, then back at Papyrus. “Be brave,” it cautions.

…

“HEY!” roars Mads, recognizing the woman jogging up the flight of stairs. The stitching on their head is coming undone in a gruesome display of stuffing and the Mettaton hat they’re wearing doesn’t quite cover it. “Hey! Boss lady! Have you seen a dim-witted box brain?” they growl.

“Mads, you asshole!” Undyne greets. “Where’d you come from?”

Mads accepts a suplex of greeting and says, while upside down, “I’ve been chasing my tech for brains cousin all over Hotland is where I came from!”

“Th-that doesn’t make sens-” Alphys starts.

“I’m too angry to make sense!” Alphys throws her hands up in frustration at being interrupted. Mads continues, ignoring her in favor of their rant. “In fact. I’m not angry. I’m FURIOUS!” Mads’s top half forcibly splits off their bottom half and yo-yos around it like a demented planet circling the sun. “He gave me the slip around the steam vents!” Their body settles. “He gave me the slip,” they repeat, at a loss for words.

“I bet you feel like a real d-”

The dummy cringes and something about them twitches as they squeeze their eyes closed. “Don’t say dummy, don’t say dummy, don’t say dummy!” Undyne stops, taken aback. Mads gives them another glare and they can feel the way the fabric under their eyes is bunched up, almost swollen. They sigh and their head bows with its own weight. “I’m tired,” they say plaintively. “Have you seen my cousin?”

Wordlessly, Alphys points up. Mads leans back on their stand to try and find the top of the stage and sighs. “Of course, of course, of course.” They twitch again, then rise at a glacial speed into the air.

Mads hides just off to the side of the stage, floating behind the big magenta curtains. They can hear the clank of Mettaton’s heels every time the robot touches down and when the music stops again, they’re ready. The clanking of his heels approaches. Mettaton, entering the curtained off space backwards so he can wave to his fans, startles when they headbutt the small of his back, kicking off the ground with his high heels and landing a few inches away. “Maddy!” he says, a bit nervously, as he touches down. “What are you-?”

“Tell me what the f*ck you think you’re trying to do, Metts,” says the ghost inside the dummy.

Mettaton hurries back behind the curtain. “Tch, this is a family-friendly show. Why does no one get that?” He sighs and goes to brush the hair out of his eye, pausing just before his fingers can touch it. Instead, he folds his arms. “If you’re here to yell at me, Maddy, I don’t want to hear it.” He juts out his chin like a child.

Mads hops closer. “I’m not here to yell at you. I might, though, if you’re doing what I think you’re doing.”

Mettaton heaves a sigh. “And what, pray tell, is that, Maddy dearest?”

“You’re murdering a little kid.”

Mettaton double checks to make certain no one’s listening, twitching aside the curtain to peep out. The audience is still buzzing amongst themselves. Out onstage, Frisk waves down at the crowds. “Maddy, you can’t just say that. Besides, darling, they’re a human. I thought you hated humans.”

Mads forces a chuckle. Just because he’s right doesn’t mean that they’re happy he’s right. “I hate everything. But I really like that kid.” Mettaton’s lips press together. Mads looks at him sideways. “I thought you liked humans.”

“I do.” Mettaton refolds his arms, twitches, folds them a different way.

“So what are you doing?” prods Mads.

Their cousin’s stance shifts, propping a hand on his hip. His glance alternates between Mads and the curtain, never making eye contact for long. “I’m taking their soul so I can save humanity.” For all the acting he does, Metts has never been a good liar, at least, not to Mads.

“Really.” Mads injects false levity into their tone, raising their eyebrows as if surprised. “From what? That big, squashy goofball sitting on the throne in New Home?”

“You wouldn’t understand, Maddy.” Mettaton’s voice shakes with anger, the façade he likes to present as delicate as spiderwebs.

Mads’s anger comes to a head in response. “No. No, I probably wouldn’t. I’ve never been a big star like you, Metts.” They shake their head. He’s Mettaton now, not Metts. “Mettaton. But I probably don’t understand you either, do I? I probably don’t understand that you’ve waited your entire life to become something amazing and now there’s something holding you back. I probably don’t understand that you want to be likable, the star of the Underground or something like that. You want people to like you, to love you.” Their mouths snarl, but the words come out clear and precise, untouched by the anger boiling up their soul like soup. “I can’t possibly understand you because I’m Mads Mnemosyne and I’m angry and mean and rude Mads who ditched their little cousins and struck out on their own for a place to just exist and be something other than a little Waterfall ghost. Mads, who has those stupid, stupid, stupid dreams of being something nice in a fancy store.”

Mettaton bows his head, his hands curling into fists. The sight of it takes all the wind out of Mads’s sails. They didn’t want to hurt him. They hop closer and peer up under Mettaton’s hair into their cousin’s eye. It’s pink, the iris notched as if he has a built-in targeting system. But it still looks like Metts, still looks too much like Blooky’s, too much like Mads themself. Despite everything, Mettaton is still their baby cousin and it softens them to see him in there somewhere. Gently, they say “You know what? Maybe I do understand. Not well, and not on the scale you do, but I understand some of it. I understand that you’re trying to show the world something special, something that the world needs to see. You’re just going about it the wrong way. And I think you know that. You’re a good, smart kid, Metts. Not all dreams are stupid and yours isn’t at all.”

Mettaton laughs softly. Mads brightens. Responding to that, a dummy bot hops out of the air and cavorts around Mettaton’s waist, hopping up invisible steps to his face. Their cousin grabs for the change in subject. “Your attacks. That’s what you hit me with during the show.” Mettaton reaches out a finger to touch it. “They’re robots now? Robot dummies?” He smiles faintly. “I thought you had thrown a handful of spiders at me.”

Mads chooses to ignore the spider comment, although it’s something they’ve been wondering about too. Some of their minions have sprouted eight long legs and started crawling rather than floating. Like spiders. Later though. Later, when Mettaton isn’t caught and there isn’t an audience staring at the curtains behind which they’re concealed. “Sorry for that. Some of them look like that now, a bit like you. All robot-ish. When I thought you were at home, I thought it was just a thing, a magical upgrade as I got stronger. But they must have picked up on your soul.” The minion skips around proudly, distracting them from what they had been saying. They shake it off. “Ugh, I’m getting off track! The point is that- look at the minions! Look at the evidence! I obviously love you, even though I really don’t like you at all right now!” Mads looks out onto the stage, where the kid is being plied with drinks by an overzealous Astigmatism. They have to smile. Stupid kid probably tried to befriend it and wound up with a forceful pledge of loyalty. “But I love that kid too, like Blooky and Silen and you and…” they exhale, looking at the teeth in their torso, a reminder of someone they’ve forgotten, someone else they must have loved, someone they must have lost the way they won’t lose Mettaton. “And I know, I know that you deciding to kill that little kid to save humanity is a really f*cking bad idea and you shouldn’t present yourself to humans that way.”

Mettaton’s hand stills, fingers still lightly pressed to the dummy bot’s head. He smiles and Mads does too, knowing that their words have made it through his armored shell. He’ll forgive them back. He won’t kill the kid. He’ll call home every so often and Blooky won't be sad every time they cry and Mettaton will be a success. Mads can see the words forming on their little cousin’s lips now.

“I can’t.”

Mads’s smile freezes to their face like a curious tongue to an icicle. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Maddy. Really, I am. But I can’t back down. I can’t let down my fans. Please don’t make me choose.” He runs a hand under his eye. His smile looks like someone’s painted it on along with the makeup. And he walks back out into the spotlight, back into the roar of the crowd, soaking in the admiration and the love they give him. And Mads watches, feeling more like a useless sack of cloth than they’d ever thought possible. They crawl out of their body and lean against it instead. They can’t even bring themself to lie down, knowing that it’s impossible to feel more like trash than they already do.

Chapter 34: Blackout, Blackout

Chapter Text

Chewing on the straw of their drink, Frisk sways from side to side. On the ratings count floating about their head, every sip of starfait registers as an upward spiral, especially if they strike a pose while drinking it. Their soul bobs before them. They have to look very close to see Chara’s veins within it. The scars from previous timelines are faint too. They suck in a breath and nearly choke on their starfait. This whole time in the CORE has been nerve-wracking, but at least they’re not the cause this time, not like the routes before.

As Flowey thumps them on the back, they think they hear their phone chirping over the muted music. Indeed, a text from Papyrus flashes on the screen. ‘HUMAN! DAD AND I ARE GOING TO BE BUSY FOR A SHORT TIME! PLEASE TEXT ME WHEN THE SHOW IS DONE, BUT DO NOT BE ALARMED IF I DO NOT RESPOND TO ANY TEXTS BEFOREHAND! LOVE! THE GREAT PAPYRUS!’

Frisk looks up from their phone and Mettaton looms over them. His eye is wide and his makeup is already smudged. They could assume it was from dancing, but as far as they know, robots don’t sweat, not even very human ones. That just doesn’t seem very glam and, oddly enough, the damage is mostly under his eyes, Chara notes, looking with some suspicion at the smears on his white gloves.

Frisk takes a step back. They don’t like when a monster they’re supposed to be fighting gets too close. Especially considering the way he’s smiling with his teeth gritted, not breaking eye contact. ‘Something’s wrong with him,’ they announce to Chara.

Chara squints one eye shut, staring up at Mettaton. It could be that he’s upset Papyrus is gone, they think first. Hopefully.

They really don’t think that’s it, Chara. They don’t think Papyrus even has his number. Granted, he might have just dialed every number until he reached it. Still, Mettaton looks way too stressed for it to be about someone he just met.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Did he get some bad news?” Chara’s eyes travel over to the curtains. Mettaton had just come from there, slipping through the gap as if it was a space between a rock and a hard place. In their (admittedly limited) Mettaton EXperience, he always throws open curtains like a magician. Is there someone back there?

The music takes a few notches in volume and Mettaton stretches on his toes. The strange rictus grin smooths out until it becomes something artificial. “Pop quiz, hotshot!” he cheers, clapping his hands together like one of those terrifying monkeys with cymbals.

The screen that he used for the quiz show pops up in front of them like a jack-in-the-box, nearly hitting them in the nose. They back away. Mettaton rocks back and forth, heel to toe, heel to toe, as if he’s on a sinking ship. “Your question: how great am I?” He strikes a pose, winking at the nearest camera.

Frisk considers the board, then pokes their finger into it. Their fingerprint leaves a luminescent mark. “All of us?” they suggest to their party members.

With their left hand, they set about writing an essay. Chara, with their right hand, labors on a picture. Frisk can feel Flowey moving on their neck, but their gaze is already split between Chara’s work and their own.

They might not have eyes enough for Flowey’s work, but Mettaton certainly does, reading their entries over their shoulder. His voice becomes slightly more jovial with each entry, as if they’re reassuring him. “I have pretty legs? And a good smile? Oh, darling, how sweet.” He cranes his head to look at Chara’s drawing. “You’re a little artist as well, I see. Is that me singing so beautifully? How delightful!” He and Frisk look at Flowey’s drawing at the same time, but while Mettaton’s brow wrinkles in confusion, Frisk glares at Flowey.

“It looks like someone misheard the prompt,” the robot singsongs. He gives Flowey a quick round of applause for the effort. “Very nice try.”

Flowey has drawn a shape Frisk remembers, one with flyaway hair and massive wings and a cannon where an arm should have been. “What? It’s cool!” protests the flower as the screen folds up and away into nothing, leaving behind a strong floral scent. Frisk glares a moment more.

“It doesn’t matter,” Chara says in defense of their brother. “Mettaton doesn’t recognize it. Alphys never made NEO in this universe.”

‘But what if she had?’

“But she hasn’t,” Chara snaps. “Get it together, Frisk.”

Frisk clicks their tongue and strikes a pose with a little more venom than before. It’s not Flowey’s fault, they think, but the atmosphere up here has changed. It’s making them uneasy. It prickles at their throat, pressing hands against their neck and creeping upon them with wolves’ feet. They begin to doubt.

Should Chara have been paying attention, they likely would have said that there was no need for Frisk to doubt, that their plans haven’t gone wrong yet. But Chara is distracted by the thought of their brilliant plan. Frisk ducks, dodges, and dances alone and their thorny unease crawls through the garden of their thoughts. Something’s wrong with Mettaton, that has to be it. He’s the only thing changed.

“Your essay really showed everyone here your heart. Why don’t I show you mine?” The little capsule at Mettaton’s waist shimmers and the glass is suddenly gone. A soul, white without the rose tint of the glass, flies into the air. The crowd screams with thunderous approval. His smile becomes real at the sound.

Frisk examines the soul. His isn’t broken or otherwise damaged. They step toward it, sniffing the air. It doesn’t smell like rot, but- they crinkle their nose- it’s not the rose smell they know as Mettaton’s. Instead there’s a smell that trickles down the back of their throat like molten lead and sparks on their tongue. Then the soul crackles like static. They squeak in pain as it zaps them. Lightning. Cartoonish lightning bolts manifest around the soul like a platoon of soldiers, each with a point aimed directly at the little red beacon of their own soul.

Chara is suddenly very aware of what’s happening. “I wish you were a gymnast! This would be much more beneficial to the ratings!” they shout as they run around the circular stage, pursued by lightning bolts. The ones that land leave stinging red marks like bug bites. With monumental effort, they refuse to cry out again, instead conserving their energy for not spilling their starfait. Flowey twists around on their shoulder, tossing bullets in a laissez faire manner. These go flying offstage and explode against the walls.

When the smell of electricity fades, Frisk skids to a stop. Their starfait slops a little onto their hand, but they lick it off. Looking Mettaton straight in the eye, they chug the remainder of their starfait. The healing magic makes short work of their injuries. They’re angry still, staring him down and wishing they could draw their finger across their throat like Undyne without jeopardizing Chara’s plan.

”I dunno, I’m pretty pissed myself,” Chara remarks, sucking on a red mark on their hand. They must have slipped into the senses at the wrong time. ”If you even want to flip him off, I’d be on your side.”

They smirk, but they don’t do anything offensive. ”Sorry I got mad at you,” they tell Flowey.

He shrugs. “Can we kill him?” he asks. “I think he shot a hole through one of my petals.”

Frisk makes a big show of checking him over. “I think he missed you,” they reassure. “So no killing.”

“Would you have l-let me if he had shot me?”

“Probably not.”

“W-worth a shot.” Then he winks.

”He did it!” Chara howls, clapping their uninjured hand against a mindscape wall. ”The absolute madman!”

”Why are you both like this?” they ask, striking another pose and making the sign for star after they finish speaking. They’ve just noticed that there are two distinct melodies playing, one for Mettaton, and one for them. Whenever it’s their turn, they get something peppier. If it’s Mettaton’s turn, the song is still peppy, but also more sophisticated, like a grown-up version.

“Wh-what?” Flowey asks, playing dumb. “Y-you didn’t l-like that one? W-well, it was a shot in the dark.” He waves his vines around as if he’s doing jazz hands.

Chara can’t stop giggling and a smile works its way over Frisk’s face.

Meanwhile, Mettaton is starting to get a strange look on his face. Frisk co*cks an eyebrow at him, winking as they pop their hip up and make the stars sign again.

He smiles, one corner of his mouth quirking more than the other. “You’re marvelous on the dance floor, darling, but can you keep up the pace?” The music curls in on itself, wilting. The bass drop makes their chest tingle and the beat returns twice as fast as before. Mettaton moves fluidly and perfectly in time. Frisk stumbles over their feet. A disco ball descends from the ceiling, shooting out lasers. They dance around the white and pose through the blue. Sweat streaks their cheeks. On their shoulder, Flowey tosses bullets at the disco ball, changing white lasers to blue and blue to white when they nearly misstep.

The ratings strike seven thousand and Mettaton’s arms fall off. He almost doesn’t notice, going to strike another pose and nearly tipping over. “Ah,” he says weakly. His head turns from shoulder to shoulder, examining the sites of the missing limbs. “Wh- when they said this show would be my big break, I didn’t think this was what they meant.” He forces a chuckle. “Still, who needs arms with legs like these?”

Chara gasps and Frisk can feel the fear running through them like ice in their veins. He’s not supposed to fall apart. If they don’t fight him, he shouldn’t fall apart. NEO’s grim expression flashes through their thoughts. That’s enough for them. They stop dancing entirely, staring in disbelieving defeat at Mettaton as he wobbles around trying to keep his balance. Their phone rings.

Alphys! they all but scream. Alphys, something’s wrong! He’s falling apart, we’re so sorry!

“N-no, Frisk, it’s okay!” Alphys soothes, her voice fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird. “H-he’s just losing energy. H-his limbs f-fall off to conserve energy- Frisk, watch out!”

Their phone falls from their hand, clattering to the ground. Their body crashes backwards three feet away propelled by a kick of Mettaton’s foot. The room spins on a different axis. Dizzily, they claw at the ground, trying to keep themself on the stage, which to them seems about to toss them down, down, down.

“We’ve grown so distant, darling,” Mettaton coos as they sit up, pressing a hand to their head. A sizable goose egg is forming just above their eyebrow. “How about another heart-to-heart?”

And the air smells like metal. They can taste it in their mouth, like old pennies and, over it, that persistent not-Mettaton smell. Flowers.

The lightning strikes and they stiffen. Their head turns to look at the sooty spot just to their left. Flowey gapes. He whips back around, bellowing “That could have killed us, you f*ckstick!” He hisses, forming bullets with a furious focus. Before he can release them, Frisk seizes him. He can’t hurt him, he can’t jeopardize what they’ve worked for. “Frisk!” the flower chokes.

“Run.” Chara’s voice is tight as a coiled spring. Mettaton isn’t playing anymore. Frisk’s doubt has infiltrated Chara and Mettaton’s lethal new attitude has left them with more problems than they think Plan A might solve.

Frisk scrambles offstage and through the curtains. Mads looks up at them. “Kid?” Mettaton doesn’t follow, but they can hear his heels clicking. Mads’s button eyes narrow. “Taking a breather?”

They bob their head up and down.

“Have some cider,” the dummy advises.

They pull a face. Mads chuckles. “Your choice.”

Unwillingly and with a good deal of sighing and rolling of their eyes, Frisk pulls out the bottle. It isn’t even cracked. They look around. They don’t want to drink it, but if they do drink it, they want the cameras to pick up on the handwritten label. They can’t go out there though, not with Mettaton prowling around the curtains.

“Hey, box-boy, quit puppy-dogging!” yells Undyne. “Give them a sporting chance! They don’t even have a weapon!”

A light goes off in the shared space of Frisk and Chara’s head. Undyne’s wrong. They do have a weapon, a weapon Alphys gave them. And if Alphys gave it to them, it can’t really hurt Mettaton, but maybe it’ll drive him away a little.

They open the menu of their phone, scrolling frantically.

The curtains part, Mettaton tenses, and Frisk runs out with soul blazing yellow. Once, twice they blast him backwards. Then they strike a pose and drink down a draught of cider. The ratings spike for the pose. They’re beginning to think that the ratings don’t quite correspond to how many viewers are watching.

The crowd screams in alarm as another blast pushes Mettaton too close to the edge, but his legs bend before he can fall off the side. With a leap, he is airborne, passing over their heads and landing behind them.

They whip around, but he’s faster, even on wobbly legs. Their laser is forgotten in favor of dodging the tiny robots, which angrily swarm them like irritated hornets. Flowey bats a few from the air, but the rest are Frisk’s to escape.

“L-lights! Ca- camera…” Mettaton’s voice slurs, dipping into an exhausted drone as he tries to keep himself upright. Frisk thinks they might hear him whisper something, an apology? Then he clicks like a pistol with the safety off and his pupils have constricted. There is no more lightning, no more bombs, just Mettaton lunging and kicking with a fixed smile and a desperation that makes him sloppy. Frisk side-steps, then again. It’s energy consumption. Without the energy he needs for magical attacks, he has to resort to more physical ones. But even physical blows dealt by metal shoes could hurt them badly. The lump on their head is evidence of that.

“Do you want humanity to suffer? Is that it?” Mettaton kicks out at them and they scuttle away. “Do you want a war? If there’s a war, we’ll be crushed! Humans are many, we are few. Even with a God-King to mow them down, humanity outnumbers us. We will be nothing compared to them. You! You are nothing compared to that, darling! Is there anyone who would even miss you?”

“Now,” Chara says softly, folding their arms.

