Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The walk to the barrier is lonely and quiet. For all that space underground is limited, everyone has built as far away from the reminder of their past defeat as is physically possible. You probably passed the last signs of civilization somewhere close to an hour ago, a lonely little shack that might or might not have been inhabited. The only noises you hear now, besides the steadily increasing hum of the barrier and your own footfalls, are the drips of water falling from stalactites and some lonely crickets that quiet down when you get too close.

Your flashlight batteries died a little while ago, but as you near the barrier, light from the surface is starting to illuminate your way. Your gait remains steady, even as you admire the soft shadows cast by what can only be natural light. It’s so different from the fluorescent cast most of your life has had until now, not flickering out but steady and—warm? The sun, they’d told you, with a warning not to look directly at it for too long. There were photos and drawings, old records from before the war, so you had a general idea of what to expect, but for you, born underground like the rest of your generation, it’s hard to believe in anything but a light bulb or the magic crystals of the marsh.

You can see the barrier, now, though it’s hard to judge how much walking you still have ahead of you to reach it. It’s all-encompassing, simultaneously brighter than any light you’ve ever seen and darker than the city when the power generator fails. You know now why nobody could ever stand to live near it, even more than the reminder of being trapped, being caged, being shoved down, away, out of sight, in the dark to wither and die. What had been a quiet hum of white noise when you first noticed it is now a dull roar, a pulsing threat that fills your chest with each step you take. To live here would drive anyone mad. Even the crickets you heard before have not dared to stray this close.

But the exit from the underground is not completely devoid of life. You notice quite accidentally, your foot catching on something that sends you tumbling to the rocky cave floor. You throw your hands out to catch your fall and land roughly, a stinging in your palms and knees and elbows rewarding you for your carelessness. But when you push yourself up, the sight of the ground beneath you gives you pause.

It looks like—thick ropes and little green pieces of confetti? They’d told you about this, too, pointing it out in the photos and illustrations of the surface, explained that without the sun, you’d never see it underground, not outside of a high security government lab at any rate. ‘Like the one I’m in now,’ you’d wanted to say, but your hands had remained still at your sides. That’s why we’re dying, they’d continued. You didn’t get how not having a bunch of weeds around meant you were all dying, but apparently some plants were edible and also produced oxygen. They’d had limited success growing them in artificial light, but with the sun to grow plants, there would never be food shortages again, you’d been told.

You hadn’t cared too much about the details, to be honest. You hadn’t expected that you’d be the one to make it, so why commit everything to memory? You were just one of seven.

You stand, brushing off your pants and making sure the knife is still secure in its little leather sheath on your belt. Even if you hadn’t expected you’d make it, you’d wanted to be the one. You’d wanted to see if those illustrations were real; you’d wanted to feel warm, like they said you would under the sun, all the way through your fingers without having to bundle up in a blanket; you’d wanted to be important and do something worthwhile, for once in your life, instead of just wasting precious resources.

But maybe, most of all, you hadn’t wanted to die.

And apparently you’d been more determined to make that a reality than your six peers had.

You tread more carefully to avoid the plants (roots? vines? it was hard to learn the vocabulary without real examples, and now you have examples but nobody to identify them for you) and continue your trek. Not long now, you think. You have to be close—you don’t think you could stand it if the roar of the barrier got too much louder.

And then your knee hits something and there’s no more ground in front of you, only the throbbing light-dark-light-dark of the barrier everywhere you look. You can’t hear anything. You pop the metal snap on the strap securing your knife in its sheath, and curl your fingers around its handle. (Just a knife—gunpowder had been gone for generations, and you wouldn’t know what to do with a sword anyway, let alone be able to conceal it if you were seen.)

You can’t see colours anymore, just the chiaroscuro black and white of the barrier, your own hand washed out to a chalky corpse-like shade, but when you raise the knife in front of you, and think about the six who couldn’t be here with you, and bring it down

you think, maybe, you see a rainbow.

Then you see nothing at all.

~~~

They’d warned you the barrier would open to the top of the mountain, and that it would be cold. You, who are always chilled, no matter what gloves or sweaters or boots you wear, were not looking forward to this, but you figured it would be no worse than usual.

You are very, very wrong.

The cold that bites into your fingers is indescribably worse than you had ever imagined. Even worse than when the heat isn’t working and you have to wash your hands in cold water. At least then you can towel your hands dry, but up here there’s no escape from it. Your ears are stinging and your nose and cheeks feel like they are about to fall off. You yank your hood up over your head and pull on the gloves you’re so glad your studious friend insisted you take, and shove your hands under your armpits for good measure. There’s wind up here, much, much stronger than the little breeze any of the fans down home could muster, and yet another new experience for you, but one much less welcome than the plants and sunlight—it’s snowing. You’ve seen ice underground before, little pools of water frosted over. West of the marsh is a place where it’s always cold, and anyone who wants to live there has better be ready to pay through the nose for heating (and be prepared for those inevitable blackouts a couple times a year). But you’ve never seen anything like this, little white flurries whipping around you, that cold wind slashing right through your hoodie.

Where is the sun? That warm, soft light you’d felt through the barrier! If the whole surface is like this, then who needs it! You’d be just as happy to stay underground!

But… it’s real. You made it. You’re on the surface, you got through the barrier. The knife actually—the knife! It’s not at your belt. You must have dropped it when you blacked out going through. You spin in place, looking for it at your feet, but all you see is smooth white in all directions. Panicking, you drop to your knees, sweeping your hands through the snow without regard for the cold. You have to find it!

The snow soaks wet through the knees of your pants, and your fingers are so, so cold even with the gloves, and you can’t see anything but the wind throwing snowflakes in your face. How could you be so careless? How could you let the other six down like this? You made it through the barrier, you can’t let your journey end here just because you had a thoughtless moment and lost the knife!

But you can’t find it anywhere. Your hands turn up nothing but snow. Your shoulders shake and your face, though cold, feels tingly. You scrunch up your nose and try to hold back the tears but they fall, blessedly warm, down your face.

“Hello?”

Somehow the voice cuts right through the howl of the wind, and you scramble, twisting around to face it. It’s hard to make anything out through all the falling snow, but someone is approaching. Someone… tall.

The voice calls out to you again. “Hello! I thought I saw someone up here.” They sound, well, like a woman. They sound very much like a woman who is pleasantly surprised to see you. Your fingers uselessly clutch at the snow, and you think about standing up, about not meeting her on your knees, but what’s the point? The knife is gone.

“What are you doing up here?” she asks, getting closer. It’s easier to hear her over the wind now, and easier to see her, too. Tall is an accurate observation, but her presence is so much more than that. Even in the wind, she is ramrod straight. Her long coat (robe? dress?) is pulled by the wind, and it twists and whips around her legs as she approaches you, but does not seem to deter her in the slightest. You can’t really tell if it’s hair or a hat on her head, but you pray it’s a hat. A hat with horn decorations. A hat with a mask that includes huge, sharp teeth, and moves like a mouth when she speaks to you again, “Are you lost?”

You’re frozen, with cold and fear both, you’re trembling on your knees at the feet of a monster who’d dwarf you even if you stood up. Your journey really is going to end right here, not two feet out of the barrier, because you weren’t prepared for the snow and you dropped the knife and—

—No.

You still haven’t gotten to see the sun. You can’t see anything at all in this gray sky, and you won’t accept that. You’re going to see the sun. You’re going to feel warmed up to your fingers and toes, you’re going to see flowers bloom and hear birds sing.

Your hand jerks to the side and your fingers wrap around the handle of the knife like you never dropped it.

You’re filled with determination.

Chapter Text

You stumble to your feet, kicking up snow, your knees numb and your toes aching, and use one hand to sign ‘Go away!’ while your other arm swings around to hold the knife up between you and the monster. She stops short at the sight, and for a moment you both are still—well, as still as you can claim to be when you’re trembling and your teeth are chattering. Your arm holding the knife out is especially unsteady. You tighten your grip and will your limb straight; it holds for a second or two before your body’s tremors win out. The wind doesn’t stop howling, whipping between you and her and tugging at what you can now see are her long ears.

She opens her paws—you had thought her wearing gloves at first, but now you see those are her paws, big and white-furred and claw-tipped. She opens those large paws and holds them out to either side, facing up so you can see the pink pads, what would be palms on a human. “Don’t be afraid,” she says. “You must be freezing. Come with me and we’ll get you warmed up.” Her voice is as big as the rest of her, imposing and intimidating, but somehow you want to listen.

You bring your other hand to join the first to grip the knife’s handle and shake your head. You effectively can’t talk to her now, but it's not like monsters would understand signs anyway. Besides, what is there to say? Your fellow humans gave you a knife and a goal and sent you on your way. This isn’t a field trip to make friends with monsters.

(You have six friends, and they’re counting on you.)

She lets her paws drop, her stare still fixed on you. You have to squint and blink away the snowflakes caught in your eyelashes, flinching and trembling as you’re buffeted by gusts of wind, but she is able to hold her stare steady. You wonder if having fur like she does means the cold doesn’t bother her as much, and for an instant you are foolishly envious.

When she moves, you jerk, startled and nearly dropping the knife again, but she is turning away from you. “Well,” she says, facing to the side as though she is talking to herself, “this is no weather to be wandering about outside. I will go back to my nice warm cottage, and make some nice hot soup, and sit in front of the fireplace. And perhaps there will be more soup than I can eat on my own, and perhaps there will be a second chair in front of the fireplace.”

And then she turns her back on you, and begins to walk downhill.

You stay frozen in place, watching her slow steps down. Your eyes focus on the knife in your hands, then on her broad back, bobbing gently from side to side as she trundles away. The dark colour of her coat makes her still perfectly visible through the bright snowy haze, and as she descends the mountain, you could let gravity do half the work for you. Honestly, you’d have to; your joints have locked up in the cold, making a swift attack impossible under only your own power.

But a fireplace, and soup…

Does she not care that you have a knife? That you’re human? Or has it been so long that monsters have forgotten what your species look like? That almost gets you to laugh, that she might think you’re a lost and confused little monster. (Though it would sure make the rest of your journey easier, if other monsters thought the same!)

You can always wait and see where following her takes you. You’ve never experienced cold like this before, and you know you won’t last long in it without some respite. Follow the monster to her home, eat, rest, and after that…

The thought of killing her in cold blood after taking advantage of her hospitality does not exactly appeal to you. The idea that a monster would truly offer you food and shelter is ludicrous, though. It’s probably a trick. She’ll try to lull you into a false sense of security, get your knife away from you, and then attack. Yeah. That makes a lot more sense than the idea that she’s actually, sincerely offering to help you. You’ll just have to stay vigilant and not give her the chance to spring the trap.

You slip the knife back into its sheath, snapping the strap back into place, and begin to follow the path she’s made. Her gait is wide, and she’s plowed and flattened much of the snow under her broad paws. It conveniently leaves an easy path for you to follow, so you don’t have to lift your heavy feet too high as you trudge after her.

Whether by luck or by design, you arrive at her cottage much sooner than anticipated. You wonder at that, for a moment—no human had been able to bear living near the barrier, but here is this monster taking up residence not a five-minute walk away. As soon as you follow her through the door, however, your thoughts melt right out of your head.

It’s so warm.

She hadn’t been kidding about the fireplace. It dominates the room, a plush armchair next to it, and you want nothing more than to curl up into it, wrap yourself in a blanket and soak up the heat. The monster disappears through a door to the left of the hearth, leaving you standing alone on the thick, ornately patterned rug. The rest of the room is furnished with simple but well-constructed items—the bookshelf is made of heavy, solid wood, you can tell just by looking, and it has decorative trim, carved swirls and flourishes at the corners. On top of the fireplace’s mantle, there are framed photos, and you wander across the rug to get a closer look.

In the photos, there are other monsters that look similar to the woman who found you on the mountain. One has a thick blond beard and horns that are so big they don’t even fit in the photo. He’s even taller than the monster who found you, and you can see his paw is even larger than hers, where it rests on her shoulder. What would you have done if that monster had been the one to encounter you fresh out of the barrier? Instead of dwelling on that thought, you study the third monster in the photo. It’s obviously their child, with the same white fur and long ears and little fangs peeking out of its muzzle. They don’t have horns like their parents do; you guess those will come when it grows older. If you judge monster faces with the same rules as human faces, the child is giving the camera a watery smile. Holding their mom’s hand, they look like the kind of kid who’d get bullied mercilessly.

There’s a fourth person in some of the photos, but before you can take a closer look, the monster who found you comes back. You whirl around, guilty, but she only offers you a smile and a towel. “Here you are, young one.” You take it—your fingers brush her paws and you flinch, ending up snatching the towel more than anything. She doesn’t appear to notice anything unusual, and you pat your face and hair dry. When you’re done, she holds a hand out for the towel and you make an effort to return it more gently than you took it.

“Please, take a seat.” She gestures to that enormous armchair, and you look from her to the chair and fireplace, then back again. You don’t move to sit, your fingers twitching as the warmth of the fire slowly trickles through them, and the fire crackles.

She folds her paws, her own eyes darting between you and the chair. “Would you like a cup of hot tea while I get the soup ready?”

Once again you don’t respond. She wrings her paws and nods to herself. “I’ll go put the water on. Please, make yourself at home.” She leaves through the door again, and after a moment’s consideration, you follow her.

The cottage doesn’t appear to be very big. Through the door is a little hall, with two closed doors you can only assume lead to a bedroom and bathroom. A third and final door is open, yellow light spilling out in invitation, and through it you can see the monster putting a kettle on the stove. Instead of turning any dials, she raises a paw, claw tips glowing, and flames light up under the kettle. You stand in the doorway, watching her move through the kitchen, pulling out some vegetables you’d only seen illustrations of and some you’ve never seen at all.

You watch as she spoons dried up flakes out of a jar and puts them in a little metal ball, then drops that into a mug. She returns to the vegetables, pulling a knife from a drawer and slicing them quickly and deftly, then scooping them into a pot. She pulls a carton of broth from the refrigerator and pours that in over the vegetables. The pot is then set on the stove and a fire magically lit beneath it as well.

You can’t stop staring at the monster as she moves comfortably through this homey, cozy kitchen. There are magnets in the shape of dogs and snails on the refrigerator door, and there is an assortment of spice jars on a wall-mounted rack. On the windowsill, cut golden flowers sit in a little glass of water, at odds with the snowstorm still visibly raging outside. There’s a little table against a wall, three chairs around it with yellow and orange patterned placemats at each. Everything is clean, but feels lived-in and well-used.

She stands upright like a human, and speaks with a voice like any other one you’ve heard. It doesn’t sound like growls or bleats or anything but a person’s voice. She wears clothing that looks like a comfortable flowing dress, with embroidery on the front and white trim on the hems. If she were wearing shoes to hide those big furry paws, you could almost think you were looking at a big human with white hair in their kitchen.

The kettle whistles and you jump, hitting your shoulder against the doorjamb. She turns at the noise, and you grimace more at the embarrassment of her seeing your clumsiness than at any pain. “Oh,” she smiles, tentatively, “did you need anything?” You rub your sore shoulder and permit yourself a small, negative shake of the head. Her smile grows more relaxed, you think. “Let me know if you change your mind. The tea will be ready in a couple of minutes.” With one last glance to you, she returns to the whistling kettle, taking it off the stove and pouring steaming water into the mug with the metal ball in it.

You take a couple steps into the kitchen, still watching. The pot of vegetables and broth is boiling, and quite unexpectedly there’s a wooden spoon held in front of you. “Would you like to stir the soup, young one?”

You look up at her face, closer than you’ve seen it before, but her smile is still soft and gentle despite the fangs. Your fingers close around the handle of the spoon, and you take the last steps to bring you to the counter. With another glance to her (still smiling) you dip the spoon into the pot and pull it in a shallow little circle.

“Yes, like that. Try to get the soup from the bottom and sides as well. You want to make sure it doesn’t stick to the pot, or burn.” You take her advice, lowering the spoon deeper and wincing as it scrapes the sides. “Don’t worry,” she says, catching sight of your expression at the noise. “The spoon is wooden, so it will not scratch the pot.”

You continue diligently stirring, and watch as she moves around you, preparing other ingredients you can’t identify with tools you haven’t seen before. Though there is not a lot of room to maneuver, she is careful not to bump into you. She takes the little metal ball out of the mug (the water in it has gone dark brown) and sets the mug on the table. Something in a shallow pan goes into the oven, and after that she begins to clean, washing utensils and putting items back into the fridge.

“I think the soup is ready, now. Would you set the table, dear?”

You let the spoon slow to a stop and look around, at the closed drawers to either side of the sink, at the closed cabinets above the counters and around the window, and your fingers twitch. Another long silence begins to descend into the room, and without even looking you can feel her smile growing brittle. Your hands drop into fists at your sides.

“Are—are you all right?”

You can’t stop yourself from shaking your head, your hands flying up to sign with fast and jerky motions, ‘I don’t know how—where—the dishes and spoons—I don’t know!’ Your head shakes back and forth, your hair whipping around into your face, your eyes squeezed shut.

She doesn’t say anything, but you hear the soft thuds of her paws on the floor. You crack your eyes open to see her standing in front of you, peering down. She kneels, then, and her head is just about level with yours.

Her right hand forms a fist over her heart and moves in a circle.

‘I am sorry, my child. Would you like me to show you?’

You feel tears at the corners of your eyes as you nod. She stands up and explains, opening cabinets and drawers, where things are and what you’ll need. When she hands them to you, you dutifully set two places at the table. The kitchen is small enough that you hardly have to do more than turn around to get from a cabinet to the table, and you find yourself standing very close to the monster. You don’t flinch when your fingers brush the soft fur of her paws.

When you sit, there’s a steaming bowl of soup in front of you, a slice of bread and that mug next to it. You take a sip from the mug and try not to make a face, but she laughs and asks, “Sugar?” She signs the word, too, even as she asks out loud, and the warmth you feel inside doesn’t have anything to do with the drink.

She keeps up conversation with you as you eat, always leaving room for you to reply, but you don’t take your hand off your spoon to say anything back. The soup is the best thing you’ve tasted since—since you’re not sure when, honestly. Restaurant scraps aren’t even this good. Nothing you could contribute to the conversation seems worth the time it would take away from eating. The drink in the mug—the tea, she identifies it—is much better with a couple cubes of sugar, and you can feel the heat of it all the way down your chest when you swallow.

“I am sorry I didn’t not introduce myself earlier. My name is Toriel,” she tells you, and when her fingers spell it, it’s exactly as it sounds. Her large hands are surprisingly fluent; she forms the signs familiarly, without hesitation or fumbling.

You don’t offer your name in response, and she doesn’t push.

When you have finished two servings of soup, she gets up and opens up the oven, pulling that shallow pan back out. A sweet smell fills the room and you lean in your chair to get a better look. You still don’t know what it is any more than you did when she put it in the oven, but then she says, “We’ll have to let the pie cool for a bit. Would you like to join me in the living room?”

You get up, your belly so full you can still kind of taste the soup in the back of your mouth, and follow her back through the little hall to the room with the fireplace. Once again she offers you the armchair. This time you do climb into it like you’ve wanted to since you first laid eyes on it. You bring your legs up and squirm to figure out the best angle to absorb the most heat from the fireplace while nestling as deep into the cushions as you can.

She hasn’t asked why you didn’t know anything about how to stir the soup or set the table or make tea. Maybe she thinks all humans are stupid, like animals, like pests. Maybe she knows you haven’t set foot in a kitchen since you were old enough to read and write. Maybe she knows that even if you had, it’s not like any kitchen underground would be so well-stocked.

She’s pulled one of the kitchen chairs out when she came with you, and now sets it opposite the armchair and sits. “It is nice to have some company out here,” she comments idly, waving a hand at the flames. You watch, fascinated, as they jump a little higher. It seems too much for coincidence; you think the fire blazes more brightly at her command. “You can probably guess that I don’t get many visitors.”

You hadn’t really thought about it, but if the weather is always like this on top of the mountain, you figure that makes sense. If you were a monster who could live anywhere on the surface you wanted, you certainly wouldn’t choose to live in this snowy hell next to the barrier. And it’s not like any humans before you have made it up here—have they?

“You’re welcome to stay for as long as you need,” she continues, and you burrow a little deeper into the chair, feeling yourself frown. You should probably say something.

You don’t.

She gets up after a point, going to the shelf and selecting a book. You watch her settle back down onto her chair and begin to read, then turn your head to watch the fire instead.

You wake up to find the room is dark and empty. A tiny flame still burns in the fireplace, providing just enough light for you to discern the contours of the room’s furniture. The kitchen chair has been removed, and as you sit up, you discover the blanket that Toriel must have wrapped you in when you fell asleep.

Your hand flies to your hip, but the knife is still there, strapped in and untouched.

Bundled up in the chair, you don’t want to move. It’s so warm and comfortable, just like you thought it would be when you first saw it. It’s better than curling up and wedging yourself into the corner of a doorjamb with your hoodie pulled over your knees, and it’s better than the beds in the lab—they never would turn the heat over 60°. You allow yourself one last moment to enjoy the feeling, to keep it in your memory and in your heart. Then, gently, you lower your feet to the floor, tugging the blanket aside and leaving it in a pile on the chair. You can’t see any light through the curtained windows, but you also don’t hear the howling wind buffeting the little home anymore. You take one slow, creeping, and hopefully silent step toward the door—

—the toe of your boot clinks against something.

In the dark, you can just make out the plate on the floor, a slice of the pie and a fork sitting out. For you. Obviously it’s for you. You crouch down, sitting back on your heels, and lift it up. The fork clinks against the plate with the motion and you cringe, but Toriel does not appear. Nobody comes.

You’re still pretty full from the soup, but you don’t think the slice of pie would fare very well in your hoodie pocket. Maybe Toriel has some kind of bag or container you can put it in to take it with you. You hold the fork in one hand and the pie plate in the other so they won’t clink again, and creep as quietly as you can to the kitchen. There’s no fireplace or fire to guide your way here, but you discover that when you open the refrigerator, a light turns on. Opening a few drawers eventually reveals a box of plastic bags, and the pie slice doesn’t go neatly, but it fits. You leave the plate and the fork in the sink. Your bag of pie goes into the kangaroo pouch of your hoodie, and your hands remain in there with it, holding it gently, the plastic crinkling under your fingers. It will be right there whenever you want it. All yours.

Now back through the hall and through the living room. Toriel’s cottage is well-kept and the floorboards thankfully do not squeak beneath your feet. You undo the deadbolt of the front door, feeling a bit guilty that you won’t be able to lock it behind you, but Toriel herself said nobody came up this way. She should be fine. You hold the doorknob when you close the door so that it does not make a sound, and then you turn to face the night.

It’s still cold—it might even be colder, now. But even in the dark, the snow all around you seems to glow. The air is still, and you can see your breath cloud up when you exhale. You step forward, boots crunching in snow, and look around. It’s not hard to see which way to go, not when one direction is up and one direction is down. There are even trees the lower your eyes travel the mountain, cone-topped and bunched together, dark branches under lumpy snow caps.

When you lift your head to regard Toriel’s cottage and the peak of the mountain one last time before you leave, you stop mid-step, eyes going wide. Ah, they’d told you about the sun, but they’d told you about this, too. You hadn’t expected to care about anything that wasn’t the sun, but how wrong you were.

The moon is huge and bright—you stupidly reach a hand up, but of course it’s much too far away to grab. Arms up, helplessly reaching, you spin in place, dragging your fingers through the milky swirl of stars above you. No wonder the snow glows so bright, with all those stars and the moon hanging up there! Your fingers close around cold air, and open up, again and again, and you rise up on your tip toes. You know, of course, that you can’t touch the sky, but you cup your hands around the moon and pretend, anyway.

You hear the door open behind you and spin to see her. Toriel. She has one huge paw—hand—still on the doorknob. She is not smiling.

“Young one,” she says, and she does not move her hands to sign along, “won’t you come back inside? You can sleep in the bed, if the chair is uncomfortable.” The bed, she says, confirming that there is only one. You wonder if she means to give up her own bed for you, but you know that is exactly what she means. She probably intends to take the chair in your place.

You shake your head. ‘I have to go,’ you sign.

She steps out from the doorway, pulling the door shut behind her as she does. Her paws—feet?—they’re bare, you notice—crunch down into the snow, large enough to completely eclipse the prints your boots left. You allow yourself to admit that you truly do envy all that fur, if it allows her to be so unaffected by the cold.

“Please,” she says, “at least wait until morning.”

You shake your head with more force, taking a step backward. You don’t sign anything else—your hand is on your knife, your thumb at the snap to release the strap.

‘Please,’ she signs.

A third time, you refuse.

The change that comes over her is immediate. No longer will she look directly at you, her line of sight somewhere just above your head. Her mouth is pulled in a tight line, the corners turned down. Her hands, fingers splayed out, begin to glow with that fire you were—stupidly, foolishly—starting to think of as benign and comforting.

“Human,” she says, “I cannot allow you to proceed down the mountain.”

Your hand fumbles with the knife’s strap; you’ve started shaking, you realize.

“You may stay here with me as long as you need,” she says, an echo of the offer she made earlier by the fire. Now there is no warmth, not in her words and not around you, despite the fire in her hands. “But if I allow you to travel down the mountain, the king of all monsters will kill you, and take your soul.”

You nod. You knew the risks when you became one of the seven. You’ve got the strap undone, now, and the knife fits in your hand as well as it always has.

“Human,” she addresses you again, and her soft voice has fallen away to hard steel.

“Go back where you came from.”

Chapter Text

You dart to the side just in time to avoid Toriel’s fireballs. There’s a sizzling hiss as the fire lands in the snow, and a slushy crater forms where you’d been standing a moment ago. Turning back to Toriel, you see her holding her arms straight out to either side, little spheres of flame forming in her open palms. Her magic casts an orange light around you, a little glowing spotlight in the dark of the night.

Your hands are wrapped securely around the knife’s handle, but instead of lunging forward, you duck to the side again. You hood has fallen off your head, and even in the snow, you’re sweating from the heat when the fireball sails over you.

This is what you’d known would happen—she’s turned on you, she’s shown her true colours. A dangerous monster. You absolutely do not feel even a little bit surprised or betrayed by this development. You had definitely never stopped expecting an attack. Now you can rest assured there was nothing genuine in her hospitality, and you have no need to feel guilty about defending yourself and killing her.

The knife in your hands was always meant to strike down both the barrier and monsters.

You can feel the pie in your hoodie pocket bounce against your stomach when you run to avoid another rain of fire.

“I am doing this for your own good!” Toriel’s voice fills the empty night. She still won’t look directly at you—maybe that’s why you’ve been having such good luck dodging? “You must go back!”

You shake your head. Even if you wanted to, there are people counting on you. You can’t give up. You’re determined to prove that your six friends were right to put their faith in you. You’re determined to discover the rest of the surprises and new experiences the surface holds, to explore and find out more than any book in any lab could have ever prepared you for.

Are you determined enough to take a life? You’d thought so when you crossed the barrier, but...

Your footing is growing perilous—you slip on your next dodge, the snow having melted to so much slush from Toriel’s continued magical assault. Fortunately your momentum still carries you safely past the attack, but you lose precious seconds regaining your balance. If you’re going to defend yourself, you have to do it soon, or your hesitation is going to cost you the chance to make that decision.

“You can stay here with me,” Toriel pleads. “I’ll keep you safe.” You think that’s kind of a funny promise, considering.

Her aim is growing worse; the next attack sails far to the right, fizzling out almost before it hits the snow. You don’t even have to move to get out of the way. You take this chance and plant your feet, readjusting your grip on the knife and bending your knees just so.

“I know… I know it can’t be easy, living underground,” she says, dropping her arms. Her shoulders shake, a tremendous motion, and you stay very still, not lowering your knife. Your weight rests mostly on your front foot, ready to carry you forward. “I know better than most monsters, how hard it must be for you.”

Finally she looks at you. Right at you, not through or around you. Her aloof demeanor has melted away with the snow, and now her shoulders sag, and the fur around her eyes is damp. “I hate asking you to stay underground,” she chokes. “Please believe me, I do not wish to make you suffer. But if you go down this mountain, a far worse fate awaits you.”

You consider her words. You don’t actually think she’s lying—or at least, you think she believes she’s telling the truth. But you have to take that risk. You can’t let your journey end here. And there’s nothing that could possibly be worse than living out the rest of your life underground, after making it this far.

Her hands hang loose at her sides. It might be a mistake, but you lower your arms as well. You can’t really sign with the knife in your hand, but you don’t feel quite safe enough to put it away yet.

“No,” she says, softly, relenting, “That’s not my decision to make, is it? I know it’s wrong to keep you trapped down there. I’ve always known.” You nod. She drops her gaze, giving a watery smile that’s the same as the child’s in the photo on her mantle, and if you had any doubts about that being her child, they’d be completely erased now. “To keep you trapped here, in my home… it would be exchanging one cage for another. It would be just as wrong.”

You’ve won, somehow—or maybe she’s won her own inner battle, and you were just there to watch. Your gaze drops to your knife, and finally, you slip it back into its sheath. Looks like you didn’t need it after all. The time may still come that you won’t have any choice but to use it, but for now, you’re more than a little glad and relieved to have been able to make it past this fight without it.

‘I have to go,’ you sign, now that your hands are free.

She nods. Her voice appears to have left her now, and she only signs back, ‘Please, stay safe.’

Before you can reply, she’s taken two full steps toward you and dropped to her knees. The slush darkens her dress where she lands, but more importantly, her arms wrap around you and squeeze. It’s tight and gentle at the same time, her chin resting on your shoulder.

You close your eyes, basking in a warmth that surpasses sitting bundled in the armchair in front of the fire. Your fingers twitch, but your arms stay at your sides. You won’t forget this. You won’t forget Toriel.

She lets you go and rises. With one last look down at you, as though she, too, is burning this moment into her memory, she turns and flees back into her cottage. The door shuts behind her. You know that if you had a sudden change of heart and knocked on it, nobody would come.

Your heart does not change, and you turn to face downhill. It’s hard to take the first step—Toriel’s warning of a worse fate awaiting you is heavy on your mind, even if you doubt her—but the next one comes easier. You can see the sky lightening in the distance, a beautiful dark blue like the cavern walls in the marsh underground, and anticipation of the sunrise quickens your step.

You’re filled with determination.

It turns out you don’t get to see the sun this morning, after all. The sky lightens, and theoretically the sun must be rising, but as you make your way down the mountain, a fog settles in, so thick you can hardly see the trees in front of you until you walk into one. The dark needle-like leaves scratch your face, and the disturbance to the branches shakes loose snow that falls on your head. It crumbles into the neck of your hoodie, and no matter how you try to shake it out, little icy chunks remain lodged in between your shirt collar and your hood.

Fortunately you’re still warm from all the running you did dodging Toriel’s attacks and the subsequent walk down the mountain. You’re not about to take off your hoodie or anything, but the cold hasn’t gotten to you just yet. You haven’t even been coughing that much after all that activity, and your throat only feels the chill of the air when you breathe, not the bite of old injuries acting up. Your gloved hands rest in your hoodie’s front pocket, fingers lightly touching the pie bag. (It got a little squished in the fight, but you’re pretty sure it’s still good.)

You haven’t found any path yet, though even if there was one, the snow might hide it. From Toriel’s own comments, though, you get the sense her choice to live atop the mountain is not a standard one. There might not be a path—or other monsters—for miles. You’re hoping you’ll be able to make some kind of progress before the sun goes down, at least. Whether that means finding a monster town or some kind of road, who can say?

What had Toriel said, again? You know she’d warned you about the king of all monsters killing you, but she’d also said that would happen if she let you travel to the foot of the mountain. So maybe you won’t have to go all that far after all.

You have your knife, and you have your goal. You won’t stop until you achieve it.

Your determined tromping down the mountain quite abruptly comes to a halt, as you nearly step into a river. Thick as the fog is, you hadn’t even seen it until your boot was about to come down onto empty air. You’re not sure how deep it is, but you definitely don’t feel like wading through icy water and then walking through the cold fog while soaked through. Maybe there will be a bridge, or something? Looking to either side, you try to judge which way you can follow the river to at least keep heading down instead of back up the mountain. You take a few steps to the right, and then backtrack and investigate the left.

‘Six of one, half a dozen of the other,’ one of your friends had liked saying. They’d gotten an extra kick out of the idiom when they realized they were one of the six who would be left behind. Regardless, it seems apt now—you can’t tell which way will let you continue down faster, but you’re losing time standing around trying to make a decision. With a nod, you continue left. If you find yourself gaining elevation again, you can turn around and try the other option.

The sound of running water is a nice accompaniment to your boots in the snow. You can see the dirt and roots and rocks of the riverbed where the snow has been washed away, and though the fog prevents you from getting a good look at the opposite bank, everything looks different from the river that runs through the underground. Even something so similar as a river can be so different on the surface. It’s up to you to make sure other humans get to have all these new and different experiences too, one day.

It doesn’t take too long to see that you chose well. The river runs down the mountain, and the further you descend, the less snow there is on the ground. The fog remains as thick as it’s been all morning, and you have no idea how long you’ve been walking—for all that your journey was purposeful and planned, you didn’t bother with taking a watch, just a flashlight and the knife.

You see the bridge when it’s two steps in front of you, and at the same time, hear the crack of a branch breaking behind you. You stiffen, listening, but there’s almost no need to focus your attention—the heavy steps echo behind you, loud, unmistakable, and steadily approaching. Glancing to the bridge, you think about running, but you’re wandering blind through unknown terrain. Not only will you probably hurt yourself running into trees and tripping on roots, but if whoever is behind you is interested in pursuing you, they’ll have every advantage. Better to have the encounter now and see what happens.

You have the knife. Even if you didn’t need it with Toriel, it’s a reassuring weight at your hip. With it, you know you won’t let the monsters take your hope away.

The footsteps stop behind you, and you hear a voice. It’s deep and resonating over the sound of your heartbeat in your temples; it sounds like it’s coming from all around you, not just behind you.

“Human,” a monster addresses you, “don’t you know how to greet a new pal? Turn around and shake my hand.”

You turn, slowly, acutely aware of moving your right foot and then your left. The figure that you come to face is mostly silhouette in the fog, but you can tell that unlike Toriel, they’re much closer to your height. You don’t see any horns or a tail or other unusual protrusions—in fact, if you didn’t know better, you might even think it was another human who’d followed you down the mountain.

You weigh your options again—your right arm is your dominant one, and that’s the side of your hip that your knife rests on. Shaking the monster’s hand will leave you vulnerable if they’re planning something. But you’re not going to attack some stranger you can’t even see, and you already decided running wasn’t an option here. You lift your right hand and hold it out.

The hand that reaches out to you from swirling mists is nothing but bones. The skeletal digits are cold when they wrap around your own, and the monster’s grip is firm. You feel a shiver race down your spine, as though all your nerves have made a sudden retreat back underground. The bones squeeze around your fingers, and

A farting noise rips through the forest, echoing in the trees around you.

Your jaw drops, and either the fog lifts or the monster steps a little closer, because now you can see their face perfectly. Smooth and bleached bone grins at you, and you hear that same voice chuckling somehow, despite the toothy smile not moving. “The good old whoopee-cushion in the hand trick. It’s always funny.”

You gape as he lets your hand go. You still don’t see anything but bones peeking out the sleeve of his blue hoodie, and you look at your own palm in confusion, but it, too, is empty. Before you can ponder this stupid whoopee cushion mystery any longer, the monster speaks again. “Anyway. You are human, right?” He doesn’t even wait for you to reply (although you weren’t about to) before he goes on. “That’s hilarious. You doing a solo show, or are there more of you that popped out of the mountain?”

Answering that question is definitely a bad idea, and you aren’t able to stop a frown from appearing on your face. The skeleton, even if his own face is stuck in a grin, apparently still knows what human expressions mean. He holds up his hands. “Don’t worry. Technically I’m supposed to be on lookout… but I don’t really care about finding humans.” He chuckles again. “My brother, on the other hand… finding a human would be a dream come true for him. In fact, I think that’s him over there.”

You twist to look over your shoulder, but of course, all you can see is fog and the posts of the bridge. You turn back around to glare at the skeleton for frightening you. His grin, of course, doesn’t change.

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Follow me.” He sidesteps around you, and his bulging hoodie brushes against you. How many layers must he be wearing to have such a girth? Do skeletons even feel the cold?

His foot hits the wooden planks of the bridge without a sound, not at all like the loud and heavy steps you’d heard before, and—and is he wearing fuzzy slippers? And shorts? But like fifty shirts?

Monsters are weird, but you really wish you could have that kind of immunity to cold.

“Come on,” he calls over his shoulder, hands in his pockets.

You trot after him, your own boots thumping across the bridge. You have to stay relatively close so you don’t lose sight of him, but on the bright side, you don’t run face first into any more trees. What little snow that remains is packed down into a well-trodden path, and the muddy ground squishes under your boots. Thin twigs and wet brown leaves peek out of slushy patches of snow. The skeleton doesn’t say anything or turn to see if you’re still following, though you figure he can probably hear your own footsteps without difficulty, especially since his are somehow now silent.

It’s not long at all before he comes to a stop, and maybe the fog has lifted a little now that you’re a bit further down the mountain, because you clearly see that the trees have thinned around the path in this spot. To one side, there’s a small wooden structure—a sentry station or guard post, you figure. It’s unoccupied, and you remember the skeleton’s words about being on lookout. Is the station his?

He’s come to a stop at this clearing, but there’s no reason you have to humour his idea. You keep walking past him, not bothering to meet that creepy stare. Whatever is responsible for those little glowing lights inside otherwise dark and empty eye sockets, you don’t want to know.

You haven’t made it five steps past the waiting skeleton when you hear the rapid footfalls and clank of metal that can only signify the approach of another monster. Your eyes dart from side to side, but before you can make yourself scarce, a second skeleton comes barreling out of the fog. They stop in their tracks as soon as they’re close enough that you can see them clearly, and even though their eye sockets are well and truly empty, you feel their stare pinning you in place.

“Sans!” they shout, throwing up their arms. Their hands land on top of their skull as though they have to physically contain their shock. “Is that… a human!?”

The first skeleton—Sans, you guess—lets out another chuckle. “Naw, bro, I think that’s a flower.”

You stare at Sans. He’d called you a human himself not five minutes ago! But he’s not meeting your stare. In fact, he’s looking a little to your left, and down. You follow his line of sight, and your eyes widen a little when you see it. Against all odds, there is a flower at your feet. It’s small and yellow, but its petals are whole and open, in full bloom. It looks a lot like the ones in Toriel’s kitchen. You can’t believe you didn’t notice this small and bright spot of life—you’re suddenly grateful that you managed not to trample it when you were walking away from Sans.

The second skeleton sighs, a huge and exaggerated exhale, and you wonder if he’s hiding lungs under the armour he’s wearing over his ribcage. Before he can voice his disappointment, however, Sans speaks up again. “Hey Papyrus, what’s that next to the flower?”

“Oh, my god!” the skeleton, Papyrus, exclaims. “It’s… a human!? And they look… familiar?”

Sans trundles past you to stand next to the other skeleton. “Are you telling me you know the human?” he asks. His voice seems to constantly be on the verge of laughter. Now that they’re standing next to each other, you can see how much taller Papyrus is. He’s practically twice Sans’s height—which means he’s twice your height, too.

“Of course I don’t know the human! They just look familiar!” Papyrus screeches his protest, stomping one booted foot in emphasis. A short red cape on his back flutters with the motion. It matches the red mittens and boots he’s wearing. Combined with the shiny armour on his torso, he almost looks like a heroic knight, come to rescue some wayward royal child from a dragon.

Or a heroic knight’s corpse, skin and flesh rotted away to leave only bones behind. It kind of creeps you out to think that under your skin, you’re exactly the same as this monster. If you die, you’ll look just like him one day.

Still, he cuts an impressive figure. If he weren’t so exuberant, you might actually be intimidated. This must be why Sans wanted you to follow him. Papyrus’s skull might be permanently fixed into a grin, but it’s weirdly satisfying to know you made him happy just by being yourself.

Even if he is a monster.

“This is the greatest day of my life!” Papyrus is saying. “When I capture the human, I’ll surely be promoted to vice-captain of the Royal Guard right away!”

Wait.

“I’ll be popular! Just like I’ve always drea—I mean, deserved!”

What.

“Human!” Papyrus yells, pointing at you, or at least that’s what you assume is happening; his mittens make it a little hard to tell. “Prepare to be boggled! Prepare to be japed! And prepare to be puzzled!” You’re already puzzled, wondering what ‘japed’ means. “But most of all! Prepare! To be captured by the great Papyrus!”

You take one step back, your right hand hovering over your hip. You’re prepared, but not to go quietly. You’ve got to stop letting your guard down like this. Even if a monster seemed like a harmless, excitable child, you have to remember: they’re still monsters.

Ready as you are to fight, you’re not prepared for Papyrus to cackle, “Nyeh heh heh!” and then twirl away. He spins off into the fog, and shortly, only a fading “Nyeh!” lets you know he was ever there at all.

Sans guffaws, and you shift your glare to him. His skeletal grin is completely unaffected by your scowling. “Thanks,” he says. “Papyrus has been kinda down lately. Getting to see a human seems like it’s really cheered him up.”

Earlier, you might have been pleased to hear it, but you’re not at all happy now about the evident danger you’ve been placed in. A member of the Royal Guard, being on lookout, “capturing the human”—whatever luck let you encounter Toriel and her gentle hospitality after crossing the barrier has obviously run out.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Sans offers. “My bro’s not actually dangerous. Even if he tries to be.”

You look past Sans, the direction Papyrus went. Though the fog has abated some, heavy mist still hangs between the surrounding trees. The path disappears down the mountain. You could always try to make your way through the trees instead, abandoning the now clearly defined trail. You might be able to avoid Papyrus that way. You’re not exactly filled with confidence at Sans’s reassurance—which wasn’t, necessarily, that you were safe, but that his brother wasn’t dangerous. The two aren’t the same, and you get the idea that the skeletal comedian is well aware of the distinction.

“Well. I’ll see ya up ahead,” Sans says, and then walks past you, back uphill. You follow him with your eyes until you lose sight of him in the fog, but he doesn’t double back down.

Whether you believe Sans or not, you can reasonably expect to encounter more of the Royal Guard than just Papyrus. What he’d said about being promoted to Vice-Captain definitely implies other members. Even if Sans is telling you the truth and Papyrus isn’t a danger to you, other members might be. You’ve got to keep on your toes and keep moving. You’ll avoid what encounters you can, but getting lost in this foggy forest isn’t going to help you on your way.

Mind made up, you continue down the path.

Chapter Text

Now that you have a path to follow, your progress down the mountain feels faster, whether or not it actually is. The trees to either side have grown in dense; you’re pretty sure if you’d tried going off the path, you’d have a bad time. Occasionally the sound of running water reaches your ears, but you don’t see the river again.

You hear Papyrus before you see him. You pause, listening to his voice carry through the fog. “Undyne will be so proud of me!” he’s saying. Is he talking to Sans? Or yet another monster? Or only himself? “There will be statues made in my likeness! Mettaton will invite me to appear on one of his talk shows! Maybe more!”

You shake your head and continue down the path. It seems like further encounters with the excitable skeleton are unavoidable.

The path widens into another clearing, and you see Papyrus alone at the far end. Another one of those checkpoint structures stands near the wall of trees, but otherwise, the clearing is empty. The sentry station has a sign on it—you can make out “THE GREAT PAPYRUS, FAMOUS ROYAL GUARDSMAN” among other words. Said Royal Guardsman isn’t doing a good job keeping a lookout for you, though. He seems distracted by something spherical in his hands, and he’s still chatting merrily (and loudly) to himself about all the great things that will happen when, presumably, he captures you.

You wonder if you can just… sneak past him.

Of course, he looks up at you then. Even though his jaw can do nothing but grin, you can’t help but feel like his expression grows more excited. Ridiculous. You’re ascribing emotions to a skull. “Human!” he yells to you, standing up straight with his hands on his hips. “I hope you’re ready for this puzzle!”

‘Why?’ you sign. Papyrus tilts his head and stares at you—you think the mist confuses your vision for a moment, because it almost looks like his eye sockets narrow in consideration.

“What does that gesture mean?” he asks. You shake your head. “The one you just did!” he presses, trying to copy you, but when he brings his hand down to form the second half of the sign, once again his mittens hide whatever his fingers are actually doing. Combined with his genuine curiosity, it’s almost enough to make you smile. But you don’t have time to waste on explanations, especially not to a monster who’s decided he has to capture you.

“Very well, human!” he shouts, folding his arms. “I will let you have your secrets for now!” It’s probably best not to sign at him anymore; maybe he’ll forget about it if you don’t say anything else. That won’t be hard. “This puzzle is the designed by me, the great Papyrus! It is my very own invisible electricity maze!”

You think you might be glad you didn’t try to sneak past him, if he means what you think he means.

“You must find your way through! But if you touch any of the walls… let’s just say… it will be a very shocking experience!”

“Hah. Nice one, bro.”

You nearly jump into a tree. Sans is standing next to you, hands in his pockets. You’d like to demand just how he got there without you noticing, but knowing he and Papyrus will have no idea what you’re saying stops your hands from doing more than twitching. (The surety with which you feel Sans wouldn’t explain helps, too.)

“Sans!” Papyrus screeches, stomping a foot. The shorter skeleton next to you merely chuckles. “Do not interrupt when I’m talking to the human!”

“Sure thing, bro. I’d zip my lips, but...”

Papyrus grinds his teeth and groans, dragging a hand down his skull. “Anyway!” he huffs. “The rules of this maze are simple! You must make it through without touching the walls! Which are invisible! And not actually literal, physical walls! If you do touch them… this orb will administer a hearty zap!” He raises one hand over his head, and you can see what looks like a clear ball clenched in a red mitten. So that’s what had occupied his attention when you first caught up to him here. “Okay! You can go ahead now!”

You wait, but the skeleton seems to have said his piece, and gives you no indication of where the start of this invisible maze might be, which feels more than a little unfair. Never mind the fact that monsters apparently have enough electricity to waste on something as frivolous as a puzzle for a human they just met and are supposed to capture, not entertain. Back home, even the labs, working on government mandated research on how to break the barrier, suffered power outages regularly. You’d known they were serious about sending you to the surface when they’d utilized the backup generator.

“Er… human?” Papyrus calls. Dwelling on the apparent abundance of resources on the surface has distracted you long enough for him to have taken notice. Next to you, Sans’s eyes have, impossibly, fallen closed, and he’s snoring quietly. Still standing, though.

Well. Guess it’s time to see if your luck really has run out. You take a deep breath and a bold step forward.

A buzzing fills your ears, but even as you jump back, you realize you’re not in any pain. Papyrus, on the other hand, has gone stiff, teeth clenched and smoke coming off his skull.

“Uh, Papyrus,” Sans says from beside you, “I think the human needs to be holding the orb for this to work.”

“Oh,” Papyrus says, shaking his head. “Okay!”

You watch, eyebrows crawling up your forehead, as Papyrus marches a very deliberate zig-zagging path across the clearing to you. His big red booths leave big, squelching footprints in the muddy earth and patches of melting snow. Soon enough he’s looming over you, and with a cheerful, “Hold this, please!” he drops the orb onto your head. You flinch and fumble to catch it as it rolls off your head, and Papyrus races back the way he came. You boggle at the weight of the orb in your hands. You’ve been tricked into cooperating.

For a moment you wonder what would happen if you tossed it over your shoulder and ran through, making a break down the path to escape the skeleton brothers.

Your eyes follow the fresh footprints between you and Papyrus, and, orb in hand, you retrace his steps.

“Incredible!” Papyrus yells as you come to a stop next to him. “Are all humans this skilled at puzzles?” You don’t answer, but nor does Papyrus give you time to. “However! More puzzles await you! Of increasing difficulty! I hope! You are ready to face the challenge!”

This time, you’re expecting it when he turns and rushes down the path and out of sight. Next to you, Sans says, “Thanks.” You manage not to jump out of your skin, but you do drop the orb. “My brother looks like he’s having fun.”

You frown at him. You’re not doing this for either of them. You’d be just as happy to keep going down the mountain without stopping to entertain two monsters. Wasn’t Papyrus going to capture you? Playing childish games like this isn’t what you’d imagined when he said that.

Sans ignores your expression, and continues. “Puzzles are sort of a monster tradition,” he says. Like you care. “But some people think we should have left that tradition behind after the war. Papyrus really loves them, though. I used to help him, but now he makes them all on his own.” The pinpricks in his eyes glide in the direction Papyrus disappeared. “Man. Isn’t my brother cool?”

His gaze slides back to you, and you realize he expects an answer. Well. If it’ll keep these unavoidable encounters merely annoying instead of dangerous, you can play along. You nod an affirmative, and Sans bobs his head in agreement.

Your progress down the mountain continues in this manner. You trek down the foggy path, encounter Papyrus with some new puzzle for you to navigate, and Sans shares some new observation about how great his brother is. Papyrus doesn’t give any more answers away, and he never does anything beyond watch you as you discover the solution, then cackle his unique laugh as he disappears.

The puzzles set across your path range from hidden switches meant to clear obstacles, to a plate of something cold that looked a little bit like skinny worms, and a note that both identified the substance as spaghetti cooked by the Great Papyrus, and then informed that you’d been thoroughly japed. You’re still not really sure about that word, though you can guess from context. (You’d tried to eat the spaghetti anyway, but it had been much to cold for you to do anything but nibble a little of it.) The most recent puzzle involves pressing switches in a certain order so that you don’t push any twice in a row, and it takes you a few attempts before you get the hang of it. Papyrus seems genuinely impressed each time you solve one of his puzzles, and if you’re honest, you kind of enjoy the sense of accomplishment you get, too. Even if this is a silly waste of time. You’d much rather navigate through the surface world of monsters peacefully than have to use your knife.

“You don’t talk much, huh, kid?” asks Sans after Papyrus leaves to prepare the next puzzle. You shrug. Papyrus does enough talking that even if you could use a voice to speak, you’d probably still let Papyrus handle the whole conversation. “You seem like a pretty good listener, though,” he observes. You’d shrug again, but when you look at him, something gives you pause. “So I’m gonna tell you something you probably don’t know about monster attacks.”

For perhaps the first time today, you’re aware of the cold air, how it leaves a chill inside your chest when you inhale and creeps across your skin under your hoodie. So far, Sans’s promise that his brother wasn’t dangerous had proven perfectly true. Does he mean to warn you about another monster that will attack you? Will Sans try to fight you? You take a step backward, keeping your eye on the skeleton, but he keeps his hands in his pockets and keeps talking.

“My brother has a special blue attack. But blue attacks won’t hit you if you stay still. You know how when you see a stop sign, you stop?” You nod your head. A stop sign is probably exactly what it sounds like, so you’re not really lying. Much. “Just imagine a blue stop sign, and don’t move,” Sans advises.

So Papyrus isn’t harmless after all, and Sans expects him to attack you. But blue attacks won’t hit you if you stay still? It seems much too easy. What kind of monster would consider such a useless attack to be anything special?

You don’t stop to dwell on it for long. You have no choice but to keep going.

“Human!” Papyrus yells in greeting when he catches sight of you walking down the path. The trees have become less dense, though you still consider there to be rather a lot of them. But this clearing is bigger than any others you’ve encountered, and the ground, instead of being soft mud, is hard like stone, but regular and smooth like a floor. Under the snowy patches, you can see white lines outlining rectangles, and to the far right, there’s a structure bigger than the sentry stations. It has three glass walls and a roof over a bench, and a sign with a map. To your left—

You try to focus on Papyrus, you have to be ready if he attacks, but that’s a motorcycle. It even has a side car! You have to actively concentrate on staying put and not running over to it. This flat stone under your feet, with the rectangle patterns on it, then, must be a parking lot! Which means there’s a road, and if you follow that road, you can eventually expect to come across a city.

You were told that monsters have probably built cities all over the surface. It’d been explained to you just how vast the surface was and how many cities you might have to explore before reaching your goal. Still, this is progress. You’re closer and closer with every step, and you’ll cross every inch of the surface if you have to.

“I am afraid, human,” Papyrus is saying, and you wrench your attention away from the motorcycle to focus on him, “that I cannot allow you to continue! After all, there is no real footpath along the road. It would be dangerous for you to walk!” He nods, decisively. “And the canine unit of the Royal Guard patrols near here sometimes! I can’t let someone else capture you!”

There it is, then. You look around the clearing for Sans, but it seems that right now, it’s only the two of you. Behind Papyrus a thick wall of mist obscures your view of the road you know must be there. And looking back over your shoulder, it almost seems like the fog is billowing down the mountain trail, dissuading you from going back the way you came. Not that you need the encouragement. You won’t turn back.

“I will be the one!” Papyrus declares. “Powerful! Popular! Prestigious! That’s—hey!”

You dart to the right, your heavy boots thumping as you race past him. His jaw drops, but you don’t spare more than a glance to make sure you can evade him if he tries anything. The snow underfoot is slippery, but you manage not to fall, and there it is! There’s the road!

“Human!” Papyrus calls, and you can hear his own loud footfalls and clanking armour behind you. “Wait!”

You do not wait. On the smooth surface of the road, you’re able to run faster than you ever could over the rocky and treacherous earth underground. Enough of the snow has been cleared away on the road that your path is free of obstacles, and you pump your legs harder.

“Human!”

You nearly trip; Papyrus’s voice came from right next to you. Dread gripping your already straining lungs, you turn your head, and there he is. Twice your height, his long legs are easily keeping pace with you. He brings up one mittened hand and rapidly waves at you, not breaking stride.

You stop short, and he jogs a few paces further down, then faces you. “That was invigorating!” he exclaims. You can feel your heartbeat hammering, blood pounding through the veins in your neck as you breathe heavily and bend over, hands on your knees. Papyrus stands tall and doesn’t sound winded at all when he speaks. “I do love to start the day with a good jog! I see you, too, like to exercise! It’s a bit later in the day than I normally go for a run, but! Better late than never!”

You’re still catching your breath, your throat burning—you try not to cough—and Papyrus looks off to the side. “We have so much in common,” he declares. “A mutual love for puzzles! Pasta! And jogging! Human. I cannot believe I didn’t see it before!”

You straighten. Your breath is still coming a little fast, and your fingers twitch.

“You must want to be… my friend!”

Your jaw drops.

“Of course! It all makes sense now! After all, I am very great. It is obvious that you would admire my culinary skills and puzzle mastery!”

You will your mouth to shut instead of hanging agape. It takes some effort.

“Don’t worry, human! Of course I, the great Papyrus, will be your…”

He spins around, his cape following the motion with a dramatic twirl.

“No,” you can hear him say—perhaps to himself, but his voice is much too loud for you not to hear. “No! This is all wrong! I can’t be the human’s friend! I have to capture them!”

He faces you once more, one mittened fist held up in front of his breastplate. “To fulfill my dream of becoming vice-captain of the Royal Guard!”

To either side of the road, the trees press in. You won’t backtrack or retreat up the mountain. There’s no way to go but forward. Through the skeleton.

Maybe you can distract him enough to make him forget about capturing you. It goes against your earlier decision, but you sign at him, ‘I would rather be your friend, not fight you.’ The sign for ‘fight’ might be universal enough for Papyrus to take it as a general gesture, but ‘friend’ is distinct. There’s no way even Papyrus can mistake it as anything but a deliberate attempt at communication.

“What are you doing that with your hands for?” he asks, curiosity piqued as you knew it would be. “Are you finally ready to tell me your secret human hand code?”

As far as ways strangers have described signing go, ‘secret human hand code’ might be your favourite. You nod.

“This is so exciting! You can tell me all about it after I capture you!”

So much for that. You’d sign something less than kind in reply, but before you can, Papyrus raises his hand high over his head. You adjust your footing, bending your knees and leaning forward slightly.

The attack that manifests floating above Papyrus’s open palm is white and opaque, solid bone instead of the flickering fire you expected to see, and of course different monsters would have unique magic abilities. He flings the bone at you, and more follow it, magically flying at you under his direction. You jump over the first ones that are aimed at your knees, and then sidestep a slowly floating bone that looks as tall as you are. What kind of creature has bones like this!? Or, no, are they raw magic taking on such a form, rather than the bones from some dead thing? You don’t know enough about monster magic to want to risk touching one to find out.

Your boots skid on the road as you land from your last jump, and your hand rests on the knife in its sheath. You really are an idiot to keep hoping you won’t need it, aren’t you? But you’d been able to wait out Toriel, so maybe… You take your hand back to sign, ‘Stop! Knock it off!’

“So you won’t fight?” Papyrus asks, his attacks relenting for the moment. You nod quickly, holding your empty hands out, palm up. “Then, let’s see how you handle my fabled blue attack!”

This time, the bones Papyrus summons toward you are all, as he and Sans said, bright blue. Almost the same shade as Sans’s hoodie. It goes against your every instinct, but you clench your fists and close your eyes, holding your breath as you stand as still as you can.

You feel a cool tingle at your left shoulder, and then another on your right shin. One eye cracks open, and you see a blue bone pass right through one of your fists. It doesn’t hurt, but does leave behind that gentle sensation, like a cool, smooth cloth being wrapped around your hand. You open your other eye and watch, fascinated, as the rest of the magical attacks harmlessly pass through your body.

The last of the blue bones disappears, and you grin triumphantly. That was easy! Sans was right! If that’s the best Papyrus has got, he’s really not dangerous at all!

You fall face forward onto the hard ground.

You throw your arms out, but not fast enough, and your face hits the road a little after your elbows do. You can feel the pie in your pocket flattened under you, which is an even worse feeling than the pain blooming out from your nose, and you push yourself to your hands and knees as quickly as you can. Your limbs are slow to respond, and your body feels heavy, like some great weight is resting on your back. Blood splatters on the dark ground in front of your eyes, and you feel wet warmth on your upper lip. Your nose is bleeding—you hope it’s not broken.

“That’s my attack!” Papyrus crows proudly above you. “You’re blue now!” And indeed, there does seem to be a cyan cast to your skin. Your hoodie’s taken on the same hue, making it look almost as vibrant as it did when you first obtained it.

You can’t shake off whatever weight has settled on your shoulders, and you barely make it to a kneeling position before Papyrus launches more bones at you. These ones aren’t blue, and you have to throw yourself to the side and roll to avoid them. One catches you on the left elbow, vanishing with a jolt the moment int makes contact, and you suck in your breath through your clenched teeth. They’re not physical at all, then, but it still feels like a sledgehammer hit you. Your arm still bends at your command, and the fabric of your hoodie isn’t torn where the bone hit, but pain radiates out from the joint and you clutch your elbow.

The sound of Papyrus’s “Nyeh heh heh!” reaches your ears and you try to get your feet under you. “Yeah!” he says, sending another flurry of bones your way. You manage to avoid the assault, but end up flat on the ground again, unable to fight the weight pulling you down. “Don’t make me use my special attack!”

Your eyes narrow, glaring at Papyrus’s boots from your position on the ground. You’ve humoured these skeletons all day with their puzzles and misconceptions, and now this is where it’s gotten you. You wince when you put your weight on your left arm, but your right hand has gone for the knife.

“I can almost taste my future popularity!” You scuttle forward under another attack, and hold yourself still as an errant blue bone glides through you. Danger passed, you’re crawling forward again, the knife in your right hand hitting the road with sharp little scraping noises as you progress. Papyrus pays no mind to your undignified approach, pontificating about his glorious promotion to come.

“I’ll have so many admirers!” he says. Your throat feels tight, and your chest is itching. Not right now—please, not right now! You swallow down the urge to cough as you struggle to get one foot under you, and brace your left hand on the ground. Another bone catches you on your right shoulder and you nearly drop the knife, gasping. You waste precious seconds forcing your arm to respond and tightening your grip on the handle. There. Better. The muscles in your leg tense, fighting against the heavy pull of gravity.

“But will any of them like me as sincerely as you?”

He looks down at you at the same moment as you lunge up with all you’ve got.

Chapter Text

The knife cuts through Papyrus’s shiny metal armour like tearing paper. He stumbles back and you fall forward with your momentum, landing on your bad elbow. Without regard for the pain you jerk your head up to see Papyrus land on his rear with a clatter of rattling bones and metal, his long legs and arms flailing every which way. He eventually comes to a stop on his back.

You hold yourself very still, despite the shaking strain in your limbs and the breath your lungs aren’t getting. You don’t dare to move, and you don’t dare to hope.

You see his arms move first. As you watch, he brings one hand back to prop himself up into a seated position, and reaches with the other to touch his bisected breastplate. You can see his ribs through the cut you left, all intact and unharmed. (No lungs in there after all.) Looks like you didn’t have quite enough momentum to finish the job.

“Wowie,” he says, and picks himself back up, a process that’s nearly as loud and ungainly as when he fell. You crawl backwards as quickly as you can, scrambling and twisting under the blue weight that drags your body down. You’ve really messed up now. “You’re pretty tough, human! Someone like you is really rare!”

You’re shaking, and you do a poor job estimating the speed and direction of his next attack. Bones slam into your chest and thigh, and you curl on your side, trembling and coughing. Once again neither your clothes nor skin seem to suffer any visible damage, but your nerve endings are wailing, overwhelmed with hurt, and your throat is tight in a way that absolutely means you have to stop, now, before you regret it.

“Still, you should just give up!”

With one last cough, you flex your fingers on the knife’s handle. Giving up is the one thing you can’t afford to do. Not now, not ever. Air escapes through your teeth in a hiss as you push yourself up. You refuse to let your journey end here.

You see bones.