Frisk rolls to a safe distance and stands up. Anger roils in their belly like bile. Their teeth are gritted, their fists clenched. They want to drive those fists into Mettaton’s face for his words, for words that they’ve been hearing since the beginning. They are only one person. Would it be worth it to just give up and save the monsters? They relax. The answer has always been no. They have people they have to think about aboveground and people they have to save down here. If they let their soul be taken, they’ll doom monsterkind and humanity to another war. That won’t save anyone. So they sign through palms scored with punctures from their fingernails. Flowey’s voice rings out across the arena, tolling Mettaton’s finale. “Is that how you felt?” His head twists on his neck as his face morphs into a parody of Mettaton’s own. Frisk blanches, but keeps signing. “‘They won’t even miss me?’” His face snaps back into place and he continues without a trace of mockery, with maybe even genuine sympathy. “Because they did! You were just one person, one insignificant person, and they missed you because you were their whole world! And you missed them too, didn’t you? You missed them so badly that you had to get rid of any way back you had.” Frisk reaches into their pocket and holds up the key. Flowey takes it from them, pointing it at Mettaton. “Bratty and Catty found it in the dump. You threw it away because you knew you’d go back if you could, if things got tough. You were afraid they’d hate you.”

Mettaton lowers his eyes.

Chara continues and Flowey is their voice, feather-soft and caring. “Mettaton, Metts, whoever you are, whoever you need to be, you’re allowed to have both. No one is going to make you choose.” He looks up at them. “You’re allowed to have both. Your fans won’t mind and your cousins will forgive you. In fact, I think some of them already have.” Mettaton glances to one side, confirming Frisk’s suspicions as to why he had looked so shaken. They advance, Flowey holding the key like a peace offering now. “If you get scared or lonely or you think you’re making the wrong choice, you can always call home. Family is always there to help you. If this is your dream, they’ll support you with everything they have. You don’t have to hide it from them anymore.”

He takes a step back, looking down at all the faces staring back up at him. Every single one of his fans is nodding. Napstablook, hovering in their sound booth, stares at the video feed with dry eyes. Mads, waiting in the wings, allows themself a smile. In the Ruins, a fourth cousin begins to hop towards the great doors, cotton heart listening and button eye bright. Frisk steps forward again and again Mettaton steps back, his face a perfect picture of anguish. “I don’t- darling- I-”

Frisk sits on their knees before him, a knight swearing fealty, a sacrifice. If he wanted to, he could lash out and kill them. But he hesitates and his knees shake. “I don’t want a war. I want everyone to be happy,” they say through Flowey. “If you think taking my soul would make you happy, you can have it. You deserve to be happy, Mettaton.”

“Oh,” Mettaton manages. His legs choose this minute to detach and Mettaton’s torso collapses backwards away from them as his legs fall off the stage and into the crowd below. The audience screams. Flowey and Frisk lunge to catch him with vines and hands. Flowey stabs himself on one of Mettaton’s shoulder spikes. Frisk scrabbles for a handhold. Their fingers latch onto his hair, hoping that they’re not hurting him. Praying that he’s not detailed enough yet to really get hurt. Mettaton makes a sound of disbelief as Frisk drags him away from the edge and turns him over to face the ceiling.

“These ratings…!” he breathes, looking up at the count hovering above their heads. Frisk looks up too and boggles. Ten thousand viewers? They didn’t think there were that many monsters in the Underground! Now they’re very sure the ratings correspond to something else.

“Listen, darlings,” Mettaton says, eyes still lifted towards the ratings count, “we’ve reached our viewer call-in milestone. I can now take calls from everyone!” His chest rings almost instantly. “Hello? You’re on the air?”

“Mettaton, you’re absolutely the finest actor I’ve ever seen. I applaud your choice.”

“Mettaton! We’re, like, so proud of you for not doing a violence!”

“Hey, boss man. Nice job or whatever at not killing my little buddy.”

“This new act has just about blown me away!”

“Mettaton, you can do whatever you put your mind too! Your fans love you!”

“Mettaton, you fill the Mettaton-shaped hole in my Mettaton-shaped heart!”

“M-Mettaton, you’re the closest friend I’ve g-got.”

It’s tens of voices, talking over each other as the callers hang up and call back and enthuse over Mettaton. Every word of praise adds another watt to his faint smile. He’s just about glowing with it all. Then his smile drops, his eye goes wide. All the callers’ voices disappear, save one.

“...hi, metts,” Napstablook says. “i wanted to say that i really loved djing for your show. your show has always made me feel good about myself. it should make you feel that way too.” Frisk looks towards the curtains. All the cameras are focused on Mettaton, so they don’t see a ratty dummy and a silver ghost peeking through the curtains. Napstablook smiles. Through the speaker on Mettaton’s chest comes a little “heh” before Napstablook realizes that they’re on the phone. “...uh, anyway i think this has been the most exciting day in my life. i’m, uh, going to take maddy home now. heh, sorry, i talk too much. bye, metts.”

“Blooky?”

“...............yes?”

“See you at home.”

The little ghost flushes blue happily and Mads grins a little next to them. “see you.”

One by one, the big screens go black. When the last one shuts off, Mettaton raises his head. “Darling. I was wrong about you, wasn’t I? I was wrong about everything. You can always be a star if no one knows your constellation, but, it just doesn’t feel right, does it?” Frisk shakes their head. He raises his voice, addressing his audience. “Beauties, this is my last show, but only for a while. There’s a certain group of spooks I need to visit. But do not fret, darlings. I’ll be back soon, better than ever! The Underground still needs a star to light their way and I plan on being that star for as long as you’ll have me!”

The crowd cheers. “Met-ta-ton! Met-ta-ton!”

Mettaton looks up into Frisk’s eyes. “Darling, tell Papyrus to look me up if he ever finds himself in Waterfall.” They nod. Will do. Mettaton blinks his eye at them, trying to wink. “And you, sweetheart, knock ‘em dead. I think you can do it.” Then he blinks quickly, as if there’s something caught in his eye. Frisk searches his face in fright, only for him to laugh. “Don’t fret, darling. Shutting d-d-down is like falling asleep.” His mouth falls open and his eye light goes dim. The only energy from his body comes from the pink glow of his soul in its cannister.

The platform stage begins to sink and Frisk hugs Mettaton’s torso to them, keeping him from sliding across the stage and into the stands below. They don’t think he’d appreciate being under a stand somewhere when he woke up.

Alphys is waiting for them. In a twist, so is Undyne, the two of them locked in an embrace. It looks more consoling than amorous, but Chara puts them on the successful match list anyway.

“O-oh! Mettaton!” Alphys says, jerking away from Undyne and rushing onto the stage. She skids to a stop, dropping to her knees beside Frisk. “Oh, thank the dog. He’s just- it’s just his battery. I thought for a minute-”

The rose-tinted soul inside Mettaton’s transparent torso flutters, seeming to get brighter at the sound of Alphys’s voice. She taps her claws against the glass and it presses itself to them. “I- I’m here,” she tells it and it glows like an ember. She smiles, smoothing her thumb across the glass.

“Will he be okay?” cries a choked voice from the audience. Frisk looks at the audience stands for the first time since the conclusion of the battle. No one has moved from their seats, although several have stood up to see. Some audience members hold Mettaton’s disconnected limbs.

“H- he’ll be fine!” Alphys answers. “H- his, um, his..” She gives a nervous grin. “It’s j-ju- just his b-b-b-” She sputters like a motor for a second, then bows her head. “It’s just his battery,” she tells the floor, and Flowey shouts that across the stadium.

There are some scattered cheers, a few sobs of relief even. The monsters in possession of Mettaton’s limbs walk up the stage steps as if they are priests bringing offerings to a beloved god. Undyne collects these offerings, holding them over one arm like a beauty contestant with her bouquet.

Chara stuffs their hands in their pockets and their eyes light up when paper crinkles.

Alphys stops her fussing to examine the crumpled sheet of paper they press on her. “For me?” she asks, apprehension coloring her tone.

They shake their head and point to Mettaton. Alphys smiles. “Oh, he’ll l-love a little fan mail when he wakes up. Thank you.” She takes Papyrus’s drawing from them and Flowey drops the house key in her hand too.

Undyne presents Alphys with her mechanical bouquet with a great amount of flourishes. "I'll get box-boy over here."

Alphys nods, putting picture and key in her dress pocket, and relieves Undyne of her burden. Undyne crouches down to Frisk's level and deftly flips Mettaton's torso over her shoulder. "C'mon, Alph,” she says affectionately. "Let's go fix this mechanical moron."

As they walk offstage, the audience ushers them out with a standing ovation. Frisk is left alone in the center of the stage. They stand and the applause grows louder. They bow and they too head down the steps and out, joining in the stream of monsters exiting the CORE. But instead of going out the New Home door immediately, they linger in the hallway, watching the monsters file into the elevator. Some wave to them, holding no ill will towards them for the defeat of their superstar. Frisk waves back.

"Kinda nice to be appreciated like this," Chara remarks, waving the way they had as a princx.

Frisk has to agree. They look around in anticipation of a Papyrus hug. But, Papyrus isn’t there? They watch as the stream of monsters peters out into a trickle, and then into a drip. The Astigmatism from before trots up to them. “Nice,” it says, in a tone that could be perceived as biting, but they know is meant to be approving. They smile, but look over its head for Papyrus. They couldn’t have missed him. Frowning, they take their phone from their pocket. Twelve percent. They suck in a breath through the teeth. Twelve percent and them without any sort of charger. Still, they thumb out a message and send it off.

The Astigmatism salutes them as it heads through the exit doors. Maybe Papyrus and Mr. Gaster left the other way? As they watch the empty hall remain empty, they decide that this must be what happened. Papyrus and Mr. Gaster must be waiting for them at the other end of the CORE. They begin to retrace their steps through the building.

…

Show’s done everyone’s gone where r u? asks Papyrus’s phone. In the heart of the CORE, Papyrus leans on the railing, half-watching Wingdings examine the structure responsible for all this. It looks like a doorway or a threshold with a thin filmy substance stretched over it. Papyrus can see clear through it to the other side, but he has the oddest feeling that it isn’t the right other side. All he really knows is that he doesn’t want to see what might come through it.

Wingdings seems to remember something because he reaches up into the air, taking the badges out of his manifested hands and closing his fists around them. Then he makes a sound, cradling his head as if his fingers can keep it from splitting into shards like the mask it so resembles. Papyrus takes a step forward, blinking as red light crawls out between his father’s fingers. It looks like it should be painful, but Papyrus can feel how benevolent it is even from a distance. The light smooths out the spiderweb of cracks that mar Wingdings’s face until only two remain. Those are old scars, scars that he will never lose.

When the pieces of his face stop moving around like a jigsaw, Wingdings all but collapses before the CORE, the air escaping his body in a breath that rattles every bone he has. His hands, open now, are empty. The badges have melted away into thin air.

“DAD?” asks Papyrus, kneeling. Wingdings burbles something, sounding very much like he’s trying to speak through a mouthful of tar. He shakes his head to keep Papyrus from guessing what it is. There’s a long moment where he struggles back up into an upright position, Papyrus standing beside him.

”Hello… rabbit,” he gargles in a thick voice. Papyrus would think it was a concussion of sorts making him say something like that, but he remembers the name written on the inside covers of his favorite books. He would worry if not for the fact that he suddenly remembers, with perfect clarity, his father. His father, nearly as tall and handsome as himself, picking him up and tapping their foreheads together and saying “How is my little rabbit today?” So he doesn’t think of concussions and brain damage and gets something in his eye instead. He has to wipe at his eyes with the edge of his scarf. That’s when he hears the whispering start.

“No time for tears,” Dad says sternly. “We have to end this now.” When he turns to Papyrus, his eyes are almost sparkling. “Get ready to remember everything, my boy!” His signs are light with merriment.

“READY, FREDDY!” Papyrus calls back, trying to mask trepidation with enthusiasm. He bounces on the balls of his feet. Magic courses along the length of his arms, building bone attacks that run parallel to his lower arms. He swings them and they make a very satisfying sound as they cut through the air. If they are about to thoroughly mangle the CORE, Papyrus wants the job to be very thorough indeed. He doesn’t want it coming back. “WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO THE HONORS, DAD?”

His eyes glimmer into greenness. The phantom hands begin to appear, arraying themselves around Wingdings's body like a halo. Bones spin around Papyrus himself, locked in perfect orbit. Papyrus closes his eyes for just a moment and can smell bubble gum. When he opens his eyes again, the room is bathed in magical light. "OKAY! COME ON, DAD!"

Wingdings laughs as bones and hands tear through metal like paper. Every time a light goes out, Papyrus remembers a little more. A worn skeleton doll, a thick quilt perfect for hiding under, a red security blanket that could be the cape of a superhero. He grips his scarf, pulling it up to cover the lower half of his face as the CORE falls to pieces. It still smells like home.

With a cry of laughter that sounds like a bird call, Wingdings and one of his hand attacks punch a hole straight through the frame of the CORE’s heart. The film within flickers uncertainly. Then it pops like a bubble in the same instant in which Papyrus’s legs give out. It seems to him that he is surrounded by grey figures. He can hear them talking.

Wingdings laughs again and this time it ends in a snort that sounds more monster than bird. He lifts a hand to cover his mouth, still chuckling.

“Almost!” he says, turning to Papyrus with a smile. The grey figures rustle in alarm, like loose paper. Almost, they echo. One, a dinosaur girl, shakes her head very slowly where Papyrus can see her. Wingdings follows his gaze, but the grey figures flicker out like snuffed candles before his eyes can find them.

Papyrus does his utmost to smile, staggering to his feet. Wingdings’s features twist into distress for a moment, then he gestures to the CORE. “Care to finish it off?”

“DAD, I FEEL FUNNY. SOMETHING’S WRONG.” There’s a pounding in his head, an itching on the inside of his skull. The CORE had looked so familiar. He had been here before, he is sure of it. All the lights are green where they once were red. He frowns. The grey dinosaur is back. She stares at him.

“You just sit tight, Papyrus. I’ll finish this off.” Wingdings’s words are meant to be comforting, but they feel empty. Maybe he can feel the same strange twisting in his head that Papyrus can, but he’s willing to ignore it. Papyrus can read this in the book of his face. And when he turns the page, fear lunges out fangs first. He remembers as Wingdings readies a final attack.

“DAD, STOP!” he cries-

-Wingdings breaks the CORE-

-something comes through.

There is a split second where time slows to a crawl. Wingdings is caught in the blistering light, framed perfectly in the dented gateway. Then Papyrus sees the mouth of the emerging creature bear down on him and realizes that his father is going to die. There will be no coming back this time. There will be no memories. He will lose his dad, he is certain of that. Should this creature consume his father, he will never have had a father. Perhaps even he will cease to exist, for it will come for him next. It intends to consume everything. He can’t let that happen.

Bravery is defined as not the absence of fear, but the ability to stand and face it. Wielders of the orange soul state are made to withstand fear.

Papyrus’s skull seems to shatter as his vision becomes an inferno, everything in shades of orange. The pain comes in wave after wave, bursting on impact inside his head. His hands scratch and shake and shiver, but he raises them. His teeth grind together. The presence in the gateway looks at him and it feels like evil, smells like something’s wrong. It’s been here the whole time, he realizes, as he opens the fabric of reality. It is dark and violent, it is the choking smoke of the blaze that destroyed his home and before that, so many years before that, it was the breath of something close on his heels as he ran through the river. It was the thing that reached through the CORE and pulled his father down, once upon a time, and now it reaches again.

“LEAVE!” he shouts. His eyes bubble and burn, magic coursing down his face. The thing within the dented circle screeches like a scratched record, clawing forward into the world. Papyrus tears through time and space, grabbing his father by his collar. As he tries to warp away again, something punches through his leg, trying to hold him back. There is a dry snap and it must be bone because his stomach wrenches. Scrabbling backwards, his fingers tight on his father’s collar, he shakes in pain and rage, trying to press healing magic into the injury.

The light pouring from the circle is so bright and it goes on forever. Magic, his magic, is pouring into it. Tangles and knots of auburn and streaks of white, all snapped up by the thing crawling forward. The magic is enticing it forward. It’s so hungry, so pleased. It likes the pain, likes the hopeless look in Frisk’s eyes, Wingdings’s desperation to get his life back, Sans’s neverending nightmares. He has never known something so despicable in his life.

The sound that bursts from his jaw is neither human nor monster but single-minded fury. The Great Papyrus is never angry, but Papyrus Gaster, son of the scientist, brother of the judge, is enraged. The grey figures swarm forward, white eyes wintergreen.

He howls and other voices howl with him, flat and hoarse from thirteen years of dust. They force it backwards, trying to push the light back into the void it left. It screams, dissipating the greys as they come. It has a horrible head. Venom trickles from its jaws, venom that is hard and sharp and hisses on impact with the floor, turning into showers of numbers.

They can’t hold it back. They couldn’t even hold it for a moment. Once it has all the strength it wants, it pushes through. A claw comes down on his broken leg and he screams. The leg the claw belongs to is abruptly wrenched away by a green hand. Wingdings turns, grabs Papyrus, and knocks them both away from the creature as it steps forward. It is harsher than any light he’s ever seen.

It

bursts.

The light bulbs shatter and they plunge headlong into darkness.

It’s gone.

Chapter 35: Generation Aftermath

Chapter Text

The Riverperson sways from side to side, contradicting the sway of the boat. Grillby’s fingers tighten on the edge as he watches them. He never takes the river as a path to anywhere, but the Riverperson had all but insisted. Sans is using this time for a nap, his head pillowed on his arms and one hand tangled in Grillby’s, but Grillby stays wide awake, twitching his eyes from the water to the Riverperson and back again. He has a right to be as anxious as he is, surrounded on all sides by dark water, floating in something that amounts to nothing more than a hunk of wood while the person who should be navigating is instead staring at him. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the ride,” he starts.

“But you are and would have rather walked.”

He’s a bit taken aback by their bluntness, but matches it. “I would have, yes.”

The Riverperson raises their head higher, bringing their face directly into the light. And yet, the shadows under their cowl absorb the glow of the crystals on the cavern walls. He still can’t see their features. “Tra la la, I know. But what use is a boat if it does not offer a ride?”

Grillby can’t fight back his disbelief. “You stared us down until I suggested we take the boat.”

“Offer a ride, yes.” The Riverperson shrugs and makes a clicking noise under their hood, like the laughter of something with too many teeth.

The cavern walls close in on them as they pass into a smaller cave. The light changes, casting pale blue shapes down onto Riverperson’s cloak and turning Grillby’s front cerulean as it plays off the yellow of his raincoat. He cranes his neck to look at the crystals. Their luminescent beauty contrasts ominously with the dark stalactites that cage them in.

“Lying dogs will no longer sleep,” the Riverperson hums, looking over the edge and down into the water.

Grillby looks to them. “I’ve heard that before, from the dogs.” They don’t respond. He inches closer, keeping himself low as to not rock the boat, and follows their gaze, shuddering. He hates the dark, hates the water. “What does it mean?” The darkness beneath the surface goes on and on forever.

“Asking questions you don’t know the answers to is a dangerous pastime. You may not like the response.” Their cloak swirls around them with no breeze, the motion created instead by movement under the folds of fabric. “If you ask the question, best be sure you want to know.”

He finds himself irritated. No one can just be straightforward about anything anymore. He’s used to having answers. He’s always had answers up until now, as nobody at the bar ever lies. But now, it’s like he deals in subterfuge. “I want to know. I don’t care about whether or not I’ll like the answers.”

The Riverperson sighs and a second peculiar clicking sound comes from under their hood. “Firelight can brighten the darkest of places for only so long. What use is firelight to those who cannot see it?”

They make a motion with their head to indicate the other occupant of the boat and his temper snaps like a dry twig. “Well, first of all, warmth. Firelight provides heat and then comfort. Heat makes people feel safe.” Grillby lifts his head and finds himself meeting their eyes, all five of them as chilling as the water below. He doesn’t care. It’s his turn to walk the warpath and he seizes his chance to attack. “If you know the answer, why not give it? What do you gain from being cryptic?”

The lowermost set of eyes squints. “You’ve arrived.” The boat knocks against the shore. Grillby lurches forward, only just managing to catch himself before he knocks his bitten shoulder against the boat. The clicking sound comes again, like they’re laughing. He’s surprised that he dislikes them. Beings of fire and beings of water are said not to get along, but he’d never thought that was true until now. He doesn’t let it show, instead giving the Riverperson a tight smile as he rises from the floor of the boat.