~~~

You wake up to a loud rumbling that vibrates all around you. Your whole body is sore, your throat especially, and you feel a wave of nausea. The constant shaking isn’t helping either of those things. You haven’t woken up with this many aches since that one restaurant owner caught you going through their trash. You’re cold, too, and whatever surface you fell asleep on is uneven and unyielding. Opening your eyes, you see your own dirty jeans covering your knees, bent up close to your chest, but your peripheral vision’s blocked by something heavy encasing your head. The blue cast of Papyrus’s magic is gone, at least, but now everything looks a little darker than before.

Whatever you’re sitting on is still shaking, a consistent low key vibration that’s just enough to jostle you unpleasantly. You feel a sort of rolling, flipping sensation in your stomach. Your feet come up against a barrier when you try to stretch your legs out, and when you try to reach up to figure out what’s on your head, you find your hands are stuck behind you, something hard pinching your wrists.

“Sans!” Papyrus’s voice comes from right behind you, and you jerk your head up. The thing on your head clanks into the remains of Papyrus’s armour, and bony arms tighten around you. “I think the human is waking up!” You twist, trying to get a better view—you’re in the sidecar of the motorcycle, that’s what’s rumbling, you’re folded up with Papyrus sitting behind you, his knobby knees sticking up over the edges. The wind rushing past you as the motorcycle drives down the road is bitingly cold, and there’s no warmth in Papyrus’s arms that wrap tightly around you. The trees on the side of the road are going by so, so fast, and you’re trembling and your stomach lurches and even though you’re freezing the back of your neck is sweaty and hot and you can’t move your hands, why are your hands stuck behind your back?

You thrash against the skeleton’s hold, kicking with what force you can muster in the enclosed space of the sidecar, throwing your head back purposefully now to catch Papyrus in the chest. “Sans!” he shouts, alarm filling his voice as his hands try to hold you still, but you brace your feet on the rumbling floor and push against him, then throw yourself against the door. The top edge of it digs into your upper arm and so you fling your body to the other side, the thing on your head loudly hitting the motorcycle frame. “Pull over!” you hear.

Your mouth is open but no sound comes out, of course no sound comes out. You suck in air and throw your head back and fail to scream. The rumbling dies down and stops, the door to the sidecar opens, and you spill out onto hard gravel that digs into your hip and shoulder where you land. Someone pulls off the thing on your head, and hands are on your shoulders but you shake them off, and you kick at the gravel and dirt and try to roll over onto your front and get your knees under you so that when you vomit it doesn’t get all over you.

It gets all over you.

You retch until nothing comes up but spit, and then you keep heaving. Finally your body gets the message that your stomach is well and truly empty, and you can let yourself sag down and fall on your side. You’re barely able to avoid landing in your own sick. Your fingers twitch uselessly at your back and you kick listlessly at the ground, pushing yourself away from the puddle of what didn’t manage to go down the front of your shirt and pants. There are tears coming down your face, and something coming out your nose, whether it’s snot or blood or more vomit, and a burning sensation in your nasal cavity. You can taste the remnants of Toriel’s soup in your mouth and you’ve wasted it, wasted her hospitality, she might as well have given you nothing, she might as well have saved it for herself instead of wasting it on you. You might as well have never met her.

“Gross,” Sans’s voice says somewhere above you. You agree. At least you stopped trying to scream once you threw up—you hate it when your body still tries to do things like that. Useless efforts. A last instinct you still haven’t quite managed to get rid of. You cough, weakly.

“What happened?” Papyrus asks. You turn your head so you can squint up at the skeleton brothers. Papyrus is wringing his hands, looking from you to Sans and back again.

“Probably got carsick,” Sans says with a shrug.

“But then how will we take the human to Undyne, if they get sick on the motorcycle?” Papyrus kneels down next to you and tugs some of your hair from where it’s stuck to your wet cheek. Ew.

“Uh. I can take ‘em, I guess,” Sans offers. “I know a shortcut.”

Papyrus groans, but gently places his hands on your shoulders and sits you upright. You don’t bother shaking his hands off this time. He reaches up to his own shoulders, and you watch as he removes the red cape from his armour. You reel back a little when you realize what he intends to do, but he puts one hand on your back to hold you steady. With his free hand, he takes one corner of the cape and begins to wipe your face. “You should stop home first so they can clean up,” Papyrus says to Sans, but his attention is focused on you. His motions are firm, but not too forceful. You’re kind of amazed he has this level of fine motor control. He folds down the soiled corner of his cape and comes at you with another clean patch. You only try to lean away out of reflex, and he gets at the other side of your chin.

“Yeah? In that case, you might catch up to us before we leave the house,” says Sans. Papyrus, now wiping your upper lip and nose, nods.

“True! It is not too long a walk from here, and it is a pleasant day for a hike!” Papyrus says. Your body chooses that moment to shiver, as if to spite his declaration. Your wet jeans feel gross against your legs, and even through the shirt you have on under the hoodie, your torso feels a little damp, too. Coming down the mountain, your body had warmed from the exertion, but now you’ve been still for too long and the chill has settled into your limbs, made worse by the wet patches on your clothes.

“I’ll catch up,” Papyrus says to you, giving you a pat on the head. Before you can process what exactly is happening, he picks you up with one arm at your back and one under your knees, and carefully deposits you back into the sidecar. He rolls up the dirty corner of his cape, tucking it into itself to contain your mess, and then lays the clean remainder of the fabric over you like a blanket before he buckles you in. You squirm—sitting alone in the sidecar means your hands are squished between your own torso and the back of the seat, and whatever’s pinching your wrists is really digging in to the bones in your arm.

Haha. Bones.

Sans climbs back onto the seat of the bike, and you get a chance to really look at it. You haven’t seen a lot of motorcycles, but one of your six friends had a small collection of car magazines and they’d have photos of motorcycles in there too. The one Sans has is… less impressive than the photos you remember. It’s boxy and clunky, and the paint is dull and chipping. It’s really not at all like the sleek and shiny machines in the magazines. No wonder you got sick riding this thing. And now they want to try again? Fine, you’ll puke all over the sidecar, too. At least, if you have anything left in you.

“Safety first!” Papyrus chirps, holding up whatever it was that had been on your head when you woke up. It’s thick and spherical, with one big opening that looks like someone sliced part of the sphere off, and one smaller opening, a rectangle that curves across one side, filled in with a sort of dark semi-opaque glass or something. You hadn’t noticed before, but it has really cool flames painted on. “Can’t go without your helmet!” So saying, he plunks it down onto your head. You squirm a bit, but the helmet is pretty well set in place despite that it's too big for you.

The motorcycle roars to life next to you, and your stomach tightens nervously as the sidecar resumes its steady vibrating. Sans waves, “See you at home, bro,” and the motorcycle begins to move. You twist to see Papyrus, standing where you left him, waving. He gets smaller quickly as Sans drives you away.

The motorcycle turns around a curve in the road and you can’t see Papyrus anymore and your stomach is already doing that flipping thing again. You close your eyes and try to breathe, but your throat feels tight and closed up from all that screaming you failed to do.

As soon as you close your eyes, the rumbling of the engine dwindles down to nothing, and you feel the motorcycle come to a stop. Your stomach doesn’t settle as quickly, but you peek open one eye and see that your surroundings are, indeed, stationary.

“Told you I knew a shortcut,” says Sans, grinning down at you. You’d like to kick him in his stupid, smiling face. You kick at the inside of the sidecar, instead. It gives a satisfying thunk.

He gets down from the motorcycle and plods around to let you out. He has to help you up since you can’t use your arms for balance, and you stand on wobbling legs, Papyrus’s soiled cape falling down to pool at your feet. Sans picks it up by a corner that’s somehow, miraculously, escaped getting as gross as the rest of it, and beckons you to follow him.

You still have the helmet on, so you have to turn and tilt your head around a lot to get a good look around you. The house Sans leads you to is much bigger than Toriel’s, with a second level of windows above the door. There are bright, colourful little lights hung up along the roof, and some of those needle-leaved tree branches have been wrangled into a circular tangle and hung up on the door. To either side of the house are trees with bare branches, these ones a different shape than the ones in the mountain forest.

Something occurs to you and you spin around, looking behind you. You can see the mountain far off in the distance, so far away it looks like you could flatten it with your fist. You automatically try to pull up an arm, and the bindings on your wrist dig in harshly. You’ve left the fog behind on the mountain, but when you crane your neck back and look up, all you see are grey clouds. They look soft and pretty, but your eyes scan the whole sky and you can’t find the sun anywhere.

“Come on,” Sans calls. “I promised Papyrus I’d get you cleaned up.”

You turn to frown at Sans, though you’re not sure if he can see your expression through the helmet.

“He hates taking shortcuts anywhere,” Sans continues, opening the door to the house and waiting for you to follow. “Says I’m a real lazybones for using them.” He winks at you, and you trip over the threshold. You look at his face again as soon as you’ve got your feet under you, but both eye sockets are wide open, the specs of light inside them indicating a gaze that’s pointed at you. He did something similar before, you think, and then decide you don't care how his face works. Except you’re willing to bet it's weak to knives. You’d like to find out.

Once the door is shut behind you, he tugs the helmet off your head. “Can’t have the neighbors panicking, seeing a human,” he comments, tossing it onto the couch. “Come on. Bathroom’s this way.”

You climb up the stairs after him, moving slow to keep you balance, and he opens a door into a bathroom, then steps aside to leave you room to walk in. “Toss your dirty clothes out in the hall and I’ll take care of ‘em.”

You remain standing in the hall with him, not moving to step into the bathroom. His grin doesn’t falter (obviously)... but is that sweat forming on top of his skull?

“What’s the matter, kid? You waiting for a written invitation?”

With a hiss of air through your teeth, you turn around to face away from him, and pull at the bindings keeping your hands behind your back. You can hear him chuckle, and a sound like snapping fingers, and the pressure on your wrists falls away.

You don’t look at him as you stomp past him and tug the bathroom door shut behind you.

Thankfully, bathrooms on the surface seem to have the same things as bathrooms underground. Sure, you have no idea why a couple of skeletons even need a toilet, but maybe it’s for … guests? Everything is nicer than you’re used to, of course. There’s a plush rug with a bone pattern on it beneath your feet, and fluffy towels with a small ‘s’ and big ‘P’ embroidered on them hang from a bar on the wall. There’s a mirror above the sink, and you spin to face the bathtub to avoid looking at yourself.

There’s a small window in the bathroom, too, which lets in soft light from outside through white curtains adorned with, of course, a pattern of little blue bones. You pull the curtains to the side all of one inch, and peek out.

You can see an entire street, houses lining a smooth road on either side. They’re all bigger than Toriel’s cottage, both taller and wider. Many of them are decorated with ribbons and strings of small colourful lights. Cars of all colours and shapes are parked along the sides of the streets—a flat red one here, a boxy aqua one there, a sort of squashed tan coloured one at the corner. More of those bare, leaf-less trees stand between the houses, and some of the buildings have bushes and patches of grass by the doors. Not too many monsters seem to be out, but there are some walking down a footpath that runs parallel to the road in front of the houses.

You let the curtain fall and look at the window itself, but it’s not wide enough for the span of your shoulders to fit through.

The next thing you check is your hip, but you’re not surprised to find both the knife and its sheath are gone. You’re worried for a moment that Papyrus left the knife behind on the mountain where you fought—but then why take the sheath, too? No. If you had to guess, you’d say Sans probably has both.

You have to get the knife back.

For now, though…

Toriel’s slice of pie is still resting in your hoodie pocket. You withdraw it, and wince when you see it. It’s flattened and the crust has fallen apart. The gooey filling has lost all form and is sticking to the plastic bag. You’re going to have to scoop it out in pieces when you finally eat it. You’re pretty hungry now, come to think of it… but you set the pie bag down in a corner of the room, and then begin to peel off your damp clothing. The forgotten flashlight, useless without new batteries, also gets set down next to the crushed pie slice. You kick your boots and undergarments into the corner, too. You’re not looking forward to putting your dirty underwear back on after you shower, but you’ve worn dirty clothes for much longer than a single day before, and you definitely aren’t handing your undergarments to the skeleton to wash.

You pull the door open just enough to shove your other clothes out into the hall, and you don’t wait to see if the skeleton grabs them before you slam the door shut as quick as you can. Or at least you wish you had enough force to slam it, but instead it firmly clicks closed and doesn’t shake or rattle anything at all.

The shower is hot and pleasant, and it soothes the aches remaining where you didn’t dodge Papyrus’s attacks. You don’t have any bruises in those spots, though, and no damage to the skin. Only a lingering hurt that’s slowly fading. You shake your head and help yourself to some shampoo. Yet another item in the bathroom that you wouldn’t expect skeletons to find a use for, but here it is. When you turn off the water and step out onto the plush bone rug, you discover a towel, shirt, and sweatpants in a pile on the closed toilet lid. You reluctantly pick up the towel, shuddering despite the steam and heat still filling the small room. You hadn’t heard the door open. Maybe the skeleton had teleported the clothes into the room without needing to enter it? Even though it has unfortunate implications for the abilities of monster magic, you prefer that idea to thinking he came in while you were showering.

The towel provided for you is soft and you’re able to wrap it around your entire body. You bask in the comfort for a moment before drying off. The shirt the skeleton has set out for you has text reading ‘Why do skeletons hate the winter?’ across the front. You turn it over and see ‘Because the cold goes right through them!’ written on the back.

You get dressed in your undergarments and the borrowed clothes. You pull your boots on but don’t bother to lace them, pick up your flashlight and the pie bag from the corner, and then open the door.

The hallway is much colder than the humid bathroom, and for a moment you think about turning on your heel and shutting yourself back inside. It’s Sans’s deep voice that gives you pause. “Hey, kiddo,” he greets you from down the stairs. You lean over the wooden rail and see him wave at you from the couch. He’s got his feet propped up on the low table in front of it. “Come on down. I ordered food, should be here in a bit.”

You look at the other closed doors in the hallway—one decorated with bright signs and tape, the other plain except for some colourful smoke leaking out the gap between it and the floor—then back down the stairs to Sans. He pats the cushions next to him with a bony hand.

When you descend the stairs and warily sit as far away from Sans as you can, setting your bag and light on the floor, you can’t help but sink into the sofa. You’d meant to perch on the edge, to be able to run at a moment’s notice, but the cushions have much less structure than you were expecting and you all but fall back. It’s not as nice as Toriel’s chair in front of her fireplace, but it’s still really comfortable. The surface has so many nice things.

Monsters have so many nice things, and humans don’t.

“So, kid,” says Sans, leaning against the armrest to face you. You don’t really want to listen to whatever he has to say, but you look at him. ‘How did you make it out of the underground?’ he signs.

‘None of your business,’ you reply, you hands freezing in front of you once you’ve completed the motion.

Sans chuckles. “Knew it,” he says to himself. “You have things to say after all.”

Hastily you shove your hands under your legs, sitting on them and glaring at the skeleton. In response, he lounges back, hands behind his head, completely relaxed.

“You’re still a really good listener,” he comments. “But I’m not the kind of guy who only wants to hear himself talk. This conversation’s gonna need you to participate, too.”

You stubbornly look away from him, glaring at the wall opposite. There’s a little shelving unit with some kind of machinery set up on it, including a big monitor that’s not turned on at the moment, and you stare at it like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. (It is, at least, a little interesting. The lab had one monitor like that, rescued from the surface’s garbage, but cracked, and half the screen wouldn’t display images. You have no idea what one is doing in Sans and Papyrus’s home.)

There’s a knock, and you jump and nearly fall to the floor. Sans slides off the couch without a glance to you, and plods over to the front door. You peek over the armrest and see him receiving a couple of white paper bags from a monster with huge, long ears that stand straight up, not like Toriel’s that hung around her face. They exchange a few pleasantries and then the other monster leaves, Sans shutting the door with his hip. He comes back to set the bags on the table, and he has to scoot a little glass jar with cut yellow flowers to the corner of the table to make room. You can’t help but remember how there were similar flowers in Toriel’s kitchen, on the windowsill. You curl your legs up and pull your feet on the couch, wrapping your arms around your legs and watching him over your knees.

When he opens the first bag, a puff of steam escapes, along with a smell that makes your mouth water. “I got burgers and fries,” he says, opening the second bag. “Ah, extra ketchup. This one’s mine.” He picks it up and comes back around to sit on the couch again, thankfully no closer to you than he’d been before. “Wasn’t sure what you like, but everyone likes a good burg.”

You don’t move.

He reaches one skeletal hand into his bag and withdraws what you can only assume is the burger. You watch, fascinated, as he bites into it. Thick red liquid squirts out and drips into the bag on his lap. He chews, and you try to distract yourself from the envious pangs in your stomach by waiting to see if the bite of burger will reappear when he swallows.

It doesn’t. Perplexed, you watch him take bite after bite. Where’s it going? Is he storing it in his skull? But then you’d be able to see it through his eyes, right?

Monsters are so weird.

When the burger is gone, he takes a few napkins to clean his hands of the grease and red liquid. “All right, kid,” he says, “Let’s talk. We've got a lot to ketchup on.”

You eye him over your knees, your hands tightening around your elbows.

“We’ll start with a familiar subject, I guess,” he says, and reaches into his hoodie pocket. He pulls out your knife, strapped snug in its sheath.

You lunge for him, and your face lands in the couch cushion where he was a moment ago. Turns out that the cushions are a lot less soft when you forcefully plant your face into them. Fresh pain blossoms in your nose, and when you lift your head you can feel hot blood dripping down your lip again. You scan the room and find him standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. He spins your knife in his fingers and watches you warily climb to your feet.

“This is a pretty dangerous thing for a kid like you to be carrying,” he says, tucking it back into his pocket. “You might hurt yourself.”

You grit your teeth and sign, ‘Give it back!’

“Nah,” he shrugs, “I think it’s better if I hold on to it for now. Safer for everybody that way.”

The way he stresses ‘everybody’ makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

‘I didn’t hurt him,’ you sign, but your motions are subdued.

“You, uh, you came real close. Hey, kid, sit down and let’s talk.”

You lower yourself back down to sit on the couch, focused on how Sans’s hand is still in the pocket with your knife, and Sans shuffles over to join you. With his other hand, he picks up the bag of food that had dropped to the floor, and sets it back on his lap. There are still fries in the bag, and he helps himself to a few, crunching them between his teeth. Your stomach reminds you of its empty ache. You ignore it with ease of long practice.

“What do you know about monster souls and magic?” he asks while chewing.

You shrug. ‘Monsters have lots of magic. It’s tied to their souls.’

“Uh, yeah. Basically. That all you got?”

You nod.

He chuckles, but it’s more quiet than you’ve heard him laugh before. “Well. Kid. Monsters aren’t built the same way you are. We’re pretty much all magic.” He pats his stomach where you think there should be nothing but spine, but the shirt he’s wearing doesn’t cave in, as though he’s got a round belly under there. “And, uh, when we use that magic to fight, it’s only as powerful as our will to fight.”

You think about Toriel’s fire that never managed to hit you, that never even singed your hair despite how close it came sometimes.

“My bro wanted to capture you, so that’s all he did. Once we get some food in you, you’ll be good as new. But you…”

‘He hurt me!’ you sign, your face twisting into a frown at the memory. ‘A lot!’ you add, spreading your hands more than you usually would for the sign.

“Yeah? So what do you wanna do about it?”

You hesitate, and it’s not because you know Sans is Papyrus’s brother. You don’t really care what Sans thinks, except that he’s got your knife. When Papyrus shows up—because from their conversation earlier, you can probably assume he’s going to get here before you leave their home—what are you going to want to do?

“Remember what I said about monster magic being only as powerful as our will to fight? It goes both ways, even if we’re fighting a human.” Sans’s voice interrupts your thoughts. “Know what that means?”

You’d destroyed Papyrus’s armour, but hadn’t left a scratch on the tall skeleton.

“I think you don’t actually wanna hurt anyone, kid,” Sans says. “But I think if my bro wasn’t so tough, you woulda been scared enough to do something you’d regret later.”

‘I don’t care,’ you sign forcefully. ‘And I wasn’t scared! I came here to set humans free. I don’t care if one or two monsters die to do it.’

“One or two, huh? How about three? Five?” You start to shrug, but Sans isn’t done. “Ten? Fifty? How many monsters you think are gonna wanna let you bring the rest of your human buddies up with you? Nah, they see you, they’re not gonna stop to chat or try to make friends. Not everyone is as cool as my bro.”

‘You?’

“Me?” He shrugs. “I’m too lazy for that stuff. This conversation is enough effort for me.” He tosses back another couple fries. “The way I see it,” he says, “you’ve managed to avoid hurting anyone by dumb luck. Soon, you’re gonna need to actually make a decision. You say you might not care if, uh, one or two monsters die, but do you want to kill monsters?”

‘I don’t care,’ you repeat.

Sans shakes his head. You tense, not looking forward to whatever he has to say next, but he gestures to the other open bag that’s been sitting on the table all this time. “Your burger’s probably cold by now,” he says. “Dunno why you waited so long to eat it.”

You stiffen, staring at him. Your hands form fists on your thighs, pulling at your borrowed sweatpants.

“Not hungry?” he asks.

You are, you’re almost hungry enough to finally give in and eat the pie you’ve been saving. You could probably have lasted longer, but watching him eat right in front of you just makes the stabbing in your stomach that much harder to ignore.

‘For me?’ you ask, pointing to the bag on the table.

Sans nods, slowly. “Yeah. All yours, kiddo. Did I forget to mention that?”

You don’t bother replying, busy grabbing the bag and putting it on your lap, mirroring the skeleton. You take a deep sniff, enjoying the aroma, and then reach in to grab your burger. It doesn’t drip as much as Sans’s did, which is probably for the best; you wouldn’t want to stain the borrowed clothing you’re wearing (except you probably already have, when you got your bloody nose back from face planting in the couch). Still, when you sink your teeth in for the first bite, you can feel grease leaving a trail down your chin.

Toriel’s soup had been wonderful, hot and nourishing, sticking to your ribs long after you were done. The burger is still warm despite Sans’s concerns, and it’s savory and flavourful and you chew for as long as you can make it last. You try to slowly savour the whole thing but soon enough you’re swallowing the last bite, and you lick the grease off your fingers and don’t care if Sans thinks you’re gross.

“Wow, kid,” Sans comments as you start to make your way through the fries, “never had a burger before?” There’s something jovial in his voice again, and you’re glad the previous conversation seems to be over. You shake your head absently, biting a fry in half.

“Seriously?” he asks. You spare him enough attention to roll your eyes, duh, obviously, you’d lived underground your whole life, what does he expect? Snail patties and roasted mushrooms had nothing on whatever this burger was made of. “That’s, uh. That’s a frying shame,” he mumbles. You snort.

The front door slams open and you drop the fry you’re holding as Papyrus shouts, “Brother! Human! I am home at last!” He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. “Sans!” he exclaims, catching sight of the two of you sat on the couch, “You fed the human Grillby’s!? How could you!”

Whatever Sans is about to say in reply, you don’t hear. You grab the bag of fries and your flashlight and pie, and you bolt, scrambling up the stairs and into the bathroom. You slam the door and fall against it, sliding down to the floor and breathing hard.

‘What do you wanna do about it?’ Sans had asked. You shut your eyes and shove the heels of your hands against your face and kick the tiled floor of the bathroom.

Papyrus had talked about being your friend, and then he’d hurt you until you lost consciousness. He’d decided to capture you, then tenderly wiped your vomit off your face with his own cape.

There’s a knocking at the door you’re leaning on, and Papyrus’s voice calls in. “Human? Are you all right?”

You throw a fist back into the door. The thump that results is not worth the subsequent pain in your hand.

“I knew Sans never should have fed you Grillby’s! All that grease cannot be good for your delicate stomach!”

This time you slam your head back into the door. It’s both louder and more painful. You wish you could shout back at him, tell him to go away, to leave you alone, to just let you go. You wish Sans didn’t have your knife. You wish you’d never met either skeleton.

“When you are feeling better, human, please come back down stairs! I will make you as much spaghetti as you want!”

You hear the thumping of Papyrus’s booted feet leaving you, and then nothing. Alone in the bathroom, you eat the rest of the fries, then crumple up the empty paper bag and throw it at the wall.

Chapter Text

You fall asleep against the bathroom door. When you wake up, the sky outside the window is dark, and you can hear a weird pattering on the roof above you. There’s a small light plugged into the wall next to the mirror, providing a soft yellow illumination to the room, and you can see that a blanket and pillow are now sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. You know you haven’t moved from your spot, so you guess this does confirm that Sans can get stuff into the bathroom without opening the door.

You listen, but other than that continual noise from the roof, you can’t hear anything. You stand up, your back and rear complaining about where you chose to fall asleep, and ease the door open an inch.

The hallway is dark and deserted. At your feet in front of the bathroom door, there’s a plate with something lumpy and a fork, sitting on top of a piece of paper. You look to your left and right again, but see nobody, so you grab the plate and paper and shut yourself back in the bathroom. You put the pillow on the floor in front of the door and sit on it, draping the blanket over your legs, and then you examine the plate.

You can only assume this is the spaghetti Papyrus promised to make you. It does look a lot like that cold plate he’d left out for you between puzzles. Though it’s hardly been a whole day since you met him on the mountain, it feels like it’s been much longer.

You seem to be starting a tradition of falling asleep in monster houses and waking up to presents of food. Maybe you'll sneak out after you eat the spaghetti, and Papyrus will catch you sneaking out and you'll have to fight again.

You can't leave yet, though. Not without your knife.

The paper reveals itself to be a note, and in the dim light you struggle to read it.

“HUMAN!” it begins. “IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT YOU ARE VERY FRAGILE.” You snort, eating a forkful of the spaghetti. Some of it looks a little burnt, and crunches a bit when you chew it. It’s not as good as the burger, but it’s not bad at all. You continue to read. “YOU MUST BE VERY LONELY NOW THAT YOU HAVE LEFT YOUR HOME AND FRIENDS UNDERGROUND.” You struggle to swallow a particularly crispy bite. “THEREFORE I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL PROVIDE YOU THE EMOTIONAL SUPPORT YOU MUST DESPERATELY CRAVE.”

There's more, but you crumple the paper up and throw it. It hits the wall and bounces behind the toilet. You take your frustration out on the spaghetti next, shoveling bite after bite into your mouth and angrily chewing. When you've finished the plate, you push it away from you, wincing at the noise it makes scraping across the floor tiles.

You lean back against the door, wrapping your arms around yourself and missing your hoodie. You close your eyes to try to fall asleep again, but your heart is beating loud against your skin from thinking about the skeletons.

‘What do you wanna do about it?’

You grit your teeth.

Sleep doesn't come for a long time.

When you wake up again, there's a little light coming through the window, but not as much as there was yesterday. You get up and use the toilet, wondering if your stay in their bathroom has inconvenienced the skeleton brothers the same way it would a human. Once you've washed your hands, you consider your situation.

You peek out the window as you did yesterday, pulling the curtain back just a sliver. You expect (hope) to see the sunrise. Instead, the sky is dark with dense purple clouds, dark enough that the colourful little lights on the monsters’ homes give off a festive and friendly glow, and you find an explanation for the pattering noise you can still hear on the roof. It's raining.

Another sound catches your attention: the rapid thumping you are quickly learning to recognize as Papyrus's approach. The noise stops when it reaches the bathroom door, and then several sharp knocks erupt from the wood.

“Human!” Even with a door between you, Papyrus is still louder than you're prepared to deal with. You wonder if the whole neighborhood knows there's a human here now. “Did you enjoy my spaghetti? Sans is not here to upset your stomach with grease and ketchup anymore! If you want, I, the great Papyrus, will make you more of my finest pasta! We can have a home cooked lunch with Undyne!”

That's a name you recognize, but not from back home. You search your memories of yesterday and find it; that's who Papyrus wants to impress by capturing you. You get the feeling that lunch between the three of you cannot end well. You need to get your knife back.

—Sans! Sans isn't here! For a moment you entertain the thought of going through his things, finding your knife, and escaping, but you know better. You know, without doubt, that he still has the knife with him. There's no possible way he'd have left you alone with his brother if it were somewhere in the house.

At least Sans definitely hasn’t realized what it really is. If he had, well… you’d be dead. You have no doubts about that. You have to get it back right away. It wasn’t ever supposed to end up in a monster’s hands.

So. You have to get out of the house, for two reasons. You can't be here when Undyne gets here, and you need to get the knife from Sans, wherever he is.

You have to get past Papyrus. Without your knife.

You kick the pillow and blanket to the side and pull the door open. Papyrus is still standing in the hall; he claps his hands and grins (he's always grinning) at the sight of you.

“I'm so glad you've decided to come out, human! Of course. With the lure of more of my spaghetti. Who wouldn't come out immediately?” He strikes a pose, chest puffed out in price and hands on his hips. He has exchanged his armor for a t-shirt that reads, ‘Pasta Pro!’ “I can't wait to introduce you to Undyne, human! She's the one who taught me how to cook, after all! Since you love my pasta so much, you'll definitely like hers!”

‘Where are my clothes?’ You ask.

Papyrus puts his hands on his cheekbones. “That’s right! Your secret human hand code!” he shrieks, elated.

You can't do this. Being able to speak to Sans and Toriel with ease makes your current inability to communicate more infuriating than you remember. You mime writing on a paper, and Papyrus at least understands that much. “Of course!” he shouts, doing an about turn and racing down the hall. “I'll get you something to write with!” He throws open the door with the many decorations and disappears into what you can only guess is his room. You hear him taking to himself and shuffling noises, then the crash of something heavy falling to the floor. You’ve started to inch toward Sans’s room to see if there’s anything useful you can take, when Papyrus rushes back out into the hall, kicking the door shut behind him. “Here!”

He presents you with a pad of paper in at least five different colours, plus just as many markers. “I didn't know what your favourite colour was!” he says, by way of explanation. Warily, you take a blue marker and the paper; it winds up that a pink sheet is on top. You point in the direction of the sofa and table downstairs, then turn to make your way there. Papyrus follows you through his own house, and the two of you sit on the couch, the paper on the table.

First things first. You write out your earlier question, ‘Were are my cloths?’ You're pretty sure something is wrong with how you wrote it, but you don't know what to change. It’s been a long time since you had to finger-spell words like that. All you know is that Papyrus better not say anything about your spelling or your clumsy handwriting.

“Oh! Right!” Papyrus jumps up and darts into another room under the stairs. There’s a heavy clang, and he runs back, your hoodie and pants and shirt in a bundle in his arms.

‘Gunna get dressed,’ you scribble, taking your clothes from him. You purposefully avoid touching his bony fingers, since he’s not wearing his mittens right now.

You retreat to the bathroom yet again to change your clothes. You know the t-shirt and sweatpants you borrowed probably have to get washed—there are a couple red smears down the front of the t-shirt that must be from when you face-planted in the couch trying to get your knife from Sans and regained your bloody nose for your troubles. Still, you fold them up and, after a moment’s consideration, you fold the blanket as well. You leave the borrowed items in a pile on the pillow. Your own clothes are clean and smell nice and feel softer than you’re used to, and you close your hands around the slightly torn and threadbare hoodie sleeves and enjoy the texture. The pie bag and dead flashlight go back in your pockets, and you actually tie your shoes this time.

When you return downstairs, Papyrus is exactly as you left him. He is perched on the end of the couch, hands on his knees as he leans slightly forward, eager.

“I am ready to learn!” he shouts as you approach. “Teach me your secret human hand code!”

You pick up the paper and marker again, thinking. You have to get Papyrus to decide to let you go; you can’t escape him by running unless you want a repeat of your capture on the mountain. It has to be his choice to let you leave. Thinking about it, didn’t he have some hesitations about capturing you? You’d been more preoccupied with the fight than with what he was saying but… You might have an idea. You write out a word, and let Papyrus see it. Then you straighten, making sure his gaze is on you, and sign.

‘Friend.’

Papyrus repeats the word out loud, questioning, and you nod, then form the sign again. This time he tries along with you, his long bony fingers interlocking and mirroring yours. He practices it a couple more times, then his head shoots up and he gasps, audibly. “Human!” he cries. “I knew you wanted to be my friend! And when Undyne gets here—”

‘Wait,’ you sign, your wiggling fingers catching his attention even if the meaning of the sign escapes him. You grab the marker when you know he’s looking.

‘Cant be freinds,’ you scrawl, then add, ‘yet.’ You lift the marker from the paper, but don’t cap it. In the short time you’ve known Papyrus, he’s done a lot of things that, if they had come from a human, you might take to indicate they cared about your well being. He’s fed you, cleaned you, clothed you, offered to support you. But you can’t fully appreciate any of it, not when…

‘Real freinds dont captur freinds,’ you scribble, so fast you think some of the letters are kind of hard to read. ‘You hurt me,’ appears on the paper under the marker’s tip, before you can think better of being so honest.

Papyrus stares at the words, and you want to scratch out the last three, you want to take it back. Why did you want to tell him that anyway? Bad enough you admitted as much to Sans yesterday.

“Human,” says Papyrus, oddly quiet. “Does this mean the two of us can never be friends?”

You shake your head and start to sign before you catch yourself, and pick the marker back up. ‘We can be freinds if you let me go.’

Papyrus jumps to his feet as soon as the last letter appears on the page. “Of course!” he yells, spinning to face you and taking your hands in his. The bones of his fingers are cold and hard, and you pull back automatically, but Papyrus goes on, “I cannot believe I, the great Papyrus, did not see it sooner!”

Great, he’s seen right through your shoddy attempt to manipulate him—

“After all, who cares about all the admirers I would get as Vice-Captain of the Royal Guard, if you’re not my friend too!”

—or not.

“I will hereby un-capture you! You are free to go!”

Was it really that easy? Papyrus goes on about how he’ll give you some spaghetti for the road, and he tells you that you can always come back to stay in the bathroom or on the couch any time you need a place to stay or just want to. Before you know it he’s bundled up a bag of two covered plastic bowls of his, “trademark pasta,” and it’s in your hands, and he’s offering you his motorcycle helmet with the flames painted on, “So nobody will know you’re really a human under there!” The helmet is still heavy and a bit oversized, and you dislike not being able to see to either side without actually turning your head, but you’re secretly impressed by his foresight to disguise you in such a way. You pull your gloves on to hide your human skin, and now you’re completely covered.

He gives you his phone number too, even though you shake your head when he asks if you have a cell phone. “Well. In case you get one! Now you have my number! So you can call anytime!” You fold the paper up and store it in the back pocket of your jeans.

If Sans had not confiscated your knife, and you’d tried to force your way past Papyrus instead of thinking of a way to convince him to decide to let you go…

There’s no point in thinking about things that could have been. Growing up underground has taught you that well enough. All that matters is whatever you have here and now: a new chance at freedom, not just for you but for all humanity, as Papyrus unlocks the front door.

He stops before he opens the door, hand on the doorknob, and turns to you. You take a step back, fist tightening around the handle of the bag of pasta, as he looks at you. Is he having second thoughts? Is he worried about letting Undyne down?

“Before you go, human,” he says, and you feel your shoulders relax because that sounds like he’s still going to let you go, “will you teach me one more word from your secret human hand code?”

You nod. Compared to what you were thinking you’d have to do to escape, teaching Papyrus another sign is nothing.

“Please teach me the way to say ‘I’m sorry.’”

Something catches in your throat, but you nod again and transfer the pasta bag to your left hand. You bring your right up in a fist over your heart, and move it in a circle. Papyrus does the same, even getting it on the correct side on the first try, and then he signs, ‘Friend.’

You assume he meant it as a question, though his expression doesn’t lend much to the sign, so you nod emphatically, the helmet bobbing back and forth on your head. ‘We’re friends!’ you sign back, the pasta bag swinging on your wrist as you point between the two of you, and it doesn’t feel like a lie this time, and was that all it took? Was that all you wanted, for Papyrus to apologize?

He holds open the door for you, but this time you’re the one who hesitates. You look up at his big toothy skull smile, and your fingers twitch, and you hold your arms open.

Papyrus understands a lot without words even if he can’t sign more than two, and he gets down on a knee and wraps you in a bony hug. You can feel all the weird knobs of his shoulders and collar bone and vertebrae under your arms when you return the hug, and the helmet knocks against his skull lightly. It’s not as warm and comforting as hugging Toriel, but it still leaves a little spark of something in your chest. You sniffle and cough, and you’re glad your face is mostly hidden by the helmet when Papyrus lets you go and straightens.

You look up at him one more time, then turn and run. “See you later, small human friend!” Papyrus calls out after you, and you really hope nobody heard that. But as you run down the street and then turn a corner so that even if you look back you won’t see Papyrus waving after you, you realize nobody else is outside in the rain on this street.

Your shoulders are already dotted with dark wet spots, the blue of your hoodie getting darker yet. It makes a pleasant sound hitting the helmet on your head, and you compare it to the pattering you heard on the roof. Your boots, at least, do a good job keeping your feet dry, but you don’t want your jeans to get too wet. Wet jeans are the worst. You should probably figure out where you’re going and then get there.

Surrounded by monster houses on a monster street in the monster city, you have no idea how you got here or where to go from here.

But you know how to find out.

You close your eyes and place one gloved hand flat on your chest, palm against your damp hoodie. You can feel your soul when you concentrate. The very culmination of your being, or so they'd told you back in the lab. You focus on the tiny red visualization of it in your mind, and it hurts like something physical.

Now that you can feel your soul, you can feel the tug of the knife. It’s as acute as if someone had tied a rope around your heart and given it a solid yank. Your throat threatens to close up again and you breathe deeply, coughing on the exhale.

You open your eyes and look forward, in the direction you know Sans has taken your knife. You’ll get it back, and then you’ll continue your journey.

It feels like you still have a long way to go.

You wander through the streets, long enough for the rain to soak though your hoodie and jeans entirely, and each cold step is made worse by the freezing wet denim on your legs. You remember seeing the mountain in the distance when you first arrived at Sans and Papyrus’s home, and you think that it’s mostly at your back, but sometimes the streets go at different angles and sometimes the tug of the knife moves in a new and different direction, so you’re not entirely certain. The buildings have changed from the happy homes on the skeleton brothers’ street to buildings that are taller and packed more closely together. Many of them are decorated just as the houses on Papyrus and Sans’s street were, ribbons and bows and lights and stars. There are signs proclaiming ‘Open!’ in many of the doors, and more signs with names you’ve never heard of advertising things you don’t understand. You’re reminded of the few restaurants back home.

You think about wandering into one of the buildings, only for a little while, only to get out of the rain, but a desire to avoid any more monster encounters keeps you outside. The rain isn’t enough to keep everyone indoors, however, and you do pass monsters on the street. They don’t pay you any mind, hurrying wherever they’re going under their umbrellas. You see monsters wearing scarves and hats, monsters with tails and hooves, monsters who are smaller than you and monsters who are bigger than you. Some of them chat animatedly with friends or into their hands holding little rectangular devices. Some of them don’t speak as they rush down the sidewalk.

You started coughing a little while ago, which is kind of gross inside the helmet, but you keep it on. You’d have to deal with wet hair and the chance of more monsters recognizing you as human if you took it off. The coughing has only become more frequent the longer you walk, and your throat is that kind of tight that you know means you should probably sit down soon.

When you come across another empty glass shelter like the one you saw in the parking lot at the foot of the mountain, you gratefully step inside and sit on the bench. It’s been kept mostly dry, but with the state of your pants, you probably wouldn’t notice even if it weren’t. Like the shelter at the parking lot, there’s a map here too, hanging on one of the walls. It shows a tangle of streets and colourful paths through the city. In the upper right, there’s a bright red arrow proclaiming, ‘You are here!’ You spend a few minutes squinting at the street names and landmarks, but it doesn’t tell you much other than whoever named, ‘Flower Park,’ ‘Bigger Flower Park,’ ‘Deep Lake,’ and, ‘Small Lake,’ is really, really bad at names. Most disappointingly, there’s no happy arrow to say, ‘King of All Monsters Here!’ for you to get an idea of where to go after you get your knife back.

There is a large green square near the bottom of the map labeled, ‘Our Home, Now And Forever,’ that you can’t help but wonder about, though.

You lean back on the bench, wondering if the rain will ever let up. It was fascinating at first, but now you’re damp and chilled and coughing, and your teeth will probably start chattering any minute. It drums against the roof of the glass shelter, and you watch cars go by and monsters hurry past to get out of the rain.

One monster, instead of running past, darts into the shelter with you.

You stiffen, but all they do is shake themselves off from head to tail, throwing water droplets everywhere. A little bit probably gets on you, but not enough for you to notice any difference in how soaked your clothing is. Once they’ve stopped their shake, the monster looks at you, a big grin on their face.

“Yo! Are you playing hooky too?” they ask. When you don’t say anything in response, they elaborate, “You must be! I can tell you’re a kid like me, cause you’ve got a striped shirt!”

They are, in fact, wearing a striped shirt of their own, shades of orange and yellow that are similar enough in colour to their scaly skin that you’d wondered for a moment if it was a shirt after all. They don’t have arms or hair, but they do have a row of yellow ridges going in a line down the back of their skull, and reappearing on their tail. (You guess the spikes might continue down their spine under their shirt? But that’s really none of your business.) One of their eyes is a little puffy.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at school before!” they go on, not seeming to mind your lack of response. “What grade are you in?”

Their smile is so expectant that you finally give in, shaking your head in the negative. The helmet slides around, emphasizing your slight motion.

“It’s a secret? Yo, you don’t gotta worry about me telling on you!” They laugh. “I’m skipping school too!”

It seems like they might ask you more questions, when one of the biggest cars you’ve seen yet pulls to a stop right in front of the shelter. “Awesome, here’s the bus!” the monster kid says, and they trot right up to the big boxy vehicle. It opens its doors obligingly, and as the kid hops up the first step, they turn around to see that you haven’t moved.

“Aren’t you coming?” they ask.

The bus is pointed in the same direction your soul is pulling you. You’ve no idea what route it will take, but you’ve seen the cars move on the street; it will get you in that direction much faster than walking will. Bonus: you won’t have to be in the rain, either. Of course, the last time you rode on a vehicle didn’t end well—but you’re pretty sure that was mostly, if not entirely, Papyrus’s fault. You’ll be fine this time. Probably. You stand up and follow the kid into the bus.

The driver has a hood over their head, and only darkness where you look to see their face. But from that darkness, a melodic voice quietly sounds out. “Tra la la… welcome aboard. Please take a seat.”

There are rows of seats going through the bus, about half of which are occupied. There are monsters in suits and monsters in dresses, monsters with animal like features and monsters whose heads look like cubes and pyramids and other shapes. You walk after the kid until you reach a pair of unoccupied seats next to each other, and you both sit down. The kid’s leg is touching yours when you both settle, but instead of flinching away, you only hope they’re not as bothered by your wet jeans as you are.

The bus lurches into motion along with your stomach, and your fists clench. But after the initial start, your stomach only complains when there are bumps in the road, and is otherwise calm. You can hear the driver sing to themself, “Tra la la… This, too, shall pass.”

You watch the buildings go by out the window. The rain continues to steadily fall, and you get distracted following water droplets create paths down the glass. The bus stops sometimes for traffic, and sometimes to let some monsters disembark and others board, but it doesn’t change direction, bringing you ever closer to the tug of the knife.

At the next stop, every monster around you begins to rise, gathering their things and heading for the door. “Tra la la… end of the line,” rings out the driver’s voice. The monster kid next to you is also standing and bouncing excitedly. You pull yourself up and follow them off the bus. The two of you are the last to leave.

“Yeah! This is the best place to go if you’re playing hooky!” the kid exclaims. You swing your head back and forth, but it doesn’t look much different to you from the other streets. Gray, with bare trees lining the sidewalk. There are yet more decorations here, wide ribbons with sparkling edges wrapped around poles which hold bright lamps over the sidewalk, lights in the shapes of stars, and you wonder if the decorations are always up or if there’s a special occasion. Maybe it’s normal up here to adorn everything with festive colour and light. Maybe the simple fact of living on the surface is enough to cause constant celebration. The kid darts off, and you crane your head back to get a better look at the building they’re headed towards. It’s definitely the biggest one you’ve seen yet. It’s not necessarily taller than some of the others, but it’s wider, with so many windows and signs and ramps leading up to big wide doors.

“Come on,” the monster kid calls to you, bouncing in place outside of one of the big sets of glass doors. You bring a hand up to your chest and check the direction your soul is pulling.

Dead ahead, huh? Convenient. Hopefully this building has an exit on the other side; going through it will surely be faster than going around such a large structure. You make your way up the ramp to the kid, who smiles and mashes their tail against a button that makes the doors open for the two of you.

You walk two feet into the building and stop in your tracks.

You’d thought the streets were full of things, restaurants and stores with their signs and decorations, passing a few monsters here and there on the sidewalk. Inside this building, the wide brightly lit hall is full of monsters moving past each other, making noise, a dull roar of voices echoing under a high ceiling. To either side, colourful displays crowd behind glass walls, and you can see two upper levels, walkways full of even more monsters and displays. Everything is so big and crammed so close together, the doors are so tall and so are some of the monsters, and enormous planters are dotted through the middle of the hall. There are hedges shaped like monsters, like stars, like bells and all sorts of things, and their bases are covered in golden flowers. You try to focus your attention on only one thing, maybe it won’t be so much so fast if you only focus on one thing at a time, and your eyes slide over signs that boast ‘Holiday Sale! 50% off!’ and you see vibrant fabrics, an assortment of clothing hanging in a window.

You remember how to move your feet and slowly approach the display, staring in awe. There are … there are so many clothes. You can see monsters pawing through racks of them inside the store, pants and shirts, skirts and jackets. Hoodies, like your own, but in all sorts of colours and patterns, not pilled or torn or fished out of the dump where monster trash sometimes falls underground. Monsters can just—just buy new clothes whenever they want to, they don’t have to grab their findings from the garbage dump and run before anyone else sees what they’ve got, they don’t have to wash it upstream so the stink of trash mostly—but never entirely—leaves it. It’s just here for them, in different sizes and shapes so they can pick out and buy the one they like the best, at their leisure.

The other displays have toys, books, food—there’s so much. You sink down to sit on your heels, staring up at a thick green hoodie with a yellow stripe across the front that hangs in one of the storefronts. ‘Ask us about alterations for your limbs!’ proclaims a sign next to it, showing a picture of a cheerful green-skinned monster with four arms.

“Yo!” says a voice next to you, and you turn your head, the helmet sliding around. The monster kid is standing to your right, looking down at you and biting their lip. “I didn’t think about how crowded the mall would be with holiday shopping,” they say. You can hardly hear them over the din of the crowd, but you do pick out the word ‘mall,’ identifying the building full of stores you’re in. “It’s kinda overwhelming! You wanna sit down? We could go to the food court. I’ll buy you a cinnamon bun, yo!”

You nod, appreciative of their consideration. They only just met you when they were waiting for the bus, and they jump to a lot of incorrect conclusions, but since the moment they started talking to you, they’ve been looking out for you.

They don’t know you’re a human, you remind yourself, as you rise. You let them lead the way, trotting behind them and trying very hard not to bump into any of the many, many monsters to either side. They think you’re another monster kid, like them.

You pass stairways that lead to the upper levels, and the monster kid has to double back when you stop to stare at the stairs that move automatically. This time they offer you their tail so you won’t get lost, and you grip the tip of it in one gloved hand, trying hard not to squeeze. You pass storefront after storefront, all of them with peppy signs advertising sales and offers and wishing you happy holidays. For all your efforts to dodge the crowd, you do brush against a tiny hovering monster, but all she does is squeak, “hOI! exqueeeeese tem!” and flutter away, vibrating intensely all the while.

When the hall opens up into a wide room filled with tables and chairs, there are just as many monsters, but the kid leads you to an unoccupied table in the corner and you shakily sit in one of the two chairs around it. “I’ll be right back!” they say, and you nod, trying to breathe deep. Your heart started racing at some point and your hands are trembling. You hadn’t imagined—the scientists in the lab had tried to warn you how many monsters there would be, how big a city would be, how big the surface really was. But how could you have imagined this? The monsters in the mall alone must outnumber the entire population of humans underground, you think. You’re not sure if even the scientists understood how many monsters there really were.

What are you supposed to do? If you free the humans, what will they do, so hopelessly outnumbered?