Sans stirs, stretching out his arms and slipping his hand from Grillby’s. His hood has been knocked slantwise over his face, hiding his eyes and part of his mouth from view. “ready to go?”

Grillby is slow to respond. He wants to weasel more information from the enigmatic Riverperson, but Sans is already clambering out of the boat and wandering away. So he shakes open his umbrella and follows, skirting around the glowing puddles as best he can. He doesn’t look back. Therefore he does not see the boat’s prow twist to watch them go.

Waterfall is one of the Underground’s most beautiful terrains. The flora radiates a soft blue light, surpassed in brightness only by the lights of the crystals embedded in the walls. Patches of color decorate the stone where the crystals cast their shadows. Stepping into one block turns Sans a shining violet as the light bounces off his skull. When he turns back to Grillby, his eyes are purple as well. “the dogs said ‘sleeping dogs can no longer lie,’ riv just said ‘lying dogs will no longer sleep.’ looks like two pieces of the same puzzle.”

“I’d rather have the front of the box.” He tips his umbrella up over his head. Almost immediately water droplets begin to pick out an uneven tempo over its surface. His boots do not crunch when he walks anymore, instead squishing repulsively through muck with each step.

“where’s your sense of adventure?” Sans rebukes.

“Hopefully someplace warm and dry.” Grillby turns up his raincoat collar. “And hang on, I thought you were asleep.”

“couldn’t sleep. a first, i know.” Sans folds his arms up behind his head, smirking at nothing in particular.

Grillby peers up at the cave ceiling. Although it does not have many galaxies, shiny stone stars still pepper the bluish rock. Briefly, he closes his eyes and makes a wish that all of this will resolve itself. “Sans? What was that about ladybugs?”

“ah, geez. it was something like ‘ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. your house is on fire, your family is gone.’” His eyes squint. “‘ladybug, ladybug, you’re all alone, and you’re starting to forget what you used to know,’” Sans finishes. “the meanest nursery rhyme i’ve ever heard. temmie knew it by heart. freaked papyrus right out.”

Grillby pictures a very small Papyrus, as small as the one in the photo album’s photographs. A song about losing everything would scare anyone, but Papyrus has always been a little more sensitive to those sorts of things than anyone. He finds himself disliking Temmie a little bit more. “She was a real joy, wasn’t she?” he says.

“the stories i didn’t tell you, grillbz.” Sans shakes his head with a grimace.

“You told me she didn’t pay you nearly enough and liked to badmouth you both and now that she terrorized Papyrus.” Grillby twirls his umbrella. “Not to mention the fact that she can apparently make soulless creatures and send them after you or Frisk. I think I’ve heard quite a lot about her. Sans, you’re veering a little far to the left.”

“whoops.” Sans checks his momentum. “thanks, grillbz.” There’s a silence. Grillby waits it out. Sans has a habit of saying more when it’s too quiet. And he’s right. Sans taps his fingers along his jawline, looking almost ashamed. “she didn’t start out like that. i wouldn’t have let her near papyrus if she had.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Grillby says gently. “I’m curious, how did you meet her?”

Sans rubs a hand against his neck and his bones clatter where they meet. “eh. we were running out of money. i was selling things in waterfall, trying to make ends meet. people in snowdin kept trying to give me more than the stuff was worth out of pity for the local charity cases, but in waterfall, we were just a couple of kids with a junk yard sale. she found us there.” Sans squints. “i don’t remember her even walking up. she was just there and asking if i wanted a job.”

“And you said yes.” That sounds nothing like the mistrustful Sans he knows. He must have been a completely different person in the time before Temmie. When Grillby had met him, for what he now realizes had not been the first time if the photo album has anything to say about it, Sans had been constantly on guard with other people. Grillby had liked that Sans let his guard down around him, something that he now realizes was because Sans had recognized him.

“i was a kid. my dad had disappeared and i had a baby brother to take care of. if she had offered me money to jump, i would probably be in the air asking ‘how high?’” Sans’s hands lock together in front of him, pulling at the joints of his fingers. Grillby winces as he hears them pop, one after another. Fire is supposed to pop like firecrackers. Bones are not. “so i did deliveries for her. people bought stuff and i ran it all over the underground. she was the first one to treat me like an adult, like i didn’t need pity.”

“Did you like the job?”

“i loved it. people were always so happy to see me because i was bringing them something they wanted and i got to see what their lives were like. undyne lived with her mom and dad in this ridiculous-looking house and the plants outside were all strung with these lights- oh, and captain dogma, she lived all by herself in a bigger version of a sentry station, but she would always give us these weird cookies that kind of tasted like hamburger. and ciren and shyren lived in just a crack in the wall, but they always had music somehow.” Sans stops, smiling. “papyrus liked to guess who lived where. he was really good at it. i used to drag him all over the place in the wagon when he was little. the people loved him.”

“I bet.” Grillby crinkles his eyes when he thinks of that, remembering a red wagon Papyrus would drag around with ‘training equipment’ in it. Sometimes Sans could also be found among the wagon’s contents, although Papyrus usually grumbled about it. The younger skeleton likely could have fit in it with room to spare when he was very small.

“papyrus built his own little castle in that wagon. snacks and comics and toys in case he got bored. i thought she’d tell me to leave him home but she never did. I thought it was so cool that she was so nice about it.”

“And then she changed.”

“then she changed,” Sans agrees. He turns his head from side to side, then asks “grillbz?”

“Mm?” Sans’s tone is lighter now and Grillby can feel a change in subject approaching as easily as he can feel the rain against his umbrella. Sans doesn’t want to talk more, so the jokes and good humor are as predictable as the ashes after a fire.

“do you happen to know the way to temmie village?”

“No. I’ve never been to Waterfall proper. I skirt around it mostly.”

“hm. welp, houston, we have a problem.”

“Sorry?”

“it just occurs to me that i have been blinded. i know it’s like glowing mushrooms, then south, but, uh, that’s about it.”

“So, we’re essentially sitting ducks.”

“well, i could be a duck. you look more like that bird. she flies people over the disproportionately small gap. in this slick raincoat, you could be her cousin.” Sans takes a handful of his coat and tugs on it. The material squeaks like a dog toy.

“Was that a raincoat pun?”

Sans mimes offense. “what? from me? no.”

“I wish you were able to see so I could throw you overbird and not have to worry about you drowning.”

Sans waves his hands at him. “hey, hey, hey, don’t be in such a thrush to get rid of me. owl have you know that drowning is not on my top ten ways to die.” At this last, he jabs a finger towards the fire elemental.

Grillby folds Sans’s pointing finger back into his fist, chuckling. “That’s really no claws for alarm though. I'll just wing it if worst comes to worst.”

They laugh for a moment.

“We really have to ask for directions?”

“oh yeah, i have no idea where we are.”

“Wonderful.”

“don’t you mean-”

“I do not mean ‘Waterfall’.”

“aw.” Despite his moan of protest, Sans is grinning. And Grillby smiles as well, despite his exasperation.

“Is there a shop around here where I could get a map?” As the tempo of the water quickens, he adds “And also get out of this dratted rain?”

“there’s gerson’s. should be directly north of riv’s place. so, if we got off the boat this way,” Sans turns back the way they came and then around again, “we can just go this way and you should see his shop. can’t miss it; i mean, he’s got this plaque above the door.” He spreads out his hands to frame an imaginary plaque between them. “he got it for the war efforts.”

“Gerson’s still alive?” Grillby asks. Then he scoffs, pressing his palm to his forehead. “Sorry, stupid question. If Gerson had died, there would have been some sort of kingdom-wide memorial service.”

“last i checked, he was still going strong.” Sans sticks his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. Water drips down on him from the ceiling, prompting a slit-eyed look upwards as if he can intimidate the drizzly Waterfall weather.

Grillby moves closer, tilting the umbrella so that it covers them both. Oh, he’s going to regret this pun, but it is absolutely too good. “My parents tortoise that he was a close friend of my grandfather.”

“the one you’re named after? well, then i’m turtle-ly sure he won’t shell us out to temmie.”

Grillby snorts.

“shell we get going then?” Sans gestures out of the reach of the umbrella, completely soaking one arm.

“Stop,” Grillby insists, reaching around Sans to pull the arm back into the dry area.

“you started it,” Sans laughs, offering his drier arm. “hey, when does a secret agent carry an umbrella?”

Oh no. Grillby slows his steps to match Sans’s ambling stride. The skeleton’s arm snakes into his. “I don’t know. When does a secret agent carry an umbrella?”

“when he’s under cover.” Sans pretends to drum out a rimshot, making the noise through his teeth.

Regret delivers itself to his doorstep. Grillby tries to pull his arm away, groaning theatrically to disguise his laughter. “That was awful.”

“nothing but the best for secret agent grillby mcfrye.” Sans winks at him.

“Why do you do this to me? I’m so nice to you too.”

“ah, and there’s your first mistake. never be nice to someone like me. i’ll put whoopee cushions on all the seats in your bar and play ‘what’s new, puss*cat?’ at least five times on the jukebox.”

“That was you? Ugh, I should have known. I really should have.” He’s being far too loud as they enter the shop, but it doesn’t feel like the sort of place where that matters. His umbrella closes with a snap and he stows it in one of his coat pockets. “You need to not do that. I thought Doggo was going to bite the jukebox.”

“stick in the mud. of all the bars in all the world, you had to be the one to run my favorite.”

“Perhaps, it was your favorite because I ran it. Ever think of that?” Grillby makes a sound as he nearly trips over a strange clear container with a metal cap and base.

“nah, that can’t be it.” Sans steps neatly over the same container, kicking it aside with a slipper. It rolls away and clinks against a second, identical to the first. Both are covered in dust.

Grillby looks around the shop. “Hello?” he calls. “Mr. Gerson, sir?” The clutter of the shop absorbs the sound of his voice, trapping it in assorted papers and strange knickknacks. There’s a collection of clocks on the wall, all wrongly indicating that it is half past three. On the farthest wall from the door, the Delta Rune is painted in black. The counter before the wall has a small sign on it, positioned atop a great stack of written materials. Grillby picks his way through the clutter to give it a closer look.

“On patrol,” says the sign in herky-jerky handwriting. “Take what you need and pay me later.”

“he’s not here,” Sans says. Grillby turns to find his friend waving his hands around beside the wall. “he always puts his hammer right here. it’s gone.”

“Why would he take his hammer?” Grillby asks, crossing back through the teetering piles of junk. “He’s retired.”

“he’s an old guy. maybe he’s out to hammer a little respect out of the local kids.” Sans makes a fist and taps it into the palm of his other hand, indicating the beating the local kids will likely receive.

The quirking of Grillby’s mouth is wasted on his friend’s unseeing eyes. “Funny.” He looks around. “Sign says to take what we need.” His flame quails again at the sight of the disorganization. “Where would he put the maps?”

“there’s one on the wall.”

“No, no, there’s not.” He revolves in place, looking at all the walls. “There’s the Delta Rune, the clocks, and the others are bare.”

“damn. thought i had that one.” Sans makes a show of rolling up his sleeves. “keep your eyes peeled, grillbz.” Then he leans against the wall and closes his eyes. “i’ll just take a nap.”

“No, you stay awake. What wall was the map on?” Grillby puts his hands on his hips, looking around with narrowed eyes. “Sans?” The skeleton snores. “Sans!”

“i’m awake. just pulling your leg.” Sans shifts, folding his arms as he thinks. “uh, we came in this way.” One hand signals in the air, pointing in different directions as he tries to reconcile the image in his head with the shop he can’t see. “check the right wall.”

Grillby regards the mess before him with a faint feeling of alarm. Objects lean on each other, balancing precariously on too small bases or on broken legs. He can’t even begin to fathom how Gerson, a tortoise of advanced age, navigates it. Still, if Gerson can do it, he can at least try. He takes off his hat, stuffing it in his coat pocket along with his umbrella, and studies the mess. Then, testing his footing as he goes, he steps up on a wobbly chair, from there onto a warped cabinet, and then hooks a foot into the shelf of a cluttered bookshelf. His foot knocks a book loose. “Drat.”

“what are you up to, grillbz? wrecking the joint?”

“Shut your bonebox,” he returns. Then, “Yes, maybe.” With his foot, he feels for the next piece of furniture. This is not helping his elglitch wound one bit. “The things I do for you!” he calls back.

“and i heartily appreciate it, grillbz!”

“You’re welcome!” His foot misses. With a yell, he crashes down onto what he assumes was a sofa before someone pulled all the stuffing out of the cushions and piled it atop the construct. As he lies on it, a clump of stuffing catches fire. Rather than extinguish it, he covers his eyes with one hand and groans.

There’s the smell of smoke and a faint pressure beside him. He removes his hand, blinking at the shadow. Sans leans over him. “thanks,” the skeleton remarks. He’s pressed his hand down on the alight ball of stuffing, extinguishing it.

“You’re welcome,” he repeats, sitting up. “How did you get over here?”

“followed you. you’re warm.” Sans twitches his shoulders in a lazier version of a shrug. “you alright?” He holds out a hand. Grillby reaches for it and lets Sans pull him up.

“Absolutely.” He looks back in the direction he came and groans, his shoulders slumping. The bad one twinges, but he can’t help it. At about Sans height is a path, just about the right size for a child. He twists his head. The same path continues towards the other wall. “How did Gerson manage this?”

“what? the path? grillbz, were you climbing through this stuff?”

Grillby sparks indignantly.

Sans all but cackles, clapping a hand to his forehead. “you absolute dork. papyrus made this thing when he hung out here. it’s his first maze.”

Grillby picks up the book he had knocked off the shelf and reaches up to put it back. “But you said that Temmie let you bring him to work with you? Why would he be hanging out here?”

“towards the end, I didn’t want to bring him near her.” Another shrug, this one tighter than the first. “gerson didn’t ask a lot of questions. he liked having someone around to hear his stories. probably really got papyrus interested in being a royal guard. he had this one story about a huge creature he once had to banish that always got papyrus thinking.” Sans pats the furniture around him, looking for the path through, ducking through when he finds it. Grillby follows, although he comes close to bumping his head even bent double as he is.

“Huge creature?”

“he always called it a worm. big as houses, the way he described it.”

As he straightens up, Grillby’s eyes alight on a roll of thick parchment-like material, leaning against the wall just beyond Sans. “Found it!” he says.

Sans reaches forward and taps his fingers on the map. “this?”

“I think so.” Grillby moves around him and unrolls it. The map is drawn in faded ink, but the Waterfall caves are replicated in exact detail. He can see the tiny crystals even. The whole map is populated in little drawings of monsters. Even King Asgore is drawn on the east side, his trident before him. He presses the map up against the wall, examining it. “Where would you say Temmie Village is, again?”

“glowing mushrooms, and south.” Sans pauses. “also i hate it there, a fact you already know, but one that bears repeating.”

“Good to know.” Grillby looks until he finds a room full of mushrooms. The mushrooms seem to be keys to another puzzle, as a note by the room says “the mushrooms light the way” and nothing else. “Oh, wonderful.”

“what’s up?”

“Another puzzle.”

“nah.”

“Nah?”

“there’s only one path you need.” Sans reaches up and taps his fingers along the edge of the map. “point me to the room.”

Grillby takes his wrist and moves his hand to touch the beginning of the room. Sans nods to himself, tapping his fingers on the entrance as Grillby reaches down to secure the curling edge of the map. Then Sans’s hand slides to the bottom of the map, tapping the body of an illustration at the bottom. “if there’s a path down here and it looks like a dead end, that’s your way.”

A bit taken aback by the relative ease with which Sans solves it, Grillby looks. “It would lead us right into the wall.”

“only one way to find out. let’s go.” Sans reaches up and taps Grillby’s chin. He snorts, surprised, then captures his friend’s hand. “Let’s go, bonehead.” On their way out, he snags one of the capsules, rolling the map up tightly to fit inside. When they reach the mushroom hall, he’ll open it again, but paper and water don’t mix. A second thought has him doubling back to drop a handful of coins on the counter. He’s not sure of the exact worth of a big magic-neutralizing container and an ancient map, but he doesn’t want to just steal it. He opens up his umbrella as they exit into a deluge of water. It must be raining aboveground.

They walk side by side through the waterfalls that give the area its name. The roar of the rushing water makes Grillby sick to his core and Sans’s attempts to cheer him with jokes are drowned out by the waterfalls’ racket. The mushroom room, which is thankfully much less nauseating, is navigated in companionable quiet, broken only by Grillby’s occasional complaints. “I hate puzzles,” he says once, when a mushroom creates a path that takes them north rather than south.

“no you don’t,” Sans counters, in such a reasonable voice that Grillby almost agrees.

“I do,” he confirms instead, toeing another mushroom that lights up yet another path. “Absolutely hate them.”

“what the heck, who are you?” Sans can’t keep himself from being amused at this treachery.

He tries to mend it a little, knowing how important puzzles are to his skeleton friends. “I like jigsaw puzzles. I just don’t have the patience for rhymes and cryptic clues. Or, apparently, mushrooms.” Here he makes a sweeping gesture to indicate all the mushrooms Sans can’t see.

Sans snickers, leaning on him. “no wonder riv got you all heated up.”

“Look, I’m right. If they have the answer, why didn’t they just give it? What could be wrong with the truth?”

“lots of things.” Sans stops as if he’s walked into a wall. Something horrible has come into his face, chasing away the laughter. “grillbz, you have to trust me.”

“I do.” Grillby taps another mushroom. It squeaks and lights up another path, one away from the hole in the wall that is Temmie Village.

“this is going to sound strange.”

“I guarantee I’ve heard worse.”

“you have to remember that you don’t like her, okay? when we go into temmie village, you have to remember that you don’t like her, that there’s something wrong there. i’m sorry i didn’t tell you before, but if you think about it too long, it just seems ridiculous.” Sans waves a hand around as if he’s trying to erase his words. “look, just try and remember that she’s terrible.”

“I know that she’s terrible.”

“right now you do, but in there, i don’t know. she can get inside your head.”

“Got it. I should expect some illegal magic use.”

“last chance to back out.”

“Never.”

“good. as stated before, i am blind and seemingly magic-less, so this might not be a good situation for me to just waltz into alone.”

“Can you waltz?”

“short answer, no.”

They enter Temmie Village. It’s brighter than the mushroom hall and cheerier, although much colder. There are strange, silly things scattered around the hall. These are construction paper scraps, in a variety of bright colors. They look like a child’s art project. He bends to pick one up.

“grillbz?” Sans tugs again on his sleeve.

This place is so absurd. The scrap of construction paper flutters from his fingers. “Sorry, just something strange on the floor.” The chill of this place is biting into his core.

“paper? those are temmie flakes. i know you weren’t going to, but don’t eat them.”

“They’re paper. I’m not entirely uncivilized.” Grillby splays a hand on his chest, pretending to take offense.

“hah hah,” Sans mumbles, tapping his slippers as he heads forward. The village is bigger than it rightfully should be. He returns to the entrance, looking out. The wall can’t be thick enough to hold a cave of this size. Moving back under the cover of the cave, Grillby unrolls the map, examining it with bemusem*nt. Again his eyes land on the illustration of the monster at the bottom. It appears to be looking back at him. His mouth quirks. How funny. He rolls it back up, unsure what he’d even been looking for.

Sans is dwarfed by a giant statue against the wall of the cavern. It’s a statue of a funny-looking doggish creature with a cat smile. The plaque on the front just says “temmie”. He snorts. “They’re a little stuck on themselves, aren’t they?”

The skeleton tenses, as if waiting for temmies to drop from the ceiling. He looks ridiculous. One side of Grillby’s face curves into a smile. There’s no reason to hide it if Sans can’t see it. What is he so afraid of? This place is weird, but certainly not scary. He laughs.

Sans goes completely rigid, but his smile is still present. Nervous. “what’s so funny, grillbz?”

He can’t put his finger on it. “Who knows?” he tries to say, but it just comes out in another spurt of laughter. That’s hilarious.

He laughs and laughs and his knees give out. His hands scratch along the ground when he falls and the impact sends pain shooting through his shoulder. Even that is funny and he laughs harder and harder, unable to breathe.

“grillby! oh dog, oh dog.” Sans drops beside him and Grillby cries out as bony fingers dig into his shoulder. His pain folds too easily into laughter. His body flickers, dying out. Without breath, he is guttering out like a candle. His hands, stretched out before him, go from red to muddy black as they expose the body underneath the flame. It’s so hilariously ugly. He can’t stop laughing.