You wrap your arms around yourself and lean forward, the helmet hitting the table with a dull thunk. Inside the mall, it’s much warmer than outside in the rain, and while your jeans are still wet and uncomfortable, you’re not as cold as you were. You can still feel the tug on your soul. You will find your knife and you will set humanity free. Everyone’s hopes and dreams are resting on you. You won’t leave them trapped underground.

You hear the monster kid approaching and you lift your head to see them. They’re carrying a bag in their mouth, and they drop it on the table before sitting across from you. “Yo, are you gonna be all right? You feel okay to eat?” they ask. You nod and sit a little straighter. At this, they smile widely. “Awesome! I got us each a cinnamon bun! You, uh, you mind taking them outta the bag?”

You open the bag—crinkly plastic, like the one Papyrus had given you for the pasta—and find two small cardboard boxes. You pop one open and slide it in front of the kid, before pulling the other to yourself. Inside it is a small, steaming bun, with two little nubs sticking up and a smiling face drawn on in white. Like a little rabbit, you guess. A brownish powder is sprinkled over the whole thing, and gets on your gloves when you pick it up. You watch the monster kid bite off one of the rabbit ears and chew happily, then duck your head down and try to get the bun to your mouth without taking off the helmet. It’s big enough that you can sort of get half your face out of the opening and, if you keep your head down, probably not be seen. Hopefully.

It smells delicious, and warm steam hits your skin when you hold it in front of your mouth. Copying the kid, you bite off one of the ears, and have to will yourself not to shove the entire bun in your mouth right away. It’s sweet, but so much more than the tea with sugar that Toriel served you. It’s crispy on the outside but soft and chewy on the inside, and you burn the tip of your tongue and try to savour it as long as you can.

There have been so many delicious things to eat on the surface, and if nothing else, you want your fellow humans to be able to try burgers and fries and cinnamon buns. You bite off the other ear, and you’re filled with determination.

You and the monster kid have just finished your cinnamon buns when you hear a familiar sound of clanking metal. Your head jerks up—Papyrus?—but the armoured figure you see approaching you is definitely not your skeleton friend. She’s about as tall as he is, looming over you and the monster kid, but for one thing she has skin, blue scales, and one glaring yellow eye, the other covered by a patch. Bright red hair—or is it a long frilled fin?—is pulled into a high ponytail on the crown of her head. Her mouth is open in a huge, toothy smile, but it doesn’t feel as welcoming as Papyrus or even Sans’s grinning skulls.

“Well, looks like that tip I received was right after all!” she crows, looking down at the two of you. The monster kid has pulled their feet up on their chair and is staring up at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, their tail curled around the legs of their chair.

“Oh, man,” the monster kid all but whimpers. You can’t tell if their voice is awed or fearful, but you’re stuck to your seat as effectively as if you’d been sewn to it. The tip she received? Did somebody see your face under the helmet—did somebody fetch the Royal Guard to tell them there was a human here? You have to run. You have to run, now.

“That’s right, punks,” she sneers, leaning forward. You pull away, pressing your back against the wall. “You thought you could get away with it, huh?”

Across from you, the kid is visibly trembling. They stutter a bit, but can’t manage to string a full word together.

“Well guess what!” the guard yells, slamming her fist down on the table and startling a little shriek out of the monster kid. You half expect the table to break, but it only shudders under the force. “You got caught!”

“A-are,” they manage to stammer out, “are you gonna make us go back to school?”

Her grin only widens, which you weren’t sure was possible. Her teeth are huge and sharp and jagged.

“HELL NAW!” she yells, and you feel it echo in your chest. “I woulda skipped out too! School’s for nerds!” She throws back her head and cackles.

Your mouth drops open, though neither monster can see it through the helmet. The kid whispers, “Oh, wow,” and this time you can hear the clear awe in their voice. The armoured monster’s laugh dies down, and she grabs a chair from a nearby empty table and pulls it up, sitting with the two of you. Through great force of will, you peel yourself away from the wall and attempt to sit nonchalantly, as though you weren’t scared for your life ten seconds ago. You still have to get out of here, but thanks to Papyrus’s helmet, it looks like you still have a chance to escape before anybody realizes.

“I mean,” she says, leaning one arm on the table and gesturing at the two of you with her other hand, “you probably should go to school at least most of the time. But it’s almost lunch time, and tomorrow’s the holiday weekend! Making you go back to school now would suck!” She’s just about as loud as Papyrus, and even though everything about her appearance is intimidating and you have got to sneak off as soon as you can, you can’t help but find some comfort in that resemblance.

“Wow,” the monster kid repeats, and you roll your eyes at the obvious hero-worship.

“Seriously, though, getting a call that a couple of kids were playing hooky is the most exciting thing to happen to me all week,” she grouses, resting her chin in an armoured hand. “Being in the Guard sure is boring when everyone’s so nice all the time!”

“D-don’t you get to suplex bad guys?” the kid asks.

“Yeah,” and she grins at the thought, “but there’s not a lot of bad guys! And most of the time, my other Guardsmen solve problems by talking them out before I have a chance to do anything! I have to suplex cars and stuff to keep in practice!” She slams her fist on the table again, and you are honestly surprised it has yet to crack in half. But then her wide grin slowly fades, and her fist relaxes, as she heaves an enormous sigh. It’s all very dramatic. “One of my guards told me he captured a human yesterday, but… I think he’s just trying to set up some kinda fake fun adventure for me, since I’ve been so bored.”

You go cold.

“Man, how cool would that be, though?” she asks, turning to the both of you. “Humans are ferocious and mean and like, they’re supposed to be super tough! I’d love to fight one!”

“Yo, what if your guard really did catch a human?”

Your eyes shoot toward the monster kid and you bite your lip. If this guardswoman is who you think she is, you’d really rather she continued to think of you as made-up. How to get the monster kid to change topics without looking suspicious, though? Or better yet, how to distract them both so you can get out of there? You’ve let yourself get pulled off-task so much already. You need to go.

“Then I’d take the human’s soul to the king, of course! That’s the duty of the Royal Guard.” She nods, decisively, and the monster kid’s eyes shine with adoration. “But that’ll never happen,” she says, her eye falling half closed. She waves one hand in a vague gesture. “No human’s ever come back up past the barrier, and they never will. Nothing living can cross the barrier, in either direction.”

You sink into your chair, and your fingers twitch, so you shove your hands into your hoodie pocket and hold onto the bag of Toriel’s pie.

“Anyway!” The guard fixes you both with another fierce grin. “What was so important that you two twerps just had to skip school today?”

“Yo!” The kid bounces in their chair, kicking their feet. Their tail whacks against the chair legs. “I have to buy a present for my parents! And, uh, I wanted to see the Gyftrot… today’s their last day at the mall!”

“Nice,” the guard says, resting her chin on her fist. “And what about your friend with the awesome helmet?” she asks, gaze sliding over to rest on you.

Your shoulders jerk, and you quickly fumble to sign, ‘What they said. Me, too.’

Both Undyne and the kid stare at you, and nobody says anything. After a beat of silence among the three of you, the kid finally speaks up. “They don’t really talk!” they explain. “And they got kinda overwhelmed by how many people are here today! We were taking a break.”

“Hah! I get that. I know a nerd who can’t handle big crowds.” Despite her sharp teeth and the hard edge of her laugh, there’s something gentle in the curve of her smile and the way she says that. It fades quickly when her eye re-focuses on the two of you, though, and you’re not sure you ever saw that soft kindness at all. She smacks her fist into her palm, exclaiming, “I know! How about I go with you!” What should be an offer becomes a statement when she says it, and there’s no room for you to answer yes or no. Not that the monster kid, with their sparkling gaze of adoration, would turn down such a suggestion. “You don’t have to be scared of anything when you’re with the Captain of the Royal Guard, Undyne!”

You knew it. Even if she hadn’t mentioned that one of her guards had captured a human, you should have known that this would be just your luck. You might have managed to escape Papyrus’s house before she showed up there to take your soul, but you may as well have stayed there where it was warm and dry, if you were only going to wind up in Undyne’s clutches today anyway.

Apparently you are literally in her clutches; before you realize what’s happened, she’s snatched you and the monster kid right out of your seats and plopped you each on her shoulders. You only just manage to grab your bag of Papyrus pasta as she sweeps you up. You wouldn’t have expected her armour to make for a comfortable perch, but the pieces on her shoulders are smooth and curved, and except for the cold of the metal seeping through the seat of your wet jeans, it’s not bad.

“First stop, the Gyftrot!” she declares, punching up with the arm on your side. You wobble precariously and grab on to the edge of the shoulder pad for dear life. Over her head and sat on the opposite shoulder, you can see the kid grinning almost as hugely as Undyne is. She’s got a hand on their shin to keep them stable, and their tail sticks out behind them, you presume for extra balance. You’re glad she’s at least aware enough to realize the kid can’t grab hold like you can.

Going through the mall on Undyne’s shoulders is, in fact, a very different experience than walking through. You’d think that being so easily picked up and set on the shoulder of someone so much larger than you would make you feel extra small, but from so high up, you can’t help but feel big and almost powerful. There are still so many monsters around you, but being able to look down on them makes them less scary, somehow. It probably helps that the monsters make way for the Captain of the Guard almost automatically, and all the ones with faces and mouths give the three of you a smile.

Undyne sets a quick pace, even with the weight of you and the kid on her shoulders, and the three of you clank down the wide hallway. She holds on to your shin to keep you steady as well, and her grip is powerful, but not at all painful. Your only discomfort is from your wet pants.

You come upon another set of those moving stairs, and after that the straight lines of the walls and storefronts give way to broad curves, round walls forming a circular shape, the ceiling above you now a tall glass dome. You can see the dull purple of the clouds when you look up. Much more interesting than the sky above you, though, is the scene before you. It looks like someone took a slice of the mountain forest you walked through yesterday and transplanted it here inside the mall. Cone-shaped trees with needle leaves are arranged in a neat semi-circle around a snow-covered platform. A four-legged monster with branching horns—no, antlers—stands in the center. Said antlers are weighted down with decor similar to what you saw on the buildings outside, star-shaped ornaments and ribbons, bells and sparkling lights.

A line of monsters waits to one side, mostly pairs of big and small. There’s often a certain resemblance between the two monsters in a pair—here is a tall, orange furred and two-tailed monster holding hands with a smaller fluffy one, whose fur is a shade closer to red and whose tails are stumpier. There’s a hovering monster with fluttering snowflake wings and a wickedly jagged beak. Next to it, a smaller monster bobs in mid-air, its ice-butterfly wings beating rapidly. Yet another pair of monsters are dog-like, white-furred, one little more than a puffball with a dark nose and shiny eyes, the other a hulking giant, reaching Undyne’s height if not taller.

Parents with their children, you realize with a jolt that nearly topples you from Undyne’s shoulder.

You’d seen the family photo on Toriel’s mantle, and Sans and Papyrus called each other ‘brother.’ This display of monster families shouldn’t shock you.

Undyne goes to the back of the line, and you have a clear view over everyone’s heads. As you watch, the first child in line rushes up to the antlered monster—the Gyftrot?—and, standing on their clawed tip-toes, reaches up to take one of the bells from the monster’s antlers. They hold it close to their chest, then scurry away, back to their waiting parent. They show off their new treasure to their parent, and with a smile, the two make to leave. The next child in the line rushes forward to do the same, this one selecting a light that flickers from green to blue and back again.

The process doesn’t take much time at all, most monster children having decided what to remove from the Gyftrot’s antlers before their turn comes. They rush forward eagerly, claim their prize, and then retreat to their parents’ open arms, one after the other. Before too long the line in front of you is gone, and Undyne is setting you and the monster kid down. The kid scrambles forward, but then turns to see that you’ve stayed behind with Undyne.

“Yo,” they say, head tilted to one side, “aren’t you gonna come too?”

“Go on!” Undyne’s voice is much too loud, considering that you’re right next to her. “I bet that kid wouldn’t mind you lending a hand!” So saying, she gives you a push forward that nearly sends you face down into the snow. Arms windmilling, you only just catch yourself. You look back to glare at her, but she grins and waves you forward.

You catch up to where the kid was waiting for you, and together, the two of you approach the Gyftrot. Now that you’re closer, you can see the way its mouth is almost beak-like, but twisted sideways and full of teeth, and you try not to shudder.

“This is so awesome!” The monster kid’s voice is a much needed distraction from the details of the Gyftrot’s face. “Yo, can you reach the star on this side?” they ask you.

You can, but only just, your fingertips brushing against the dangling ornament. It shimmers, sparkling silver and gold as it bounces back and forth, and you try again with a little jump. You manage to knock it off the tip of the antler it was hung from, and the monster kid darts forward, catching it in their mouth. They twist and drop it into a pocket in their shirt, then straighten up and beam at you. “Thanks!”

You nod, helmet bobbing around, and start to leave.

“Hey, aren’t you gonna un-decorate the Gyftrot for yourself, too?”

You pause, then turn around. You hadn’t considered participating in what was clearly a monster tradition, but… would it be suspicious if a monster your age who was skipping school didn’t participate? Probably, if the kid’s perplexed expression is anything to go by. Two steps bring you back to the Gyftrot’s side, and you look up at their antlers. On a low prong is a red ribbon with silver trim, and you don’t have to stand on your tip toes or reach very far for it at all. You tug it free and wrap it around your wrist under the monster kid’s approving smile.

The two of you return to Undyne, who is standing with her hands on her hips. “Good choices!” she comments. You think she would have said that no matter what you took from the Gyftrot’s antlers.

The monster kid babbles happily to her about something as the three of you step to the side to let the next monster child approach the Gyftrot. You think they might be talking about where they plan to go next, but that’s not what’s really important right now. You still need to distract them so you can slip away. If Undyne doesn’t pick the two of you up again, you could simply fall behind when they walk to their next destination, but you shouldn’t count on that. You’ve got to figure out a plan that doesn’t rely on the actions of a monster you can’t predict.

Before you can think of a good distraction, an energetic tune blasts from the armour on Undyne’s hip. “Hold that thought, punks,” she says, holding up a finger. “Gotta take this. Royal Guard business.” The monster kid nods rapidly, and Undyne pulls out a funny little rectangle that’s blaring the tune out. You feel like you’ve seen similar things in the dump, but they never made any noises or lit up like hers is now. She taps it with a finger and holds it up to one of her red fins, about the place where ears would be on a human head.

“Hey Papyrus! What’s up!”

Your stomach feels a little bit like when you were in the motorcycle’s sidecar.

Papyrus’s voice is loud enough that you can hear with perfect clarity when he replies, “Hello Undyne! I am calling to give my scheduled report!”

The monster kid seems perfectly content to stare starstruck at Undyne, and she’s not really focused on the two of you while she talks to Papyrus, telling him to go for it. This is probably as good an opportunity as you’re going to get. You take a slow step backward, slow enough that your boots don’t even squeak on the floor, and hold your bag of pasta close so that the plastic doesn’t crinkle loudly and alert them to your escape.

“I regret to report,” Papyrus says, “that the human escaped earlier this morning!”

You freeze mid-step.

Undyne laughs, but not as exuberantly as she had cackled earlier when she told you and the monster kid that school is for nerds. Actually, it reminds you a little bit of how Sans chuckled at you. “Is that so?” she asks.

You can hear the skepticism in her voice, but apparently Papyrus can’t. “I tried very hard to keep them here!” he says. “But in the end, I couldn’t!” You suppose that’s true, even if he makes it sound like it played out differently than it actually did.

“Papyrus,” Undyne says, slower and quieter than before, “are you sure there’s actually a human? It was really foggy yesterday. Maybe you saw something that wasn’t there?”

You should really keep moving, but you frown at the doubt in her voice. It’s to your advantage, but it doesn’t feel right, that she should think Papyrus is lying when he’s not.

Why do you even care about what she thinks of Papyrus?

“Undyne!” you hear Papyrus yell. “I take my responsibility as a member of the Royal Guard very seriously! I would never make a report to you if I were not one hundred percent confident it were accurate!”

She smiles at that, fond and with only a little bit of teeth, and you take another step away. So far, so good. If you can get past the trees at the back of the Gyftrot setup, you can probably get lost in the crowd of milling monsters and find an exit.

“That’s why I knew I could make you a member of the Guard, Papyrus!” she says, passionately clenching her free fist. “But are you positive you weren’t confused?”

“I was,” he admits, “confused at first, because the human doesn’t talk at all! But then I learned that they have a secret human hand code!”

You take another step, and Undyne’s single eye focuses directly on you. Your boots squeak on the smooth floor as you freeze in place.

You’d signed at her only the once, and she and the monster kid hadn’t reacted at all, except to comment on your silence. But apparently she’s more observant than you gave her credit for.

“Hey Papyrus,” she says, drawing out the words, “this quiet human you found, with the secret hand code. Did they take anything with them when they escaped?” She’s shifted, her free hand loose at her side, her weight equally distributed between both feet and her knees slightly bent. She hasn’t stopped looking at you. For only having one eye, her glare is no less intense, if not more so. “Like, say, your totally awesome motorcycle helmet?”

You don’t wait to hear Papyrus’s response. You run.

Chapter Text

“Human! Stop right there!”

You don’t.

Your squeaky wet boots pound against the floor and you dodge between monsters, many of whom are backing away nervously. You can hear panicked voices all around, “A human?” “That’s impossible!” “The humans can’t escape from underground!” You don’t care about that, and you dart through the crowd, one hand holding the helmet steady and one clutching the pasta to your chest.

There’s a loud hum that makes you think of the barrier for an instant, and your steps falter, which turns out to be your lucky break as a spear made of blue light crashes down into the floor mere inches in front of you.

“Take off that helmet and face me, human!” Undyne demands from behind you, sounding much closer than you like. You bolt once more, but now the monsters around you have realized something is very wrong, whether or not they know what you are, and there are panicked yells as they all try to get as far away from you as possible. You’re left alone in the wide space of the hall, and you will your heavy feet faster. There’s another warning hum and you duck to the right just in time, another of Undyne’s magical spears landing in a planter and impaling a hedge that had been trimmed in the shape of a joyful monster.

“You coward!” she yells. You duck your head and pump your legs as fast as you can. “Trying to hide behind innocent monsters!” Well, she’s not wrong, but by now nearly every bystander has ducked into the stores on either side, so your idea to get lost in the crowd isn’t going to work anymore. They watch you through the glass, and inexplicably you feel wetness at the corners of your eyes. Your breath is coming short and quick, shallow gasps that you know can’t last very long.

An exit, you need to find an exit. You wish you hadn’t been so overwhelmed by stimulus when you first entered the mall, because now you don’t know how to tell the entrance to a store apart from an entrance to the building itself. If you keep running through the hall like this she’s going to catch you; you think the only reason her long legs haven’t reached you already is that she’s weighed down by her armour, and maybe a little tired from carrying you and the monster kid. You can hear her clanking behind you, steadily louder, and you make a sharp left and race up one of the moving staircases you’d noticed earlier. Running up a moving path gives you a little boost of speed, and you hear her give a frustrated shout as another volley of spears falls short.

The second floor is divided into two, a narrower floor on either side of the hall, leaving large openings in between where you can look down at the first floor, but you don’t have time for that now. You can’t zig zag as much as on the lower floor, but if you make it to the next stairway you can gain another lead when you go down. You hope you find an exit soon; you’re wheezing, chest tight, and the helmet doesn’t make getting enough air any easier.

The floor in front of you lights up with a pattern of blue spotlights and you barely swerve to the side in time to avoid the spears that jut straight up from them. “Take that, human!” Undyne crows, and you risk looking over your shoulder to see her bearing down on you. Your breath catches in your throat—not now, not now!—and you double over, coughing.

Over the sound of your lung-deep, hacking cough, you can hear Undyne’s approach, her metallic clanks slowing now that your body has betrayed you and left you immobile. You support yourself with one hand on the railing that is the only thing preventing you from toppling off the second floor back down to the first, and you try to take a breath without coughing. You can’t.

“What are you—what’s wrong with you, human?” she demands. You shake your head, inhaling a shuddering breath. Finally you exhale without needing to hack up an entire lung, and you look up at her. She’s tossing a spear from hand to hand, her mouth twisted in an impatient frown. “First you try to trick me, then you run away from me, and now you’re playing sick?” she sneers. “Trying to get me to lower my guard again? Too bad! It won’t work a second time! Now quit playing around and fight me!”

‘I’m not playing around!’ you sign, Papyrus’s pasta bag swinging in your grip as you twist your wrists. You know she won’t understand, but you can’t stop yourself from objecting.

Undyne scoffs. “More of your secret human hand code? Am I supposed to be intrigued like Papyrus was?”

You straighten, your throat itching in protest, and think about running again. It will almost certainly come to an end even sooner than your first sprint, you know, but you have to get away from her. She’s much more single minded than Papyrus; you won’t be able to distract her by piquing her curiosity or offering to be friends. The Undyne who happily carried you through the mall is gone, replaced by the driven Captain of the Guard. Your legs tremble, feeling about as load-bearing as the noodles in Papyrus’s spaghetti.

“Did you think it was funny, human?” she snarls. “Going to see the Gyftrot with the Captain of the Royal Guard? I bet you got a real laugh out of playing me for a fool.” You shake your head, but she’s not listening.

You wish you had your knife.

“All right, human.” She points the spear at you with a dramatic flourish. “This is the part where you say something about your evil plans, before the heroine strikes you down!”

For some reason, her demand for you to say something hurts more than anything yet. Even more than how easily she casts aside the time spent with you and the monster kid. You don’t care that she thinks you’re evil. If you’re honest, you’re kind of grateful that she’s so quick to see things in black and white like that. It makes it easier to focus on your goal. But it’s been a long, long time since anyone accused you of being rude for not talking, or acted like you were merely holding out on them. Like you had a choice. Your shoulders jerk involuntarily, and you can feel heat on your face and wetness at your eyes even though the helmet kept the rain out.

“Ugh, this is such a let-down,” she grumbles. “At least take Papyrus’s helmet off!”

You shake your head, and her lips part in a snarl. With a slash of her hand, light pools at your feet. You try to back away, but you hit the railing, and the spear that shoots up catches the rim of the helmet in front of your chin, jerking it up off your head. The spear dissipates, and you fumble to catch the helmet, but it rolls right out of your arms and clunks loudly onto the floor.

“Huh,” Undyne looks at you, brow furrowed. The moment you started to run from her, she’d known what you were, but now here you are, your face bared to her and all the other watching monsters. “Do all you humans look the same?” she asks. “There’s all kinds of different looking humans in Alphys’s history books. I was hoping you’d be different, too.”

You ignore her question and her continual disappointed tone, and start to bend to pick the helmet back up. A spear shoots an inch from your fingers. You recoil back, staring wide-eyed at Undyne. Getting the helmet back might not really matter now that she and every other monster in the mall has seen your face, and you can breathe better without it on. But you want it back, you want to hide behind that semi-opaque barrier between you and all these staring monsters.

“Whatever,” she says, raising her hand with the spear pointed at you. Two more materialize in the air above her, rotating until they’re aligned with the first. “I don’t care how cowardly and boring and defective you are, human! I’m still gonna take you down!”

“Yo, leave ‘em alone!”

You and Undyne both turn to the source of the shout. There stands the monster kid, breathing hard and frowning. Their stance is wide and their tail is angled up; they look ready to lunge if need be.

Undyne doesn’t lower her spears. “Kid, you need to scram,” she says, her glare moving back to you. “I’ve got this under control, but it’s dangerous here.”

The kid shakes their head with such a force that their whole body moves, their tail wiggling out behind them. “They’re not dangerous!” the kid shouts, stepping forward. “They’re my friend!”

“Stay back!” Undyne orders, but too late; the kid scrambles forward, coming to a stop between the two of you.

“Yo, if you’re gonna hurt my friend,” the kid says, their back to you, “then… then you gotta get through me, first!”

Undyne’s eye widens, her mouth dropping into a frown. The two spears above her blink out of existence, and the one in her hand wavers.

The kid looks over their shoulder at you, and then they nod their head in the direction you’d been heading. “There’s an exit through the Starblook’s on the first floor!” they say.

You know Undyne hears it—the kid doesn’t exactly talk at a whisper—but you don’t care. You bolt, and you hear the clank of armour signaling Undyne’s pursuit only once before it stops. You glance over your shoulder to see the kid has darted to stand in her way, and they’re gamely hopping from side to side any time she tries to pass them. You feel a tiny smile on your face, but you face forward and don’t slow down.

A second later you hear Undyne’s shout of “Ngaaaaaaah!” and a massive clank that shakes the very floor under you. The sound of her sprinting after you resumes, and you don’t look back again. Your throat immediately closes up but you don’t care, you’re not going to waste this chance the kid gave you.

You make it to the next set of stairs before she catches up with you, and you jump down them two or three at a time. Undyne is hurling spear after spear at you, and you stumble when you reach the floor, but you scramble back up and keep running, your eyes scanning the storefronts and signs for Starblook’s, whatever that is. You’re feeling dizzy, you aren’t getting enough air from your shallow breaths, and you can’t focus on the signs and keep dodging Undyne’s attacks.

“To your left!” you hear the monster kid yell, and there it is, a green and white logo of a ghost and the word ‘Starblook’s’ circling it. You barrel through the door, and all around you monsters who had retreated into the store shriek and back away, trying to run through the door you just came in. You hear Undyne’s roar of rage; the monsters pouring out the store are in the way. She can’t get a clear shot at you.

Behind the counter, a floating ghost who hadn’t bothered fleeing the store in a panic quietly calls out a, “Welcome to Starblook’s…” You keep moving forward, but you’re slowing down. Your chest is aching and your legs are wobbling. A sign that says ‘EXIT’ hangs from the ceiling over a door straight ahead, and you stumble through, ignoring the ‘Employees ONLY!’ sign taped to it.

Finally you’re back outside. The rain hits your face with a cold shock, and you wheeze, looking rapidly from side to side. You have to hide before she gets out here. You’re facing a street of cars that looks like any other one you’ve seen today. To your left you see more storefronts, possibly leading back into the mall, but that’s no good. The monsters inside will panic at the sight of you and Undyne will find you right away. To your right is a gap between buildings, and without a moment’s thought you dart down it.

It’s a dead end. Of course it’s a dead end, littered with trash, piles of wet flattened cardboard boxes and scattered papers and cups. But there’s also a huge metal bin, taller than you, with a slanted lid that comes down just to your height. You rush over to it, pushing up the lid. As soon as you’ve got it open, a rancid smell hits you and you recoil, but the sound of Undyne’s shout as she makes it outside spurs you on. You’ve smelled worse at the garbage dump underground, you decide, and hoist yourself into the bin. You land inside with an unpleasant wet squelch and the lid hits your feet; you tuck them in and it falls shut all the way, leaving you in the dark. You curl up, one hand over your nose and mouth, but that stench is all around you.

You hear the clank of Undyne’s armour and you freeze. Your throat picks that moment to tighten, and you really have to cough.

“Where’d the squirt go!” she yells, and you twitch and tremble with the effort of keeping still. You can’t breathe, you need to cough, there’s an itch crawling around inside your ribs and you have to get it out, you have to cough, but you refuse. “Ugh! I almost had them!”

She starts to walk away, the heavy sound of her footsteps growing distant. You’re not sure if your vision’s going dark from lack of breath or if there’s no light in the trash bin, but you wait, shaking, until you can’t hear a thing, until you’re sure she’s gone, really gone. Then you cough frantically into your hand. You hack violently until you manage a shallow inhale, and then you fail to exhale without breaking into more coughing. It takes several long minutes for the coughing to finally die down enough for you to breathe steady. Your pulse is pounding in your neck, your chest hurts, and so does your throat. But worst of all is the fact that you lost Papyrus’s pasta when you jumped into the trash; it fell out of your hand somewhere into this lumpy pile of garbage. You start crying.

After Toriel, and Papyrus, and the monster kid, and even Sans, kind of—after all of them you’d thought, maybe—when you finally set your fellow humans free and they could marvel at the surface too—then, maybe, everyone could—

You’re not just something exciting to spice up her life! You’re not here just to make it so she can have a fun time on the Royal Guard! You’re a person, you’re human and you’re a person, you’d tell her you’re just like a monster, except monsters hate humans. Everyone in the mall was terrified of you, and they watched, just watched while Undyne chased you down and attacked you. Things had been fine when you had the helmet and they assumed you were one of them, even Undyne had been nice to you then, but now that’s gone and everyone knows what you really are.

Sans had warned you about this, hadn’t he? Not everyone is as cool as my bro, he’d told you. Not everyone is gonna wanna chat and make friends, he’d said.

You want your knife back, except you don’t, because you could use it against monsters but you can’t use it against people.

You cry yourself out as the rain drums on the lid of the garbage bin.

You don’t sleep, but you do drift halfway between awareness and dreams, lulled into a calm by the beat of rain on the lid above you. You can see dim daylight in a thin line between the lid and the wall, and you think it might not be a bad idea to wait in the trash until night falls, then try to sneak unseen to retrieve your knife from Sans. Ideally the rain will keep up; you’re going to stink when you leave the garbage bin, and it’s your hope that the rain will help get the stench off you a little bit.

You can hear the sound of cars racing by on the wet road, and voices and sometimes footsteps as monsters pass by the little alleyway. You don’t find cause to worry until a few of those vague voices become louder and more distinct, approaching your hiding place.

“D-do you really have to dumpster dive where I work?” asks a voice that, if you had to pick a word, you’d describe as wobbly.

“Yeah! Starblook’s totally has the best dumpster around!” a second voice answers. Your eyes dart around, but you’re surrounded by lumpy bags and paper cups. You don’t remember seeing much else in the alley when you darted down it; if what you’re hiding in is the dumpster, you’re in big trouble.

“But if my boss thinks I’m in on it—”

“Oh my god! Like, who’s gonna care? It’s literally garbage?” This is definitely bad news. Maybe you could bury yourself under a few bags? You grab one and pull; instead of moving it, you wind up rolling yourself over.

“Now hurry up and toss that trash so we can dig through it!” chimes a third voice.

Light floods into the bin as the lid flies up. You hear the highest pitched shriek you’ve ever heard in your life, and the lid falls back down with a bang. Twisting, you try to get enough leverage to kick yourself up, but the garbage underneath you gives way any time you put pressure on it, and you wind up flopping around uselessly.

Outside the bin you hear panicked conversation. “There’s—there’s—it’s the—“

“Oh my god! Was someone in there?”

“No! I mean yes, but it’s—it’s the—” You manage to get into an approximately sitting position, and something under your foot bursts with a splatting noise. You try not to think about it, and your hands grope around for a solid support so you can push yourself to stand.

“Open it back up, BP!”

“No, wait!”

The lid is lifted again, and two pairs of wide eyes meet your panicked stare. One of the monsters is round, purple furred with pointed ears. You think of old picture books. Cat-like. The other is green scaled, with a long and sharp-toothed grin. Reptilian. In perfect synchronization, they each raise a hand to their mouths and gasp.

“It’s totally the human!” “It’s, like, the human!”

“W-we should call the Royal Guard, right?” asks the wobbly voice. Standing some yards away behind the purple and green monsters, you see another cat-like one, with brown fur and a hunched posture, wringing his hands together nervously. “T-They made that announcement that if anybody had any information…”

The two peering over the edge of the bin at you exchange looks.

“Like…” the reptilian one starts, her gaze sliding to look at her companion.

The one with purple fur meets her look and continues for her, “We could call the Royal Guard…”

“But you know who else we could call?”

“Oh my god, Bratty!”

The both look back at you, huge grins not hidden at all by the hands they hold in front of their mouths. “Alphyyyyyys!” they say together, almost singing the word. Or name. It sounds a little bit familiar, but you can’t place it.

“Come on, you guys, don’t stand so close to it,” the third monster pleads. “They said it’s really dangerous!”

You decide that’s your cue to stop staring at this ridiculous trio and get going. You can’t get your legs under you to stand or anything, but you can roll across the squishy garbage and get a hand up on the edge of the dumpster, you bet. The green one is holding up the lid while the purple one pulls out a little rectangle that looks like what Undyne used to talk to Papyrus, so you slowly roll yourself to the wall further away from the green one. Bratty, you think the purple one called her. Is that seriously her name?

“Hey BP! Can you swing us, like, four Starfaits to go?” she calls over her shoulder. You reach up an arm and get a firm grip on the cold metal edge of the dumpster.

“W-What! You mean, uh, sneak them out to you?”

“Yeah!”

You pull yourself up and lean over the side. Standing on top of all the trash in the dumpster puts you higher off the ground, and you can get over the edge easier than when you scrambled in. You heave yourself out and try to land on your feet, but you stumble and start to fall forward.

“Whoah there, little buddy!”

The monster with the wobbly voice—BP, you think—rushes forward to catch you, and you manage not to bang up your knees on the ground. Furred hands under your armpits, he lifts and helps you find your feet again.

“Sweet catch, BP!” cheers the purple one, before returning her attention to the little noise-making rectangle. “Anyway, we’ll see you soon, girl!” She drops it into a pocket, then looks at you.

BP has left a hand on your shoulder, and you figure it's to make sure you don't fall over. For someone who was telling the others to get away from you because you were dangerous, he sure did rush to help you. His hand is a spot of warmth on your shoulder, the rest of you cold and damp and rained on. You look up at his face and accidentally meet his gaze. He's biting his lip nervously, and when you meet his eyes he starts shaking. It's reassuring to know he's afraid of you. That’s how monsters are supposed to feel when they see a human. That’s how all the monsters who watched Undyne chase you felt, and that’s what you expected from the start. It’s easy to deal with.

Bratty turns to the purple one. “All set, Catty?”

“Totally set! She’s at her lab, but like, where else would she be? Does she even go home to sleep anymore?”

Bratty shakes her head, her blonde curls swishing. “Like, she needs to let herself live!”

“Yeah!” Catty—you can’t decide which name is more absurd, between her and Bratty—turns her fanged grin on the monster with you. “Come on, Burgerpants! Make with the Starfaits!”

“R-right!” Burgerpants—apparently that’s what BP stands for, and you feel kind of bad for this monster who has clearly the worst name of the ridiculous trio—lets go of you and scrambles out of the alley, presumably back inside. You’re left with Catty and Bratty before you realize what’s happened.

“Do you think they need, like, a disguise or something?” Catty wonders out loud. She sounds excited about the idea. Bratty twirls a blond curl with a clawed finger, regarding you, and you stare back as blankly as you can manage.

“Like, just about everybody saw the emergency broadcast,” Bratty says. “You're like, totally famous now.” It takes you a moment to recognize that she's talking to you and not about you.

“We'll have to be totally sneaky! Like one of Alphys’s anime ninjas!”

Bratty purses her lips. Despite the long shape of her face, it's a human-like enough expression that you can understand it. Most of the monsters’ faces have been easy enough to read, and for a brief moment you wonder if in return they find your expressions monster-like. “I bet Muffet would let us cut through her shop if we, like, bought a donut.”

“Four donuts!” Catty insists.

“Yeah, she'd totally make us buy more than one. And then we can give one to Alphys, too,” Bratty agrees. From how Catty has her paws up at her mouth, and the look in her eyes, you think that wasn't quite her reasoning.

A quiet moment passes. Both Bratty and Catty’s gazes slide over to land on you, and you stare back, trying to maintain your blank expression. Counter to the reassurance you felt from Burgerpants’ obvious fear of you, your species and your purported danger, you’re not comfortable with how these two monsters seem to find you to be a point of interest. It’s not as dangerous as the way Undyne looked at you and saw entertainment, but...

“Like, what's taking BP with those Starfaits?” Bratty asks, crossing her arms and looking over you to the alleyway entrance.

As though summoned by the abbreviation of his awful name, Burgerpants reappears stumbling back into the alley. A tray is in his hands, four shiny transparent cups with domed lids and a sparkling, pink-and-purple swirled liquid contained in each. “H-Here you go, ladies!” He looks down at you, and adds, at a higher pitch, “And, uh, you, little buddy.”

Bratty takes the tray, pulling one of the cups out and handing it to Catty, who is practically bouncing. “Yeah! Free food is, like, the best!” she yells, and Burgerpants frantically tries to shush her. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and when she says, “Thanks, BP!” it’s just as loud.

Bratty rolls her eyes, but you’re pretty sure she’s smiling, and takes another of the cups and holds it out. It’s not until she looks at you, raising her eyebrows, that you realize she’s not holding it out for herself, but for you. You reach for it slowly, to give her time to change her mind, but she holds it steady until you wrap both hands around it. The drink inside is even prettier up close, and you turn it in your hands to admire the elegant twists of glittering magenta and fushia gradients. There’s a pink and white striped straw stuck in the top through the lid, and you see Catty happily drinking hers, so you copy her.

It’s even sweeter than the cinnamon bun, which you hadn’t thought possible. It’s cold, too, so you only take a tiny sip, even though you want to keep drinking it forever. You swish it back and forth in your mouth a little before you swallow, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

You take your right hand off the cup and sign, ‘Thank you.’ None of the monsters react, and you feel your shoulders sag a little. You should have known it was too much to hope for. You take another sip of your Starfait. Catty’s cup is already half empty.

“OK, we’re, like, outta here,” Bratty announces, to Catty’s enthused agreement. With barely a goodbye to Burgerpants, they both sweep past him. He raises a paw and his fingers wiggle a little, and he murmurs something that might be a goodbye or might be anything else.

When they reach the end of the alley they glance down and behind them. They stop, exchange glances, and simultaneously look back at you. “Come on,” Bratty beckons to you, at the same time Catty says, “Like, what are you waiting for!”

You look at them and take a third sip of your Starfait.

Next to you, Burgerpants summons his wobbly voice again. “D-did,” he starts, then falters when Catty and Bratty’s gazes dart to him. He gulps, but tries again. “Did you ask the human if they wanted to go with you?”

Bratty and Catty look at each other, and then, in perfect synchronization, burst into laughter. “We, like, totally didn’t!” Catty howls, at the same time Bratty manages through her giggles, “Not at all!”

Catty skips back down the alley to stand in front of you. With her Starfait straw still at the corner of her mouth, she leans down, one hand on her knees. “Like, you wanna come with us to meet our friend Alphys?” She grins. “She’s, like, a total human fanatic! She’ll flip when she sees you!”

You take another pensive sip of the Starfait. After what happened the last time a monster told you they wanted another monster to see you, you’re not exactly enthused about the prospect. On the other hand, it sounds like Catty and Bratty are at least aware that most monsters will be frightened of you, and have already planned a way to get you from here to there without being seen.

There’s really only one thing that matters, though. You let the straw fall from your lips and close your eyes. You pull on your soul, and feel the answering tug drawing you forward.

So long as Alphys is in the same direction as your knife, you’ll be happy to take advantage of whatever stealth Bratty and Catty are offering.

Chapter Text

You leave Burgerpants grumbling in the alley and trot along after Catty and Bratty, sticking close behind them, and the few monsters you do pass on the sidewalk pay the three of you no mind. Your hood is up and your head is down, but raindrops still manage to hit your cheeks and nose somehow. The sky seems darker than it was when you first entered the mall. How long did you spend laying in the garbage? Catty finishes her Starfait soon after you begin walking, tossing the cup into a trash can at a corner. You still have over half of yours, and you’re determined to make it last. Bratty occasionally sips at one of the two drinks still in the tray she holds, but her Starfait has even more left than yours, and the fourth remains untouched.

The direction you walk in is mostly lined up with where your soul is pulling you. Slightly off, a little at an angle, but not so much that you’re ready to give up the willing camouflage provided by Bratty and Catty’s company.

They come to a stop without any apparent warning, and you barely avoid walking into them. “Here we are,” Bratty announces, and Catty all but shouts, “We’re here!” at the same time. You turn your attention to the building toward your right. It doesn’t seem that different from the others; they’re all connected and squished together in the same general shape, all with big glass windows to show off their wares, sort of like in the mall, but here you’re getting rained on instead of being inside that big wide hall with the high, high ceilings. The storefront next to you is painted purple, and its window display holds trays of what you can only assume is food. There are things that look a bit similar in colour and texture to the cinnamon bun you had earlier, but there are so many, in different sizes and shapes, slight variations of colour and texture, some decorated with colours and patterns, some plain. Ornate letters painted on the window identify the place as ‘Muffet’s Parlour.’ Underneath, another line is painted to look like it’s written on a flowing ribbon, ‘Pastries and treats, made by spiders, for spiders, with spiders!’

Bratty pushes the door open, and a bell overhead gives a welcoming jingle. The three of you walk in, and a pleasant warmth and alluring smell hit you simultaneously. You’re starting to think that even if you spend the rest of your life on the surface, there will be so many tasty foods to try that you’ll never be able to eat them all. Your hand that’s not holding the Starfait creeps into your pocket, feeling the plastic bag of squished pie. At least you didn’t lose that in the dumpster.

“Welcome, dearies,” titters the monster behind the counter. Her five dark and shining eyes blink at you, and she smiles, sharp and delicate. Like Catty, she's purple, but instead of fur she seems to have smooth skin. Her clothing is frilled and decadent, intricate patterns and ribbons and layered fabrics. You look down at your ripped and garbage-stained hoodie and jeans. The ribbon you got from the Gyftrot peeks out from one of your sleeves, and you rub the edge of it between your gloved thumb and forefinger.

“Muffet!” Catty and Bratty chorus, waving. They approach the counter, and you follow, keeping your head down and hooded, sipping at your Starfait for comfort. As you get closer, Muffet’s delicate face scrunches up. You don’t see a nose or nostrils anywhere on that face, but you recognize the curl of her lip and narrowing of her eyes well enough.

“Dearies,” she says, her mouth pulled into a tiny frown, “have you been dumpster diving again?”

“Maaaybe?” Catty drawls, while Bratty waves a hand back and forth and says, “Like, only a little.”

Muffet crosses two of her arms, and you give a little start at noticing how another pair of arms rest her hands on her hips, and yet a third pair of hands drum her fingers on the counter. “And your little friend?”

“Oh, yeah, they totally took a dive,” Bratty says, and Catty nods vigorously, adding, “Like, a lot!” You hunch up your shoulders so you can tuck your chin into your collar, and let your hood fall even lower.

“And what have I told you about visiting my Parlour when you stink of garbage?”

“Like, don’t do it!” Catty cries gleefully.

“We won’t stay long,” Bratty quickly reassures. “And we’re paying customers today!”

At that, Muffet’s narrowed eyes open back up and her bright smile reappears. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner, dearies?” She uncrosses her arms and holds them out, elegant hands sweeping over the displays to either side of her. “What would you like?”

Bratty and Catty immediately point to their selections. There are tiny signs in the display case, and you identify the big ring shaped pastries as ‘Spider Donuts,’ though you have to squint to read the cramped and curved writing. Bratty indicates a third donut coated in pink and purple that makes you think a bit of your Starfait.

“Hey,” Catty elbows you in the arm, and you stumble to the side. You expected it to hurt, but when you straighten and focus your attention, you realize there’s no pain. Catty is smiling at you, possibly amused at how off-balance you are. “Like, what do you want?”

You look back to the display. There are so many different shaped pastries and tiny signs with labels that mean nothing to you, even when you do focus hard enough to parse the little letters. Since coming to the surface, everything you’ve eaten has been incredible, and your trepidation at picking something unknown quickly fades to anticipation. You haven’t even finished your Starfait yet, and here Bratty and Catty are offering you more surface food. You shift your weight from foot to foot, and your eyes dart back and forth, until your gaze catches on a flash of yellow that makes you think of something you saw in Toriel’s kitchen. You point.

“Ahuhuhuuuu,” Muffet titters, wasting no time in picking up your selection and dropping it into a small paper bag. “The golden flower cookie, hm? That one is the king’s favourite, you know!” One of her long arms reaches over the counter and drops the bag into your waiting hand. As soon as it’s in your grip, you slip it into your hoodie pocket with Toriel’s pie.

“Like, nice choice!” Catty says around a mouthful of spider donut, crumbs decorating her grin, while Bratty pays. You sip your Starfait, but you have to stop smiling to suck on the straw.

“Thank you for your business, dearies,” Muffet says. “Now, run along, before any of that smell lingers, won’t you?”

“Actually,” says Bratty, “could we use your back exit?”

Muffet’s eyes narrow again, and her mouth is a thin, sharp line. She rests two pointy elbows on the counter and steeples her fingers under her chin. With her eyes so dark, it’s hard for you to tell where her gaze is focused, but you have a pretty good guess. Your grip tightens on your Starfait and your teeth clamp down on the straw. “If it were only the two of you, I would be happy to oblige,” she says. You take a step back. “But you’ve brought something quite nasty into my Parlour. And I don’t just mean the stink of garbage, ahuhuhuuu.”

Bratty and Catty look at each other, and then at you. Catty’s short fingers work nervously at the paper of the donut bag, loudly wrinkling it, and Bratty’s lips are pursed in focus again.

“I was prepared to wait until you left to call the Royal Guard,” Muffet says, and one of her free hands has pulled out another of those little rectangles that you can reasonably guess by now are used to talk to people despite physical distance. “As a courtesy to paying customers.”

“Wait, Muffet!” “Like, put down the phone!” Bratty and Catty shout, frantically waving their hands. Muffet pauses with one finger held just above the glowing screen of that little rectangle—the phone, you think, happy to finally have a word for it, even if there’s nothing else to be happy about in this situation.

Catty reaches out, and before you realize it, one of her thick arms is wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you stumbling back toward the counter and under Muffet’s hard glare. Her grip is soft and warm, everything Papyrus’s wasn’t, but your knees have locked up and the only reason you don’t push her away because you’re holding tight to your Starfait with both hands. “They’re, like, totally harmless!” Catty declares, having tucked you against her side. Muffet’s lip pulls in a very clear sneer, and you wonder what your own face must look like upon hearing Catty’s completely inaccurate claim.

“We wanted Alphys to get to see them,” Bratty joins in. “She’s been, like, totally down lately. Don’t you wanna cheer her up, too?”

This time, Bratty’s words aren’t enough to make Muffet’s frown go away. “What you are doing is dangerous for the entire kingdom,” Muffet says, voice low and hissing. “This is bigger than one person’s enjoyment.”

Catty’s lower lip wobbles, and Bratty’s hands nervously pull at her curls. “But, like, just look at them, Muffet!” Catty says, one hand on top of your head. You don’t even come up to her shoulder. “They’re so tiny! How could they be dangerous?”

Muffet closes her eyes, all five of them, which is good because you’re making such a frown at Catty’s insistence that you couldn’t possibly be a danger. You came here expressly to be a danger, even if—even if you don’t necessarily want to be a danger to every monster. Just one, in particular. But you’re pretty sure that even if you could say that, nobody would be happy to hear it.

Raising one of her hands, Muffet snaps her fingers. A spider, dark and quick and as big as your entire face, scurries up the counter and comes to rest at one of Muffet’s splayed hands. She opens her eyes again, and now you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that her glare is pinned on you. You let yourself lean a little more into Catty. “One of my assistants will guide you through the back exit,” Muffet says through her teeth. “You have thirty minutes before I call the Guard.”

“Thanks, Muffet!”

“Like, thank you so much!”

Muffet waves a hand dismissively, and the spider on the counter rapidly descends, weaving across the floor and deeper into the Parlour. Bratty and Catty pull you along after it, trotting down a few steps and pushing open a creaking door labeled ‘SPIDERS ONLY.’ Your little guide moves quickly, and you have to jog after Catty to keep up. The door shuts loudly behind you, and the light cast in from the front of the Parlour disappears, leaving you in darkness. You stumble along, eyes slowly adjusting, and you can just make out Catty’s form ahead of you. You scramble to catch up with her. The extra weight of the cookie in your pocket bounces with every step, as you’re led through a long, ill-lit hallway, past many closed doors. There are thick spider webs to either side where the walls and floor meet, and across some of the doorways, and in arches under the ceiling, some of them low enough that Bratty has to duck a little bit. In the dark, you lose sight of your quick guide, but Bratty and Catty don’t slow down so neither do you, even though your breath is coming faster again.

You follow them up a narrow stairwell, through another long hallway, left through a doorway and then two dark rooms, then a right into another hallway and down a spiraling staircase. You never would have imagined there was this much hidden behind the storefronts you had been passing outside. You wonder if it’s magic. You wonder how much time is left before Muffet calls the Guard, and if the time even matters, since apparently Muffet is going to tell the Guard exactly where you’ve gone, anyway.

The next door that opens spills the three of you out into the rain. You turn just in time to see the spider standing behind the door’s threshold, and you think it brings up one of its legs to wave at you, before the door swings shut and you can no longer see it. Under the sound of falling rain, you hear the click of a lock sliding home.

You still can’t really tell the streets and roads of the monster city apart, but this one has fewer decorations than some of the others you’ve walked down today. The lights you see appear to be mostly for functionality, big yellow lamps atop high poles that cast wide pools of light down the street. Fewer cars are passing by here, and the buildings are not the welcoming storefronts of before. Now the walls are flat and colourless, the doors opaque and unlabeled. The architecture is meant to be plain and efficient, without the decorative facades and column-like door frames of other buildings you’ve seen today. You can’t make out anything of the interiors through the small windows; there are blinds hanging down inside, only allowing thin slivers of light to indicate that anyone might be in the buildings at all.

It reminds you of the labs back home, honestly.

Bratty goes up to a door and raps her knuckles against it, while Catty pulls out her phone and holds it to her ear. Your free hand wraps around to hold your elbow and you exhale, your breath coming out in a cloudy puff. Neither of them are looking at you, and the Royal Guard is about to know where you were headed when you left Muffet’s. Now would be a great time to leave. Your eyes fall closed as you focus on the pull of the knife.

Your soul tugs you forward, but also to the left. You’re closer to the knife than you were when you left Papyrus this morning, and if you keep walking along this street, you’ll get closer still. The pull doesn’t become greater when the distance shrinks, so much as the reassuring comfort of your soul intensifies. The closer you get, everything feels just a little more. You need it back in your hands, and not just so you can reach your goal. You’d be best served now by avoiding this detour and leaving your monster guides behind. For all that they’d helped you avoid any other monster encounters on the street and treated you to delicious food, they’d also walked you right into danger. You’ve got no reason to hang around and follow them into the building Bratty’s knocking on.

You hear the door open, and you look up in time to see a stumpy yellow monster, almost your height. The bottom edge of the white coat she’s wearing scrapes against the ground thanks to how hunched over she is. “W-what,” she stutters, looking from Bratty to Catty. You can pinpoint the moment her eyes land on you, her gaze locking on your human face. Her jaw drops, and she wrings her yellow, scaled hands and then adjusts her glasses. She opens her mouth, and nothing comes out; it takes her a few tries before she manages, each word increasing in volume, “T-the hu-human, t-that’s the human, oh my god!”

“A little quieter, Alphys,” Bratty chides, ushering her back inside.

“Yeah, like, I don’t think they heard you downtown!” Catty giggles. She gives you a pat on the back, encouraging you forward. When you don’t move, she turns that sincere grin down to you. “Like, don’t worry,” she pretends to whisper. “Nobody actually heard her downtown!” She giggles again, but your feet stay planted where they are.

“Oh my god, Catty,” you hear from the doorway. “Maybe the human’s worried about what Muffet said!”

“Like, that she was gonna call the Royal Guard?” Catty asks, and Bratty nods. “Oh my god! That’s right, they wouldn’t know!” She’s nearly bursting with suppressed giggles as she looks down at you. “We’re at Alphys’s lab,” she says, as though that explains everything. “You won’t need to worry about the Royal Guard here!” The short yellow monster makes some kind of high-pitched and gurgling noise that you think might be Catty’s name, or a protest, but it’s really impossible to tell. In response, Catty and Bratty burst into laughter.

You’re not sure you should take Catty at her word, but this time when she guides you forward, through the doorway and out of the rain, you let her.

The resemblance to the labs, you discover, does not stop at the building’s exterior. Inside, the lights above are familiar fluorescent bulbs, and the floors and walls are smooth and slightly off-white. You can see several desks and workstations, tools and blueprints scattered about, pages of notes spilling out of folders, and half-assembled pieces of machinery. Mounted against one wall, there’s a big humming monitor, undamaged and whole, and it’s displaying footage of a short figure clothed in dull blue. They’re running through an environment you eventually recognize as the mall, chased by Undyne. You hear a smooth and energetic voice playing over the recording, “—is considered violent and dangerous! If you encounter the human, immediately call the Royal—”

It’s you. The figure on the monitor is you. You shouldn’t have listened to Bratty and Catty, you shouldn’t have come inside. The Royal Guard is going to come here when Muffet calls them, and Undyne is going to put an end to your journey. Your eyes dart through the room again, but this time you’re noting where the exits are. There’s a stairway going up to your left, a closed door next to it, and another directly across from the entrance.

Catty is still behind you, blocking the way back to the door you came through, and the short yellow monster is standing with Bratty between you and the other two doorways. You’re going to have to go through someone to get out of here. How long has it been since you left Muffet? How long do you have to get as far away from here as you can? Why did you even let Catty bring you inside?

“—c-cant believe,” the yellow monster is stammering, “a real, actual h-h-human.” At some point when you weren't looking, Bratty must have given her the last Starfait. She fiddles with the straw and takes a nervous sip, but then sets it aside on the edge of a messy table and looks to you. “H-How did you cross the b-b-barrier?”

You realize she's addressing you, not just thinking out loud, and so you give her the same answer you gave Sans, a jerky, ‘None of your business.’ Your eyes go to the stairway again; there’s nobody blocking you from running up there, but you could very well be heading into a dead end.

Your attention is caught by the yellow monster shaking her head, mumbling, “I guess I should have expected that. O-Of course any human who made it across wouldn’t be eager to explain… I have some hypotheses, though!” She catches your gaze, and her eyes widen. She bites at her lip with large, blunt upper teeth. “Oh, um, y-you can hear me, right? Wait, that’s a stupid question, you w-wouldn’t have answered before if you couldn’t h-hear me…. Way to go, Alphys…” she trails off, gaze dropping to the ground.

You wave a hand at her to get her attention again, and when she’s looking up, you sign, ‘You understand?’

“Oh, y-yes! I can understand,” she nods, a smile breaking out on her face. “A-Actually, I’m kind of surprised humans still use the same sign language! I wouldn’t have expected that knowledge to be preserved.”

“Wait, like, that’s how the human talks?” Bratty asks, leaning over to peer at you more closely. You shuffle back under the scrutiny. “With their hands?”

“I thought they were totally shy!” Catty adds. “Or, like, that humans couldn’t talk.”

“No, humans can speak the same way monsters can,” the yellow monster confirms—Alphys, that's what Bratty and Catty had called her. “Just like monsters, though, sometimes a human gets born without a voice, or sometimes they c-can't use their voice for—for some reason. In that case, they can use sign language.” Her stubby claws fumble and grab her Starfait again, tightly gripping the cup when she takes a sip, and you wonder if her claws are sharp enough to pierce through it.

‘How do you know all that?’ you ask. You’d wondered why Sans and Toriel had been able to communicate perfectly with you, but now you guess it’s the same reason that monsters speak the same language as humans—a common origin point, from when both races shared the surface. Though why Sans and Toriel, who could both speak and hear, understood signs, you still don’t know.

“I'm the Royal Scientist. I s-study humans,” Alphys says. “Their history, their culture, it's all so interesting! Even though that's not r-really what I'm supposed to be focusing on… But how could I not, when it's so fascinating?”

Alphys must know something you don't, because ‘interesting’ and ‘fascinating’ are not the words you would pick to describe human history. More like ‘depressing’ and ‘awful.’ But of course Alphys has a different point of view; she’s on the winning team.

'Why do you study humans?’ you ask. ‘What are you supposed to be focusing on?’

Alphys gives a little, startled jump. “Oh! I, um, I'm not… J-Just forget I said that, okay? It’s n-not important.”

You expect that for you, forgetting what Alphys just said is going to be about as effective as getting her to talk without a stutter. Before you can pursue the topic further, however, she trots over to one of the cluttered desks. She sets her already half-finished Starfait down, pushes some of the accumulated debris to one side, and then tugs a big sheet of paper with scrawling, scribbled notes and equations out from under a pile of books and binders. Bratty and Catty follow behind her, whispering excitedly to each other. You stay where you are, looking with half an eye at the notes she’s pouring over, but your attention’s split between Alphys and the unblocked exits. At this distance you can’t read her scratchy handwriting anyway, and you can tell that the math is far beyond what little you learned; you only recognize it as such from having seen similar in the lab underground.

“Obviously, taking into account the barrier’s function, your presence here should be impossible,” Alphys says, looking over her shoulder at you. “N-Not that you need me to tell you that!” She laughs nervously, then pulls a phone out of her pocket. Her stubby fingers tap at it for a moment, before she holds it up and decisively presses a thumb against it. The monitor that had previously displayed your flight through the mall blinks, goes dark, and then switches to an image of two curved lines intersecting a straight horizontal one. A graph of some sort. One wobbly red line barely wiggles its way across the screen, its small curves only just managing to differentiate it from the horizontal baseline. The second line, dotted and black, makes larger and far more satisfying waves up and down. “It d-definitely wasn’t a simple matter of using b-brute force to push your way through, either,” Alphys mumbles. “In fact, the readings you’re giving off are s-sort of… l-lower than they should be…” She gnaws at her lower lip. “A… a lot lower, actually.”

You take a step backward. ‘What readings?’ you sign. You thought phones were only used to talk to people who weren’t nearby. Whatever additional functionality hers seems to have, you don’t like it.

Alphys is staring straight at you, but you’re pretty sure she missed your question. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses, and her hand holding her phone is trembling. You wonder what will happen if she drops it. Bratty and Catty have fallen silent, exchanging looks, Catty holding her paws over her mouth.

You take another step back. You sign, again, with more forceful motions, ‘What readings?’ Looking at the graph on the monitor, you have a terrible sinking feeling. She says she studies humans, but why would the Royal Scientist be studying humans now, when you’ve been trapped underground for so long? Wouldn’t someone called the Royal Scientist have better things to do with their time? There are very few human-related subjects you can guess would be relevant now.

Alphys, still staring at you, slack-jawed and shaking, stutters, “H-How are you even—what did you—”

You spin, making for the entrance you came through. Before you can reach it, the door flies open, hitting the wall with such force that it bounces loudly. Thick fog billows in, and flashing pink and yellow lights tint the clouds. A voice, loud and melodic, calls, “Aaaaaaalphyyyyys!”

You stumble back, and behind you, hear Alphys whisper, “Oh, no.”

In front of you, a silhouette begins to materialize in the fog. That same lilting voice replies, “Ooooh, yes!” It sort of sounds like the voice that was coming from the monitor earlier, the one that called you violent and encouraged monsters to call the Guard. It’s got a weird, echoing quality to it, like someone’s speaking into a metal can, almost.

You can see that whoever is blocking your exit is bipedal, like you, with two arms and five-fingered hands. The human-like silhouette reminds you of when you first met Sans in the fog on the mountain. Another skeleton? They’re tall—maybe even taller than Papyrus—and you can’t tell from the shape of their head if they’re wearing a hat or have some kind of fur or features you don’t recognize.

Alphys’s hands are on your shoulder, and you jump, but her grip is surprisingly firm as she starts to guide you back, away from the door and the fog still flowing in. She yells over your shoulder, “Now is really n-not a good time!”

“Oh, Alphys, darling, you always say that!” So saying, the figure at the door steps in, and you can see them fully.

You plant your feet, and Alphys stumbles when you stop moving under her hands. You crane your neck back, staring up, up, at the pale face framed by dark hair. A nose and mouth, like yours. A pointed chin, and one wide eye fully visible, the other hidden under thick, dark bangs. Not fur, but hair. You reach up a hand without thinking, going up your toes, but you’re too short to reach.

“Oh, my!” gasps the monster, one hand rising up to cover parted lips. “Well, now. This is a surprise!”

You let your hand fall, taking in other details. The strange rivets and bolts going down his face. The lack of elbows in his arms.

The hollow and transparent stomach, a floating soul suspended within.

“Alphys, darling!” he calls, looking right over you. “You didn’t tell me you had such a famous guest!” He turns his gaze down to you, putting a hand on his cocked hip. “When I did the news report on you, I never imagined I’d get to do such an up-close, in-depth feature, too!” With his free hand, he snaps his fingers.

Another monster sweeps in behind him. This one is gold-furred, with a thick mane of fur at their neck. A tiger? No, no, a lion, you correct yourself. “Interview make-up!” the too-human monster says, their arm sweeping in a grand gesture in your direction. “And see if you can’t do something about those rags they’re wearing, too!” Before you know it, you’re picked up and sat on one of Alphys’s work tables. Your feet dangle over the edge, and for a moment you’re back in the lab underground, kicking your feet as you sit on one of the tables and wait for the scientists to tell you the results. You’ve got to sit patiently and listen and do what they tell you, if you want this to work.

You’re brought back to the present when your three-quarters finished Starfait slips from your fingers. The lion catches it, then sets it down on the table next to you. They put a paw under your chin and tilt your head this way and that, then pluck at a lock of your hair and let it drop. They shake their head, and their thick mane ripples with the motion.

“You’re not giving me much to work with,” the lion grouses, and you glare at them. They miss your frown, grabbing a nearby lamp off another table and, with a flick of a switch, they’re shining the bright light straight into your face. You squeeze your eyes shut and lean away, holding up your hands, but gentle paws ease your hands down and guide your face back toward the light. “Relax your face, and hold still,” the lion’s voice requests. “You can keep your eyes shut if you need. In fact, that’s probably best.”

With your eyes closed it’s even harder to remember that you’re not back in the lab underground, that the person giving you instructions is a monster, that you shouldn’t be complying with what they say. You feel something wiping at your cheeks and forehead, drying off the damp remainder of the rain, and your arms are limp at your sides, your legs hanging loosely instead of kicking your heels against the table legs.

You can hear the noises of other monsters moving around you, and of Alphys and the too-human monster yelling back and forth, interspersed with Catty and Bratty’s squeals of delight. “M-Mettaton, this is a bad idea!” Alphys shouts. Her voice goes up and down like the lines on that chart she’d been looking at moments ago, as though she can’t fully commit between pleading and asserting herself.

“Nonsense, Alphys, darling! Can you imagine? An interview with a real, live human! Think of the ratings!”

“T-The Royal Guard w-won’t—”

“Oh, Alphys, don’t worry! I’ll be sure not to interfere with your little crush!”

“M-Mettaton!” Alphys shouts. You wince at the volume and the pitch, and hear the lion chide you to hold still.

You do, even when you feel some kind of cold liquid smoothed onto your skin. The lion’s fingers are gentle when they guide you by the chin to angle your head this way and that. You know they have claws, on account of you saw them earlier, but you certainly don’t feel them now. Whatever they’re putting on your face, they’re quick and decisive, getting your nose, forehead, chin, everywhere. Next, something brushes against your cheeks, soft like Toriel’s fur. It’s almost pleasant, but it’s taken away in much less time than it took to rub that liquid into your skin. You hear a warning, “Eyes, now,” not even a full second before a cool point touches your eyelid. You flinch and hear a disapproving, “Tsk,” before that weird sensation comes back.

You’re good at holding yourself still for unpleasant things—all the scientists always said you were so easy to work with, even if you were the worst candidate—so after the first flinch, you are sure not to move at all. And this isn’t bad, comparatively; the sensation of something so close to your eyes is nerve-wracking, but not painful. The lion hums in approval, and begins to work on your other eye.

You can still hear the human-like monster, whom you think is named Mettaton, along with Alphys, Catty and Bratty, but there are other voices calling to bring that here or lift that there, thunks and clatters of large items being moved. How many monsters are there around you, that you can’t see? You hear Alphys, panicked, yell, “Careful!” and then, “Mettaton, can't you do this somewhere not my lab?”

“Don't worry so much, darling! Now, we're broadcasting live with a thirty second delay, starting in two minutes!”

You have no idea what's happening anymore. The lion has moved from working at your eyes to combing your hair, and so you try to turn your head so the light isn't directly in your face and open your eyes.

Alphys’s lab has been completely transformed. A wall-sized backdrop blocks off half the room, and a carpet and two armchairs have been placed in front of it. It creates the illusion of a comfortable room in front of a huge window, the mountain you came from and a starry night sky in the background. Two monsters set up tall and bright lamps to either side, and one monster is maneuvering a small table between the chairs. Once done, they set a vase of golden flowers on the table.

“All right,” the lion says, and hands you a black jacket with crisp lapels and shiny buttons down the front. “We don't have time to fix your clothes. Put that on; we'll at least hide some of it, and we can crop the shot waist-up.”

You frown, but it's a really nice coat, so you slip it on, buttoning it and pulling the belt tight around your waist. You think that when you stand, the coat will come down to your thighs. The fabric is thick and has a rough texture; you like it. The sleeves have little belts at the wrists, too, and you fiddle with them as the lion fusses with your hair a little more. Next to the fresh fabric of the coat, you can see just how faded the material of your gloves is. You thought of them as black, but they look a dull gray against the coat’s dark sleeves. The edge of the Gyftrot’s ribbon peeks out at your wrist, and you tuck it back under your hoodie sleeve.

Propped up against the lamp the lion has set up, there sits a circular mirror that’s a bit bigger than your hand. You lean forward a little to catch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair looks soft and well-kept, not the usual tangled mess, and whatever the lion has done to your face has made your eyes look huge and your cheeks rosy.

It isn’t you at all.

“Fifteen seconds!” Mettaton’s voice rings out.

“This is gonna have to do,” the lion sighs, then picks you up under the armpits again and plunks you into one of the armchairs before you have time to realize what's happened. Though they look comfortable, these chairs are stiff and structured and hard, and you squirm til you’re perched on the edge and your toes can reach the floor. You can feel the heat from the big lights aimed on you from either side, even through your still-wet clothing, and that, at least, is kind of nice. In the time it takes you to settle in the chair, the lion has vanished, and now Mettaton is in front of you. He peers down, bending at the waist to get a closer look, and if you still wanted, you probably could reach up and touch his face now. Your fingers give a little twitch.

“The resemblance really is uncanny,” he remarks, then straightens.

You frown, raising your hands to ask what he means by that, but someone calls out “Action!” and Mettaton spins to face the other monsters, opposite the backdrop. Turning your head, you see a monster with some kind of boxy machine propped up on a three-legged metal stand. It has a curved lens pointed at you, and you think of a monitor or a camera, but it’s much too big to be a camera, isn’t it?

“Good evening, darlings!” Mettaton addresses the rest of the room. Behind the monster with the big boxy machine, you see Alphys wringing her hands nervously, and Catty and Bratty all but vibrating with excitement, Catty’s tail lashing behind her. “Coming to you live, risking life and limb to bring you this exclusive interview with the world’s most wanted fugitive, that dangerous escapee from the underground—yes, dear viewers!” Mettaton poses dramatically, gesturing to you with a flourish and a bright smile. “I, Mettaton, bring you… the human!”

You look from Mettaton to the assembled monsters, and feel your eyebrows furrow. Everyone here knows you're the human just by looking at you. He doesn't need to announce it. And why’s he acting like he’s done something special? You haven’t attacked anyone here yet. Your attention goes back to him when he nearly throws himself into the chair opposite you, crossing his legs with a hugely exaggerated motion and then leaning toward you. He props his chin on one hand, elbow on the armrest, and turns that shining smile to you.

“So, gorgeous!” He winks at you. “Tell us about yourself!”

Nobody makes a sound. Mettaton regards you with clear expectation in the quirk of his human eyebrows and the upward tug of his human lips. You turn once again to see Alphys, who hasn’t budged. The bright lights shining down on you make it a little difficult to see much of her or make out any details, but you’re pretty sure she’s biting her lip.

This is stupid. Your hands on the armrests, you push yourself up, but your heels barely touch the floor when a loud—and familiar—buzzing fills your ears. You’d thought the lights shining down on you were bright, but the crackling magic that surrounds you and your chair is blinding. Jagged bolts encircle you with rapid, erratic motion, and that angry buzzing reminds you of Papyrus, a little stiff and crispy after his mistake with his electricity maze. You scoot back into your chair in a hurry.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Mettaton wags a finger at you, then turns to the audience. “MTT Brand Localized Forcefields, for when your guests need some encouragement to sit and stay a while! Visit our website to buy your very own!”

Once you settle back into your chair, the buzzing magic quiets, fading into an almost unnoticeable hum. You probably wouldn’t even hear it at all if the magic hadn’t flared up when you tried to leave. You kick your feet against the chair and your fingers twitch where they tightly grip the armrests. When Mettaton gestures back to you, presumably directing the attention of the other monsters, he puts his entire body into the motion, not just his arms. It ends with him sprawled near horizontal in the chair, his back on an armrest and one leg sticking straight up.

“But back to the human! Tell us, darling, how do you like it here? How does it compare to underground? Are you homesick?” He flutters his eyelashes at you.

‘I want to go,’ you sign.

Mettaton’s smile doesn’t change, but you see his eyes dart quickly from your hands to your face. “How adorable!” he says, rotating in his seat so he’s actually upright. “The human is shy! But who can blame them, when they’re on camera with my majestic self, under the eyes of our wonderful worldwide viewers!”

‘This is stupid. I want to leave.’ This time, you cross your arms and huff when you’re done signing. Obviously he can’t understand, and you’re not surprised in the slightest, but at least your body language and expression should be clear enough. You’re not shy, what would you even have to be shy about?

“T-They’re, um, they don’t talk. O-Out loud, that is.” Alphys’s voice is so much smaller than Mettaton’s, but you both hear it. Even though Mettaton’s smile is still pasted to his face, his eyes narrow at her interruption. “T-They speak with their hands. It’s s-sign language,” she adds.

“Well why didn’t you say so sooner!” Mettaton croons. “My patient viewers! It seems we have need of an interpreter!” He waves her forward, and when she doesn’t move, some of the other monsters encourage her to join the two of you. She takes a small step forward and trips on the carpet, but she manages to catch herself before falling, and then comes to stand next to Mettaton. You can see sweat on her brow, and she keeps looking at you, at the monster with the boxy machine, and then off to the side. “Luckily for all of us,” Mettaton announces, one hand on Alphys’s shoulder, “the gorgeous, genius Doctor Alphys is here to translate for the human!” Despite the flattering words, Alphys seems to hunch over even more at her introduction.

“Now then!” Mettaton’s focus once again lands on you. “We’re ready to hear from our wonderful guest! Why don’t you start by telling us your most memorable experience since coming to the surface!”

You frown so hard it wrinkles your nose. Next to Mettaton, Alphys signs something at you, and then again. You realize she’s telling you to just play along. Your hands start to form the sign for leaving again, but… what has been your most memorable experience since crossing the barrier? Each and every encounter has been new and different, and you almost can’t help but think over the past few days now that you’ve been prompted. You’d known a little bit about monsters before you’d crossed the barrier, of course, about their dangerous and powerful magic, about their fearsome appearances, but… you’d never been told that monsters would share meals with you, or hug you, or stand up to a member of the Royal Guard for you, even when they knew you were a human. You’d thought every encounter with a monster would have to be solved with your knife.

To narrow it down to one single most memorable experience over the past three days is impossible.

You start to sign, slowly and sometimes changing your mind on what to say midway through. Alphys’s mouth silently shapes words, following along. When you make your way through the first sentence and begin the second, she starts to speak. “T-They say that a lot of monsters were really nice to them. They expected everyone they met to be s-scared of them, and a-attack them.” That’s not what you’d signed. You’d definitely used ‘try to kill.’ You wonder if she’s censoring you on purpose, or if she just isn’t as fluent as she claimed to be. But it’s not like anyone else will know what you actually said, so there’s no point in dwelling on it. You both continue, “And there have been s-some… some monsters who fought them, and some monsters who were afraid of them…”

Alphys has caught up to everything you’ve signed, now, because you’re stuck on this one. Your hands automatically moved to form the sign, and then you realized what you were saying. You’re not so cold here in Alphys’s lab, especially under the lights, but your fingers may as well be frozen together.

Through your bangs, you glimpse a little motion. Alphys is signing at you again. ‘Are you all right?’

Your fingers twitch, and you shake out your hands, then start the sentence over.

“Oh! Um,” Alphys stammers, eyes trained on your hands, “T-There are also monsters who wanted to be their friend. Who said they were friends. And that makes them r-really happy.”

“What a moving answer!” Mettaton laces his fingers together and brings his hands next to his face, tilting his head. He lets out an exaggerated sigh, falling back into his chair. “Even a dangerous human can be overcome by the power of friendship! But don’t try this at home, kids!”

He leans forward again, immediately casting off the facade of having been moved by your confession. “But tell us, human! Now that you’ve made it out of the underground, what are you going to do next?” His visible eye gleams, and his steel smile glints the same way the blade of your knife does.

It’s the easiest question he’s asked. You don’t even have to think before signing, ‘None of your business.’

Before Alphys can translate, or pressure you for a different answer, there’s a loud bang. As one, you and all the assembled monsters look to the entrance of Alphys’s lab. The door has been thrown open, not simply swung into the wall but pushed forcibly off its hinges. It lies flat on the floor, the cause of the noise.

Outside, the rain is pouring down, and the continuous sound hisses into the lab, along with a gust of cold air. There’s a figure in the door, tall and looming, and the light from inside catches on wet metal. There’s a bright flash behind them for the briefest of instants, accompanied by a booming rumble, and you tremble in the stiff chair.