Little black dots gather to look at him. He laughs at their curiosity as they float across his vision. The room is blurring before his eyes, all the shades of blue a river rising to drown him. What little breath he has left catches in his throat. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, and still he laughs.

“grillby, stop! you have to stop, grillby, this is her, you can’t do this!” pleads the skeleton.

Sans’s fear is so funny. And suddenly it isn’t. His mind snaps back into place like a rubber band, but his shrieking laughter continues on. Horrified, he claws at the earth, trying to rid himself of the sound. “Sa-ns?” he chokes.

“y-yeah, buddy, just breathe. please just breathe.” Sans’s hands are cold even through his raincoat, gripping his forearm tightly.

“Spin-ning?”

“that’ll be the oxygen deprivation. breathe for me, grillbz.”

He gulps in a breath and chokes on it. His coughing is suddenly so loud in a room void of movement. Temmie Village would be dead silent if not for the steady drip of water from the stalactites and Grillby’s own coughs.

“you good yet?”

He nods, wincing. “Dog’s dust, my shoulder.”

“yeah, sorry about that. reason wasn’t working.”

“No need for apologies. Dog’s dust, that was her?” The chill of the room seems more ominous now. Why hadn’t he run a curse check on it? He shivers.

“her skill set’s varied. her schtick is emotions, memories. if this place is ridiculous, there’s no reason for you to be here.” Sans dusts off Grillby’s arms as if the enchantment has left residue on his sleeves. “she liked to make herself nicer and better than she was. made me trust her more. but every time she would go after papyrus, i would break out of it, stop her. until she put me under again.” Sans hesitates. “do you remember when i stopped getting into fights?”

Grillby leans on him as he stands. His legs feel like someone’s liquified them. “Uh, because you joined the guard and kids stopped picking on Papyr-”

Sans is shaking his head.

“There weren’t any kids, were there? It was her. The broken bones?”

“her. the fractures? still her. the filed parts were actually something else, but also mostly her fault.” Sans shakes out his arms as if he can remember the scars there where his arms had been almost scraped down to the marrow. “i had a lot of hp as a kid. something like nine hundred. paps, he had more. a thousand maybe. eleven hundred.”

“You have one HP,” Grillby says. Horrific images are taking form in his mind, all the times he had forced Sans to sit down and let him puzzle through mending fractures or healing bruises. The way Sans had been so skittish about it, had been so averse to reporting the “kids” who were apparently his partners in the brawls that dealt him these blows. “She attacked you?”

“hey, i gave as good as i got,” Sans says indignantly. Grillby takes a step forward on his wobbly legs and both of them pitch forward, Sans pulled down by Grillby’s arm. Resting his chin on the ground, Sans sighs. “you know, grillbz, your legs are meant to hold you up.”

“I blame the oxygen deprivation.”

“sure. up you get.” Sans shoves goodnaturedly at Grillby’s side until he stands again. “how’s the shoulder?”

Grillby rotates it in its socket. “Sore. It’ll be worse tomorrow what with all the climbing around I’ve been doing.”

“damn, i’m sorry, grillbz. this adventure is costing you an arm and a leg.”

“Seems like it.” He’s still out of breath, and can’t even muster a smile at what he assumes to be a terrible joke.

“she never really attacked me, per se. i was ridiculously valuable to her. the boy who could jump through space.” Sans smirks, but there’s no joy there, not even a twist of humor. He just looks hollow. “she just took things. sometimes stuff got broken. hope. brains. bones.” His fingers stretch absently and Grillby gets a sudden image of his friend’s hand with splints on two or three of the fingers at a time. “i think she took my memory.” Sans tilts his head. He looks as if he’s talking to the statue when he says “i remember going down into the basem*nt and just not understanding my work or my notes. she must have taken it piece by piece.”

Grillby thinks of the ruined photographs, hidden in the drawer along with burned drawings. He remembers don’t forget and a drawing of three figures, only one of whom he actually recognized.

Before he can mention them, or ask the identities of the remaining two figures, Sans waves him over to where he is standing. Grillby leans backwards to take in the sign above the door, which is solely an exclamation point, rather than a title. But the signs to either side of the doorway say that it’s called the Tem Shop. Granted, he’s paraphrasing. The signs actually are so fraught with terrible punctuation and grammar that it hurts a little to look at them.

“so, she’s definitely not here. her enchantment isn’t as strong if she’s here to add a little extra nonsense. if you want information, we’ll have to head right into her lair. it’s through this way.”

“Hiding your secrets in plain sight. Nice.”

Sans disappears into the darkness of the entryway. Grillby follows. It’s oddly claustrophobic in here, barely the size of a broom closet. He is still shocked when he manages to knock his head on the ceiling. His hiss of shock calls Sans back to his side and the skeleton explains “it only gets tighter from here on out. she’s not that big.” Then Sans is gone again, the soft pattering sound of his slippers fading away down the throat of the tunnel. By the time they reach the shop itself, Grillby is practically on his stomach. Sans holds out a hand in warning to keep him from trying to stand. “this is probably why she was mail order only.”

“Oh probably.” Grillby takes the hand and sits up when the tunnel widens again. Temmie’s “shop” is not much more than a wooden wall with a threadbare curtain pulled across it. Hooks in between the boards of the wall hold socks big enough for a boss monster and there’s a lopsided shelf with a bone and a stick lying on it. Just a bone and a stick. He goes to look at it and puts a hand straight through a cardboard box in the middle of the floor.

“dude, did you just wreck her counter?” Sans sounds delighted. Grillby tilts the box to look at the front. Things rattle about inside. ‘Tem Shop’ is painted on it in sloppy yellow and blue, accompanied by hearts and stars. He tilts it forward and finds a series of drawers cut into the box.

“I might have,” he says lamely, pulling his hand out of the cardboard. He had assumed it was made of something sturdier, not damp cardboard.

“nice,” Sans approves. “hey, look in the drawers. she had crazy stuff in there.”

“Sans, we are not robbing the place.”

The skeleton squishes up against him, reaching for the box himself. “we’re not robbing her, grillbz, although that would be awesome and we should at least consider it. no? fine. we’re just looking for information. if she had been here, we would have gotten her to tell us.”

“I think it’s more likely that we would have gotten our minds cleared of anything and everything that could ever matter.” The words pop out before he even considers them and they make him wish that he had learned offensive magic at school, or at least paid more attention when his mother taught him and f*cku self-defense. “She could be back soon.”

“all the more reason to check her desk and get out.”

“That is very true.” He shakes the box. It rattles again. He hooks his fingers in the corners of the topmost drawer, trying not to rip the cardboard, and pulls it out.

There’s a hand in there.

It can’t belong to someone. It simply can’t. If it had, they likely would have died of blood loss and just turned to dust. Carefully, he runs a hand over the space inside the drawer. His magical theory training had taught him a simple charm for discovering curses on things and this seems like a good place to use it, considering the welcome he’d gotten from this place. His magic trickles into the drawer, filling it up with itself. Nothing bites at it or glows menacingly to indicate any malice or any traps, even when it pours out of the first drawer and into the second. The magic returns to him and he lifts the disembodied hand out. “Sans, there’s a hand in here.”

“seriously? whose?”

“I don’t think it’s real. It’s-” he flicks it “-actually I think it’s plastic. Like a mannequin hand. I ran a curse search through the whole desk, so I don’t think it’s a trap. But it’s weird.”

“you got that right.” Sans pops his knuckles one by one. “what else have we got?”

“Hold this.” Grillby hands him the hand, then reaches back into the drawer. The next object he withdraws is a badge. He turns it over to look at the pin, then back to its front. “Security Level One, Hotland Laboratories.”

“no way does she have one of those. whose is it?”

Grillby rubs a thumb over the engraving. “Quinn Mnemosyne’s.”

Sans reaches over, tapping along Grillby’s hand until he finds the badge and pulls it from his hand. He flicks it with a finger, his expression strange. “the old royal scientist.” His face turns thunderous. “what the hell? she fell through with dad. what’s her hand doing here? where’s the rest of her?”

Grillby doesn’t even try to answer. The other drawer is empty of anything but temmie flakes. He even pulls it out to look closer. “Do there happen to be any secret passages in here?” he asks.

“even thinking like a secret agent now, grillbz.”

“We are literally inside the home of a deranged woman.”

“nope, no secret passages anywhere. did you check the last drawer?”

Grillby shakes it at him, the construction paper shuffling with the motion. “Nothing in here but temmie flakes.”

“you didn’t touch it, did you?”

“No?”

“thank the dog. wait, that’s not right.” Sans stands and feels around on the wall. When his hands hit the shelf, he taps his fingers along it until he reaches the stick. This he hands to Grillby. “don’t stick your hand in there, just stir it around with this.”

“Is this going to explode?”

“well, not with that attitude it isn’t.” Nobody laughs. Sans stares blankly at him a minute. “no, it’s not. just don’t touch it. and if anything clicks, especially don’t touch that. i’ll poke it with the stick, you tell me if anything does something.”

“That’s alarmingly vague.”

“you’re not wrong about that.” The stick plunges into the drawer and Sans stirs it about wildly. Temmie flakes fly.

“Literally nothing in here but temmie flakes,” reports Grillby just a moment later, igniting a stray flake that had landed on his knee.

Sans drops the stick to the floor and cracks his knuckles. “alright. let’s go.”

“Really?” Grillby asks, pushing the drawer back into the desk. Sans gives him the mannequin hand to put back in the top drawer too.

“yeah.”

The tunnel is just as stifling as it was the last time. “Why did you need a stick? I told you, I ran a curse search over the contents of that desk. Nothing showed up. What wouldn’t be picked up by a curse search?”

Sans shrugs and his shadow, cast upon the wall by Grillby’s light, does the same. “do you think those elglitches would show up under a curse search?”

“...No.” He hadn’t thought about it before, but the response when it comes is true. Magic has a soul. Magic has life, like the scent that is the signature of its owner. Magic has rules, rules that extend to combat and to the weaving of spells. Curse searches look for malice tied into spells, but if this is the force that can pause time for its own purposes, it doesn’t obey the rules of magic. It changes the rules to suit itself. Magic needs a soul and if the creature that attacked them in Snowdin had no soul, not even the soul ties that would suggest that it was a golem of sorts, bonded to another to serve.

They emerge into Temmie Village again. It is so still. The construction paper flakes are still on the ground. He actually really hates them. Grillby crouches and breathes sparks onto it in a petty act of vengeance. The fire catches, burning the next and the next, like a chain of dominos until each and every one is ash. Then something bigger attracts the blaze.

“uh, grillbz. is that you burning?”

“Nope!” Grillby swears briefly as he jumps onto the sudden conflagration, trying to stamp it out. He is so lucky that his galoshes are more fireproof than his clothes are usually, else he’d have been out two pairs of shoes in a single day. Whatever the hell is on the ground is extremely flammable however, in spite of the marshy surroundings. This, this is why he doesn’t pull a f*cku and set things on fire when he feels like it.

“dog’s teeth!” Sans curses, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it in his general direction. Grillby misses it and the jacket lands near perfectly on the blaze. It smothers. Grillby grinds his heel into the remaining sparks. The jacket he gathers up, dusting off the ash before he returns it to Sans. The skeleton tilts his head at him, almost frowning. “have you always been such a hothead, grillbz?”

Grillby shrugs out of shame and his voice is apologetic. “I’m sorry, am I too hot for you to handle?”

Sans makes an approving sound at the apology pun as he pushes his hands through his sleeves, the glint returning to his unseeing eyes. “your searing wit is almost too much for me. still, i am the pun master, so ‘scuse me if i don’t singe your praises.”

“Bravo.” Grillby claps twice before bending at the waist to examine what had caught. It’s a tapestry of sorts, done in shades of blue that nearly match the somber look of the walls. Should he have not known the nature of the creature featured, he would have chuckled at the contrast between the eerie beauty of the colors and the hilariously silly occupant of the tapestry. And yet, because he does know, he wishes he had let it burn. His eyes follow the curve of the dark waves behind Temmie’s smirking face. The silhouette rising from the water looks familiar, although he’s certain it’s a monster he’s never met.

“sorry for dragging you here, grillbz.” Grillby tears his eyes from the many sharp teeth of the silhouette and looks to Sans. The skeleton has his eyes averted and a few of his fingers are hooked in one eye socket as far as they can go before they hit the cataract. “i thought for sure we’d find something.”

“There isn’t anything else?” Grillby’s frustration returns with an accompanying headache. The air pressure in the Waterfall caverns is really beginning to get to him. Even worse is that he can almost feel Temmie’s curse in the air around him, as if at any minute it will descend and choke him until he is extinguished once and for all.

Sans shakes his head. “let’s go return gerson’s map.”

“Now what are you boys doing in here?”

Grillby whirls, sparking a warning and throwing out an arm. Sans, for his part, takes his hands out of his pockets and balls them into fists as if he would punch the intruder.

The owner of the voice cackles. “Wahaha, cool down, boys.” The massive warhammer in his hands swings up and back to rest on one shoulder.

Grillby’s heart rate slows down, although his spine straightens until he has an almost military stance. Before them is Gerson, the monster who had fought alongside Grillby’s many greats grandfather in the war. Seeing him with the Hammer of Justice from which he had taken his legendary title is more than intimidating. The little spark at Grillby’s core leaps about in excitement and awe. “Sir,” he says, quashing his delight as much as he can under reasonable apprehension.

“hey, gerson, we were just coming to find you,” says Sans, taking a few tentative steps forward, one hand outstretched. Gerson walks over the tapestry on the floor to meet him halfway. His craggy claw is enough to completely hide Sans’s hand from view.

“Looks like I found you first then. Evenin’, kid. And the young Grillby too! Pleasure to see you both. Double pleasure to accompany you back to my shop. Was hearin’ from one of my old pals that the two of you have some questions.” The hammer bounces a little on Gerson’s shoulder. It strikes Grillby again that there should really be no reason for the old man to have it with him.

“Yes sir, lots of them.”

“I think answers are best given over a cuppa.” The turtle points his chin in the direction of the tem shop and raises an eyebrow. This time the hammer makes a pointed clicking as it taps his shell. There should be no reason for the old man to have it with him, unless there’s danger near.

“I think, sir, that you might be right,” he answers slowly, leaning down to rest a hand on Sans’s shoulder. His eyes are unwilling to part from the sight of the hammer lest it is swung at them faster than he will be able to respond. Unease prickles the back of his neck like unfamiliar magic, adding an umbrella in the co*cktail of negative feelings Temmie Village invites.

“There’s no need to be twitchy, son.” With that, Gerson leads them away. It’s amazing how quickly an aging turtle can move. Grillby nearly has to run to keep up with him, managing to jam his hat back onto his head and open his umbrella before he is drenched in the downpour outside of Temmie Village. Although his deft steps easily avoid the visible puddles, Sans is not so lucky and splashes through them, apologizing each time whether Grillby has been splashed or not. He takes pity on him after a time and swings him up into his arms.

When they find it again, the shop’s clutter seems almost welcoming. Gerson isn’t even breathing hard, although Grillby is panting like a bellows. With a grunt, the old turtle hefts his warhammer up to lean precariously against the wall. It looks as if at any moment it will fall back over. Grillby gives it a wide berth, setting Sans down once he has successfully navigated through the junk and around it.

Gerson motions them behind the counter and into the back room. Once they have all come through the curtain, Gerson lets it fall shut over the entryway. The old turtle wades into the room, paper crunching under his feet as he makes his way to a little cooking space. “Sea tea for me and the bone boy. Whiskey for you, son?”

As he snaps shut his umbrella, Grillby can hear Sans’s teeth chattering, something he’s nearly never heard. He himself is chilled to the core. “Thank you, sir.”

Gerson seems satisfied by the answer. “Thought so. You and yours could never handle your water.” Gerson unearths an amber bottle and shakes it vigorously, squinting into its innards. With his other hand, he motions at them. “Siddown, kids. Warm up.”

Grillby looks around at the room. Only the entryway is really clear of debris, as the rest is buried under a sea of books and papers. Even the furniture is mostly unrecognizable. “Where should we put-?”

His question goes unfinished as Gerson shrugs. “Anywhere you please. Knock ‘em off if you have to. Only one you need to worry about is kinda raggedy-looking. Purple cover. Leave that one be.” He marks this with a look so pointed that it would make a kitchen knife seem blunt. The tortoise bustles around his little kitchen, putting the kettle on and looking much more like a kindly grandfather than a fearsome general. “Your great great granddad liked his drinks piping hot. You the same way?”

“I’ve never tried whiskey that way, sir.” Grillby clears off a seat for Sans and then sorts through the books on another chair. There are books of varying sizes inserted under the chair legs to keep them steady, some of which he recognizes as textbooks from magical theory classes like the one he had attended.

“Might as well try whiskey that way then! You’re a bartender for mercy’s sake.” Gerson busies himself with the whiskey. “You can ask those questions of yours now. Heard there were a lot of them. Couldn’t let you ask them where she could hear, of course, but nothing can get in here if I don’t allow it.”

Grillby looks at Sans, only to find the skeleton’s eye ridges drawn together in the same perplexity he himself feels. “you’re talking about temmie?”

“Of course I am. You think I didn’t notice you and your brother and your troubles?” Gerson sets out three mugs. “This area was a perfectly fine and dandy place to live before that one came along. Little dog told me that it’s the fault of you and yours.” He scratches the place where his neck meets his shell.

“a little dog?” Sans asks. Suspicion colors his words, rather than offense at being blamed for Temmie’s existence. The only little dog Grillby can think of off the top of his head is the funny little dog that slips into the bar on the heels of the Canine Unit, but he suspects that Gerson’s phrase is a twist on a more familiar saying than a mention of a real dog.

Turns out that it isn’t. “You’ve met it. Can’t say I’m surprised. You would have in your lines of work.”

“my line of work?” Sans’s voice has turned sharp. Grillby winces.

“You’re the judge,” Gerson comments. “You and that fancy contraption in your basem*nt.”

He recalls the hulking sheet-covered shape, lurking in the basem*nt like a cartoon villain. “What does that machine do?”

“nothing. it’s never worked enough to do anything. how the hell do you know about it?”

“Same way I know most things. I hear about it.”

“how?” Sans presses. “no one knew about that machine until i showed grillby. who did you hear about it from?”

Gerson turns around. His yellowing eye runs coolly over the both of them. The glimpse Grillby had caught of a grandfatherly figure is gone, replaced by the battle-hardened general, ready once more to do battle. Grillby reaches for Sans’s arm, trying to warn him.

The kettle shrieks. Sans flinches and Grillby jumps. “Tea’s done,” Gerson remarks. “Milk? Honey?”

“i’ll take some answers, thanks.”

“Plain it is then.” Gerson pours the boiling water into two of the cups and the salty aroma of sea tea pervades the air. The tortoise adds a couple drops of whiskey to each and then pours a generous amount into the third. Grillby sighs inwardly. He’ll have to drink very slowly in order to burn through that. Still, he takes the whiskey he’s offered and passes along Sans’s cup of sea tea.

Gerson shuffles over to another chair and upends it, sending the books careening to the ground. Righting the chair, he sinks into it, groaning as his knees bend. “These old bones can’t take much anymore,” he remarks, as if he hasn’t just run through Waterfall like a champion. When he’s comfortable, he takes a sip of tea. “You younguns won’t remember this, but there was a little dog who used to get into the queen’s pies no matter where she hid them. Sometimes it would be because the little heirs liked to help it, but more often than not there was no possible way for it to wriggle into the places it could.

“Now, the queen, as loving and gracious as she was, didn’t have the patience for this. She was so fed up with it that she left the pies in a locked drawer overnight. There was no key to this lock, because she was strong enough to pop it right off. But there was no way a little dog with no thumbs could do the same. Well, the next morning, she was pleasantly surprised to find the lock untouched. No signs of a little dog whatsoever. So, she popped off the lock, opened the drawer, and out came a happy little dog with pie in its fur and butterscotch breath. Wahahaha!” Gerson slaps his knee, something Grillby thought people only did in fiction.

Sans is stone-faced. “you’re telling me that a little dog got into my lab and reported back to you. a little dog that can teleport and is also centuries old.” He nods at his own words, still wearing that stony expression. Then he spreads his hands. “i don’t get you, gerson. is this a joke?”

“Sir, what does Temmie have to do with this dog?”

The ever-present laughter fades, replaced by genuine befuddlement. “Now, what were you doing in her world if you didn’t know that?”

“looking for answers about the elglitches.”

“The what now?” Gerson looks between the two of them, wrinkling his beak.

“They’re creatures without souls, sir.”

“The hollow ones!” the turtle bursts out, slapping his knee again. “You kids have the darnedest names for things.” He chuckles into his tea as he drinks again. “You think she was doing this sort of thing? Making new creatures?”

“people do it all the time. if someone could make the snowman in snowdin, she could find a way to make something like them.”

Gerson sighs. “The monster who made that snowman was just that, a monster. She is not. She’s something entirely different. Still, she and them might be coming from the same place, something bigger than her, more powerful.” Grillby pictures the temmie in the tapestry, standing on the back of a massive water creature. “Not just anyone can go toe to toe with a dog, and especially not that dog.”

“What, might I ask, is all the hubbub with this dog about?”

The old man looks to Sans with something akin to disappointment. “You really are a secretive little thing, aren’t you, bone boy?”

“most people just go with ‘weird,’ but that works too. i don’t know what’s up with the dog. sometimes one lived in my house, but it never did anything.”

“Then how about the patches?” Sans freezes. His hands curl into fists. Gerson’s expression doesn’t change a whit, but when his voice comes again, it is softer than its previous tone. “Oh, I know all about them, kid.”

“i was just a kid. i didn’t know!”

“No one said you did, but you never said anything either, did you?”

“What are you talking about? What patches?”

“she-” Sans stops, puts his head in his hands a moment. “she had a shipping business. i told you that. i ran deliveries. she made little tags for every package. it was her signature.”

“Little bits of green cloth.” Gerson makes a vague indicator of how big these cloth patches were.

“they had veins through them. like leaves.”

“Gave you a nasty shock, wouldn’t they?”

“like electricity.”

“You delivered packages for her and those tags made their way into people’s houses. Remind me, kiddo, how long ago was that?”

“thirteen years,” Sans grits out.

Grillby takes a drink of whiskey, just to do something as Gerson continues to extract the story. “And it lasted five years. You took Papyrus and ran off, joined the Royal Guard.”

Sans is out of his chair in a heartbeat, rage contorting his body language. “people were dying! grillby, what’d you call it? ‘the worst mass epidemic since the war’?”

Grillby nearly chokes on his mouthful of whiskey. “You’re talking about-”

“it was her and me. i delivered death. that was my damned job. and i ran when i could, and when i did, she- she-” Sans all but growls, digging the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “that bitch.”

“She chased you all the way through Waterfall until she was stopped. It’s alright, boy, settle down.” Gerson heaves himself out of his chair. “She’s called a worm. Before they knew better, the humans called them dragons. She’s much worse than dragons, worse than any monster. Her kind crawls into a place, makes a nest, and starts work on the poor fools around them. I believe, sonny, that you have my map. If you take a look at the bottom, you’ll find her.”

Grillby nods, picking up the container. Gerson’s expression twists when he sees it, as if someone has stabbed him in the gut. When the parchment unfurls, Grillby’s eyes go immediately to the bottom edge, where a sinuous shadow winds along the cave walls, blocking the location of Temmie Village with its body. “She’s the creature in her tapestry.” The parchment crinkles under his tightened grip. “Sans said you were a worm hunter. Why didn’t you catch her yourself?”

“You’ve been in her village. You tell me why.” Grillby flickers. “Exactly. She wards the place. It doesn’t show up on maps, you can’t find her magic because she has no soul to track, and the place is poisonous to boot. It gets inside your head, twists you into knots. ‘Bout six years ago, when the bone boys got out, I got in. The dog had sent me in its stead.”

“Why didn’t it go itself?” Grillby blurts.

At the same time, Sans asks “what is it, if it’s not a dog or a monster?”

Gerson shrugs. “It’s about as secretive as you. Twice as stubborn. Bossy too. It’s the protector of children, which caused all the trouble we’re in. It saved my girl once upon a time and let the worm know it was here. All she had to do was bait it out with another child. Two, to be exact.” His eyes go again to the container and he beckons with a claw. “Give that here, boy.”

Grillby does, handing it over and spreading the map out again to look at it. “What happened?”

Gerson sets the container up by the kitchen and disdainfully sweeps some loose papers into it. “By saving those three, it let her in on a secret she’d known all along. Once she had its scent, she could find its path, and once she had that, she could find what it was guarding.”

“and what was that?” Sans asks.

Gerson looks up at the wall. “The patches weren’t just meant to torment you, kiddo, or to just kill people. She was hoarding. There were two components of her end goal: the tapestry and the artifact. Once she had the patches, she could fix the tapestry.”

Sans falls back into his seat as Grillby asks “The tapestry? As in, ‘the fabric has been patched’?”

There’s a chuckle from the old tortoise, although this seems like no laughing matter at all. “Did the dogs tell you that one?” His claws tap on the counter. “They’re one and the same. Fabric, tapestry, so many names for one old rag.”

“And the artifact?”

Gerson pulls a face as he turns back to them. “Old magic, powerful stuff.” Sans leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees in curiosity. Gerson intercepts him. “Don’t ask about it because I don’t remember the exact details, just that stuff was nasty. Sealed evil in a can.”

“okay, new question: why didn’t you help us? we were kids and you knew what was going on. what gives, gerson?”

“You think you would’ve let me help you? Really? She had you two eating out of her hand at the beginning and you were too paranoid to convince by the end. I did what I could. I told your brother all the stories you would need. And in the end, he figured it out, didn't he?” Sans’s expression betrays his answer and Gerson chuckles. “Smart kid.”

“smart kid?” There’s an unpleasant glint in his eyes. “heh heh, you don’t know the half of it. my bro’s brilliant. that’s exactly what she wanted.” Sans straightens up, holding his mug like he wants to throw it at Gerson’s head. Grillby leans over and pulls it out of his hands before any such thing can happen. Sans keeps going. “i gave up because it was easier. if she didn’t expect me to fight her, she would take the energy from me and not try for papyrus. and then he got his magic back.”

“Back?” Grillby echoes before he can stop himself.

“he lost it when the doc- when dad disappeared.” Sans’s fingers creep up to hook in one of his eye sockets again. “as long as it was gone, as long as i played the idiot, she didn’t care about him. saw him as some little thing that kept me quiet and kept me listening to her. he was convenient as long as he kept me there.”

“Papyrus has orange magic, doesn’t he? Like your blue?” Grillby recalls the flicker of orange in Papyrus’s eyes as the house burned. Something in his chest twists.

“not like my blue. he’s so much stronger than me.” Sans says hollowly. Then he chuckles. “braver too.”

“Orange magic users are renowned for bravery,” Gerson says.

“And they regain HoPe at astonishing rates,” Grillby says. His lessons had taught him that. Red and purple magic users were able to persist, but orange magic users could heal themselves with the strength of their courage.

Sans points a finger at him, laughing into his hand. “that’s what she said when he attacked her. all the textbook jabber as she was tossing him around like a ragdoll. he wouldn’t stay down, but he was so small that he just broke. i had to- she wouldn’t stop. his stupid eyes kept glowing. i taught him blue instead when he forgot, when he wanted to learn magic again. his blue isn’t strong, but he’s good at it. he doesn’t draw attention.”

Grillby stares, aghast. Sans presses his palms into his eye sockets. In the quiet, the teakettle shrieks again. Gerson attends to it. Grillby rolls up the map, no longer willing to look at the smug shape of the worm, and drops it in the space between his chair and Sans’s. His arm easily broaches the gap, nudging Sans’s shoulder with the mug of tea. The skeleton turns his head, blinking a little slowly, and takes the mug. “thanks, grillbz.”

Gerson tops off his tea, then, after a second of thought, adds a drop of whiskey. “No wonder she chased the two of you. Worms live on fear, hate bravery like your brother’s, but she needed something from each one.”

Sans’s mug clinks against his teeth. Grillby asks the question instead. “Each one? Each one what?”

“Soul states.” Gerson raises an eye ridge when they stare. “Dog above, what are they teaching you in schools?”

“There are seven main soul states,” tries Grillby.

The ex-warrior nods, acknowledging that as an answer, if a simplified one. “Mmhm. And?”

He flickers apologetically. “I dropped out of my magic theory classes. I know the basics, all the things you learn in school. Not much beyond that, I’m afraid.”

Gerson throws up his arms as if seeking guidance. “Seven soul states united is a powerful force. Back in my day, wizard groups had to be made up of one of each; Determination, Bravery, Justice, Kindness, Patience, Integrity, and Perseverance. Else you’d lose the balance on the spell!

“Well, it was just our luck that we wound up with six out of the seven states for our king and the seventh is making their way to him right now. The worm, she showed up too late to gather what she needed from all of them, but I’m guessing that she took what she needed from you, patched the hell out of everyone else, and then tried for what she needed from your brother. But you skedaddled with him as soon as you could.” Gerson regards Sans a moment. “Where is that babybones anyhow? Did you leave him home?” Sans is silent. The turtle leans on the table, smiling. “Well, that’s good then. Long as he’s there, he should be alright. She can’t get into your house, just like she can’t get in here or into Undyne’s house. Blessing of the dog, that is.”

Grillby burns red. Gerson switches from looking at Sans to looking at Grillby. “What’s with that face? You look like you’ve walked through dust! Left the oven on, have you?” He chuckles softly.

“Sir, his house burned down a few days ago.”

The laughter drains from Gerson’s face. “Burned down? Not your doing, I should hope?” He accompanies the question with a wink, although he still looks shaken.

Grillby sparks in indignation and embarrassment. “No, sir!”

Sans holds onto the edges of his seat as if it might suddenly sprout legs and run away. Gerson gives him a strange look. “Would this have something to do with those eyes of yours, son?”

“no, sir.” Sans has that expression on his face, like all the gears in his head have shifted suddenly and without warning.

“Where is your brother then? Staying with Undyne?”

“papyrus is in hotland.” Sans is standing again and this time, he grabs Grillby’s sleeve to yank him up as well. “we have to go, grillbz. we have to find him.”

“Thank you for the tea, sir,” Grillby says hurriedly. “And the information, sir!” Sans is already fumbling his way through the curtain. He opens his umbrella with a snap, showering water all over the papers. “Sorry!” he manages, running after Sans as quickly as he can.

When they’re gone, Gerson waits, one elbow resting on the counter. “Did you hear all that?” he asks, addressing the floor near Grillby’s vacated chair. The papers rustle. Damp spots appear on some, crinkling them under an unseen weight. Smells like wet dog. He sighs, lowering his claws to about knee level. Something brushes past them, leaving pawprints and splashes of red in its wake. He sorts out the images in his head, frowns, counts to three.

A moment after he finishes, the very earth shudders. The old tortoise’s claw makes a fist up on the counter. “That’d be the CORE. Right on time. I’ve done my part. I’ve told them. It’s your turn now.”

The unseen thing whines and noses the aging warrior’s claws, asking a question.

“Wahaha! Am I afraid? I’m too old for that. You just take care of those kids, you understand me? That’s always been your job.” Gerson crouches, every joint creaking in protest. “And if you happen to see my girl there, keep taking care of her. I don’t want her to lose her other eye, no matter how ‘awesome’ she’d think it was. Now, get on out of here. You’re dripping on my work.”

The dog chuffs, nuzzling Gerson’s knee and promising to do its best. Then it steps away from him and the pawprints cease.

The old tortoise looks around his cluttered backroom. Indifferently, he kicks through the papers until he finds a battered purple notebook. His claws lift it almost reverently, brushing off the cover the way a parent would dust off a child’s clothes when they’d amused themself playing in the murk of the river rather than helping him organize the shop and had wound up with mud everywhere, even spattered across their glasses.

“Sir, look! It’s a worm, like the ones you said you fought! Tell me the story again! Please!”

The Hammer of Justice reaches for the amber bottle of whiskey and toasts the empty room. Then he throws the bottle into the soul container. It shatters when it hits the bottom, flooding the rotten thing with amber liquid and soaking the papers he’d tossed in there. The ink bleeds off the pages, seeping through the whiskey in black clouds. His beak twists, the expression on his face inscrutable. Once more he opens the book his child left behind and begins to read.

Chapter 36: Idolatry

Chapter Text

||Frisk? Hey, c’mon, Friskabibble, you’re not a big cat. You know what that means? There’s no point in lion around! Not when the sun’s waiting for us! C’mon, silly sib, I thought you were the determined one!||

Lee’s voice fades into the comfortable darkness of the headspace. A shaft of light splits the dark in two. Frisk blinks tears out of their eyes. Their vision is blurred, but a few more blinks and things come shyly back into focus. They’re staring up at the extinguished lights in a darkened hallway. From what they can remember, they passed out in the CORE.

Ness the Nice Cream Guy is crouching at their side with his phone flashlight on. His smile is so relieved when he sees their eyes open that they feel guilty for scaring him.

A green snout pushes its way into their face. “Like, hey, why are you taking a nap on the floor?”

Catty squishes against her friend. “I mean the floor is like, totally grody?”

“Yeah, yeah, totally!”

“Girls, can we give them some space?” pleads Ness forlornly.

Bratty and Catty each take one of Frisk’s hands in theirs and pat them, but do wiggle back a little. Burgerpants, sitting sprawled by Frisk’s feet with a stub of a cigarette, possibly the one they saw him with back at the resort, asks “Hey, little buddy, you hurt?”

They do a quick check. All of their fingers and toes still wiggle. Their elbows can still bend. All in all, they seem fine, except for the funny ache in their chest, like something had been sitting on it while they were unconscious. They give a thumbs up anyway.

“Did you see that?” Chara asks in a hushed voice. Their cold fingers seem to close on Frisk’s arm. “That light?”

‘I wish I hadn’t.’ They sit up and smile at their friends. Bratty and Catty cheer, tugging on their hands until they stand. The boys stand too. Ness clicks off his flashlight. Frisk’s eyes adjust to the darkness quickly.

“You’re lucky that we found you instead of someone else. Somebody might’ve-” Burgerpants draws a finger across his throat and makes a noise through his teeth. The end of his cigarette glows red.

“Brentworth!” Ness scolds.

“Gesundheit,” Flowey answers, reminding Frisk of his presence. He receives the concerned patting they give his vines with patience and an eye roll. “Honestly, I’m f-fine,” he whispers. “You?” They nod.

“No, uh, that’s my name,” Burgerpants says, almost sheepishly.

“Brentworth? His parents must have hated him,” Chara remarks.

‘Brentworth?’ Frisk wonders at the same time. ‘When did that happen?’

Burgerpants sees their expression and misinterprets it. “Ugh, yes, Brent Bearnes, nice to meet you, yadda yadda.” He even follows this up with a mocking shake of their hand, which makes them smile. “Hey, don’t get any ideas about giving me nicknames off that.” This last he directs towards Bratty and Catty, who put their paws over their mouths in shock.

“Like, who? Us?”

“We’d never do that, Burgerpants! Not ever!”

“Just curious though, what nicknames could we make out of Brentworth?”

As the teens fall into another squabble, Flowey shifts on their shoulder, twisting around to check on his vines. “Ugh, I’m all p-patterned now!” he grumbles, throwing a loop over their head for them to inspect. In a manner that reminds them of skin, his vine has formed impressions of the texture of the floor below. As they watch, he grumpily yanks a rock from his coils with his teeth and spits it onto the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Frisk tries to inquire of the teens. Flowey ignores their signs, too busy with his grooming routine. Apparently the floor of the CORE is riddled with loose stones and, because of that, he is also covered in them. His silence doesn’t negatively impact them though, as Ness guesses what they’re after.

“Why are we here?” the bunny guesses, clapping his hands in delight when Frisk nods. “Well, it’s delightful news! The queen has returned and so people are gathering at the castle to welcome her home!”

“I dunno if it’s so delightful,” Burgerpants- Brent- mumbles. Ness shoots him a concerned look and Brent throws his hands up in the air. “Where’s she been all these years anyhow? Why’s she get to waltz back in when we’ve got six souls?”

“It does seem odd,” Ness concedes. For Frisk, he explains “When the king took the first soul, she left the castle. That she would come back now that his plan worked seems strange.” His nose twitches as he ponders this. Granted, the pensiveness doesn’t last long, Ness being Ness, and he chirps “But the king seems so happy to see her again!”

Frisk and Chara share a delighted look in the mindscape. Flowey even pauses, a rock caught between his jaws, and sneaks a look at Frisk. They smile at him. Excitement makes them wiggle. Toriel had made it after all!

But, a dim little voice in the back of their mind still whimpers “Someone...someone help me. Anyone. Please… help me” in Toriel’s soft voice. Chara opens their palms apologetically, revealing the blue blossoms of an echo flower. Toriel speaks through it, repeating her plea over and over, the way her voice had in Waterfall. Chara looks down at it, running their thumbs over the soft petals. “I feel like it means something,” they say. “It was planted there, Frisk, for us to find. Who would joke about this?”

‘I don’t know.’ Frisk presses Chara’s palms together and the flower disappears between them. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I was wrong. She’s safe.’

Chara gives them an uncertain smile. “Okay.”

A warm hand slips into theirs and the contact startles Frisk into the real world. Chara looks through their eyes to find a pair of pink ones looking back. “Coin for your thoughts, Frisk?” Bratty teases.

“I was thinking about my feet,” they lie. Unfortunately the lie reminds them how much their feet actually hurt, so the accompanying wince is real. They’re sure they didn’t hurt this much during the show.

“Oh no, do they hurt?” asks Catty anxiously. “Blisters are, like, totally bad for your toes!”

“Yeah, like, that’s why I wear thick socks with my heels. Fashion is cool and all, but, like, I totally don’t feel like a bombshell when my feet hurt.”

“I can carry you if you want,” offers Ness.

“Oh, no you don’t, Ness,” warns Brent. “You’ll f*cking drop them after five steps.”

“I’m plenty strong enough. I pushed my cart all the way to Hotland, didn’t I?” returns Ness.

“Your cart is a lever system! It’s not about strength; your stamina is sh*t, Ness. You’ll just hurt your back. Come here, little buddy, I got you.” Brent crouches down to their level, gesturing for them to climb on.

They do; who are they to turn down an opportunity to not have to walk? After a few false starts, they get themself comfortably situated with their arms slung loosely around his neck. “Hey, Ness,” Brent grits out around his cigarette.

“Yes?”

“Can you take my cigarette? I don’t have the hands to do it and all the ash and crap falls.”

“Do you- do you want me to hold it for you?” Ness ventures. His ears seem divided on what to do; one ear has all but flopped over while the other twitches like a satellite dish.

“Ew, no!” squeals Catty. “What if it sparks and everything, like, explodes?”

“Yeah, like, you don’t want our deaths on your hands, do you?” Bratty adds, hanging onto Catty’s arm.

Ness takes the cigarette from Brent’s mouth. Up this close, Frisk can smell him again, like a snowy forest, sharp under the stale cigarette smoke.

The cat sighs. “Just stub it out or something,” he says reluctantly. “Don’t bend it too much though. I’ve been working on finishing that one for ages.”

Ness presses the pad of a finger to the lit end. Pine magic and heat mix for a moment, then the smokey smell starts to fade. On a hunch, Frisk presses their face into Brent’s collar. He smells like cigarette smoke and the edible sequins of a Glamburger. But there’s the barest hint of something sweet underneath those, too faint for them to know what it is.

“Please remove your face from the bear cat,” Chara intones.

“Stop sniffing him, you idiot,” Flowey hisses in their ear. One of Brent’s ears twitches and Frisk sits back. It occurs to them that it might be rude to try to figure out how people’s magic smells. It might be one of those things people get funny about. The thought causes little twinges in their chest.

“Whoa, calm down, kiddo,” Chara says, touching their own chest with a twist of their thin lips. “It’s not something to get stressed about. It’s just a little silly.”

Frisk presses their fist into their chest and squeezes their eyes shut. It’s not stress. It’s not even panic. It feels like emptiness, like they forgot to eat, but located behind their ribs rather than in their belly. Like whatever had sat on their chest had dug in its claws as it left, tearing a hole straight through them. Puzzled, but not pained, they reopen their eyes and meet Chara’s. ‘It’s nothing,’ they say.

“Sounds like something,” Chara retorts, tucking their arm back around Brent’s neck.

‘No, it’s actually nothing,’ Frisk stresses. ‘Feel.’ They extend a hand in the mindscape and do their best to press the feeling into Chara.