Undyne’s armour clanks heavily as she steps into the lab, and her eye fixes on you, her teeth bared in a snarl.

“You’re not getting away this time, punk.”

Chapter Text

You start to scramble out of your chair, but the crackling buzz of magic zaps back to life around you, and you yank your legs back up. Undyne advances slowly, one loud step at a time. Rain drips off her armour, making a wet trail behind her, and Mettaton’s team of monsters parts before her, leaving a perfect path to you.

It’s just like when everyone stood back and watched at the mall. You scramble to stand, clawing your way up the chair back and digging your fingers in to the top of it. Undyne reaches out to her right, and a spear hums into existence at her outstretched fingers. Your eyes dart from side to side, but all you can see are monsters gaping in awe at the Royal Guard approaching you, and Mettaton kicking out a leg as he says something you can’t parse and makes outrageous gestures in your direction.

You’re trapped—unless you can find a way through the forcefield Mettaton’s set up around you, you’re dead.

“Undyne, wait!"

Alphys, short and hunched over, a completely unintimidating little blob of lab coat with a chubby tail sticking out, stumbles to a stop in front of your chair. She shoots a glance over her shoulder at you, before turning to face Undyne and holding out her trembling arms. You can't see Alphys’s expression, but you absolutely see Undyne’s eye grow large, her mouth drop open. You think you hear Bratty and Catty squeal. You also think you hear Mettaton’s voice join them.

“Alphys, what are you doing?” Undyne demands, gripping her spear tightly. Her other hand forms a fist she holds in front of her. “That's the human,” she hisses.

“I-I know, Undyne… b-but they're not, um, actually that dangerous, I think?” Her voice rises at the end, turning her statement into a question. Just like with Mettaton, she’s unable to maintain the assertive tone she started out with.

“Alphys, are you—is the human controlling you with magic?” Undyne’s eye narrows, glare shifting accusatory to you. “You should know better than anyone how dangerous humans are! Move aside so I can capture them!” She takes a step forward, closing the distance between her and Alphys, and likewise, the distance between her and you.

“N… Nobody knows that better than me!” Despite her stutter and how she rushes to get the words out, something in Alphys’s voice makes Undyne stop. “I know more about humans than anyone else! And that’s why there’s no one better qualified than me to tell you that you don’t have to do this!”

Everyone around you is silent. Even Mettaton, Catty, and Bratty are quiet, watching with matching wide-eyed expressions. Your fingers don’t shake; you’re gripping the chair back too tightly. You can feel your pulse pounding in your hands, in your neck, in your temples. You can feel it beating under the Gyftrot’s ribbon, still tightly wrapped around your wrist, hidden under the coat sleeves.

“I saw the footage, you know,” Alphys says, much quieter. “I saw you chase them down. They could hardly run in a straight line. They can’t breathe right.” She lets out a shuddering breath of her own. “T-They need a doctor.”

Undyne’s bared teeth are tightly clenched. Her eye falls shut and she inhales deeply, straightening her posture. Whens she opens her eye and sees you, however, whatever calm she’d managed to gather is abandoned. She looks down to Alphys and throws her open hand out in a wide gesture. “They’re human, Alphys!” she yells. “Don’t let them trick you like this! Their whole race is nothing but violent and cruel!”

“I know that’s what the King has told you,” Alphys replies, remarkably steady in the face of Undyne’s impassioned shouting. “And you’re the Captain of the Royal Guard, so you’d never doubt the King. But look at them.” She turns just enough to wave one clawed hand in your general direction. “They’re just a kid. They’re t-terrified! Maybe, instead of taking their soul, we could let them just... stay here? It… There’s precedent, you know? I’m sure the King would understand if you explained?”

“Then I can explain when I bring the human to the King,” Undyne growls, her response quick. “If they’re not dangerous like you say, then they’ll come along quietly.”

You’ve had about enough of this. Alphys’s defense of you, saying you’re not dangerous, that you need a doctor, that you’re terrified... You slap your hand on the back of the chair to get Alphys’s attention. Everyone else looks at you, too, but it’s not like they understand what you’re signing with jittery fingers.

‘You’re wrong. You said all that about me, but you don’t know what I came here to do. You’re wrong, and fish-lady’s right.’ You point at Undyne for good measure. You don’t feel like trying to finger-spell her name, and it’s not like you’re going to know any of these monsters long enough for figuring out name signs to be worth the effort. ‘Fish-lady’ is going to have to do for now.

“W-What do you mean?” Alphys’s face falls, and you definitely don’t care.

‘You don’t know anything about how I crossed the barrier or what I plan to do,’ you tell her. ‘It’s stupid to assume I’m not dangerous when you don’t have all the information.’ You’d expected better from a scientist, honestly; she’s jumped to conclusions almost as fast as the monster kid you met before.

She puffs her cheeks and her shoulders jerk up. “I-In that case!” she huffs, “It’s just as stupid to assume you are dangerous, w-without all the information! B-Besides! I think someone who really was v-violent, or t-trying to fool us, wouldn’t say that!”

“What did they say?” Undyne asks. She’s moved to stand right next to Alphys, and sets an armoured hand on the yellow monster’s shoulder. Alphys jumps at the contact and her cheeks flush. Her response is nothing but unintelligible stammering.

‘I won’t go with fish-lady,’ you sign, and Alphys falls silent, frowning. ‘Tell her that. I won’t go quietly. Tell her I said she’s right and you’re wrong.’

Alphys’s stubby fingers are in shaking fists at her sides. Undyne gives her shoulder a squeeze and glares at you. “What are they saying?” she asks again. “If they’re upsetting you, I’ll teach them a lesson!”

Alphys takes a deep breath—

—and Undyne’s hip blasts the same upbeat tune you’d heard when Papyrus called her phone before.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the hiss of rainfall outside and the energetic song. When the tune has gone on long enough that it begins to repeat, Undyne grimaces and lets her spear dissipate. Her hand falls off Alphys’s shoulder, and she tugs her phone out and puts it to her fin.

“Papyrus, can I call you back?” she says, before you even hear the skeleton’s voice. “I’m kind of busy right now.” She glares at you over Alphys, and with her free hand, makes a thumbs down gesture your way. You stick your tongue out at her. Her eye goes wide with rage and she starts toward you, but Alphys’s hand at her hip stops her.

“I know!” Papyrus’s voice echoes through the entire room. “I was watching Mettaton’s special show with the human, and then you showed up! That’s why I called!”

“Yeah?” she asks, grinning even while she glares at you. “It must be really important for you to call me in the middle of Royal Guard business, then!”

“It is!”

“Well don’t keep me hanging! What is it? The human’s secret weakness?” She points at you and draws her finger across her neck. It’s not actual sign language, but it gets the message across well enough.

“No!” At Papyrus’s answer, Undyne’s smile shrinks a little bit. “It was because I saw that you and Alphys! Were fighting! About what to do with the human!” Alphys hunches over even more, and Undyne bites her lip. “And I thought, what great friends you and Alphys are! Even when you disagree over something! You trust in the strength of your relationship enough to be honest about it!”

Alphys darts a glance up at Undyne, at the same time Undyne’s eye looks down at her. They both look away immediately. Alphys’s face, still flushed, darkens even more, and even from here you can see sweat on her forehead. You almost miss the byplay between them, though, distracted as you are by the fact that Papyrus somehow knows what’s happening here. He hasn’t been on the phone with anybody until now—you’d have heard it if he had—and he’s not at the lab with you. But he knows somehow about Mettaton trying to interview you, and about Undyne and Alphys arguing over you.

You think about the way Mettaton kept addressing his viewers, as though he was talking to people who hadn’t already seen everything going on in the lab, to people who weren’t here with you, and you remember how earlier Alphys’s monitor showed you running from Undyne in the mall. You’d thought she only had it because this was a lab, but now that you think about it, there was some kind of monitor in Papyrus’s house, too. Do other monsters have monitors in their homes, that might have let them watch you run from Undyne?

Bratty had told you that you were famous, that everyone saw the emergency broadcast, whatever that was. You hadn’t imagined she could have meant that even monsters who weren’t at the mall got to see your face on their monitors when Undyne knocked Papyrus’s helmet away. Is this—is what’s happening here, right now, being displayed on monitors all throughout the monster city? Is that how Papyrus knows what’s going on? Are monsters everywhere watching you cower in front of the Captain of the Royal Guard?

Maybe they’re cheering her on. Maybe the audience is rooting for your destruction.

“And I realized!” Papyrus is still talking, his voice ringing out, and you drag your focus back to the here and now. Even if this ridiculous spectacle is being seen by monsters everywhere, it makes no difference to you. Bratty and Catty told you already that your appearance was known, and however that happened, it won’t change.

“I realized that I had not been entirely honest with you, Undyne!” Papyrus shouts through the phone. “And our friendship deserves honesty, too!”

“Papyrus,” Undyne starts, but Papyrus is on a roll now.

He barrels on, “When I told you the human escaped, I was not telling you everything! The truth is… the truth is…”

You think everyone in the lab might be holding their breaths, focused on the Captain of the Guard and her phone call. You wonder if you could balance yourself on the top of the chair back well enough to jump over the electric forcefield while everyone is distracted. Surely you’d be able to clear it from that height. The last time you’d tried to escape during Papyrus’s phone call hadn’t worked out, but now everyone knows you’re human. There can’t be anything else he can say that would be a surprise.

“The truth is, the human is also my friend! So I let them go! And I think that you and the human should try being friends, too! I think you would be really good at it!”

Your legs wobble and fold under you, and you land back in your seat. Undyne’s lip curls in an expression you’ve seen directed your way before, from humans and monsters both. It’s more menacing on Undyne than it’s ever been on anyone else, with her jagged teeth and looming height.

“Thanks, Papyrus,” says Undyne. The kindness with which she speaks to Papyrus doesn’t match the way she looks at you. You think you can hear a strain in her voice from the forced dissonance. “Hey, I’ll call you back, okay? I have to take care of this, now.”

“Of course! When you call back, you can let me know when you and the human are free to hang out!”

“Bye, Papyrus,” she says, tapping on the phone with her thumb. It goes dark, and she puts it back wherever she keeps it in her armour. You’re not sure how pockets work with metal. Maybe it’s magic; that seems to be a good enough explanation to fall back on whenever you don’t understand something on the surface.

The rest of the monsters in the room are waiting, watching you and Undyne. Nobody else speaks or moves, save for Alphys, who cranes her neck to look up at the Captain of the Guard.

“Undyne, are you…” Alphys trails off, whithering under the force of the glare Undyne directs at you.

“Mettaton,” Undyne says, though her focus doesn’t leave you. “Get rid of the forcefield,” she commands.

“Oh, I absolutely will be happy to, once we’re done with the interview!” Mettaton enthuses, jumping back into action.

“Now.” Undyne’s voice cuts through the room.

His human-like lips pout, but if Undyne even sees the expression, she’s unmoved. “Oh, fine,” he sighs, long and drawn out, and he drops down into the seat next to yours. He makes a little shooing gesture at you. “You’re free to go, gorgeous,” he says, crossing his legs and leaning back into the chair.

You slowly lower your feet, and when nothing happens, you hop forward. The bottom edge of the coat does hit your thighs when you stand, as you thought it would. You wonder if the lion is going to want it back.

“Human,” Undyne addresses you. You raise your head to meet her glare. “If you’re smart, you’ll leave this city and crawl back down whatever hole you came out of.”

Your fingers twitch, and you shove your hands into the coat pockets. This isn’t anything you haven’t heard before.

“This is the only chance I’ll give you,” she says. Her voice is low and gravely; she speaks slowly, grinding out each word through clenched teeth. “If you ever let me see you again, I’ll put you in the ground. One way or another.”

You nod.

“Go,” she spits.

You do.

Undyne doesn’t move a fraction of an inch as you walk past her, though you feel every other monster’s eyes on you. You don’t look to see Bratty or Catty’s reactions. When you reach the empty doorway, the rain outside pouring down harder than you’ve seen yet, you pause.

Turning, you catch Alphys’s eyes, and pull your hands from your pockets. ‘Please tell P-A-P-I-R-U-S,’ you sign, worried only a little about your spelling, ‘that he is a very good friend.’

Alphys nods, the motion small and slight. ‘I will,’ she signs back. Before you turn to go, you see her reach up and take Undyne’s hand in her own. You think you might see Undyne loosen her fist a little bit.

You walk out into the rain, and don’t look back.

You pull your hood up, but in the heavy downpour, it's soaked almost instantly. Your hair sticks to you cheeks in cold, wet clumps. The coat you walked out wearing lasts only a little longer before it, too, becomes completely sodden. It's heavy on your shoulders and hits your legs with each step.

You think it might be late enough for the stars and moon to be out, but dense rainclouds block out the sky, leaving nothing but darkness. Splotches of yellow light from the lamps along the street light your way, and you hunch forward and keep walking, following your soul’s direction.

A flash of light illuminates the entire street for an instant, and a booming roar echoes out after it. You stumble and look around you, remembering that this kind of light and noise happened before, when Undyne showed up at the lab. Did she follow you? Is she going to try to take your soul now that there’s nobody around? You shudder, teeth chattering, and your eyes dart from side to side, but you can’t see anyone. From what little you know of Undyne, sneaking up on someone doesn’t seem like her style, but maybe she hates you enough to compromise.

You stand leaning against a lamp pole long enough that the light flashes again, only this time, you see its source above you. A jagged line cutting through the sky, like it could tear the clouds apart, rip them away to reveal the moon and stars above. Shortly after, you hear that loud, rolling noise.

You’d learned about this. It isn’t Undyne at all; it’s part of the storm. You try to distract yourself from the chill that’s dripped into your very bones by recalling this particular weather phenomenon. Thunder and lightning, that’s what’s happening. Now that you remember, you should probably not be walking out in a lightning storm; there’s a certain amount of risk.

You think of the comfort of the skeleton brothers’ house, of wearing clean, dry clothes, and listening to the rain hit the roof. You remember the warmth of Toriel’s home, the welcoming comfort that had filled the entire cottage, and falling asleep listening to the howling wind outside that couldn’t get to you in the safety of the little home.

You keep walking. One foot in front of the other. There’s no choice but to go forward.

Occasionally, cars pass you on the street, and even a bus or two. They don’t stop, and you don’t encounter any other monsters on the sidewalk. You don’t know if you have the late hour or the awful weather to thank for the near deserted streets, nor do you care. You walk block after block, your destination unchanging. Lightning flashes across the sky a few more times, thunder rumbling after, and you try to hurry.

You reach the next intersection and look up to check your path before you cross. You don’t see any cars—nor do you see any buildings on the next block. An empty stretch of wet grass and flowers expands before you, and at regular intervals, bare trees reach up into the rain. Even in the dark, and battered down by the storm, you can see that the flowers have a bright gold colour to their petals. You wonder what they’d look like in sunlight. There’s a trellis with an arched sign at its apex, though you can’t make out the words written on it, and under it begins a stone path leading forward through the field. In the far distance, you can see a dark shape standing tall. The rain obscures any details, but you can make out tall points and spires, and dimly glowing lights in windows.

You cross the street and duck under the trellis. The stones of the pathway are uneven and slick from the rain, and you step carefully. Bordering the path are small lights. They’re not lamps, not structures like the street lights or the colourful decorative bulbs hung on Papyrus’s house, and not like the fluorescent bulbs salvaged from the dump for use in the lab back home. Instead you see glimmering wisps, little scraps of silver flame, that hover just above the wet golden flowers to either side. Their soft glow guides you along your way.

The further down the path you walk, the more you can see of the shape ahead. Slowly, it solidifies into a massive, towering building. The stone pathway leads straight to it, dead center to a set of tall doors, with elaborate designs carved into the panels that extend far above your reach. They continue on higher than you think even Toriel or Papyrus could stretch their fingers, and higher still. Framing the immense doors are columns of stone, wrapped in a spiraling pattern that twists out into carved flowers at the bases on either side. The stone is so delicately worked, for a moment you think the actual flowers along the path have grown up the walls.

The rest of the castle expands beyond your vision, and you’re confident it’s just as impressive, but you only care about what’s in front of you. You place both hands palm flat against the door on your right, and you push. The door isn’t locked, only heavy, and under your weight, it’s eventually convinced to move, inch by slow inch. You don’t bother opening it more than you need, slipping inside as soon as there’s enough of a gap to admit your small body. The door falls shut the moment you let it go, echoing loudly even after traveling such a small distance.

It’s dark inside. There’s no sunlight or moonlight to enter through the tall mosaic windows; the only illumination comes from flickering white flames set in grooves in the walls. You guess those are magic, too, like the glimmering wisps that lined the path outside. You’re pretty sure fire doesn’t normally blaze silver and white. You lean back against the door and let your eyes adjust, taking stock of the room.

It’s a big open hall, with a wide stairway straight ahead and arched doorways to either side. The floor is tiled, interrupted by a thick stripe of a dark carpet that leads from the door to the stairs. No surface in this room has been permitted to remain plain or unadorned. Paintings hang on the walls, and what space they don’t fill is occupied by a leaf-patterned wallpaper. Door frames are carved with details you can’t make out. The tiles of the floor form an elaborate design around an emblem of triangles and wings and a sphere, which you see repeated in the railing along the stairs.

A flash of lightning outside casts the empty room in bright light, and you shut your eyes and shiver when the thunder roars.

When you open your eyes, a short skeleton in a hoodie and shorts is standing at the foot of the stairway. He meets your stare with his own pin-light gaze and permanent grin.

“So, you made it,” Sans says. His voice fills the empty room.

You take a step forward.

“Slow down, kiddo,” he warns. There's no threat in his voice, but there's something of a rumble in it—like the thunder that heralded his appearance, you think. His hands are in his pockets, and he stands with a bit of a slouch. Relaxed, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Your fingers twitch. He's right there. He's there, but more importantly—most importantly—he's still got your knife. You force yourself to stand still.

“You've had a busy day, haven't you?”

You can’t hear the rain inside the castle. The only sounds are your breathing and the crackle of the fire along the walls, interrupted occasionally by water hitting the tiled floor when it drips off you. Sans doesn't say anything else—he's waiting for you to reply, you realize. You shrug.

“Heh. Here's a better question, then. What are you planning to do next?”

Water drips from your hood onto your nose. You think you might be leaving a bit of a puddle on the floor, now that you’re standing still. Coming in from the rain hasn’t made you any less soaking wet, and you fight back shivers. Your fingers twitch, and you shove your hands into your pockets.

“Still not feeling very talkative, huh?” Sans gets the message. His eye sockets fall closed and he gives a little shrug of his own. “Well. It doesn't really make a difference.”

He opens his eyes and pulls his hands from his pockets, and your knife is in his left hand. His bony fingers are wrapped loosely around the sheath. You make an aborted lunge forward, jerking in place and catching yourself. Your wet boots squeak on the tile floor.

“If all you wanted was a knife, you coulda checked our kitchen,” he says, eyeing you. “But you followed me across the city for this one.”

He spins it between his fingers, and your breath catches. You don't think it would break just from being dropped, but it's not something you're eager to test.

“You got to meet a lot of people along the way, and see some of the sights,” he comments absently. “Even made a couple of friends, from what I heard.”

He pauses again, giving you another chance to respond. You don't take it. When he speaks next, it’s with clear purpose, his voice low.

“Would you have thought about what we talked about before, if I hadn’t taken away your options?”

A tremor you can’t hold back shoots down your spine, and your whole body shivers briefly. You hope he doesn’t take that as you making some kind of acknowledgement of what he’s talking about, when it’s nothing more than a reaction to the cold and damp. You hope he shuts up soon.

He lets out a whistling exhale through his teeth. You know Papyrus didn’t have any lungs, and you’re pretty sure Sans doesn’t either, so you chalk this up to magic, too. “To be honest, it kinda creeps me out to hold on to this,” he says, regarding the knife in his hand. “Rattles my bones.”

You don't move. You tell yourself he can't see your fingers twitch in your pockets. Something sharp and bladed in your throat is trying to claw its way up and out your mouth. He can’t know what it is that he’s holding. He just means because it was yours, or because it’s a knife, or because you attacked Papyrus with it. Or all three. But nothing else.

“Kinda put all your eggs into one basket with this thing, didn’t you?” he goes on. “I’d ask how you did it, but, uh, I probably don’t want to know.”

You yank your hands out of your pockets. Your fingers are stiff and frozen, but you sign rapidly, ‘When did you figure it out?’

“Listen. Kid.” That’s not an answer. “We’re not all out to get you. There are people who really care about you up here. You could have food… friends… a home.” You swallow down the crawling thing in your throat. “Maybe,” he says, tapping at the knife’s handle with the tip of his thumb, “you don’t actually have to do whatever it is you want this for.”

You stand there, shivering, dripping water onto the floor, and clench and unclench your fists. You think of Toriel’s offer to share her home with you, of Papyrus’s invitation to sleep on his couch. You think of Alphys’s concern for your health, of how she and the monster kid both stood between you and Undyne.

You think of the way Sans’s voice sounded when he learned you’d never had a burger before, and the way it sounds now, when he says ‘home.’

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. There’s only one option for you. There’s only ever been one option for you.

You take a step toward Sans.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

You take another step, and another.

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your feet bring you closer and closer to the skeleton, until you could shake hands if you both reached out to each other. He’s your height, so you don’t have to crane your neck up to meet his gaze when you stop in front of him. You keep your eyes level and don’t look away. If this has to happen, you’ll meet it head on.

“Well.” From this close, you can see sweat gleam on his skull. “It was knife to meet you, kid,” he says, and his hand with your knife moves.

The inside of your throat is filled with ice, and you lunge for it, you can’t let him—break it or attack you, whatever he’s planning, you have to get it back—

Your fingers wrap around the handle, and you stop, and stare.

Sans is holding the knife by the sheath, offering it out to you, handle first. You shift your grip on it, but he doesn’t pull back or tighten his hold. It only takes a little tug from you for him to release it entirely, and you cradle it against your chest and watch him.

“You might believe you don’t have a choice, but you do. You always have.” His empty hands go back in his pockets, and something shifts in his smile. His cheekbones, maybe, or the ridge of his skull above his eye sockets. For once, you can’t place the expression—hilariously, the first expression you can’t read comes from one of the most human-like monster faces, after Mettaton’s. “Think about it, okay?”

You nod before you’re entirely aware of what you’re doing, still too focused on the knife that’s finally, finally back in your trembling hands.

“All right. It’s about time I head home, then. Papyrus gets awfully cranky without his bedtime story,” Sans remarks. You stand very still as he shuffles past you—the reverse of your exit from the lab, past an unmoving Undyne—and then you turn to watch him walk the length of the carpet, past the puddle you left, to the castle’s front doors.

He stops in front of the massive panels, one hand on the door, and turns halfway to look back at you.

You don’t know the sign for rain. You’ve never needed it before. But you do know ‘sky,’ and so you form that sign with one hand and raise your eyebrows in query, and Sans gets the message. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I know a shortcut.”

With the knife in hand, it’s a little awkward when you sign, ‘Not worried!’ Sans chuckles, and you’re aware he doesn’t believe you in the slightest, so you shake your head extra hard for good measure. Your wet hair whips around, hitting your cheeks.

His chuckle dies down, and the lights of his eyes focus on you again. “You could, uh, still come with, you know. You sure you don’t wanna?” The bony hand that isn’t resting against the door extends out to you. From the direction of his thumb, you can tell he’s holding it palm up in invitation.

You allow yourself a moment’s indulgence, imagining a future in which you stumble after him and take his hand. You stay at his and Papyrus’s home, making a nest of blankets on the couch, eating burgers with Sans and spaghetti with Papyrus, and taking long hot showers every night. Maybe Papyrus convinces Undyne to not kill you, or maybe, in an attempt to not make Papyrus choose between her and you, you flee to the mountains and find yourself at Toriel’s cottage. She picks you up in her big, soft, warm arms and rubs her hand in circles on your back and cooks you a dinner the likes of which you’ve never seen before, something amazing and tasty and steaming hot, and she shakes her head when you burn your tongue on it but don’t stop eating.

You wipe residual rain off your cheeks, close your eyes, and shake your bowed head.

“Worth a shot,” you hear. Then, “Good luck, kid.”

The creak of the door opening never comes, but when you look up again, Sans is gone. It seems like you didn’t manage to get all the rain off your face earlier, but with as wet as your gloves and sleeves are, that’s no surprise. You scrub at your face for a while longer, then spin back to the stairway, determined.

There might be doors to either side of you, but there’s nothing that indicates to you that one wing of the castle is more likely than the other, nothing to hint that the king might be left or right. Instead, you make your way straight ahead, up the stairs. About midway up, there’s a small landing, and the stairway forks to either side, before meeting up again at the upper level. What you first took for a painting on the wall at the landing reveals itself to be a mirror as you approach. You give your reflection a good glower once you’re close enough to make out the details of your face. Whatever the lion put on you to make your eyes look big has been smudged and smeared in the rain and under your hands, leaving dark stains around your eyes. Your wet hair is flattened against your head, save for frizzing flyaway strands, and the rosy hue the lion had painted on your cheeks has given way to your true skin tone, albeit paler than usual thanks to the chill and the rain.

Despite everything, it’s still you. You’ve made it this far.

You rub at your eyes again and slump against the wall next to the mirror. The weight of your wet clothes drags you down, and you wind up sitting on the floor, your back against the wall.

You undo the belt of the black coat you took, unbutton it, and then hook the knife’s sheath back onto the belt loop of your jeans. Satisfied that it’s fastened back on your hip where it belongs, you then tug off your gloves, set them down next to you, and reach into your hoodie pocket. Toriel’s pie is no less flattened than the last time you checked, and the golden flower cookie, in its paper bag, is a little soggy around the edges. You break a piece off the cookie—one of the petals—and bring it to your mouth. It’s sweet, a little crunchy, and a little crumbly. For some reason, it’s easy to eat slowly, this time, and you make your way through the cookie petal by petal. Eventually there’s nothing left but the center, and you place that on your tongue and push it against the roof of your mouth, enjoying the rough texture, before you chew it. You leave the paper bag on the floor next to you.

When you open the bag of Toriel’s pie, the aroma that hits you is just as strong as you remember it being when she’d opened the oven. You take it in, closing your eyes and breathing deep, and then, of course, you have to spend a minute coughing. Once you’ve recovered and can breathe again, if not completely without pain, you dip a finger into the bag. The remains of the pie slice are thick and gooey, and stick to your finger. You pop it in your mouth.

It’s easily the best thing you’ve had since coming to the surface. Maybe in your entire life. It’s not as sweet as the Starfait, but it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have any words to describe the flavour, nor any basis of comparison; it’s not like any of the other foods you’ve had.

You shudder, and sniff, and this time you use your whole hand to dig into the bag.

Your fingers are all sticky when you’re done, but you don’t mind licking them off to get the last remnants of the taste. Your skin around your mouth feels sticky too, so you wipe it with the back of one wet sleeve. That’s a little better. You know you already look like a mess, though, so you’re not worried that much about food on your face.

After a moment’s thought, you grab the empty pie bag and the paper bag from Muffet’s Parlour, and jam them both back into your hoodie pocket. They crinkle loudly. You pick up your gloves, about to put them back on, but after a moment’s consideration you opt to shove them into the coat’s pockets instead. They’re still wet, and your hands seem warmer now they’re not covered in damp fabric.

One hand moves to toy with the Gyftrot’s ribbon that is still, somehow, miraculously wrapped around your wrist. You hadn’t even knotted it, just tucked the edges under your hoodie sleeve, but here it is, still with you. You rub it between your fingers. The red part has a smooth, almost furred texture, while the silver trim is rough, like stone. You hadn’t been able to notice that with your gloves on.

You consider leaving the coat behind—it’s still heavy and wet—but you kind of like it. You decide it doesn’t matter, and leave it on but unbuttoned, as you climb back up using the wall as support. Your legs remind you that your jeans are cold and unpleasant, but so is the rest of your clothing, so you ignore it. Your hand bumps the mirror as you rise, and you jerk back from the cool glass surface.

With one last nod at your reflection, you pick a side and start up the second half of the stairs.

On the upper level, you’re met with a tall arched entrance into what appears to be a long, dark hall. You can’t make out anything past your arm’s reach, and you’re reminded of the uninhabited cave systems of the marsh in the underground. You’d explored them on multiple occasions, driven into that dark unknown in a hunt for food, for warmth, or for an end to it all, but the only thing you’d ever found was glowing crystals to light your way and guide you back to your miserable life. And then the scientists found you, and they gave you something to hope for. Something you were determined to stay alive to see.

You wish, yet again, for more batteries for your flashlight, and step forward.

As your foot crosses the threshold and hits the floor, there’s a sound a little like blowing out a candle, only instead of getting rid of a fire, two rows of torches to either side come alight down the hall. It’s not daylight, but now you can see down the empty hall to a closed set of doors with gold trim.

This is as good an invitation as any.

Reminding yourself to stay alert, you look to either side as you progress, but you remain the only living being in the hall. You do, however, notice that there are paintings of monsters and humans on the walls, hung in between the torches, huge and vibrant even in the low firelight. You think if they were set on the floor to lean against the wall, instead of hanging up, they would still be twice your height, or larger.

The first one you see displays a peaceful scene between the two races, human and monster kings and queens and all their subjects with them. Everyone is smiling. Monsters and humans are holding hands. There are adults and children both, princes and princesses and little royal heirs to go with the monarchs of both races. You hurry past.

The second painting you note has red and orange splashed liberally across the canvas, a scene of fire and terror. Monsters are depicted screaming and crying, while humans are stone-faced and wielding bladed weapons, and you realize you know what these paintings are depicting. You dart forward to the next one to confirm, and you aren’t surprised to see the rendition of the mountain. The dark cavern that leads down into your home. The barrier.

You know this story.

You hate this story.

But there’s one thing that’s been bothering you since you made it to the surface. One detail you don’t know, didn’t ever learn, and definitely never cared about, until you crossed the barrier and monsters couldn’t stop talking about it. But of course they would know. Of course every monster would know.

Your quickening footfalls echo through the hall. It’s not hard to find the one you want. It hangs in the center of the hall, dwarfing the other paintings, a giant monument that makes you grit your teeth.

You should have known. Why else would a human have featured in the photo on Toriel’s mantle? You’re staring at the fourth figure from her photo, but impossibly huge, larger than life, filling your vision. You take a step back, and then another, crane your neck, and look up and up, studying them in the way you didn’t have the chance to in Toriel’s home.

They don’t look anything like you.

Their skin is pale, save for their red cheeks. Their redder eyes are open wide and look down at you over a broad smile. Their face is framed by soft, clean hair that’s a lighter brown than your own, though a similar length and style. They have a slight button nose, compared to yours that slopes down your face, and you think their chin is pointier than your own. There are a thousand other differences between the two of you, and you hate every time that a monster said you resembled this human even in the slightest.

Next to them is Toriel’s child, who looks exactly the same as they did in her photo, right down to that watery smile and those upward-drawn eyebrows. Both children clutch armfuls of golden flowers.

Your right hand grips the handle of your knife, while your left clenches into an empty fist.

You spin on your heel and proceed down the rest of the hall, stomping your way through and stubbornly refusing to look at any of the other paintings. You are not interested in learning about the lies the monsters tell each other so that they can feel better about having trapped you below the earth.

You reach the gold trimmed doors at the end of the hallway, and only pause long enough to take a deep, shuddering breath before you push them open.

For a brief instant, you think you’ve stepped back outside. Your boots are swallowed up by golden petals, and above you, lightning flashes. You trip into the room, landing on your hands and knees, but the soft bed of flowers cushions your fall.

“Oh!” The voice is deep, despite the startled exclamation. “Careful now. Let me help you up.”

You lift your head enough to see large, white furred paws carefully picking their way through the flowers to you. You can’t bring yourself to raise your eyes any further. Your fingers tighten around the flowers you crushed in your clumsiness.

The hand that reaches down to you is Toriel’s, only broader. Your own hand is trembling when you place it on the soft paw pads. If you splayed out all your fingers, you still wouldn’t be able to cover all of the giant palm your hand rests on. Enormous fingers close gently around your hand, and you’re pulled up with a steady, firm grip. You find yourself standing before you know it.

You can see now the metal armour the monster before you is wearing. Rich blue fabric hangs down, obscuring much of his form—a cape. A thought of Papyrus and his own short red cape gives you the determination to raise your head.

Looking up at the monster, you understand why people address royalty as ‘Your Majesty.’ Even having seen him in Toriel’s photo couldn’t have prepared you for how small you feel, standing before him. It’s not only his height, but his wide shoulders, made even more intimidating by his armour, and his great curling horns. There’s no doubt in your mind that this monster looming over you is the king of all monsters. (And does that mean that Toriel is the queen? But then why was she living alone, near the barrier?)

“My goodness,” his voice booms, “you’re soaked to the bone!”

This is the monster that Toriel had said would kill you and take your soul? This is the monster who had told Undyne that all humans were violent killers? He has the same watery eyes you saw on his child in the photo and painting. The mouth you see through his bushy beard gives you a tentative smile.

“I so wish I could offer you a cup of tea to warm you up, or invite you to the living room to sit before the fire,” he says, his regretful voice rumbling all around you. “But… you know how it is.”

You don’t, actually. You take your hand back. It starts to move to the knife at your hip, but before your fingers wrap around the handle, you pause. If Toriel had understood you, then it only stands to reason… You raise both hands to sign. You only shake a little bit.

‘I want to take away the barrier and set humans free.’

He nods. “When I heard a human had crossed the barrier, I knew you would come here for such a reason.” When he turns to the side, half facing away from you, his long cape brushes against the flower petals. “It is cowardly of me, but I had hoped you would not make it this far.”

You step forward and fist your fingers in the (soft! cushy!) fabric of his cape, and you tug. He looks down at you again.

‘Please,’ you sign, then take your other hand from his cape to form the rest of your words. ‘I don’t want humans or monsters to hurt each other again.’

He heaves a great, shuddering exhale, and you find yourself taking a step backward.

“I am sorry.” His voice is as low as your spirits fall at his words. You retreat another step, watching him warily. “I would ask you to turn back, but I fear I am familiar with that look in your eyes. You will not be convinced, will you?”

You shake your head, and you feel something cold rising up the inside of your ribs. Sans said that you had a choice, but you should have known better than to listen. He’d told you once that his brother wasn’t dangerous, after all. It’s that damn skeleton’s fault that you’re even trying to solve this without your knife, when you know well what you were sent here to do. Your goal is right in front of you. Your long journey is finally at an end.

‘I want to destroy the barrier,’ you sign with decisive and angry motions. ‘I don’t care how.’

The monster turns to face you fully once more, his big bare paws shuffling through the flowers. His head is bowed down so he can regard you, and your entire body is trembling, from anger or the cold, you don’t even know anymore, as you glare back up at him. Whatever it is he sees when he looks at you, it makes his eyes close and draws his eyebrows in and stretches a pained grimace across his face. It lasts only a moment, and then his sad gaze falls on you again.

“I know forgiveness is not possible,” he says, “but I am truly sorry.”

His cape flies out behind him, and he withdraws an enormous red trident. You think it might be taller than even he is. Three sharp points shine under the lightning that flashes through the glass ceiling above you, and he twists the great weapon in his grip with ease. You don’t even realize he’s aimed it at you until the center point pierces your middle.

“Goodbye.”

As great and booming as his voice is, you can hardly hear it. You slump forward onto the trident, your chin falling to your chest, and your eyes can’t focus on the blurry weapon that disappears into you. You can’t feel your legs, nor can you see them. You might still be standing, propped up on the trident impaling you, or you might have fallen to your knees. You have no way to know. The outer points are set so far apart that they don’t even scrape against your arms; it’s only the center that’s speared you. You try to raise your hands to grab the thing, to pull it out of you, but accomplish nothing more than twitching your fingers uselessly. Something burning bubbles up your throat, and you cough, feeling it fleck on your lips and drip down your chin.

You’re glad, at least, that you ate the cookie and Toriel’s pie before you came up here. You knew you weren’t leaving alive, but you’d hoped for a different outcome than this disappointing failure.

Well. The scientists will try again, probably. Maybe next time they’ll pick a kid who won’t hesitate so much, who won’t be fooled by kind words and tasty food, who will use their knife to solve the problem right away, instead of stupidly trying to talk it out.

Maybe next… time….

Your knife shatters against your hip.

Chapter Text

Your knees hit hard tile, and you catch yourself with your bare palms on the cold floor. You cough, spit flying, and feel wet droplets of rain from your hair slide down your neck. Firelight from behind and in front of you flickers and casts strange shadows under you, and you bend your arms until your forehead touches the cool tile. You try to slow your breaths, but if anything, your shallow panting only grows more frantic.