Chara furrows their brow, then cups their hands together, shaking whatever’s between them like a Magic-8 Ball. Then they uncover it and Frisk’s soul pops into view. “There’s no pieces missing,” they remark, although their mind remains unconvinced and more than a little worried. The little heart revolves in the air. “Don’t you have a glamburger? Eat some of that, see if you’re hungry.”

Frisk nods themself back into the real world, where Flowey’s petals tickle their cheek and Brent’s fur makes them crinkle their nose. If they focus, they can hear Chara talking to themself and the sound of their chalk scribbling on the wall.

“Hey, did you hear that?” Catty asks, flicking her ear and jangling her earrings.

“I heard that,” Brent says, jerking his chin towards her earrings. “Why’s your jewelry so noisy?”

“I like noise,” Catty says snidely, but then her head turns and her unornamented ear flicks. The way she stares into the darkness reminds Frisk of their cat. Olive stares like that sometimes. Lee calls it her poltergeist face. “That noise. Right there.”

Ness’s ears stick straight up. “Oh, that’s-” he considers. “Sounds like someone with a wooden leg. Like the old puzzler!” He steps forward, slipping Brent’s extinguished cigarette into his pocket absently. Cupping his hands about his mouth, he calls “Hallo!”

“Ooh, let me try, Ness.” A heavy citrus smell hits Frisk in the face just before Catty bellows “HELLO!”

Ness’s ears flop like felled trees and Brent actually hisses in pain. Frisk grabs their ears. Their chest aches and their stomach lurches.

“Ooh, Catty, maybe not so loud?” tries Bratty, removing her hands from the sides of her head.

“WHAT?” Catty asks. Bratty grabs an imaginary dial and turns it all the way down, misting the air with her own magic. Catty’s eyes widen. “Oops,” she whispers.

“Well,” Ness says, shaking his ears back into position. “I don’t hear it anymore. Perhaps it was a machine sound.”

“Uh uh,” Catty argues. “That was somebody hopping around.”

Brent bumps Frisk further up his back and they jolt around a little, starting to smile. Their chest isn’t hurting anymore. Chara’s probably right (“Of course I am.”) and they’re probably just hungry.

Although Brent’s face is turned away from them, they can hear his smile in his voice as he replies to Catty’s argument. “If it was someone, then your noise scared them right off. Nice job.”

“Hey! Maybe they got scared off by your terrible attitude!” Bratty accompanies this with a jab of her finger into the meat of Brent’s arm. He dances away, making Frisk laugh as they bump around.

“Wait, can we talk this out rationally?” pleads Ness, sensing another round of bickering on the horizon.

“Oh my dog,” Flowey moans, flopping over as the girls and Brent do their best to square off with each other while walking.

Frisk unclasps their knapsack flap and roots around inside. The contents of the bag are in disarray as usual. Under sweaters and sweaty clothes, they uncover a crumbly slice of pie. ‘This work?’ they ask Chara.

The little spirit frowns and shakes their head. “I kind of want to save that for when we see Mom and Dad, if that’s okay.”

Frisk nods. ‘What about-’ they dig a little more ‘-some chocolate? There’s a little left in here!’

Chara looks torn between being The Responsible One and shoving the remains of the chocolate bar into their mouth. Frisk decides to sweeten the pot a little. ‘Did you know that science says chocolate makes you happy? It sends signals to your brain to make you smile!’

“That explains a lot. Oh, alright, you win. Let’s have some chocolate.”

‘There’s not much. I put a lot of it into the good cake,’ Frisk confesses.

“What am I going to do with you, you moron? You’d give a perfect stranger the clothes off your back if asked.” Chara gives their hair a tousle.

'Not a perfect stranger,' Frisk protests. 'Just someone who needed them.' They make a sound of surprise when Flowey nips their fingers. His head darts into the chocolate wrapper and comes away with a corner between his teeth. “G-good idea,” he says. “I-I’m st-starved!”

They take a bite. Hotland’s atmosphere has melted the sweet until it is the consistency of thick mud. Even small bites smear their cheeks. Flowey himself is sporting a spattering of chocolate around his mouth. “That’s an interesting fashion statement, bro,” Chara teases.

“Says the Sweater Sovereign,” he fires back.

“Hey, don’t wipe your mouth on me!” protests Frisk, slapping their palm to his forehead to keep his sticky mouth from their sweater sleeve.

“Oh ho, Sweater Sovereign, is it? That’s rich coming from the Crybaby King!” crows Chara.

“Is there something in the air that’s making you all like this?” Frisk wonders, crumpling the empty wrapper in their fist.

The crunching sound must remind the teens of their presence, because suddenly Bratty and Catty pepper them with questions about Mettaton’s show. “That was, like, a super bold narrative choice,” says Catty. “The forums are going absolutely cah-razy about these ghosts.”

“Yeah, like, who are they? The grody one has zero UnderNet presence. We’ve looked.” Frisk guesses that Bratty is talking about Mads, unless pretty silvery ghosts like Blooky are considered gross. Mads had looked a little beaten up the last time they saw them, like their dummy body had been split right open and clumsily resewn.

Catty shows them her phone, bringing their thoughts back to the conversation. “I downloaded all of BlookTunes’ music. It’s actually super awesome? Mettaton plays it all the time in the resort.”

“How do you even know that?” Brent asks. “Don’t you two live in the garbage?”

The girls look as if they’ve been slapped. Ness comes to a screeching halt, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to give Brent a good shake. Bratty curls her hands into fists at her sides. “Like, what the heck, Burgerpants.”

“Were you raised by crabs?” Frisk doesn’t understand that, but Catty continues with “You must have been because you’re so snippy! Like, wow.”

“That was way rude and totally uncalled for? We’ve been super nice to you?”

“And you treat us like garbage?”

“Super rude.”

“You’re super rude.”

“Like, the thing with your pants and the burgers totally wasn’t our fault, but you started treating us like-”

“Like we had pantsed you ourselves!”

“And yeah, it was like super embarrassing-”

“And you’re right, we weren’t planning on sharing-”

“And you’ve been really super cool tonight, but like, you’ve been totally uncool for a year! Do you know how much fun we could have had?” Catty folds her arms over her chest and flicks her ears again. The earrings chime.

Brent looks dazed, his ears flat against his head, and his grip on Frisk’s legs slackens. “What? I thought you thought-”

“We wanted to be friends, even though you were being super weird,” Bratty explains, twisting one of her curls around her claw.

“Oh my dog, this is gold,” says Chara gleefully, propping Frisk’s elbows on Brent’s shoulders to get a better look. Flowey is watching the whole thing with eyes the size of dinner plates. Frisk isn’t sure what it is about the Dreemurr siblings, but the two of them seem to subsist entirely on other people’s drama. When they get home, Frisk will have to introduce them to soap operas.

“Hey now,” Ness says, raising his hands before him in an indication for calm. “What’s stopping us from being friends now?”

“Like, an apology maybe?” suggests Bratty, looking almost hopeful.

“Yeah!” Catty seconds. “We’re totally sorry for laughing when your pants fell.” The girls look expectantly at Brent for his response.

Frisk taps Brent on the back of the neck, trying to prompt him into responding. He shakes his head and for a second, they think he won't do it.

“I’m sorry for treating you like that,” Brent says, the words running together into a single breath. He inhales and Frisk pats his neck again. “I was stupid.”

Bratty and Catty look at each other and then back to him. A sliver of fang pokes from between Catty’s lips and Bratty’s eyes sparkle. Bratty sticks out her hand for a handshake Brent accepts. “Thanks, B.P. We, like,-”

“-totally forgive you,” they say in unison.

Catty points a finger at him. “And we’re sorry again!”

Bratty releases his hand to point her own finger. “Yeah! Like, we should have been ready to share with you!”

The girls’ free hands clasp and Catty shouts “We’re friends now though and that’s all that matters!”

Frisk pumps their fist enthusiastically, catching the energy in the air.

“Can I ask where you live now, then?” Brent asks, once again holding onto Frisk’s ankles to keep them steady.

“A lady never reveals her secrets-” Bratty starts.

“We live with my sister!” Catty answers. “In the building!”

“Dude, your sister lives four doors away from me,” Brent says, shoulders sagging in distress.

“Yeah, like, we could’ve been really cool neighbors, but, like-”

“Like, you hated us? And you were never ever home?”

“My boss is a slave-driver,” jokes Brent.

“Omidog! Speaking of your boss! Frisk!” They raise their head at the sound of their name. “Was that fi-i-ine fish with Alphys her girlfriend?” Bratty asks, drawing out the ‘i’s in a cheeky drawl. When Catty cackles, she joins in, covering her lips with a hand, although Frisk can see the teeth that line the rest of her mouth clear as day.

Chara nods without hesitation. Frisk smiles and follows it up with a shake of their head. “Not yet, I don’t think. That’s Undyne!”

Bratty’s jaw drops. “Undyne, like the captain of the royal guard Undyne? Like Undyne the uber-hottie?”

“No way!”

“Like, omigosh, Catty, weren’t we just talking about her crush on Undyne?”

“Like, omigosh, Bratty, we totally were! It’s like we’re, like-”

“-like, totally psychic?”

Brent rolls his eyes so hard that they might roll out of his head. “More like psychotic,” he mumbles, earning a soft punch in the arm from Bratty that makes him grin.

“Be rude and this psychic will tell you when you’re going to die,” she threatens, a toothy smile on her face.

Brent makes no return comment, only gestures towards himself in a challenging way.

“You should tell him, Bratty,” Ness giggles, giving Brent a playful shove on his other arm. He seems much happier now that no one’s cross.

Bratty wiggles her neon-painted claws and intones in a spooky voice “Brentworth Bearnes, you will die in five days’ time. Do not pass Go, do not collect five hundred g.”

“Okay, Brunhilde, how am I going to die?” Brent responds, co*cking an eyebrow.

Catty’s giggle at Bratty’s real name earns her a facsimile of a frown from her friend, who then lets out a theatrical wail as her eyes roll back in her head. “The souls of the forgotten! They say that you, Brentworth, you will die of- of-!” She gives a little sigh and slumps over Catty. One hand lies gracefully across her forehead.

“Of what?” Flowey asks.

Bratty cracks open an eye, and then her smile returns in full-force. “Of being a jerk. His cold heart will, like, shrink into a stone and then he’ll just fwish! into dust.” She accompanies this with a wiggle of her fingers to demonstrate.

“Oh my dog, you wish.” Brent leads them around the corner, then says “I don’t even have a heart anymore. I sold it to try and kick off my acting career.” He coughs and the sound of it has Chara imagining his lungs to be as black as tar. “Speaking of,” he points a finger back in Frisk’s direction, “I didn’t see you kicking the boss man on live TV. You really let me down, little buddy.”

“It w-was inevitable that they let you down,” Flowey sighs. Chara gives him a look, trying to cut off anything derogatory before it starts. “They’re just too short to hold you up.”

Frisk gasps and shakes a fist at him.

“Wow, betrayal!” Chara yells. “He’s only like three inches tall, you tell him that!”

But the teens are laughing and Flowey’s giggling, music to their ears in the curiously quiet halls of the CORE, so they have to crack a smile too. It was kinda funny.

“I’m so excited though!” Ness says, hugging Catty’s arm and slinging his other around Brent’s neck, making the latter nearly tip off balance and forcing Frisk to hang on tighter. “How exciting is this?” He looks to Frisk. “This is exciting, right? A late night voyage to the capitol with friends to see the biggest event of all time!”

“What’s that? Toriel- the queen’s return?” Frisk laughs.

Ness’s eyes shine. “Not just that. They’ve found the angel.”

Flowey’s laughter stops like someone's hit a switch. His face turns towards them, checking for a response. Chara folds inwards on themself, looking as if they’ve been betrayed. Frisk looks from sibling to sibling. When neither explains, they ask the teens. “Angel?” Flowey echoes them as if they’ve become nothing more than an afterthought and when they lift a hand up to touch his petals, he leans away.

“The angel of the Underground! Just waltzed right into the castle and introduced themself!” Ness enthuses, tugging Brent’s arm excitedly. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s even doing it. “The whole prophecy is real! ‘An angel, one who has seen the surface, will descend and the underground will go empty.’ They’ve been saying that since forever and it’s finally coming true!”

“You mean it’s too good to be true.” Brent parades them across the darkened bridge, a move that strikes Frisk as very dangerous, especially given that they were attacked by Knight Knight the last time they were here. “Listen,” he starts, “what I’ve learned in my nineteen years of life is that you can’t trust dreams, even if they waltz up and introduce themselves.”

“What about wishes?” Bratty challenges. “Hundreds of people can’t be wrong!”

“But they can, Bratty. People can be wrong about lots of things. Triè believes that humans are all-” Catty makes her fingers into claws and sticks her tongue out “-all, like, evil. And the rest of the guard thinks so too. And Frisk isn’t.”

Burgerpants gives her a grateful look as he hops down onto the other side. Frisk lets out a breath they didn’t know they had been holding when nothing comes out of the darkness below. “Exactly.”

“Oh, so, mob mentality,” Bratty says aloud. Then she shakes her head, setting her ringlets to bouncing. “That’s kind of sad, B.P. That’s like, we all believe that the Barrier will fall because the only other option is that we’re all going to stay down here forever. Like, I want my family to be able to see the sun.”

“Oh, come on! The sun’s- the sun’s- it’s overrated, didn’t one of you say that?” Flowey snaps. Frisk raises an eyebrow.

Catty looks subdued. “It’s not like we meant it,” she answers. “My family’s been talking about the surface all my life.”

“If the king believes it, well, that’s five hundred years of life believing it. He’s got to be right,” persists Ness. He’s too late, for the others are warming up to the subject with the vim and vigor of teenagers who are awake much too late at night and have completely forgotten how to be tired.

As Catty launches into a spiel about how age and wisdom can be mutually exclusive, she takes short, quick steps, which Bratty matches just enough to stay directly behind her. Ness takes springy strides around the group like he’s trying to herd them. Frisk has mostly tuned out of the conversation, as political discussions tend to go over their head, but Chara listens mutely. Their soul within Frisk’s burns with curiosity, catching up on the political views of kids about their age.

Frisk takes the time in which they aren’t expected to contribute to tug on Chara’s essence. The older child redirects their attention towards them. Frisk replays Ness’s description of this angel, raising a questioning eyebrow. Chara reaches for them and Frisk allows themself to be drawn into a cuddle. Chara feels like they need it. “The angel, Mom and Dad liked to say it would be me. Funny, huh? You know me, I’m no angel, am I?”

They shake their head, smiling. They don’t think angels have red eyes and that’s what they say to Chara.

The spirit chuckles. “True. But monsters have red eyes, so I like them.” They blink their red eyes at Frisk in a silly way, batting their eyelashes. “The angel’s just an old story. A pretty little thing to tell kids. But it was kinda Mom and Dad’s pet name for me and Az. Their little angels.”

Frisk hugs them a little tighter.

“I know Mom hasn’t forgotten me,” they say in response to Frisk’s unsaid reassurance. “I just, I get worried that Dad might’ve. And declaring someone the angel of the underground on meeting them is just- it’s odd for him. Calling a kingdom-wide meeting is weird for him. He doesn’t like making people do things. He’s kind of a funny king, isn’t he?” Frisk joins them in laughing at that, then they slip gently back into the real world, where the fearsome foursome are still arguing about politics.

Flowey on their shoulder is leaning forward, following the discussion from teen to teen with his whole body. He looks like he’s watching a tennis match. Granted, as time goes on and the teens start reiterating the same points, he gets bored.

“How close are we to the exit?” he whines when a lull in the conversation comes around.

His question makes Frisk frown. They hadn’t been too far from the New Home exit when they had blacked out, had they? It’s been at least twenty minutes since they’ve woken up. Struck by a thought, they take out their phone. No new messages and their last message was stamped as read nearly half an hour ago. “Did any of you see a skeleton or a goop monster when you were walking?” they ask.

“No? You were the first thing we saw when we came in,” Ness says. “Why? Did you lose them?”

Frisk shakes their head. “They went to go do something,” they reply, unsure of what exactly. Papyrus’s text had been so vague. Nobody pries any further, but no one has seen them either. The shifting anatomy of the CORE has struck again.

“It d-doesn’t have p-power,” Flowey mumbles. Frisk startles at what seems to have been a nifty bit of mind-reading and he sighs, having meant that for his own metaphorical ears. “The CORE’s sh-sh-shifting w-w- without enough power. It d-duh-duh- it can’t do that.”

“Who shut it off then?” Frisk asks. “What is it running on?”

“D-dog’s d-d-dust, Frisk, h-how do you expect me to kn-know that?” Flowey snaps. “I’m a flower, n-not a f*cking engineer!”

“Can we just go home?” Chara groans.

As if by magic, they turn the corner and step out into New Home’s brightness. Blinking away sunspots, Frisk twists back the way they came, staring at the too wide exit. Usually it’s an elevator that brings them behind Asgore’s castle. But now the castle is before them, somehow so much smaller than they had remembered. The buildings surrounding it are still dwarfed by its size. Mirrored sheets of glass or metal have been attached to the cavern ceiling, catching any sunlight from the cracks in the stone and refracting it down. The teens stare at it, struck dumb. Flowey nestles into Frisk’s neck, hiding his smile in their hair. Chara, after they get over their initial shock, straightens Frisk’s shoulders and lifts their chin. “Here we go,” they say grimly. “Let’s go seek an audience with the king.” When Frisk blinks at them, Chara breaks out into a grin. “Let’s go see Mom and Dad.”

Frisk slides from Brent’s back, standing between him and Ness. They stand close to each other, making Frisk feel as if they’re safer. But Chara steps out of the space and gestures for the teens to follow. “If Asgore’s calling an audience,” Chara says, “he’ll be calling it in the garden square.”

‘The where?’ Frisk asks.

“Right, you’ve never seen it.” Chara smiles. Images of a sunlit courtyard flash before Frisk’s eyes. “It’s his and Mom’s favorite place. They built it way in the beginning. It’s like a little piece of the surface, without all the humans and stuff.” They tug on the feet.

“W-we’re g-going to the g-gardens, right?” Flowey asks as they head down the road.

“Exactly!” crows Chara, feet pounding the pavement. There’s a rush of footfalls as the teens chase after them, laughing and shouting. Chara flings their arms out to either side of them and crows their joy. They’re going home. They’re going to see their mom and dad. Nothing can stop them now.

…

Wingdings doesn’t know how long he’s been carrying Papyrus. He just knows that there is an arm around his neck, that his steps are slow and his bones ache and his glasses are cracked. He knows that his son has never been quieter. The soul behind the homemade armor is faint and the halls of the CORE go on forever and ever. One door leads into numerous dead ends and each door is exactly like the one before it. He had thought he had heard a girl shouting once, but it must have only been his imagination. They are alone here and his mind follows his steps in circles.

His hands shake. Healing only a fraction of Papyrus’s leg had exhausted him. The makeshift splint on the leg is held together by strips of the shirt Papyrus had been wearing over his armor. His son makes little sound, even when they stumble and his weight comes down on the leg. All he does is breathe more sharply. They need to find a healer. Whatever was in the heart of the CORE had almost consumed them both.

He is purposefully vague about the nature of the creature, even in his own thoughts. He knows too well what it is. He has known it thirteen years. Fear grips him when he thinks of it, the fear that he had let it through. Even the fear that it is watching, right now, manipulating the lifeless CORE to confuse him, so that he and Papyrus will be trapped forever.

“Wingdings Gaster,” says someone.

Surfacing suddenly from his thoughts, Wingdings looks for the source and finds it in the dog, who trots alongside them with a sedate expression on its furred face. There’s a green cloth collar around its throat. Unable to call on even the strength to summon his hands, he nods, so overcome with relief that he has to smile. They’re not alone in this horrible place.

The dog stares at him with unblinking button-black eyes. “You have destroyed the CORE,” it continues. “The monsters are remembering.”

He nods again. They hadn’t destroyed the CORE in vain. But was it really worth it? His steps begin to drag. His body is becoming almost too heavy and Papyrus weighs down on his shoulder.

The clicking of the dog’s nails on the tile contrasts with the slide of Papyrus’s boots. “It is time to see the king.”

The king must come first. No. He shakes his head as best he can. It feels like someone has poured concrete into his skull. He has to find a healer first.

“The king has found the angel of the underground. The queen has returned. It is time for all monsters to pay their respects.”

“DAD,” Papyrus starts, pressing down on Wingdings’s shoulder as he straightens up. His eyes are clearer, but just barely. He looks distressed, but can’t seem to find the words, like they’ve slipped out of his head. Wingdings stops moving, holding onto his youngest for dear life.

“It is time,” the dog repeats, slipping up to press itself to Papyrus’s leg, “for all monsters to pay their respects.” Its voice seems almost feminine as it says the words.

The young skeleton’s strength completely gives out again. His little cry of shock makes Wingdings summon up the last dregs of his magic and pour it into his son, trying to at least keep him on his own two feet. But Papyrus doesn’t stand, doesn’t get better. The magic slips past him, into the dog. It’s stealing it.

“Not long now,” the dog says, voice still so peculiarly blank. When Wingdings blinks, it repeats itself. “Not long now until we reach New Home.” Its words sound darker this time. It seems pleased. Rage curdles in his stomach when he sees it move to lean on Papyrus’s broken leg. His son squeaks, stumbling backwards to get away and falling outside of Wingdings's reach.

“I think you should leave us alone,” he spits, speaking in the dialect he was named for to better get his point across. It hurts to speak, but there’s something so unpleasant in the dog's expression as he leans over Papyrus to shoo it away that he has to speak to get it to back off. It steps back and he sees it again, the bitter, predatory look he had thought he’d seen in the True Lab. There is no way that this is the same little dog who found him in Grillby’s apartment. Someone’s playing a trick on them.

“Shoo!” he snaps, cracking the joints of his free hand. A magic attack pops into existence, albeit a weak one. He sends it rocketing toward the creature, who snarls a threat and scampers away into the shadows.

Papyrus staggers back onto his feet, swaying as if his world is rotating on a different axis and leaning heavily on the wall. “YOU GOT HER, DAD!”

“You gave me quite a scare, Papyrus Gaster,” he scolds, tucking his arm back around his son to assist him. Papyrus’s toothy grin shows how transparent his anger is. Wingdings softens, smiling back in spite of his worry. “How is your leg?”

“PERFECTLY FINE!” Papyrus chirps, but his eyes dart around too much for that to be true. And the way his knees rattle gives him away as well.

He sighs, tapping his forehead to Papyrus’s temple. “What am I going to do with you, little hero?”

Papyrus puzzles over this for a moment as he limps down the hall. Then his expression brightens. “NYEH HEH! YOU FORGET, DAD, THAT I AM NOT SO LITTLE ANYMORE! ERGO, I CAN HELP FIGURE OUT WHAT TO DO WITH ME! FOR EXAMPLE! WE COULD GO FIND SANS AND TELL HIM ABOUT METTATON’S SHOW!”

Wingdings has to laugh at the perpetual positivity his youngest constantly displays, even in situations like this. “That may have to wait until after we find a healer. Until then, don’t go off and get into fights with unidentifiable entities.”

Papyrus beams at him, hopping on his good foot to pick up the pace. It’s odd, but after Wingdings had banished the little dog, his despair had lessened. Papyrus is better as well, at least well enough to speak now. “Papyrus, did you notice anything strange about that dog?”

“YES INDEED! BECAUSE! THAT WAS NO DOG!” Papyrus’s eyes narrow. “THAT WAS A WORM! I’VE SEEN THEM BEFORE. IN FACT, I HAVE DONE BATTLE WITH ONE! A VERY LONG TIME AGO!”

Wingdings peers at him. “And when would that have happened?” he asks slowly, wondering where Sans had been at that time. With everything that he’s discovering, he’s going to have to sit his older son down for a talk when they return to Grillby’s.

“NYEH.” Papyrus squints. “I DON’T REMEMBER YET. I WILL! DON’T WORRY! THE GREAT PAPYRUS NEVER FORGETS!”

“I am not worried.” Wingdings assures him. “I must admit to being confused however. What is a worm?”

“THEY’RE FROM GERSON’S STORIES!” Papyrus answers. “THEY’RE SMALL AT FIRST, BUT THEY INFILTRATE PLACES FOR LIFE ENERGY AND THEN GROW TO BE AS TALL AS CASTLES! THEY’RE NO MATCH FOR BRAVE WARRIORS! GERSON TOLD ME HE’S DESTROYED AT LEAST TWO!”

“Did you know that one?” When Papyrus looks confused, Wingdings indicates with his chin the direction the dog had taken.

His son’s eyes darken. “NO, I DON’T THINK SO, BUT I KNEW THE FEELING. WORMS ARE NOT NICE! THEY NEVER REPENT AND SO IT IS THE DUTY OF THE GOOD TO RID THE WORLD OF THEM!” He attempts to strike a heroic pose and yelps when he presses heavily on his bad foot.

“Goodness!” he cries, pressing magic into his son’s soul.

“DO NOT FEAR! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS ALRIGHT!” Papyrus hastens to say, lit by the green glow of Wingdings’s eyes. “I WAS MERELY TESTING MY BALANCE!” He wobbles a little, poised as he is on one foot. “IT SEEMS MY BALANCE NEEDS IMPROVEMENT!”

“It does seem that way.” He ceases the stream of healing magic and cracks the joints of his fingers. He wishes he still had the badges Frisk gave him. They had repaired his head and returned fragments of his memory before even the destruction of the CORE, but perhaps if he had waited, he could have somehow redirected a little of their magic to help Papyrus. As it is, he has very little idea of how to repair an adult skeleton’s broken leg and so his magic works more as pain medication or a protective cast.

“SHE WAS WALKING WITH US FOR A LONG TIME BEFORE YOU NOTICED HER, DAD. DIDN’T YOU FEEL HER? THERE WAS ONE LIKE HER AT METTATON’S SHOW TOO. I DIDN’T KNOW BEFORE, BUT I REMEMBER IT NOW.”

He summons a few hands and speaks in hands instead. Speaking is more of an effort than he had realized, and he’s afraid of what his voice might give away if he uses it. “What do you mean? How would I have sensed her?” Papyrus had seen something like that at Mettaton’s show?

His son hesitates, rubbing the end of his scarf between his fingers. “SHE PULLS MAGIC OUT OF PEOPLE. AND HOPE SOMETIMES. AND HAPPINESS. THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED TO SANS.”

The list sounds very much like what being in the Void had felt like, so he’s not surprised by the fact that he hadn’t noticed it, even at Mettaton’s show. But the last part, that catches him off-guard. “That’s what happened to Sans?” he repeats.

“YES! SANS MADE A DEAL WITH THE WORM AND IT TOOK LIFE FROM HIM.” Papyrus looks uneasy. “W-WOWIE, I DIDN’T REMEMBER THAT.”

“It was an exchange, correct? What did Sans take in return?” The fear he feels crawling up his throat can’t escape through his signs, so he simply keeps his face neutral. Frightening Papyrus might scare him into saying what he thinks might help, rather than what he thinks is the truth.

Papyrus shrugs, tucking his chin into his scarf in a troubled way.

Wingdings flashes back to the True Lab, where Alphys had said “Because monsters can’t do that!” of Sans’s tearing of space to retrieve him. “Was it power?” he asks. “Could he have asked it for power?”

“SANS?” Papyrus looks as if he’s about to make a joke to relieve some tension, then his expression changes. “I DON’T THINK SO,” he ventures. “I THINK HE SAW THE FUTURE. HE PLAYED LOTS OF PRANKS ON ME THAT WOULD HAVE HAD TO INVOLVE PRIOR KNOWLEDGE OF WHAT I WAS ABOUT TO DO! FOR EXAMPLE, HE WOULD HAVE KNOWN IF WE WERE ABOUT TO LEAVE THE CORE!”

Wingdings nods at that example, although the very idea of such a Faustian deal makes him sick. The area is growing brighter now.

“NO, DAD, LOOK!” The wall before them has been blown apart and light streams through the gap. New Home waits in the distance. Papyrus gives his signature laugh. “PERHAPS I ALSO CAN SEE THE FUTURE!”

“I don’t think so, Papyrus,” he says, trying for humor. As they pass through the makeshift exit, Wingdings reaches for the magical residue that surrounds it. It feels like the remnants of an explosion, but there’s no scent, not of rot or monster. He looks over his shoulder for any indication of the person who had done this. He sees nothing. Somehow, that terrifies him more than seeing something would have. Without a face to claim the event, it feels like another in a long string of inexplicably strange occurrences, one he fears will end in New Home. Yet, he can’t turn back around and try to find help in Hotland. He won’t make Papyrus go all that way. But as they advance into the city, he gathers up his magic. The dog had wanted them to come to New Home, just as it had wanted him to destroy the CORE. Its end goal is as unclear as the future and he is so deeply afraid.

Chapter 37: The Name Of The Game Is The Aim Of The Game

Chapter Text

“Is this weird? I think this is weird,” says Brent, peeking through the window of a shop. All the lights are on, but no one’s at the counter or browsing through the assorted wares.

Frisk, whose chest had started hurting again as soon as they entered city limits, leans on Catty as the girl chews on her claws. “Like, where is everyone?” she asks, pressing them into her soft side as if she can protect them from the quiet.

Ness emerges from an apartment building. “There was no one at the front desk or anything,” he reports.

“Okay, like, there is something way freaky happening here,” says Bratty’s voice. She rounds the corner with a sandwich in one hand.

“Girl’s got priorities,” Chara says, sounding impressed.

“What the- where’d you even get that?” Brent asks.

Bratty rolls her eyes at him, offering it to Frisk. There’s a bite taken out of it, but they don’t care. They have a Glamburger they pulled out of the garbage somewhere in their pack for heaven’s sake. If what they’re feeling is hunger, they just want it to go away. Dusting off her hands on her jeans, Bratty straightens and addresses the group. “There’s, like, briefcases on the ground, like people were coming home from work. I got that out of a house. Someone was chowing down and just... stopped. The fridge was still open and everything.”

Frisk stops chewing, their cheeks full of what tastes like sprouts. They look at the sandwich suspiciously.

Ness notices and says quietly “I think the sandwich is okay, Frisk. You can eat it.”

Everyone else is still preoccupied with the empty city. “What about everyone who came home from the show?” Brent asks, looking pale under his fur. “Loads of people left the CORE through the New Home elevator. Where’d they go?”

“Maybe they went to hear the king, like we were doing,” Bratty suggests. “He did say all monsters.”

“Maybe,” Catty allows. “But, like, it doesn’t feel right. Who leaves their fridge open? It’s kind of a waste of magic, especially with the CORE down. Plus, like I can’t hear anyone at all.”

Brent nods. “If there was a crowd, you’d be able to hear them or King Asgore from here. It’s like the whole place has been abandoned.”

“One of the hotel bathrooms left the water running,” Ness volunteers. Then a funny look crosses his face. His ears twitch.

“See, it’s things like that!” Bratty agrees, pacing a little as she tries to figure it out. “You’re right, who would do that? And, if they, like, didn’t do it on purpose, which they totally didn’t, what happened?”

Ness’s ears flop over. His head follows, listing to one side as he squints his eyes.

“Are you b-broken?” asks Flowey, tilting his head to mimic him.

“I’m listening.”

Flowey turns to Frisk and says in Ness’s voice “He’s listening,” in such a serious way that they have to giggle.

“Hey! Don’t mock him!” scolds Brent.

Flowey adjusts accordingly and Ness’s features melt into Brent’s. “Hey! Don’t mock him!” he mocks, sticking out his tongue cheekily as he sprouts two putty appendages that mimic Brent’s ears.

Brent’s eyes narrow. “Buddy, call off your flower-”

Flowey’s eyelids droop, half-lidding his eyes as he drawls “Buddy, call off your flower.”

Brent’s eyebrows drop like anvils and his narrowed eyes squint. He makes a motion like he’s about to roll his short sleeves up even farther, staring Flowey right in the face. Frisk has to bite into their sandwich to keep from laughing. “Flowey, stop it,” they sign, sandwich hanging from their teeth and shedding sprouts. They poke the last of it into their mouth.

In the same instant, Ness gasps, whipping his head around. “Catty!” he hisses.

Her ears jangle as she perks them. Her eyes widen, then narrow into yellow slits in a single second. Then she’s off, chasing the sound of something. Ness skids after her, his red sneakers slapping the stone.

“Oh hell no,” snaps Bratty, grabbing Frisk under the arms as she follows. Brent brings up the rear, his lungs already beginning to wheeze. Working behind a burger shop counter must not give him lots of opportunities for exercise.

“There you are!” they hear Catty cry. Bratty rounds a building to find-

“Mads?” Chara asks.

Ness and Catty are jogging to keep up with a dummy. The dummy’s wooden stand strikes the stone with every hop, sounding out a clapping sound, probably the sound someone would make with a wooden leg.

“Th-that was them?” Flowey asks under his breath. Frisk wriggles until Bratty sets them down, then they too run over to Mads. The dummy barely reacts. Frisk tries to get their attention. They wave a hand before their face, poke their nose, and finally latch onto their neck, dragging their heels on the stone. Mads stops hopping and finally shakes their head, looking down at them curiously. Unprompted, Flowey calls “Hey, Mads! What’re you d-d-d- where’re you going?”

The dummy twitches so badly that Frisk thinks they can feel their heart skip a beat in response. “What, what, what does it look like I’m doing?” they ask. “I’m headed to New Home, like every other sucker!”

“Y-you’re in New Home,” Flowey points out. “Are you g-going to go see A-Asg-gore?”

Mads’s head snaps up, looking at all the buildings as if they hadn’t even noticed them. “It’s time for everyone to pay their respects,” they say, squinting. Their expression is shifty, almost mistrustful. That’s when Frisk notices their head.

“Your head is fixed! Who did that?” they ask, releasing the dummy’s neck in order to sign. The previously split open stitching has been completely redone in a delicate hand, shimmering thread creating elaborate, spiky patterns across Mads’s head and down the back of their neck. It kind of looks like something, but what Frisk can’t figure out.

Mads has started hopping again, but they answer “Some nice girl at Mettaton’s show. Said she was a friend of yours.”

Frisk smiles, surprised. Monsters actively identifying as their friends must be a good thing. Chara’s a little disappointed that Muffet hadn’t done it, but Frisk’s delight at having a nameless friend overwhelms that disappointment.

“It’s super pretty,” ventures Bratty.

“What are those designs?” Ness wonders, flicking a finger toward them.

Mads keeps going, not even pausing to look. “Who knows? Thread’s wonderfully useful though. I look awesome.”

Frisk thinks of something else. “Where’s Blooky and Mettaton?” When Flowey translates, Catty gasps and takes a hold of Bratty’s arm excitedly. Brent, on the other hand, ducks his head, glancing over his shoulder as if his boss might suddenly appear behind him.

“I told them to follow me. They’ll be here soon.” Bratty squeals in a voice no louder than a kitten’s mew.

“Did Alphys fix him yet?”

The dummy twitches again, just as badly as the first time. “Yes,” they answer. “I told them to follow me at the lab. They’ll be here soon.”

Chara thinks they see Ness make a face of some sort, but when they turn to him, he is wearing his perpetual smile. Thinking of Mettaton has reminded Frisk of something else, asking “How many monsters are there in the underground?”

“Do I look like I’d know that?” Mads snaps.

“Four to five hundred,” answers Catty. With a shrug, she notes “Stats class taught me something after all.”

Frisk thanks her and poses their next question to the group at large as they make their way through New Home’s empty streets. “How does Mettaton get his ratings?”

“Wait, I got this!” Brent says triumphantly, pointing his stub of a cigarette into the air. “It’s soul power or something. Everybody’s soul sends a signal and the ratings pick up from that.”

Flowey gets what Frisk is asking. “H-how’d he get ten th-thousand then?”

The group falls silent a moment, considering the weight of the number. “That’s like every monster who ever lived,” mumbles Ness.

The girls look at each other a moment. Bratty snaps her fingers. “Alphys! It was totally Alphys!”

“The royal scientist?” Brent asks.

But Frisk gets it. “She’s a hacker.”

Flowey cuts in. “Sh-she p-probably made the grid herself.”

Chara’s eyes light up. “So when Undyne realized things were getting bad for you, Alphys distracted him.”

“It also let him win,” muses Frisk. They can appreciate that, Alphys letting him win a little. They have to remember to thank her. She probably saved their bacon out there in more ways than the ones they’d found.

When they look towards Mads, they find them hopping at a much faster pace. Chara makes an annoyed sound, but Frisk just hastens their strides so they can walk at Mads’s side. This close they can notice something. "You're shaking," they observe.

"Huh? Huh? HUH? Whaddya talking about? I'm fine!" But the dummy only shakes more. The teeth in their middle are worrying at their seams, as if their own cloth is too rough for them.

"Do you want to leave your body for a little?" Frisk asks, moving before them to slow their pace. The dummy’s discomfort makes them nervous. "We won't mind waiting for you." They gesture to the teens, whose late night exploits seem to be finally starting to weigh them down.

Not even sparing the teens a glance, Mads swerves around them, hopping faster. "No! I'm alright! I'll take a break when we get to New Home. We have to get there first!"

“Mads! We’re in New Home! Slow down!” Frisk grabs for the dummy and their fingers graze the stitches. Within seconds, they cry out, putting their fingers to their lips. The skin there is red and raw, as if they’d stuck their fingertips in a light socket. The ache in their chest seems to have taken on a life of its own. Chara hisses, trying to twist away from it.

When they look up again, Mads is gone.

…

The crush of people in Hotland reminds Sans of the evacuation into the True Lab. The crowd is claustrophobic and he’s sure someone’s breathing on him. Probably Jerry. It was always Jerry before.

Grillby’s voice rings out again. “Excuse me, ma’am, have you seen a skeleton? About this tall, red scarf?” Sans can’t hear the woman’s reply, but Grillby squeezes his hand in disappointment. No Papyrus.

“papyrus!” he calls. Then, “doc!” No answer to either.

“Papyrus! Doctor Gaster!” Sans can feel Grillby’s flicker of frustration. Then there’s the sound of a cell phone dialing. Papyrus’s voicemail message plays tinnily through the speakers of Grillby’s phone. The sound of it makes Sans’s stomach lurch. He’s heard it three times already and that makes three times that he’s heard it in his entire life. Papyrus never turns his phone off.

“Excuse me! Have you seen a skeleton? Tall, red scarf? No? How about a slime monster?” Grillby moves and Sans stumbles after him, mind working to try and figure it all out. Why would Papyrus have been caught anywhere near the explosion of the CORE? He was at the show, which means he should have gotten out before it happened. But Sans has a horrible feeling that Papyrus went looking for the CORE. That he found it and- and then what? Tried to open it? Tried to destroy it? Gaster must have told him to do it. That’s the only reason Papyrus would try anything like that. And after he opened it- or destroyed it- what had happened? Had it hurt him? There’s no other explanation for him not answering his phone. He must be hurt or unconscious. If he was dead- Sans closes his eyes- if he was dead, Sans would know, wouldn’t he? He would feel it? He’s unsure. He had known every time that Papyrus had died, but none of this timeline’s events make sense. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

“Why the hell are all these people going the same way?” groans Grillby. His hand heats up in Sans’s grip.

“papyrus! doc!” Sans yells again, louder than before.

“Sans!” calls a voice in response, muffled and metallic.

He recognizes it, but it’s the wrong voice. “undyne? undyne! have you seen papyrus?”

“That’s what I was about to ask you! Where the hell’s your brother? He’s not answering his phone and it’s pissing me off!” Sans thinks that he can feel his ribcage constricting around his soul.

damn it, papyrus, where are you?

“We don’t know where he is, Captain. I’ve called him three times.” Grillby crackles worriedly, but there's a bright side to this: Undyne still remembers Papyrus. She still remembers him, so he couldn’t have fallen into the Void. He could still be hurt, or even dead, so the bright side isn’t quite as bright and Sans is still popping the joints in his fingers to keep from going completely crazy, but at least he won’t be alone in remembering while everyone else forgets.

Undyne groans and Sans can imagine her expression, scanning the crowd as they’re all jostled along. “Here, you two, come with me.” Grillby jolts. Undyne must have grabbed him because their pace is doubled. “Hey! HEY! Move aside! Royal Guard business!” Someone mumbles something and Undyne raises her volume. “I am your captain, kid! Don’t try and sass me!”

“Captain, where exactly is everyone going?”

“D- Asgore called a freaking meeting. Didn’t tell anyone. Nothing’s set up. I don’t even remember how to cast an amplification spell and I can’t find the Canine Unit or Papyrus, so I have to get to New Home before anyone can show up! And I left Alphys to deal with the box boy and it’s a pain in my ass, let me tell you!” Grillby trips over himself as Undyne pulls and Sans has to dig in his heels to keep the fire elemental from falling.