Are you dead? Are you a ghost now? You’re breathing with the usual difficulties, your knees hurt from slamming on the floor, and you’re still wet and shivering. You’d hoped that after you’d died, you wouldn’t have to deal with unpleasant things like that anymore.

But, now that you’re taking inventory of yourself, your knees are really the only part of you that’s hurting. Your chest, your stomach—other than a strain from how tense you’re holding yourself, your torso feels fine. You shift your weight to rest on only one arm, close your eyes, and bite your lip.

Holding your breath, you move your free hand to press shaking fingers to the center of your chest.

You encounter ratty but whole fabric and, when you push harder, your solid, unbroken breastbone. There’s no hole, not in your hoodie or your body. There’s no actual pain, only a thrumming memory echoing under your skin.

You rest your palm against your chest and breathe deeply, in, out. Your eyes open, and you push yourself up onto your knees.

You’re still in the hall with the paintings. Directly in front of you is the enormous rendering of Toriel’s child and the human. Your face twists in a snarl, and you clumsily climb to your feet, then haul your fist back and punch right through the canvas. It tears easily and loudly. Your knuckles hit the hard wall behind the painting, and you suck in air and withdraw your aching hand. The skin on the knuckles is torn; you’re starting to bleed. Now at least you know, this pain is real. The supposed memory that quivers in your chest is nothing more than a product of your mind.

You aren’t tall enough to have punched through the human’s face in the painting, but the hole you’ve left marks the same place on them that the trident went through you.

Was it a dream? A premonition?

It doesn’t matter. It didn’t happen. You hold your injured hand against your uninjured chest, and turn to walk to the gold trimmed door.

You push it open, and for a brief instant, you think you’ve stepped back outside. Your boots are swallowed up by golden petals, and above you, lightning flashes. You trip into the room, landing on your hands and knees, but the soft bed of flowers cushions your fall.

“Oh!” The voice is deep, despite the startled exclamation. “Careful now. Let me help you up.”

Fear blooms under your breastbone, and you clench the fingers of your injured hand, grounding yourself with the current pain, using that to fight off the memory of a trident buried in your chest. You lift your head, but you already know what you’ll see. The monster who picks his way through the golden flowers is exactly as he was before, and he bends to extend an open hand to you in exactly the same way he did the first time you fell into this room.

You slap his hand away, and despite how small you are compared to him and how little force you’re able to summon, he lets his hand be pushed aside. He even steps backward, his cape flowing with the motion, and then he does nothing more than watch you as you push yourself, swaying, to your feet.

“Goodness,” his voice booms, “you’re injured!” That’s different from what you remember. His concerned gaze has landed on your bloody knuckles. You twist to the side, hiding your hand from his view, and he meets your glare.

This is the monster Toriel had warned you would kill you to take your soul. How dare he feign concern for your health. You won’t be caught off guard, not this time. Your fingers wrap around the handle of your knife.

‘You might believe you don’t have a choice, but you do.’ Sans’s lies echo in your memory as you draw the knife. Sure, if you’re okay with sacrificing the hopes and dreams of all your fellow humans who are waiting, who are counting on you. If you don’t mind leaving them to rot underground, you have plenty of choices.

Choosing to sacrifice the happiness of monsters over humanity is easy.

The king’s kind smile falls as he sees the knife in your hand. His eyes drop closed for a moment, a familiar expression of pain flitting across his face.

“I am sorry,” he apologizes in that low, regretful voice. “I would ask you to turn back, but I fear I am familiar with that look in your eyes. You will not be convinced, will you?”

You shake your head and grip the knife tighter. Your knees are bent, your weight on the balls of your feet, and your eyes track his movements closely.

“I know forgiveness is not possible,” he says, “but I am truly sorry.”

You don’t let the flare of his cape distract you this time, and when he withdraws that massive trident, you dart to the side. You can feel a gust of displaced air as the trident sails past you, and you spin on your heels and duck under his still-extended arm and slash up with your knife.

It bounces harmlessly off his armour, and you recoil, stumbling back. Your eyes narrow, and you grit your teeth and force yourself to remember how that trident sunk into your chest before. You need to hate this monster, or you won’t get anywhere.

Lightning flashes. It's the same bolt of lightning that glinted off his trident moments before you—before you died, last time. It wasn't a dream or a premonition. However you got this second chance, the fact remains that this is the second time you face this monster.

Fire flickers into being in his open palm, and you know with certainty that, unlike Toriel, he won’t miss. You run, and you can feel the heat on your heels as the flowers behind you erupt into flames. As you circle around him, he turns to keep you in his sights.

The instant the fire in his hands dissipates, you’re lunging forward, knife in both hands. This time it leaves a little dent in his breastplate. It’s nothing like when you attacked Papyrus, and you wonder if the difference is in your desperation or in the monster’s defense. You scramble back, ducking under the swing of his trident, your breath coming quick and shallow.

This is the monster standing in the way of your goal. This is the monster you have to kill, or you’ll be killed.

Again.

All you need is for the knife to make contact once, and it will take care of the rest. If you can't bring yourself to hate him strongly enough to get through his armour, his hands and feet are exposed. His face, too, if it comes to it. You only have to score a single hit.

You dart forward again, and a wall of flames surges up at your feet. You fall back, but the fire is already climbing up your legs, and you open your mouth to scream, but there's no noise beyond the cracking of the fire devouring you. It greedily swallows your arms and your chest; it scrapes away your skin and gnaws at your bones, eating you alive. Through the flames and smoke, you see the monster close his eyes and look away.

The fire consumes you, and the knife shatters in your hand.

Your legs give out, and you fall backward on your rear. You fail to catch yourself from rolling back and cracking your skull against the tile floor. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you curl up on your side, bringing your hands up to your aching head.

When you open your eyes again, it’s to flickering firelight and a familiar tiled floor. You're back in the hall with the paintings. You lay there on the hard surface, trembling, and then press your cheek against the cool floor. Your clothing is still heavy and wet, not burnt to cinders. You’re in the castle of the king of all monsters, and for some reason, you’re alive, plucked neatly out of one moment in time and dropped back into a previous one. You drag one hand from the aching back of your skull to rest your fingers on the smooth, unmarked skin of your face.

From your vantage point on the floor, if you tilt your head, you can see bottom edge of the painting of the human and Toriel’s child. The hole you punched through the canvas is no longer there. You clench your fist, and the skin of your knuckles stretches taut and uninjured over your bones. The painted human’s torso shows no damage at all, same as you.

You push yourself to your feet, sparing another glare to the painting, and start walking.

When you reach the door you throw it open, to the expected accompaniment of flashing lightning and rumbling thunder. You note with satisfaction the large monster’s startled expression, his wide eyes and dropped jaw.

This is the king of all monsters. He’s to blame for everything. It’s his fault humans were banished underground—that you grew up underground, that you’ve never seen the sun even now after your escape, that you can’t even scream your frustration anymore. It’s all his fault, so why can’t you hate him?

“My goodness,” he says, that booming voice repeating the same old script, “you’re soaked to the bone!” He begins to take a step toward you.

‘You’ve killed me twice already,’ you sign, and he stops in his tracks. You said it more to remind yourself than anything, but a pained expression you’re coming to recognize flits across his face, and he nods slowly.

There’s nothing more to say. You draw your knife. You’re going to kill the king of all monsters, and set humanity free. You’re probably going to start yet another war between your races—in fact, you can’t think of any other scenario that could result from your planned regicide. Papyrus and Toriel, Alphys and the monster kid, Bratty and Catty, they’re going to know that because they were kind to you, because they protected you, you were able to get this far. Over and over they said you weren’t dangerous, but this is what you came here to do. It’s always been your mission to kill the king and bring down the barrier, and you don’t expect even the kind-hearted monsters you’ve met to forgive you this.

Papyrus is part of the Royal Guard. If a war starts, he’ll have to fight in it, won’t he, and what if he dies? Toriel lives right next to the barrier. When humans come to the surface, what if they attack her out of the same fear you’d felt upon seeing her?

What if, years and years in the future, a lone monster child stands trembling before a grand painting of you, and lets it fill them with hatred for humanity so that they can set monsters free?

The king says his piece and draws his trident, and you don’t have a choice. Sans was wrong; he doesn’t know anything. You have to do this, or you’ll die, again and again until you strike down the king. You’ll either repeat the cycle of your death, or you’ll repeat the cycle of war. Or you’ll give up and retreat, let humans rot underground and live out the rest of your life in fear of monsters like Undyne discovering you.

You hate all of these choices. Maybe you can direct some of that hate to the king, where it belongs.

This time you duck under the trident’s initial thrust, and you stab down. Your aim is off, but you still manage to connect, the blade slicing through the side of the monster’s foot.

There’s no blood. You hear the monster’s breath catch, and he jumps back, landing carefully in the flowers. There’s no blood, but you know your knife connected. You felt it, the resistance as you cut through, and there’s dust on the edge of the blade.

Only one hit, and the knife will take care of the rest. You shake it off, the dust sparkling down onto golden flower petals, tighten your grip, and watch the monster. Lightning flashes above you, right on time.

He summons fire in his hands, and you scramble to run. You circle around as before, but this time you feint forward and draw back just before he raises the line of fire that killed you previously.

When the flames die down, you can see him still standing tall. If he’s favouring his injured foot, you can’t tell; his stance is wide and confident, and he holds his trident in both hands, ready to make his next move. Why isn’t anything happening yet? You don’t know what it will look like, but you at least expected it to incapacitate him somehow, to slow him down or weaken his magic. When you’d used the knife on the barrier, the effect had been immediate. The longer it takes to work on the king, the longer you need to keep dodging his attacks, and you’ve only held out this long because you’re starting to learn the script. But you haven’t gotten this far in your previous attempts, and you’re not fast enough to know whether to duck or dash when he moves again.

He swings out with his trident, and the blunt edge of it catches you in the side. You’re thrown across the room like a crumpled ball of paper, and you hit the ground and roll through the charred flowers, only coming to a stop when your body slams against a wall. Somehow you kept hold of the knife through all that, and you tighten your fist around its handle, as though you can keep it in one piece and refuse to die from the force of your determination alone. You’ve landed face up, and the glass ceiling above you fills your vision. It’s spinning like a whirlpool. You try to push yourself up, to roll to your side and get your hands under you, but all that happens is your chest heaves and you cough, spit flying up from your mouth and landing on your face.

You can hear the monster’s approach, his heavy steps vibrating through the ground despite his bare feet and the care with which he moves through the flowers. You turn your head to watch him, feeling soft petals and scratchy leaves under your cheek, and your vision goes dark around the edges with the movement. Your eyes fail to focus on his blurred, doubled, looming figure, but somehow you can see his fists tighten their hold on the trident. You wonder why he hasn’t just set you on fire again.

He raises the weapon, and you think about closing your eyes, but maybe watching him kill you again will help you stay determined the next time you face him.

“Father,” rings out a voice you have never heard before. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Everything is sideways, and your vision is swimming back and forth, and you still see two monsters in shining armour and a rich blue cape where you know there is only one. But you can at least see him stop, and lower the trident. He turns, head bowed, in the approximate direction you think the voice came from. Your eyes are slowly starting to cobble your doubled vision back together, but when you actually manage to shift your weight to your side and get an elbow under you, everything splits apart in two again and you shudder, gasping for breath. Your head drops and all you can see is swirling golden flowers.

There’s a soft sort of crunching noise, and after it repeats a few times, growing louder, you recognize it as careless footsteps approaching through the flowers, crushing stems and petals underfoot. You manage to raise your head, breath falling heavy still, and your gaze wobbles back and forth to see another pair of white-furred paws come to a stop in front of you.

The monster with the trident still has not said anything. You hear the voice of the new arrival again, and you wonder if there’s something wrong with your hearing in the way your vision’s messed up, too, because it almost sounds like two monsters speaking at once. “Surely my own father,” they say, in that weird doubled voice, “would not betray me by destroying the human’s soul before I could take it.”

You brace your other fist on the ground, the knife still clenched in your fingers, and lurch forward, getting your knees under you. You almost fall right back over, and you feel as sick as the first time you rode the motorcycle, but you refuse to vomit up Toriel’s food a second time, so you swallow down your nausea and stay still until your stomach calms.

“I am sorry,” says the monster who killed you twice. His voice is different from when he apologized to you; he’s much quieter, almost cowed. You shiver.

“Hm. Well, it isn’t like it matters,” that unnerving, dual-toned voice says. There’s something like amusement in their words. You clench your fists in the flowers, and push against the ground, rising to kneel unsteady.

Your vision blurs and splits and spins, and you grit your teeth and squint your eyes and focus.

The new monster is of the same variety as Toriel and the king and their child. He’s not as broad as the king, and his horns are not as grand, but he towers over you just the same. There’s an elegance in his bearing, even as he does nothing but stand and regard you, looking down his nose at this disgusting pest that’s crawled in. His cloak is cut from a rich indigo cloth that hangs down to his feet, and it bears the same triangles and wings and circle emblem that you saw repeated in the castle’s front room. Dangling on a delicate gold chain, two small, heart-shaped lockets rest on his chest.

Where your eyes are white, his are as black as the caverns in the marshes underground. Slit silvery pupils study you, and when he lifts his lip in clear disdain, bearing his fangs, it pulls at black markings slashed on his cheeks.

“I’m insulted, honestly,” he sneers. “Even when you had all that makeup caked on, you didn’t look a thing alike.”

You’re steady enough to raise the hand not holding the knife and sign, ‘Shut up.’ Even if you are gratified that he’s apparently the first monster you agree with on the matter, you don’t like how he’s talking to you. You look behind the sneering monster, forcing your focus on the king instead. You still can’t see with complete clarity; he’s blurred on the edges, and sometimes everything in your vision does a little jiggle to one side, but you can make out enough. He’s lowered the trident to the side, holding it one handed, its points buried in the flowers. His head is still bowed, his face in shadow, and you can see his shoulders are dropped, the heavy armour sagging down.

His feet are hidden by the flowers, but even without seeing the wound you inflicted, you know. The knife didn’t work. You can wait as long as you want, but nothing else will happen. Were the scientists wrong? Did you need to actually strike a killing blow for it to take effect?

“You can leave us,” says the black-eyed monster. You see the king move as though to object, raising a hand, before he lets it drop. You catch his eye as he glances at you, but he is quick to lower his gaze as he turns and shuffles toward the exit. He’s limping, a little bit. It doesn’t give you any satisfaction to see.

You don’t understand. This new monster had addressed the king as ‘father,’ but you don’t think a prince should be able to boss the king around like that. You look back toward the black-eyed monster, and you notice something else about his appearance that had escaped your notice before.

You’ve got no room to judge Alphys and the monster kid anymore for how quick they were to jump to incorrect conclusions about you. You seem to have made a foolish false assumption yourself.

Resting on the black eyed monster’s head is a golden crown. Its centerpiece is another repetition of that emblem of wings and a circle and triangles, set with glimmering white jewels. It’s sized perfectly to fit around his horns, resting just over his long ears. A little white tuft of fringe sticks out under it at his forehead, like bangs.

Your head jerks to see the monster with the trident, just as he leaves through the door you came in. His hair and beard are a yellow-gold, his horns are grand and impressive, but there’s no crown atop his head.

The king—the real king, the monster grinning down at you with dark and narrowed eyes—reaches down and fists his sharp-clawed fingers in the front of your hoodie. He drags you up and off your feet, and you dangle in his grasp, your wide eyes unfocused and your breath loud in your ears.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get here,” he says in two voices. “You’re so slow. I’m honestly amazed nobody killed you before dad did. I thought I’d have to load way more than that.”

You kick your legs ineffectively, and with one hand you grab his sleeve and with the other you slash the knife at his forearm. He opens his hand and drops you, and you fall to the ground—

—you dangle in his grasp, your wide eyes unfocused and your breath loud in your ears. “It’s rude to interrupt,” he says, and when he laughs, it’s the scrape of metal on rock, it’s the roar of fire, it’s glass shattering, all at once. “That look on your face! You still haven’t quite figured it out, have you?”

He throws you down you the moment your hand starts to move, and you land on your back, the air knocked from your lungs. You lay gasping in the flowers, and he gives you a wide smile as he watches you try to breathe, your entire body writhing, your free hand grasping at the soft stems and petals.

He kneels down on one knee next to you, and a tiny trickle of air makes its way into your lungs. You wheeze and try to roll away, but you can’t do anything as his hand closes over your fingers wrapped around the knife. His paw pads aren’t soft or warm like his father’s, but the cool, rough texture of rock walls underground.

“Seven human souls,” he says, softly, turning your hand and the knife this way and that. The light catches on the blade the same way it glints off his sharp, bright pupils. You pull your arm, trying to escape him or stab him, you don’t care which, but the only indication you get that he’s noticed your ineffective efforts at all is the tightening of his grip. Your fingers hurt, crushed between his own and the handle of your knife, and you inhale sharply. You raise your other hand and try to pry his fingers loose, and only accomplish cutting yourself on his claws. “I wonder if any of you appreciated the irony,” he says, and his voice is a low growl.

His other hand grips the blade in two fingers, careful of its edge, and then he snaps it in half, as effortlessly as you broke the petals from the flower cookie. You have a moment of awareness of your limbs falling limp and your body sinking boneless into the flowers, before you have nothing at all.

—you dangle in his grasp, your wide eyes unfocused and your breath loud in your ears. He drops you before you’re even aware you’re alive again. You land hard on your rear, not thrown onto your back this time, and you twist and scramble away on your hands and knees. You stumble to your feet and spin, knife held in your outstretched hands, pointed and shaking at the king, and he smiles at you.

“You must realize by now that it’s useless to try,” he says, holding his hands out and to the side, palms up, an imitation of harmless invitation. For a second your eyes see Toriel, offering you shelter from the storm. His two voices speak again, and the image is shattered. “You can’t win,” he says, in soothing, calm tones. “Give me your soul and the others, and I’ll let you rest.”

Your breath is loud and uneven, and you shake your head furiously, your trembling arms stretching to hold the knife out even further, as though you could stab him from here.

“Oh, good,” he breathes, sharp grin widening, eyes half-lidded. “It would be a real let-down if you gave up that quickly.” He curls his fingers in, beckoning you.

You don’t need to be told twice. You lunge forward, your feet slipping on the crushed flowers, and he doesn’t move, still holding his arms out in mocking welcome. You raise the knife in both hands and you leap, just high enough to plunge the knife into the center of his chest—

—you trip forward, your momentum bringing you down to your hands and knees in the flowers. The knife’s blade sinks into the dirt. You stare down at your hands, mouth agape and eyes wide, before you jerk your head up and see him still standing with his arms held out. When you meet his gaze, he throws his head back and laughs.

You yank the knife out of the soil and once more push yourself to your feet. Your breath is coming in shallow pants, your balance is off, and your vision’s still not entirely clear. Your entire body is tense, quivering, and the sound of the king’s laughter wraps around you like thorny vines.

“I’ll kill you again and again,” he promises, while you try to catch your breath. “Until you’re ready to surrender those souls to me.”

Lightning crashes through the ceiling above you, striking an inch in front of your nose, and you can still hear the king’s laughter under the crack of thunder as you backpedal and run, barely evading bolt after bolt of jagged magic. You both know you can’t keep dodging forever. When the next strike of lightning hits you dead on, you have enough time to think that he was just toying with you, before the knife breaks apart in your fist.

—White flames blaze to life in his open palms, like the torches that lit your way through the castle, like the guiding wisps that lined the stone path. You yank the knife out of the dirt and throw yourself to your feet just in time to avoid the first volleys of fire. They dance and circle around you, and it’s not long before you’re dizzy from avoiding the ones that chance too close. You catch sight of the king’s expression and know you’re dead even before you feel the fire catch you in the back. The knife cracks and shatters in your fist.

—The swords that blink into existence in his ready hands are as long as you are tall, with curved blades and spiked guards at the hilts. You yank the knife out of the dirt and throw yourself to your feet, but you’re not fast enough to avoid the first slash. It catches you in the shoulder, and you only know you dropped the knife because you see it fall from your fingers. The pain that radiates out from your shoulder dominates your perception, and you drop back down to your knees, clutching at your arm. There’s no blood, no cut; like Papyrus’s attacks, the sword has bypassed physically damaging your body. Your mouth hangs open to scream, but nothing comes out.

You wait for the second sword to fall, you wait to see the knife shatter, but what happens instead might be worse.

“It’s not that I enjoy hurting you,” the king says. There’s the sound of shifting of fabric as he comes to stand next to you, and you can see the glimmering magic of his summoned swords at the edge of your vision. “In fact,” he goes on, “there’s a large part of me that hates this.”

You’d scoff at that, if you could spare the energy to do anything other than tremble under the pain of your shoulder.

“But I can’t let you proceed,” he says, both voices forceful, determined. “We worked hard for this ending. We named this place Our Home, Now and Forever, and I won’t let humans ruin it!”

Realization sinks into you like your knife sliding into its sheath. This is the first monster you've met who gets it. This is the only monster who can understand how it feels, to know that your entire race’s happiness depends on you.

You hear it more than you see it, when he kneels down next to you. One of his arms goes around your back to support you, and you suppose he must have let his swords dissipate in the same way Undyne could dismiss her spears. You’re too unbalanced and overwhelmed to stop yourself from leaning against his arm. His hold is steady and firm, and the unbidden memory of Toriel’s hug fills your heart. There’s wetness on your cheeks, but you’ve died and started over since he broke the ceiling to call lightning down, so you’re not sure where it’s come from.

“Give me your soul and the others,” he commands, “and I’ll end this.”

You let your head loll back so that you can see his face. That cruel grin is missing, and his black and white eyes burn into you as effectively as his fire.

Quiet and soft, he says, “I’m offering you mercy,”

You feel the corners of your mouth tugging up. ‘No,’ you sign. ‘You and I,’ and here you have to stop. He waits, surprisingly patient, for you to gather yourself. Moving your arm hurts even more than letting it hang, but you need both hands for this next part. ‘We have no choices anymore.’

He laughs, voicelessly. The pained expression on his face is an exact copy of his father’s, before the monster killed you. “I understand.”

He picks up your knife from where you dropped it. His hands are too big to hold it properly; he can only wrap a couple fingers around the handle. You let your own hands drop, and sag against his arm. If you close your eyes, you can pretend it’s Toriel holding you up, Toriel’s chest you lean into.

The knife slips easily between your ribs, and you can feel it shatter inside you.

“I understand perfectly,” he snarls, as you yank the knife out of the dirt and throw yourself to your feet. “Humans—we—you’re all awful. Everyone is happy now, and you want to take that away from them!” His voices are gaining volume. You step backward, uselessly holding your knife out like a shield, like it can do anything to save you. “You don’t care who you hurt, as long as you get what you want! You’ll keep trying to destroy everything we worked for,” his voices cry, “until I wipe out every last one of you!”

The magic that crackles at his outstretched fingers is a myriad of colours, and you know you have no hope. He’ll keep killing you, and if he ever allows you close enough to attack, he’ll set time back to a point where you’re a safe distance away and then laugh when your own momentum brings you down. You can’t win this. You inhale deeply, watching the magic congeal in his hands, and then you flee.

“I should have done this a long time ago!” he screams. Magic streams past you, blazing rainbow stars that demolish the ground at your feet and the walls to either side of the gold trimmed door. You yank the door open and stumble into the hall with the paintings. Your boots slip and squeak against the smooth tile floor, and to your right a painting explodes in colourful pieces as one of the king’s attacks land. You duck the burning shrapnel and keep moving. You can hear his enraged voices behind you, “I never should have let anyone convince me otherwise!”

You keep expecting your next step to land in flowers, sent back in time to before you started to run, but you reach the end of the hall and don’t hesitate in jumping down the stairs two and three at a time. The mirror on the landing explodes as you pass it, and the stair’s guard rail catches fire under your hand, so you abandon it and leap the final steps, tumbling down to your knees. You don’t waste any time in rolling to your feet, and the carpet where you were a second ago goes up in flame.

“Nobody will have to be afraid of humans ever again!” His scream comes from close behind you, and your boot catches on a bump in the carpet and you go flying. Your hands and knees burn where you land skidding on the carpet, and before you can climb to your feet again there’s a pressure on your back, holding you down. You can feel the prick of claws at your neck, weight crushing your rib cage against the hard floor, pushing the air out of your lungs, and your free hand scrabbles helplessly against the carpet.

“I’ll kill you,” he hisses from above you, “and then I’ll empty the entire underground. I don’t need an extra seven souls for that.”

The scope of your failure is unimaginable. Not only are you dying here, your goal unaccomplished, the barrier still in place, but you’ve doomed all humanity. You have no doubt that the king has the determination and the power to follow through on his threat, and you have every reason to believe that he will do so as soon as he ends your life for good. He all but single-handedly won the war against humanity last time, after all. Now you’ve given him a reason to go back and finish the job.

This is the end.

And yet… Is it really so bad, to go like this? So may of the monsters you’d met on the surface were friendly and kind, considerate and accommodating. They’d generously expended their time, effort, and money to help you, often after knowing you mere hours, if not less. Not a one of them had asked for anything more than your presence in return. You don’t want to hurt them, and even if you don’t attack them yourself, causing a third war will doom your monster friends as effectively as you killing them with your own hands.

It’s not like you’re choosing monsters over humanity, now. You’re not betraying your fellow humans. You truly did try your best. But if this is how it has to end, well… doesn’t the race that’s shown you nothing but kindness deserve to be the one to live? Maybe it’s for the best that the choice has been taken from you.

The great door in front of you slowly creeks open. Your vantage point on the floor provides you a view that’s mostly made up of tiles and carpet, but you can just see the bottom edge of the door, and a bare, white-furred foot step inside. For a moment you think it’s the monster you’d mistakenly identified as the king, come back to help his son put an end to this.

“Asriel and Chara Dreemurr,” Toriel’s voice rings out, stern and powerful, “how dare you hurt this poor, innocent youth!”

The pressure on your back does not disappear, but lifts just enough for you to suck in a desperate breath. “M-Mom,” you hear his voice stutter, and then, catching himself, “Mother. What are you doing here?” His dual-tone voice turns cold and harsh, but it can’t erase his first stammering reaction.

“Stopping my children from making a grievous mistake, it would appear!” You see her feet step all the way inside, the door fall shut behind her. There’s no water dripping down her dress or fur, though you know the storm still rages outside. The benefits of fire magic, you guess. “Now you leave this child alone!”

“I exiled you,” the king protests with brittle voices, but the weight on your back disappears, and you hear him take a step backward. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re not permitted to leave the mountain!”

Toriel makes a disdainful noise, and you know exactly how her eyes must narrow and her chin tilt up, glaring down her nose at her son. Children? If you could focus, you might be able to figure out why she addressed the king with two names, but your vision is swimming again and your chest still heaving, and thinking about the king’s two names and two voices is too much for you now. “As though you could have made me leave against my will,” she scoffs, stepping further inside. You manage to roll yourself onto your side, and once your vision stops rolling too, you see her staring down the king. He’s taller than her, and you’re pretty sure his magic would overpower hers if it came down to it, but he has one foot behind him as though he’s about to turn tail and run, his hands held out at his sides as though grasping for support.

“So you wanted to leave us,” the king chokes out. “I knew it. You hate us.” His voices crack.

“No,” Toriel reassures, moving forward without another word to embrace the king. He resists for an instant, stiff and rigid, and then her arms close around him, and he sags into her, his eyes falling closed. “Never, my dear ones,” she says, her voice soft and soothing. The king’s hands weakly grip the sleeves of his mother’s dress, and you can see tremors wrack his form. The two of them sink to their knees. “I should never have left.”

You remember the feeling of her embrace, and you know the king won’t be in any hurry to move. You won’t let this chance go to waste. You push yourself up, first to your knees and then, slowly, to your feet. Your vision, again, does not stop weaving back and forth until several moments after you yourself have stopped moving.

“You—you said it was appalling, what I’d done,” the king says into Toriel’s shoulder. His voices are thick and muffled. “You thought I was repulsive.”

“I let my anger get the better of me. I should have stayed to help you make it right,” Toriel says. You notice that she does not deny the king’s claims. She rubs her hands in circles on his back, and her eyes, too, have closed. “I should have known your father would be too meek to guide you alone.”

You stumble, when you take your first step, but neither of them so much as twitch an ear in your direction. The next step comes easier. You probably can’t run, but you don’t need to, now.

“Don’t blame dad,” the king says. “He tried to stop us. But, I...”

“Still,” Toriel says, her hands coming to a stop to cling to her child’s—children’s—shoulders. “I should have come home a long time ago.”

You move slowly, as silently as you can, but neither of them open their eyes. There’s not much, you imagine, that could distract them from their reunion now.

“I—We missed you,” the king admits. The smile on his face is unlike any you’ve seen him wear yet, but an exact mirror of Toriel’s. “I shouldn’t have banished you.”

“We all have made a great many mistakes,” Toriel says. “Now, I am home, and we will put things right, will we not?”

You raise your arms and plunge the knife into the king’s back before he can reply.

He screams in the way you couldn’t each time he killed you, his head thrown back, and Toriel’s eyes are wide in horror, her claws dug into his cloak. His teeth snap shut and he rises from his mother’s embrace in a smooth motion. He towers over you, and you don’t notice the sword he’s summoned until he swings it. It passes through you from shoulder to hip, furious bright pain unfolding in its wake, and you’re thrown across the room from the force of the blow. You land in a heap at the foot of the stairs, your head hitting the hard corner of one of them, and your vision goes dark and you still feel like you’re spinning across the floor even though the stairs are digging into your back and you know you’re not moving. You hear him roar again in wordless rage, and Toriel’s voice lifted in concern, though you can’t understand a word she’s saying.

There’s a clatter, and you blink your eyes until you can dimly make out the knife spinning to a stop in front of you. Its blade is liberally coated in dust, and it’s left a shimmering, silvery trail across the carpet. Your eyes follow that trail to its source, where you can see the king bent nearly double and heaving, his arms across his chest and his hands clutching his elbows. His dark eyes are huge in panic, his legs tremble under his own weight, and he screams again. “What did you do to me!” he shrieks, taking a stumbling step toward you. “I can’t—I can’t reload! What did you do to me!”

One hit, and the knife will take care of the rest. You’ve done it. You let your head fall back against the stairs, your skull hitting the hard edge again. It hurts, but it can’t really compare to the pain that fills your entire torso, reaching through you like jagged bolts of lightning.

Toriel’s hands go to her mouth to cover her gasp, as the first human soul breaks free from the king’s back and floats, slowly, toward the knife. You’d expected them all to emerge from the wound you gave him, but after the first one flutters away, they start to peel off in chunks from his hands, from his face, pieces of his horns fragmenting off and forming the same heart shape as the lockets that hang down from his neck. He lets go of his elbows to stare down at his shaking hands, mouth agape, as he crumbles. The stolen souls bloom into all sorts of colours, greens and purples, cyan and indigo, orange and yellow and fuchsia, but all a little dull and faded, none of them matching the vibrant intensity you’d seen in your own and your six friends’ souls. There are more than you can count, and each and every one is sucked into the dusty blade of your knife, a steady rainbow stream. You hear the king scream yet again, his voice fading, shrinking to the weak wail of a child.

It doesn’t take long. The stream tapers off to a trickle, and what’s left of the king is a small, shivering monster, swimming in a cloak that’s much too big for him. You’re not really surprised to recognize Toriel’s young child from the painting. His horns are gone, and his eyes have inverted their colours, back to white sclera and dark irises like your own. You think he might be close to your height. Thick tear tracks run down the white fur on his face, and he heaves a sob as one last soul is torn from his chest.

Your entire body jerks on the floor at the sight of it. It’s not dulled like the other human souls that the king must have been draining dry for power all these years, but vibrant and intense, healthy and glowing. It could be your own, bright and striking red.

“Chara,” the little king whispers, hoarse. Then, as the soul is dragged toward the knife, his eyes widen and he pulls himself from the loose fabric of his oversized cloak. “Chara!” he screams, stumbling after it. “Come back! Please, Chara, don’t—don’t leave me!” His fingers wrap around it, and it slips right through, bobbing steadily along toward the knife. He won’t be able to re-absorb it, you know; the knife’s effect would be pointless if he could simply regain the lost souls once you freed them. As long as he bears the wound on his back, no human soul will obey him. “Chara!”

He makes another failed attempt to grasp the red soul in his hands, before his eyes alight on the knife. You think about lunging for it, about snatching it away before the little king reaches it, so that it can absorb this one last soul, but what does it matter? The king won’t be able to take that soul back into himself, and a human soul without a vessel will soon fall to pieces. Let the little king do what he pleases. You did your job; you don’t need to do anything more.

It’s not like your body’s about to respond to your demands, anyway. Your head aches, pain thumping through your skull with every beat of your heart, and shadows still creep at the edge of your vision. You can’t really remember which injuries you still retain and which were lost when you were yanked back through time, your memories of the fight with the king already scrambled, but your entire body is sore, centered on the flaring pain where, had the king used a physical sword, he would have bisected you. At this point, you don’t even think you could raise your hands to sign.

Your body longs to rest.

You didn’t get to see the sun, but you got to do a lot of other things. And now, other humans will be able to do and see even more than you did over these last three days. It’s all right.

The little king reaches the knife before the last soul does, and he grabs it in both hands. It’s not as easy as the last time he broke it in front of you, and when he tightens his grip, you see the blade dig in to one of his palms. He squeezes his eyes shut and yells, and the knife snaps in two, the last soul mere inches away.

Your own soul, and the countless others now held within the knife, splits into a thousand shards. They shatter into smaller and smaller pieces, like grains of sand, like distant stars, until nothing remains.

You see the little king fall to his knees, that last red soul intact and hovering in his cupped hands, before your eyes fall shut.

Chapter Text

Long ago, two races ruled over the earth: monsters and humans.

But one day, war broke out between the two races.

Humans, rightfully fearful of the monsters’ ability to absorb their souls, banished the monsters underground beneath Mount Ebott. With magic that has since been lost, they created a barrier to keep the monsters below the earth.

For a while, peace reigned. But humans had made one fatal error in the creation of the barrier. While nothing could exit from the underground, anything could pass through from the surface. And so one day, a human child climbed the mountain and fell into the underground.

Of course, that child’s soul was taken and absorbed by a monster. With unimaginable power at its fingertips, the monster, now an abomination, crossed the barrier to the surface. It killed the humans it encountered without remorse, and then it absorbed their souls as well. Once it had killed six humans, it struck down the barrier, and freed the monsters.

But it was not content to merely set its fellows free. Consumed by rage and corrupted by the power of the souls it had taken, it lead a new war against humanity… one that did not go as well for humankind as the previous one had. The abomination absorbed countless more human souls, its power growing stronger with every one. There was no way humanity could stand against it.

In what the monsters might have seen as justice, they exiled humans down to their former prison. But the abomination was once more not content with this. It demolished the magical core that monsters had built underground, causing a massive explosion that destroyed all that monsters had created beneath the mountain. Buildings, crops, everything. It was decreed that humankind would have to start from scratch as the monsters did when they were first imprisoned.

In the first years trapped underground, many humans died of starvation. What little livestock they had smuggled underground with them was quick to perish as well. Humans had long since forgotten their magic; it seemed that without this ability, they faced extinction.

Eventually, the few humans remaining were able to pool their resources and begin to rebuild. They harnessed the power of the underground river by scrapping together watermills, and adapted to their new life trapped below the surface. The remains of human civilization that had been brought underground were repurposed and reused. Like the imprisoned monsters before them, they scavenged the trash that fell from the surface when they could. The survivors did not flourish, but they adapted.

Humanity is nothing if not determined, after all.

I don’t know why I’m even surprised. Of course this is the kind of propaganda they fed you.

I wonder if any of them even know their history is made of lies, by now? It’s not like any of the humans who lived through it are still around.

I mean, I guess there’s some truth in there. I was pretty angry that Asriel had almost died. And I did make us destroy the core.

It could have easily gone another way. If I hadn’t forced Asriel to listen to me…

There’s no use in thinking about what-ifs, though. You agree with me on that point, don’t you? All that matters is what our choices have led to, here and now.

I wonder if you have anything else interesting in here.

You are five years old, as of today. You have been looking forward to your birthday for weeks now. As promised, your parents take you to a restaurant, and you get an entire bowl of cricket stew to yourself. It’s even better than what your mom makes. “Because they add salt here,” your dad says. Whatever the reason, you could eat fifty bowls. A hundred bowls. When you tell this to your parents, your mom laughs and your dad ruffles your hair.

For desert, they bring out a plate of strawberries and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you. You clap and giggle, and your mom tells you that your laugh is the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. Then she lunges in, fingers at your ribs, and you squeal and laugh as she tickles you. The strawberries are the best thing you’ve ever tasted, even surpassing the restaurant’s cricket soup, and you shriek with outrage when your parents steal one to split between themselves. Your hands get sticky from holding the berries and your parents try to wipe them off for you, but you’d rather lick them clean to get the last remnants of the sweet taste.