“what’s asgore calling a meeting over?” he says, managing not to ask where Papyrus is instead although those are the only words that want to come out.

“Dog’s dust, have you two been sitting under a rock? The angel showed up! And Asgore’s calling everyone in, saying something about paying respects and crap.”

“technically, we’re all sitting under a rock,” Sans says, too distracted to make the most out of the joke.

“Who is it?”

“I’ll be damned if I know! I haven’t gotten there yet!” Sans is rammed into someone by Undyne’s force and the captain of the guard screams her frustration. “Everybody move!” The crowd noises completely cease. “Thank you!” Undyne groans.

“Captain, do you know something about a dog?” Grillby asks as they follow her down the newly cleared path.

“I know something about five dogs- I know that they’re a goddamn pain in my ass when they don’t pick up their phones!” This last bit she raises her voice on, hurling the words into the air, which cools as they exit the crowded CORE. People’s voices, gaily chattering as they rush by, fill the air. Sans lifts his head a little. Though he can’t see it, he remembers New Home as a cluster of towering stone buildings, magic humming through the air, voices washing over each other as people move from place to place. The voices are still here, even if he can’t feel the magic.

Grillby tries again. “We spoke with Gerson before we came here-”

“Did you?” asks Undyne, not really paying attention. “Hey, you! Break it up before I come over there and break your heads!” Something jingles and Undyne swears. Then, her fingers clanking on her armor as she goes through her pockets, she swears again, but this time it’s in a voice that seems less tightly-wound. Still furious, of course, but that’s Undyne. “Guess what? Your brother’s broken his leg.”

“what?”

“The doc just texted me from his phone. Their battery’s running down and sh*t, but they’re okay.” She sighs and her pace resumes.

All the tension just slips out of his stance, only to be replaced by a faint prickle of anger. “where are they?” Grillby squeezes his hand again, trying to nonverbally tell him to relax. It would be more convincing if he couldn’t hear the way his friend’s flame is snapping like a wildfire.

“Somewhere around here. I’m gonna text them the address of the best healer here.” There’s a clang and he assumes from the faint ringing that Undyne had forgotten about her armor and had clapped her hand to her head in aggravation. “Still, without him, I’m still gonna have to get this garbage done myself.”

His hand curls into a fist in his pocket and something sharp scrapes against his bones. Sans runs a finger over the badge in his jacket, feeling out the etched M. He had almost forgotten about this. Why had Temmie had the badge of the former Royal Scientist in her desk? Not just the former Royal Scientist, in fact, but the very Royal Scientist who had pulled his dad into the void. That couldn’t be a coincidence. There was no such thing as coincidence.

“Look, Grillby, can you get where you’re going without my help now? The two of you are going to slow me way down and I do not have time for that today.” Her words rush together and the clanking of her armor striking stone means that she’s practically jogging in place.

Grillby makes a last ditch attempt, dropping all subtleties. “I would say yes, Captain, but there’s a worm on the loose and I think you might need to know about that.”

This makes her stop, her armor rattling into silence. Her breath is echoed inside her visor. “You’re kidding,” she says flatly.

“I wish I was. We spoke to Gerson before we came here. He told us about it.”

The smell of Undyne’s magic rises sharply before it is cut off by her control. “Grillby, tell no one, understood? What exactly did Gerson say? Come on, walk and talk, let's go.” Her boots clack against the street and Grillby’s rainboots squeak as he follows.

Grillby tells her, Sans filling in what he forgets, and Undyne listens without a word. But they tell her about the patches and her breath hitches and Sans remembers suddenly that Undyne’s father had been one of those to fall down.

“Sans, what did those patches collect exactly?” Undyne asks when the story ceases. At some point, she has materialized one of her spears, which buzzes and sparks as she taps it against her leg. “Why did they kill people?”

“i have no idea,” he confesses. “how about you, know anything?”

“I’ve heard something about the tapestry thing, and Gerson told me about the artifact, but it’s just a story. It’s too weird to be true. Just a dumb story.”

“But it’s obviously not if it relates to these events,” Grillby says quietly. “What story would that be, Captain?”

“I’m not a kindergarten teacher! I don’t do stories!” protests Undyne. Sans gives her a hard stare and Grillby must do the same, because she gives in.

“Seven mages sealed the Barrier and locked all the monsters underground,” she recites. “We were trapped, but we thought we were safe. And then monsters started to fall down. Never before had we seen the kind of hopelessness that killed, a hopelessness that lay heavy within a monster’s very soul.”

“The worm,” Grillby says, his grip tightening on Sans’s hand.

“Nah. The worm, the one we know, came after.” Undyne takes a breath.

“The king of the monsters knew something was preying on his people, but he didn't know what. He did what he could, leading hunting parties for the creature, comforting survivors, caring for those left behind. His queen asked the elders of their knowledge. It was Captain Dogma who reminded her of the belief of the dogs.” Undyne clears her throat, then utters a mangled bark. “I can never pronounce that right,” she notes.

“Anyway, the dogs believed in duality. Good dog and bad dog, both fighting constantly. That kind of crap. They thought that what was happening was that the bad dog was winning so bad stuff was happening. So they told the queen to find the good dog. But it found her instead.”

Sans feels a strange shiver run up his spine, like someone had just brushed their fingers along his neck. His hand slaps at it instinctively, rubbing the base of his neck, but the feeling trickles down into his chest instead, like an itch inside his ribcage. He cranes his head around, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. Undyne’s voice deepens as the story continues, forming its own kind of magic.

What it looks like changes with each rendition of the story. Some people say it was a big black dog with one blind eye and backwards feet. Others say its fur was fire and its teeth were knives. But the dogs saw it differently. It was a little dog, they say, white like snow. When she touched it, it told her all her thoughts and fears, and then it told her of the creature. It was a sickness, a despair, a hopelessness monsterkind had never met.

It was taking souls, gathering them in its chest where its own soul should have been. The good dog told the queen that if she wanted to destroy the sickness, she would have a blanket made, a beautiful tapestry. It would be soft like sky, green like growth, and calming like rain. It would have to be a sanctuary and a trap, as dual as the legend she had heard.

So when the king returned, the queen told him of what she had learned. The king was unsure, but his queen was adamant and she had never been wrong before. The king wove a tapestry and she spelled it. The scene it depicted was the world above, a picture of the mountain monsterkind remains under. It was made from the strength of their magic and became soft as sky. It was made from the brilliance of their hopes and became green as new growth. It was made from the beauty of their dreams and became calming like rain.

(Now the feeling is in Sans’s skull and it makes his fingers curl. It feels like someone’s watching.)

The good dog came to take it from them and the king asked to go with it. The good dog bade him then carry the tapestry and follow only it. He agreed. It bade him remember his kingly vows and then it led him into the darkest recesses of Home, through cracks in the stone and into the very walls. And when the king entered, he could feel the hearts of his lost people. They called out to him, wailing for his magic, for all of theirs had been cruelly taken from them. He begged the good dog to let him stop and help them. But it reminded him of his kingly vow. So they continued on.

The good dog led him into the most searing heat, past the volcano in the heart of the mountain, and the hearts of the king’s lost people called out for him once more, begging for his hopes this time, for they had none anymore. Once again he begged the good dog to stop and let him help them. But it reminded him of his kingly vow. So the king could not stop and they continued on.

The good dog led him into the most blinding light, past the walls, and into the deepest night. And this was the Barrier. For a third time, the hearts of the king’s lost people called out for him, crying for his dreams, for all of theirs had been broken in the coldness of death. When he again begged the good dog to let him stop and help, it put a paw to his arm and told him ‘Go then, spread the tapestry down and bid your people come to you. Tell them of your magic that is soft as sky, of your hopes that are as green as growth, of your dreams that are as calming as rain.’

The king did as he was bade and stood, calling for his people, offering them the magic and hopes and dreams they wanted, the love his queen had spelled into the tapestry and the softness he had woven.

But nobody came.

His lost people came to meet him and they were not his people. They were sharp and grey with dust, and in the thrall of the sickness the hollows of their eyes were green like poison. They had no magic anymore for the sickness had sucked their souls hollow. Underneath their skin wriggled its venom.

But the king of the monsters was not frightened, for they had been his people once and his people they would always be. He opened his arms to them and said ‘This tapestry will save you, will give you magic and hopes and dreams again. Come, take it. It is a gift for you.’

The lost faded away into the darkness and the sickness took their place. It was as white as lightning and as large as a storm. It asked the king, in a voice like thunder, ‘Would you truly offer your strength, your hopes, your dreams, to me?’

‘No,’ answered the king. ‘This is a gift for my lost people, and I wish for you to give it to them.’

‘So shall it be,’ the sickness told him and it reached for the tapestry. And in that moment, the king saw it for what it was and called its soul into combat.

The sickness had no soul, but an orb rolled from its chest and within it spun what remained of the souls of the king’s people. This the good dog stole from the ground, quicker than a lightning strike, and dashed it against the wall. The force behind its blow broke the orb open against the stone of the mountain. The souls of the king’s lost people fled into the tapestry, for the king had made it as a sanctuary.

The sickness roared, for it saw it had been cheated, and it reached for the king. He stood his ground and saw it again for what it was. He called it by name and its name was dust and he was not afraid. It would not touch him then. The good dog took the tapestry and wrapped it around the sickness, pulling it tighter and tighter until there was nothing left but the tapestry, for the queen had made it as a trap.

And the king saw the good dog for what it was and was heartsick. He called it by name and its name was dust and he was afraid. The tapestry began to unravel. ‘Do not be afraid,’ said the good dog. “Do not be afraid, for your people are only going home. Those you lost have been found. And when they have all left, the sickness too will be gone. It will have no way back. You must take the orb and you must hide it. You must lock it tightly away. When the sickness has gone, you may find it again, but only then, never before. The tapestry I will hide and guard until it too is gone. Return now to your kingdom and rejoice in the living. The dust is my domain as are the dead.’

“The king hid the orb inside a puzzle and the dog disappeared. And no more monsters would fall down for as long as the king would live.” Undyne’s voice is distant as she finishes the story. There is a breath of quiet in which the only sound is the steady heartbeat of Undyne’s boots on stone.

“except they did fall down.” Sans regrets it immediately and the smell of Undyne’s magic hits him in the face like a punch to the jaw.

“Yeah, well, we f*cking know that wasn’t Asgore’s fault now, don’t we?” she snaps. Grillby stops walking and Sans’s steps follow. The scent of flowers sits heavily in the air and Undyne’s magic wraps around it like the coils of a snake. They must have reached the gardens. “It’s just a stupid story anyway. There’s no orb. The dead are dust and that’s all they are and that’s the fault of the damn worm. Just- just stay here, okay? Listen to whatever Asgore says, find Papyrus, and then I’m coming back here to get you and find that worm.” She stomps away, taking the scent of her magic with her.

Sans groans to himself. Of course. Of course. Offend the person who has given them the most information they’ve heard all day. Good going, Sans.

“Sans,” Grillby starts.

“i know, i know, sorry, grillbz.”

“Patches, Sans.” There’s a certain force behind Grillby’s words that Sans can’t identify as anything but anger.

Sans tilts his head. “you’ve never sworn at me like that. i guess what’s happening’s really needling you, huh?”

Grillby doesn’t even snicker. Sans has to yank his hand away because Grillby’s is suddenly white-hot. “No! No, Sans, patches! The tapestry was unraveling.”

The realization makes him sway when it hits and it hits with the force of a boss monster. “oh f*ck. grillby, can you still see undyne?”

“SANS!”

“papyrus?” Temporarily caught off-guard, he swivels his head. Papyrus grabs him in a hug that smells like mint and bubblegum- and rot. “papyrus, what-” The mint becomes more overpowering as Gaster hugs him as well. “dad-?”

“SANS, THERE’S A DOG. SHE’S A DOG NOW.”

“What? What’s a dog now?”

“THE WORM,” Papyrus says and Sans feels the world shift under his feet.

…

They had gotten lost originally (as it turns out, none of the teens quite know where the gardens are and Chara’s memory doesn’t mesh well with renovations), but when they find them, the gardens are gorgeous. Frisk had thought they would be more like a park, but what they’re looking over is an amphitheatre, one set deep into the stone of the city. The castle overlooks its grey grandeur. Flowers tangle around each other as they climb towards the sunlight filtering down and the seats of each step are cushioned in springy moss and green grass. It’s one of the most brightly-lit places Frisk has seen in the underground and it makes them homesick for sun and sky.

“I haven’t been here since I tr-tried to take over the castle,” Flowey remarks.

”You did what now?” Chara asks.

Flowey tightens his coils a little. “R-right, uh, I th-thought I could, um, take the human souls and br-br-bring you back. I- I had loads of D-D-Determination, so I knew I c-c-couldn’t d-die, but I took the souls and it- it wasn’t enough. I g-got to the h-hall and, uh, S-S-S-”

“Sans,” Frisk finishes, fingers hovering by Flowey’s face. He extends a vine, threading it between their fingers.

“Well, I appreciate the attempt,” Chara tells him as the teens begin to pick their way down the stone steps in search of a good spot. Despite the earlier silence of the city, the stands are filling up with monsters. Frisk waves to the Astigmatism from Mettaton’s show and then to Knight Knight, who has to duck her head to keep it from scraping against the arch over the steps. The more they look, the more monsters they recognize. There’s the rabbit from Grillby’s bar, swaying in a decidedly hungover way as her friend the large-mouthed plant helps her find a seat. There’s Kid and Lib and a group of rabbits who must be their adoptive family.

Brent gives a shout and a cat in the crowd screams as she sees him. Frisk recognizes her as the crossword cat from the library. She comes tearing through the crowd, pursued by the two massive Snowdin bears, to catch up the bear-cat in her arms and twirl him around. The bears ask excitedly about his job and if he’s eating properly and if he’s made friends and Brent’s laughter is both exasperated and pleased. He had obviously missed them.

Over in a glassy pond are a group of creatures that reminded Frisk of Onion-San, gaily chattering as they watch the clamor in the stands. Aaron, half-submerged, winks at passerby, delighted when anyone winks back.

A group of Vulkins trot in circles around Shyren, who looks both frightened and delighted. Mettaton’s receptionist flexes her fingers as she makes small talk with a Whimsalot. The green dragon with their arm around So Sorry looks like they must be his parent and their expression is so proud as they talk animatedly with Shyren’s agent.

These are the people Frisk knows. These are the people Frisk loves.

Chara curls the fingers of Frisk’s free hand, putting pressure into the palm to simulate holding their hand. Flowey taps his vine against the back of their other hand, watching their blank expression carefully.

“Hey.” Frisk turns back to the steps. Ness looks up at them, his face creased with concern. “Aren’t you coming?” Brent steps away from his fathers at the question. Bratty and Catty, the furthest down the steps, take a few steps back up to better hear Flowey answer.

Frisk looks at their hands, at their broken fingernails and cracked skin. They imagine those hands chalky-white with dust. The dust vanishes when they blink, but the outlines of their hands blur as their eyes burn. “I have to meet the king,” they answer, and Flowey doesn’t have to translate how nervous they are. This is going to be where everything ends.

There’s a moment of silence in which everyone tries very hard to not think about the six who had come before. There’s a snorting sound and they look up, startled, just before they’re hit by a wall of fur and scales. Four pairs of hands hold them close. “Thank you,” someone whispers, voice thick with emotion, and Frisk has to bury their face in the closest shoulder before the lump in their throat gets too big to swallow.

“Do- do you want us to come with you?” Ness asks when Frisk has the space to breathe again. Bratty and Catty clutch each other’s hands. Brent puffs out his chest, but looks over his shoulder to where his family stands politely out of earshot.

As much as they want to say yes, Frisk shakes their head. They won’t be alone. They have Flowey and Chara, the two people who have seen them through the whole journey. It wouldn’t be right to bring someone else along. Besides, while the question was asked with the best of intentions, they can see how nervous the possibility of a “yes” makes the teens. They’re tired. They likely just want to go sit with their families and listen to their king speak. Frisk understands that.

“I’ll be fine,” they say. And before anyone can say anything else, before they can think too hard about the appeal of just taking a break, they turn and march out of the amphitheatre.

“You’re sure about this?” Chara says as the ocean roar of the crowd fades into the susurrus of a stream. Frisk clenches their fists and nods. The castle is before them. All they have to do is reach it.

The city streets are as quiet as the grave and they pass through like a wandering ghost. Each step is a sentence, each breath a weight to keep them grounded. They have never entered the castle from the front before. Always it had been that they entered through the back door, into the house rather than the castle. Now they shall be met first with the king and then the father.

A shaft of sun slices through the cavern ceiling and down onto the castle. Its light pours through the windows. In the throne room, they remember, there is no ceiling and the sunlight there coaxes the flowers into bloom. They don’t want to go there if they don’t have to. If they can find Toriel or if she should happen to find them, surely together they will explain to Asgore what has happened. Surely then they can find a way out of the Underground together.

If that is true, then why is Frisk so frightened?

Flowey’s hold on their shoulders relaxes as they step into the castle’s shadow. There is a path that leads to the door. They have only to walk down it. Then everything can end.

They walk. Then they run. Chara’s hands reach for the door handles, only a little ways above Frisk’s head, and Flowey helps them pull the great doors open.

“We’re home!” Chara yells into the hall. “Mom! Dad!” Their voice doesn’t reach beyond Frisk’s head, but happiness rushes over them due to simply being able to say the words.

The castle is quieter than the city. When the great doors close behind them, it is silently that they do it, with no indication that they were ever open. All the outside noises shut off so suddenly that the silence assaults their ears. Frisk’s mouth is dry.

The carpet that leads down the hall is grey and stiff. It muffles each of their footfalls. Chara doesn’t remember there being a carpet here. They remember stone that allowed for the clacking of claws as Asriel chased them in games of tag, stone that was easily cleaned when they tracked mud in from the gardens. Things have changed here.

Flowey directs their attention to the walls. On one, there hangs a portrait of the royal family, but they don’t look the way Frisk remembers. The Asgore in the picture has a short beard and in the picture, he is laughing. Toriel wears no spectacles and her expression is entirely contented, her eyes loving as she looks to the king. In her arms is a child, who looks curiously out of the painting. This must have been the family before Chara arrived. They have never seen Asgore and Toriel so happy. And the child in their arms, that must be Asriel. He looks so safe there.

“W-we were gonna have a n-new one p-painted with Ch-Ch- for Chara. Wh-when th-they l-l-looked m-more like themself, th-they said. R-remember, Ch-Chara?”

“Yes,” Chara says softly. “And then I made that plan and everything just-” They spread their hands in a helpless gesture. Their eyes drift back up to the painting and their fingers twitch. Stepping closer, they reach up. Frisk is too short for their fingers to reach beyond the hem of Toriel’s gown, but Chara touches it anyway. Frisk places their hand beside Chara’s and Flowey sets a vine between them.

Chara smiles and there’s a sudden trickle of tears. Laughing with Frisk’s soundless mouth, they scrub it away and beam up at the portrait. “They’ll have to make a new one with you, Frisk. We’ve adopted you. You’re now a Dreemurr too. Nonnegotiable.”

“Can I be both a Dreemurr and a Golightly?”

“A what?” Chara and Flowey ask in unison.

“Golightly,” Frisk repeats, finger-spelling it a little slower. "My name's Frisk Golightly."

“Golightly-Dreemurr or Dreemurr-Golightly,” Chara says thoughtfully. “Flowey, which one rolls easier off the tongue?”

Flowey’s still considering when there’s a noise down the hall. They look up as one, startled, and make eye contact with the massive and imposing King Under The Mountain.

His fur is noticeably matted. They notice the dents in his imperial armor, the broken claws of his feet, and his eyes are so bright that he looks almost sick. But a confused smile slips across his face as he looks down at them and Chara unconsciously reaches their arms up toward him before Frisk can take back their control.

Asgore draws nearer and Frisk takes a step back. His voice is a few notches too many away from reassuring as he says “Hello, little one. You are not meant to be here, are you?”

“I’m the human,” they answer, raising their shoulder to nudge Flowey into action. But Flowey doesn’t make a sound.

“You should return to your parents. They will likely be worried about your absence,” the mountain king says, too quickly to be quite kind. His confused smile stretches oddly up one side of his snout.

“You’re my parent!” Chara cries, rushing him and throwing their arms around his waist.