This is the last memory you have of your parents. Your next memory is of bright fire and burning smoke. You inhale to scream for your mom and dad and can only cough.

Your memories that follow are jumbled, like if you tore up a picture and then rearranged it in the wrong order. You know that you stayed for some time with a doctor, and she told you that your throat had been damaged from the smoke and if you didn’t speak for a while, it would probably heal. You’d asked her where your parents were. You don’t remember what she said, but you remember screaming and crying for mom and dad. The doctor had tried to calm you down, but you’d called and called for your parents until your throat wouldn’t make any more noise and it had hurt, it hurt like you’d swallowed fire, like spider bites, like knives. You’d screamed until you couldn’t.

But nobody came.

Once you recover as much as you’re going to, you are moved to an orphanage. The other kids take your shoes and your favourite ribbon for your hair, and they hurt you when you try to take them back. You can’t speak to tell the caretakers what’s happening. You learn to read and write, but by that point you’ve outgrown your shoes and the ribbon has long since been lost.

When the caretakers tell you that you won’t amount to anything in life, you useless mute brat, and you might as well go work on a snail farm, you leave the orphanage. You sleep where you can and beg for food when you can’t find crickets or steal scraps from trash bins. You learn that it's best to avoid others; nobody will help you out of the kindness of their hearts. Even other humans without homes have no fellow feeling. You learn to hoard what scraps of food you can get.

Is your entire life this boring? Skip ahead.

In the marsh lives the oldest human anyone knows, and you think that, infirm and weak, he’ll be easy to rob. The thought that taking someone else’s food will endanger their life in the way starvation looms in your future is easily turned aside. Why should you care for someone else’s well-being, when nobody has ever cared for yours? If your parents had truly loved you, they’d never have left you in this world alone.

It turns out that despite your missing voice, you are not as skilled at silence as you would like to be, and the old man catches you. Your failure is two-fold; he has nothing worth stealing and is starving just as you are. But unlike the restaurant owners who jealously and violently hoard their small plots of land, their precious little gardens, and their secret knowledge of which mushrooms are deadly and which are edible, the old man in the marsh offers you a trade. He’ll show you a way to speak without your voice, and you’ll share your meager findings of crickets and edible garbage in exchange.

Logically, you shouldn’t accept. You can’t even feed yourself most of the time; how can you provide for another?

At the beginning, you have to finger-spell a lot of words that you don’t know yet, but it’s better than you’ve had in a long time. Your hunger for communication is slaked, even as your body’s hunger for nourishment grows. Your inability to forage enough food does not change in the face of the greater demand of feeding you both.

The people from the lab find you when you’re filthy and fishing half a snail patty out of a pile of trash in an alley, and they offer you a bed to sleep in and more food than you’ve had in years. You ask ‘What’s the catch?’ and one of them signs back, but they’re going too fast and using words you don’t know, and you stare without comprehension. ‘I can hear,’ you sign, and so they explain out loud.

They’re upfront and honest when they say what they have planned will probably hurt and you might die. But if you make it, you’ll play a part in freeing humankind from underground. In fact, even if you die, you’ll play a part in freeing everybody.

‘Teach me more signs, and it’s a deal,’ you say.

You don’t tell the old man in the marsh. You have no idea if he still lives after your disappearance, without you to provide him food.

You spend a year or more in the labs. They do teach you more signs, and while there’s only one scientist who will really chat with you, you practice plenty on your own. There are six other kids there, although you’re the youngest. The oldest is on that edge of adulthood where they’d probably be a little offended to hear you think of them as a kid like you. You can guess that the seven of you were chosen because nobody will miss any of you, but you don’t ask, and nobody volunteers that information. None of them sign, but you teach them to finger-spell their names and in exchange they teach you about their favourite things. You learn how to do a handstand, and you learn how to count the beat of music, though you don’t think you’ll ever be able to dance as well as your friend. You learn about books, about how when humans lived on the surface there were some people who spent their entire lives writing stories, creating characters and worlds to entertain and inform. You learn how to throw a punch, and about cars and motorcycles.

You learn from the scientists about Determination and Souls.

The scientists and technicians take samples of your blood sometimes, which doesn’t hurt much, and extract your Determination sometimes, which hurts a lot. The days after that you spend in bed, doing nothing but laying on your back and staring at the ceiling. Nobody else likes the extractions, but your friend who wears a tattered and ragged cowboy hat everywhere except in the shower says that it’ll be worth it when you’re all free.

‘When we get to see the sun,’ you sign to yourself.

There’s a breakthrough. The old barrier that trapped the monsters below was broken with seven human souls, and so of course the monsters made sure such a thing couldn’t happen again when they created a new barrier to trap humans underground. The barrier you’ve grown up with allows nothing living to pass through in either direction. It’s powered by the very human souls stolen so long ago by the abomination, the monster who was crowned king after he won the war single-handed. There aren’t enough humans living underground to overpower the barrier, and it frightens you, to think that the amount of humans the monster king killed outnumbers the amount of humans left alive. How can you or any of your friends be expected to face something so terrifying?

The knife will do all the work, the scientists promise. Strike the king only once with it, and he’ll be reduced to nothing more than a regular monster. It will steal back the human souls, effectively destroying the barrier in the process. All you need to do is get to him.

Of course, to power such a weapon, a certain quantity of Determination is necessary. About seven soul’s worth. You find that somewhat hilarious, considering how many souls the monster king had to first absorb to break the old barrier.

It’s to your benefit, though; the knife’s function of absorbing human souls will also be able to momentarily disrupt the barrier, considering its power source. Not enough to bring it down, or for anything truly living to pass through it, but enough to confuse it. Enough that even if you have a heart that beats and lungs that breathe air, the barrier won’t realize you’re alive, so long as you don’t have a soul inside you.

It’s still dangerous, to send a vessel full of seven souls straight to the monster king, and so it’s ensured that there’s no possibility of removing any soul once the knife has absorbed it. Once you undergo this process, there will be no turning back. Even if you survive to make it to the surface, your soul will never leave that knife. If it is destroyed, so are you. And once it takes back the stolen souls from the monster king…

Well. It’s not unreasonable to expect monsters will attempt to reverse the process and reclaim the souls. After all, once the barrier falls, they’ll have a war on their hands. They’ll want that power back.

The knife will not endure such an attempt.

You knew the risks when you agreed to go with the scientists. Knowing that your death is a certainty rather than a likelihood doesn’t do much to deter you. It’s not like you’d been having a great time living before they gave you this opportunity, honestly. Now at least your death can serve a greater purpose.

With your damaged vocal cords and lungs, your difficulties with physical exertion, your inability to communicate with most people, and your youth and inexperience, you are obviously the worst candidate of the seven. As such, your soul is the first to be extracted and absorbed by the knife. Unsurprisingly, it’s the most painful thing you’ve experienced in your short life. You think everyone in the lab is probably grateful you’re not capable of screaming.

The thought of seeing the sun fills you with determination, and you endure.

Your six friends do not survive the extraction process. For some of them, the life leaves their bodies at the same moment their souls are removed. For others, they fall and do not get back up, and slowly their breathing quiets. The oldest lasts for two days before their chest falls still. You can tell the scientists are disappointed, but nobody can change what’s happened. They can’t go back in time to try to figure out why you lived and the others didn’t.

You’d all known the risks when you agreed to participate. You’ll miss your friends, but it’s for the good of humanity.

You won’t let them down. You’re given the knife and sent to cross the barrier.

Disgusting. Humanity’s finest, relying on a suicidal orphan and six other homeless kids to do their dirty work.

But you’d wanted to do it. You’d wanted it to be you who made it to see the surface, more than you’d wanted anything else in your life. Besides, if the scientists had gone themselves, who would have been left to try again if you failed?

I should have killed them all when I had the chance. I never should have let Toriel and Asriel talk me down. It would have been a mercy. You wouldn’t have had to endure such misery if you’d never been born.

That’s true, and it’s a thought you’ve had before. But then you wouldn’t have gotten to meet Toriel, either. Or Papyrus and Sans, or the monster kid and Alphys. That voice in your head that’s gone rifling through your memories might have a point, but there’s still no use in dwelling on what-ifs. Your life has been what it’s been, and now it’s over. You’re okay with this.

Ugh. You get the impression of someone sticking out their tongue, wrinkling their nose up, and trying to shake off their hands, as though they’ve touched something nasty. If this is even a little bit how Asriel felt when I talked about our plan, I owe him a serious apology.

As fun as this retrospective on your life has been (it hasn’t been fun at all), you’re ready to rest, now. You feel like if you just let go, you’ll be able to drift away to a place the voice can’t follow, and you’ll never come back.

Hey. Wait.

Why?

Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m happy to let you die for good, if that’s what you really want. But…

Don’t you still want to see the sun?

You do.

You aren’t aware of opening your eyes, so much as you can see your surroundings now, when you couldn’t before. Your vision’s not doubled, blurred, or spinning anymore, which is a downright pleasant surprise. You don’t find yourself in the castle’s front hall, as you’d expected, nor is it the room of flowers, as you’d feared. Instead, what greets you is a cozy room akin to Toriel’s cottage, with cheerful yellow wallpaper and homey furnishings. Hung on the wall is a child’s messy drawing of a golden flower. The furniture you can see consists of a dresser, a wardrobe, and a bed that looks extremely comfortable. The blankets are lumpy, and they shift; someone is sleeping, there. A large window occupies space in the wall to your left, curtains drawn aside to admit light so bright that the lamp on the dresser doesn’t need to be lit.

You hear a familiar voice stuttering. “I-I mean, we’re going to have to keep you under observation for a while. This isn’t something that’s happened before, with a h-human soul. We can’t be sure what effects this will have.” Next to you, Alphys is sat in a wooden chair. She’s holding a clipboard with all manner of notes and graphs you can’t make heads nor tails of, and studies it intently as she speaks. “I-It’s a little similar to M-Mettaton, I guess? Since we transferred his soul into a synthetic body. But he’s a monster, and there wasn’t, uh, anyone in there before him. Obviously. So there are a lot of unknowns, here.”

You’re sitting, but you don’t remember getting up. A comfy stack of pillows under your back props you up, and a thick blanket rests over your legs. You’re in a bed that’s the twin of the occupied one across the room. It’s pleasantly warm under the blanket, and you want to wiggle your toes, but they don’t respond. Without your input, one of your hands taps Alphys on the shoulder, and you start to sign words that you didn’t decide on.

“Oh!” she startles, her eyes jumping to you. “T-They’re awake?”

Your head nods, a response you didn’t give to a question you don’t understand. Your hands sign, ‘They’re pretty stupid. You’re going to have to use small words to explain.’

“W-Wow, rude,” Alphys mutters. You feel a grin split your face.

‘True, though,’ your hands sign. ‘Here. I’ll let you talk to them.’

Your hands drop into your lap, and you stare at them without comprehension. Belatedly, your toes wiggle.

“Um,” Alphys starts, her claws curled around the edge of the clipboard as she holds it up to her chest, “H-How do you feel?”

You wait for your hands to start moving again. Alphys chews at her lip, and shifts her weight on the chair.

Are you gonna leave her hanging like that? asks the voice that had gone digging through your memories. You jerk, moving your head from side to side to find the speaker, but there’s nobody other than you and Alphys in the room. And whoever’s sleeping under the blankets in the other bed, but the voice didn’t come from over there. It sounded like the speaker was right at your ear, leaning over your shoulder.

You realize that you’ve managed to successfully command your body to move, and turn back to face Alphys. She’s raised the clipboard a little, hiding her mouth, and she watches you over it.

This time, you raise your hands under your own volition. ‘Am I alive?’

“Y-Yes?” Alphys’s answer does not inspire a great deal of confidence. You don’t think that this is a repeat of whatever phenomenon the king had caused to send you back, again and again, to repeat the moments just before your death. Deaths. Whatever. You were pretty sure he lost the ability to do that when he lost the human souls and started screaming about reloading. So if you haven’t been thrown back in time, you have to be dead; your soul’s shattered into a million pieces. Nobody survives that, not humans and not monsters.

Besides which, you feel so comfortable. Nothing hurts, you’re dry and resting in the most comfortable bed to ever exist, and whatever clothing you’re wearing is soft and new, a long-sleeved white shirt with thick, alternating green and blue stripes. There’s literally no course of events you can think of that would have landed you in such a situation. You’re a little worried at Alphys’s presence, though, because if you’re dead and she’s here, does that mean she’s dead too? Does this mean the third war between humans and monsters has already started? She must hate you now.

This is hilarious, the voice in your head sneers.

At the same time, Alphys seems to realize the sincerity of your question, and she slams the clipboard down onto her lap. “I mean! Yes! You’re alive!” She starts speaking quickly, trying to get her words out faster than her stammer will permit. “A-Admittedly, we’re not sure h-how, but my current hypothesis is that, d-due to your d-determination to live even after your soul was first removed, your sense of self-awareness was able to linger even after your soul was d-destroyed.” You sink into the pillows, watching her gesture animatedly and swing the clipboard around. “Of course, you still w-would have died without your soul, it just would have, um, t-taken a couple more minutes for your body to… shut down?” She makes a face at that, and you recall that when monsters die, their bodies become dust. They don’t leave corpses. It must be odd for her to think about you leaving a soulless husk behind.

‘But I didn’t?’ you ask.

She nods rapidly. “That’s because! Um.” She drops her head to look at the clipboard, as though the answer is written there. For all you know, it might be. “Well. It’s pretty clear what happened, e-even if I’m not c-completely sure why it actually w-worked, or if you’re, um… stable…” You should probably be worried at that last bit she mumbles. “But… how should I say this?” She chews at her lip again. You decide to help her out. It’s partially because you can sympathize with having trouble communicating, but mostly because you really want to know the answer.

‘My soul is gone,’ you sign to confirm. She nods. ‘But I’m alive.’ Another nod. The next question is a little scary to ask, but you’ve cleared bigger hurdles before. And you pretty much know the answer already, based on your previous two questions. Your hands don’t even shake when you sign, ‘So I don’t have a soul anymore?’

“Y-You do have one!” she answers too quickly. “Well. Um. It’s not, ah, your soul? You’re sort of, um. S-Sharing it.”

Sharing is caring, the voice in your head laughs dryly.

You remember the little king cradling that last red heart in his hands. You remember him crying a name.

Your right hand lifts, unbidden, to finger-spell, ‘C-H-A-R-A,’ and then a sign you’ve never formed before that must be their name.

Alphys, thinking you’ve signed it as a question, nods. “That’s right,” she says. “Chara Dreemurr. They were adopted into the royal family when they f-fell underground, before the second war. Do you know about them?”

Say yes, urges the voice in your head. You know enough, anyway. I’ll fill you in on what you’re missing.

You think Alphys might give you a less biased, or at least less rude, explanation, but you nod as directed. You figure you do know enough for now, anyway. There’s nobody else it could be but the human from Toriel’s photo, from the giant painting in the hall. Alphys smiles in relief at not having to recount that history; you can tell this conversation has already been difficult for her. Should it feel difficult to you, too? Maybe, if you could believe this was really happening to you, you’d be more invested in it.

“Anyway. Asriel put C-Chara’s soul in your body.” Alphys shakes her head a little. “It’s not supposed to be possible for a human to absorb another human’s soul, but, we think since yours had already been removed…” She trails off, tapping her claws against the clipboard absently. “I already told Chara this,” she says, and her voice has dropped to a delicate, quiet tone, “but we don’t know if this is, um, a temporary situation, or if you’ll be able to coexist long-term in the same way Asriel and Chara did.”

Again, your hands move without your intent. ‘Don’t compare this to when I was with Asriel,’ you sign. Though you’ve never formed that name sign before, and you’re not the one making it now, the meaning is clear to you. There’s a frown on your face that you didn’t put there.

“O-Oh! C-Chara?” Alphys nearly falls out of her chair. “I t-though I was, um, talking to the… the other human?”

‘You were,’ Chara signs with your hands. ‘But I can still listen. They’re watching and listening too, now.’

“Really?” she asks, and she’s already got a pen against the paper on the clipboard. “So you share awareness simultaneously, but not control?” Her stutter is completely gone in the face of her fascination. That’s scientists for you, you guess.

Chara rolls your eyes. You’re curious yourself, if you could take back control, since Chara seems to be able to take hold of your limbs whenever they please, but it’s not like there’s anything you want to do right now. Maybe ask Alphys if you actually brought the barrier down when you attacked the king and freed the human souls, but you might send her back to stuttering helplessly with a question like that.

There’s a click as the doorknob turns, and both you and Alphys turn to watch expectantly as the door swings open. A white-furred paw steps in the room, and you’re not sure if it’s your breath or Chara’s that catches in your throat. When Toriel comes fully into view, you want to throw off the blanket and run to her, but all that happens is that your hands fist in the fabric of it. Your head drops so all you can see are your white-knuckled fists in your lap, and your shoulders hunch.

“Good morning, my children,” Toriel greets you, and your hands jerk, pulling the blanket taut. You think it might tear if you yank any harder. Alphys stutters something that’s probably supposed to be a greeting, but soon falls silent. You can only presume that Toriel calmed her with a smile and a gentle touch to the shoulder, or something like that. “May we have a moment, doctor?” she asks. You don’t hear Alphys reply, but you can guess she nodded. Scuffling noises and the click of a door’s lock catching indicate the scientist’s retreat, and the gentle swish of fabric and rich indigo in your peripheral vision probably mean that Toriel’s come to sit next to you. You’d really, really like to lift your head and see her—

After you stabbed her son in the back? Please. You’re only still here because I needed your body. Don’t push your luck. Even though Chara’s voice isn’t actually in your ears, you can still hear the harsh tone of it, the low anger. The worst part is that they’re right. You’d completely forgotten her connection to the king, but there’s no way Toriel will want to see you. It must be bad enough that her adoptive child now wears your face.

“My dears,” Toriel says, one of her hands covering yours. Even though it’s Chara squeezing the blanket, you can still feel the soft warmth of her paw pads. At least you can still have this. “Please, won’t you look at me?”

Chara sniffs, loudly, and raises your head. Your vision’s gone blurry again, and for a moment you’re terrified your injuries haven’t fully healed, but then you feel a wet line down your cheek and you understand. They open your mouth and shape words with it, and nothing comes out but a hiss of air. Frustrated, and cheeks burning, they snap your mouth shut so fast your teeth clack. One hand comes up to rub at your throat as they frown viciously.

Toriel’s other hand comes to run fingers through your hair. If you were in control, you’d have flinched at the contact, but Chara leans into it, their eyes falling shut as more tears fall. The contact feels pleasant, if alien, and you soak up the sensations.

Eyes still closed, Chara brings your fist to your chest, above your heart, and moves it in a circle.

“Shhh. I know,” Toriel’s voice washes over you as her fingers card through your hair. Chara shudders, but doesn’t pull away. “My children. It will be all right.”

You think Chara realizes at the same time as you do, that Toriel has said ‘children.’ Not child. They jerk back as if burned, staring wide-eyed at the monster, but Toriel’s palms are empty of magic. She smiles patiently at you, and Chara signs, ‘Mom, what are you…’ They don’t seem able to continue the sentence.

“I do not wish to make either of you uncomfortable,” Toriel says. “But they are going to be living with us. With you.” Of course she knows her child’s mind well enough to recognize the source of their confusion.

‘That doesn’t mean you have to treat them like your kid, too!’ Chara signs, furious. ‘They tried to kill us!’ You don’t bother raising any objections.

“And you tried to kill them,” she calmly states. If you had control of your face, you might smile ruefully at that. ‘Tried,’ isn’t really the word you’d use. But if your fight with the king’s father is any indication, you and the king were the only ones who were truly aware of the backward skips through time. “And you succeeded in killing many humans before them.”

Chara stiffens, your hands frozen into fists. They’re biting your lip too hard; you worry they’re going to draw blood. When they had still been a part of the monster king, and spoken in two voices, terrified of Toriel’s hate, how much of that had been Chara’s fear? You sympathize with them despite yourself; Toriel’s hate is a terrible thing to receive.

“Oh, Chara. You are my child, no matter what you have done, and I love you. I will love you always,” Toriel continues, opening her arms in invitation. Chara doesn’t need to be told twice; they all but throw your body into her embrace. The hug you’d desired since she entered the room is just as warm and comforting as you remember, and even if it’s not you wrapping your arms around her, this is more than you could have hoped for. “Both of you, if you will permit me,” she says, and this is so much more than you deserve.

“Mom?”

Her hold loosens, so that she can straighten and look over her shoulder. Chara leans your body to the side so you can see around her. In the opposite bed, the little king is sitting, blankets pooled at his waist. His big, watery eyes fall on you, and his little paws quake with a tremor you can see from across the room.

“Chara?” he asks in a tiny voice. “Is it you?”

Chara slips from Toriel’s embrace and swings your feet to the floor. You notice that your boots are gone, and fuzzy socks that are free of holes cover your feet. Your body crosses the room and Chara hoists you up into the bed with the little king. No words are exchanged as they wrap your arms around him.

Under his pajama top, your fingers can feel thick bandages wrapped around his torso. Chara’s anger courses through you, and you withdraw inside yourself.

“It feels so strange,” the little king whispers into your shoulder. “Not having you in my head.”

Chara shakes your head, whether in agreement or sympathy or both, you don’t know. Your arms tighten around the monster at Chara’s bidding. If it didn’t mean the recreation of the abomination responsible for humanity’s suffering, you’d be glad to give Chara back to the little monster. You’re not so sure about this idea of living out the rest of your life a bystander in your own body, listening to sarcastic commentary from the traitor to humankind who’s taken control of you.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Chara,” the little king says. The pitch of his voice rises with each word, as he forces them out before a sob wracks his body. “I know this is how things were before, but,” he pauses to sniff, loudly. “It’s going to take a while to get used to it again,” he says. You feel dampness at your neck, and Chara’s voice echoes fondly in your head, Crybaby. You wonder if they meant for you to hear that.

“Is,” the little king starts, and then interrupts himself with a small sob. “Is the human still in there with you?” he asks, softly whispering, when he can speak again.

Chara grimaces, though the monster can’t see your face, and nods. You feel the little king’s little claws clutch at the back of your shirt, and hear him sniff loudly again.

The bed sags, Toriel joining you, and her large hands gather you both up and into her lap. Chara and the little king don’t let go of each other, and she rocks the two of you back and forth and hums softly, while the little king quietly cries into your shoulder. The neck of your shirt is soaked through as thoroughly as all your garments had been in the downpour you walked through on your way to the castle. Chara doesn’t seem to mind. They’ve squeezed your eyes shut and are clinging to the little king with all their might. They don’t want to let go.

“There’s one good thing to come out of this, I guess,” the little king says. His soft voice is muffled, his nose buried between you and his mother. “I can hug you again.”

Chara starts to laugh, but your body refuses to lend voice to their amusement, and they stiffen, clamp your mouth shut, and push their mirth aside. You think Toriel and the little king could feel your shoulders shake with it, at least.

“You see, my dear ones?” Toriel says. There’s a hint of a chuckle in her voice, and she gives you both a squeeze. Chara presses your head closer against her side, and you feel the vibrations when she speaks again. “We have all been given another chance.”

“Will it be okay?” asks the little king, lifting his head. He has to pull away slightly to look at his mother’s face, and Chara straightens as well, lifting your eyes to watch. “The barrier’s gone now. What if the humans…” He shivers and looks away, and Chara narrows your eyes and tugs on his sleeve, pulling him close again. The little king doesn’t resist, and tucks his face into the space between your shoulder and Toriel’s chest.

“You need not fear, my children,” Toriel promises. “You can leave such matters to your father and I. For the time being, Asgore and Captain Undyne have gone to mediate, accompanied by the rest of the Guard. From what I hear, Guardsman Papyrus is particularly skilled at defusing conflicts before they can escalate to violence.”

“But what if the humans won’t listen?” the little king asks, voicing your own fears. “What if they hurt someone? What if they hurt dad?” His trembling only grows, and you wonder why the monster who slaughtered so many humans he won the war on his own is so frightened. Chara bristles at your curiosity, but no caustic remarks are forthcoming. They run your hand down the back of the little king’s head in the same way Toriel carded her fingers through your hair, and the repetitive motion seems to calm him.

“Asriel, my dear,” Toriel croons, bending her head down to place a kiss on his head, right where his crown would rest. “It has been several days since the barrier fell. Nobody has been hurt.”

You can scarcely believe her words. It’s not that you think Toriel would lie to you. But the idea that you’ve survived, that you accomplished your goal and freed humanity and nobody died, or at least, not permanently—the idea that even someone like you could have a happy ending is so far outside the scope of what even your greatest hopes and dreams could have encompassed.

Asriel makes a little bleating noise into your shoulder, and Toriel chuckles. “It’s true, my children,” she reassures. “It will not be easy to mend the bridges between our two races. But with the two of you, I have great hopes for our future.” She pauses, corrects herself. “No, with the three of you. My, that may take a little getting used to.”

You withdraw even further, detaching yourself from the warmth surrounding you, until you can’t feel Asriel’s soft fur under your fingers, until you’re not bothered by the wet patch he’s left on your shirt. You don’t belong here. Toriel doesn’t need to get used to your presence. She’s only welcoming you because Chara’s stuck with you. This ending is far more than you deserve, and you curl up even further away from your body’s senses.

Are you serious right now, Chara grumbles. You’re not really sure which of your thoughts they can hear and which they can’t—they don’t react to everything, but they sure raised their hackles when you wondered at Asriel’s fear of humans—but you don’t really have anything to say to them or anyone else now, so it hardly matters. You steadily continue to peel yourself away from the feedback your body is sending to you. You’re aware of your chest heaving a great sigh, but you see it more than you feel it.

With great reluctance, Chara pushes away from their mother and the little king. Asriel keeps one hand on their elbow, unwilling to let go even as they sign, ‘Can we go outside for a little bit?’

“If you would like to, I do not see why not,” Toriel answers, though she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows.

Chara nods. ‘It’s for the other human. They’re being stupid. Again.’

You feel the distinct sensation of human fingers wrapping around your wrist, despite the knowledge that the only hand touching you is Asriel’s light grip on your elbow. Chara gives you a good, hard yank, and you tumble back into your body. The momentum carries you right off the bed, and you land with a thump on the hardwood floor.

Toriel and Asriel’s faces appear over the edge of the bed at the same time, identical expressions of confusion and concern over their similar features. “My child?” Toriel asks, at the same time the little king says, “Chara?”

You shake your head, pushing yourself up to your feet. You can see Asriel’s face fall a little; obviously he wouldn’t be keen on Chara tagging you in. Toriel’s face betrays no such disappointment, however. In fact, she gives you a smile. “You would like to go outside, then?”

You turn your head to the window, where golden light still streams in. You can see a cloudless blue sky from here, but the wall obscures anything else. You nod.

Toriel rises from the bed, and the little king follows her, holding her hand. She offers you her other one, and when you don’t hear anything from Chara, you take it. Asriel gets the door since both of Toriel’s hands are occupied, and he leads the way. You find that you enjoy the sound of his and Toriel’s bare feet padding on the wood floor.

The hall you walk through has a little table against one wall, between the door you came from and another closed door. Sitting in a glass vase on the table are bright golden flowers in full bloom. You draw a little closer to Toriel as you pass by. She looks down at you with a smile, and you try to offer her one in return.

The little king pulls you along, through another room you barely glance at, before you reach a door with a square of carpet on the floor in front of it. He looks back at you and his mother, and then pushes open the door.

Light floods in, and you turn away and raise your free hand to shade your eyes. Toriel’s gentle chuckle reaches your ears, and she gives your hand a little tug. You tilt your head up to catch her reassuring smile. In the bright light, her fur shines. There’s traces of colour in the white fur—the shadows have a purple hue, and the ridge of her nose and the thin parts of her ears are tinted pink. Her eyes glimmer, rich garnet irises, and the sight fills you with determination. She walks through the door, and you follow her outside.

Asriel is sure to keep his mother between you and him, but he peeks around her to take in your reaction all the same as you look around. Your surroundings remind you of the street where Papyrus and Sans lived. There is a road for cars to traverse, and across it, a row of large houses with festive decorations. It seems that during the several days between the fall of the barrier and now, a snowstorm has passed through; the bare trees, grass, and roofs of the houses have a thin dusting of snow, though the road is clear. You notice your breath form a white fog, and you shiver. It’s too cold to stay out for long in your socks and only one layer of clothing.

Better do what we dragged everyone out for, then, Chara pushes.

You nod, forgetting that nobody else can hear their voice, and raise your head. You have to lean back, and you tighten your grip on Toriel’s hand for balance. The blue of the sky is not uniform, but a gradient, spanning from pale pastel to the colour of Undyne’s scales.

The sun is high in the sky, blazing bright and painful to look at. All alone in that wide empty blue, it’s enough to light up the whole world. Everything looks different under the sunlight, not just Toriel’s fur. The snow is brighter, nearly glowing, the happy homes across the street look extra inviting, and the tear tracks still present on the little king’s face glimmer when he turns his head just so.

When you blink, you can see an exploding orange circle behind your eyelids. You shake your head and turn your gaze back to Toriel. Her smile is knowing, and she gives your hand a little squeeze.

“When my children first freed us,” she says, “it took me quite some time before I was able to accept that I was not dreaming.” She raises her own face toward the heavens. “I would get up early just to watch the sun rise. In the evenings, I would set aside what I was working on to watch it set. Every day, the sky seemed more beautiful, more colourful and bright than it had the last.”

She kneels, wrapping one strong arm around you and the other around Asriel, bringing you both up with her as she rises. You cling tight to her dress, but her hold on you is secure, even more so than when Undyne lifted you to her shoulders. The thought that perhaps Toriel wishes to embrace you just as much as you wish to be held occurs to you, and you bury your face in her chest, the warmth of the sun on your back.

Asriel’s hand is at your elbow again. You should let him know you’re still not Chara so he doesn’t waste his efforts. You press your face harder against Toriel.

“However, the knowledge that I was able to feel the sun’s rays, and watch the twinkling stars at night, only because we had banished humankind to our former prison…”

“Mom,” Asriel whispers. Chara’s voice echoes the word, though only you hear them.

“This is the first time I have been able to appreciate the beauty of the sky without guilt since before the first war,” Toriel’s voice is hollow, a fragile and trembling thing. You and Chara both raise your hands to pat away the tears on her cheeks.

“Oh, my children,” she whispers, and presses a kiss to your forehead, then Asriel’s. It leaves a strange, tingling feeling behind.

She brings you all back inside, through the front room and the hall, back to the room with the two beds where you awoke. When she settles back down to sit on the little king’s bed, her arms loosen enough that you could push away, if you wanted. You lean your weight against her and stay where you are.

“What do we do now?” the little king asks. You turn your head just enough to open one bleary eye. Asriel’s eyebrows are drawn in and up, in the shape of a tiny worried mountain on his forehead. This close, you can see the maroon hue to his dark irises.

“For the time being, you will rest,” Toriel answers. The command in her voice is tempered with affection. “The three of you are still recovering.”

Asriel rolls his eyes, and though the smile that comes to your face is unbidden, you don’t think Chara’s to blame for this one. “Mooooom,” he whines.

Toriel laughs, a bright and beautiful sound. “There will be much to do in order to welcome humans to the surface,” she concedes. “The upcoming weeks will be very busy and demanding for us all.”

“Can,” the little king starts, then ducks his head and nibbles at his lip with his tiny fangs. One hand toys with the locket on his chest. (Why is he only wearing one now, where there were two before?) He looks up at his mother again, and tries once more. “Can we help you? Once we’re better? I…” He takes a deep breath, fingers closing around the locket. “I want to do things right, this time.”

“I would love nothing more,” Toriel says, and there it is, that same watery smile from the photograph on Asriel’s face. “In fact,” she continues, “I have a proposition for you.” She taps you on the shoulder, and you realize she wasn’t addressing Asriel.

With great reluctance, you pull away just enough to raise your head and meet her tender gaze. She brushes some of your hair from where it’s stuck to your face.

“You do not have to answer right away,” she assures you. You nod, and she continues. “But as I am sure you are aware, many humans will not believe that we desire a peaceful coexistence. Both of our races have lived in fear of the other for too long.” You remember what seems like ages ago, when you first laid eyes upon Toriel, and every fiber of your being knew you were about to die. You remember trying to convince yourself that her kindness was an act. You know now how foolish you were, but you also know that your fellow humans will echo your initial sentiments. Even Papyrus might not be enough to convince them of the monsters’ peaceful intentions. Whatever Toriel proposes, you’re already prepared to accept. You brought this problem to their doorstep and jeopardized their era of peace and stabbed their king in the back; the least you can do is work to prevent another war.

“How would you like to be the Royal Ambassador between humans and monsters?”

Your jaw drops, and Chara seizes your hands. Before they can frantically sign their objections, you shove yourself back into your body with a jarring impact, pushing against them, and jam your hands under your legs to trap them. Chara screams in your head, No, no, no, no, no! I won’t do it!

But she’s right, you think, focusing on the words, trying to direct the idea to the other human. Your teeth are grit tightly, and you breathe sharply through your nose, as Chara throws themself against you and tries to wedge their way into your limbs. Humans won’t listen to monsters, but they’ll know I’m the one who set them free. They’ll listen to me.

And you want this. You want to seize this chance you don’t deserve, and you want to do the right thing. You want to make this choice. Sans was right all along, that it was only dumb luck that things worked out as well as they did for you, but now you want to try. You want to choose kindness, not simply stumble into it. You want to help everyone be happy.

The pressure of Chara’s desire lessens, but the poison in their voice burns like the king’s magic. If they can’t see how kind monsters are, then they’re not worth saving!

You saved me, you think, and Chara’s grip on your hands falls away like rain leaving trails on glass windows. You could have let me die and had this body all to yourself, and I wouldn’t have minded. But you called me back. There’s no response to that, but you chase the thought down to its inevitable conclusion. I think you don’t want anyone to die any more than I do.

Shut up, they hiss.

I think you’re just scared.

Shut up! they scream, and you bring your hands up to cover your ears automatically.

“My child?” Toriel asks. Asriel crawls across the bed and his mother’s lap, wrapping his arms around you, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“It’s okay, Chara,” Asriel whispers. “I’ll be right there with you. It’ll be okay.”

Chara wrenches your hands away to cling to Asriel, and your entire body shakes.

“I’m scared, too,” the little king confesses. “If something goes wrong, we can’t just reload and try again, anymore. But… this is our fault.” Chara jerks, wanting to protest, to claim all the responsibility and take it away from the little king, but Asriel holds you close so Chara can’t pull away to use your hands. “Maybe,” he says, soft voice at your ear, “if we’re working to help everyone live peacefully, we can start to make amends for what we did.”

I don’t want to make up for those things, Chara thinks, without the fire from before. They let you reclaim control, curling into themself. There’s nothing to make amends for. I’d do it all again if I had to!

“Perhaps I should have waited to ask,” Toriel says, voice full of worry.

You shake your head, and extract your fingers from Asriel’s shirt. Chara offers no resistance. Without moving from Asriel’s embrace, you sign behind his back. ‘I want to do it,’ you say. ‘I want to help.’ You don’t know the sign for ambassador, but you’ll learn. You form Chara’s name sign as best you can, ‘They’re scared, but I think they want to help, too.’

Chara slumps, defeated, against your spine. You hear them object, Don’t you put words in my mouth. I do not want to help, but their thoughts are only a smouldering ember, not the panicked blaze from before. I just want humans to go away, they grumble, but you both know the futility of such a desire. A peaceful coexistence is the best way to protect monsters now.

“That is good to hear,” Toriel says. You can’t see her smile, but you know it’s there. “But first, I think we must to determine some way to know to whom we are speaking. This is terribly confusing, with the two of you swapping back and forth at a moment’s notice.”

At that, Asriel wiggles out of your arms and puts his hands on your shoulders, holding you out at arm’s length. You regard his wide eyed stare with your own curious gaze. “Oh my gosh, we’ve been so rude!” he exclaims. “There was so much going on, but I can’t believe I forgot!”

‘What?’ you sign. You don’t think he ended the hug because he realized you weren’t Chara anymore; his expression’s all wrong for that, and it’s not like he shoved you away. More like he wants to get a good look at you. But you’ve no idea what he’s talking about.

The little king takes his hands back, fiddling with his locket, and closes his eyes. He breathes deeply, as though bracing himself, and you hear Chara laugh weakly in your ear. What a dweeb.

Asriel opens his eyes, and the smile he turns on you is as bright and kind as the sun. “Howdy!” he says, holding his right hand out to you. You remember Sans, what seems like years ago, asking if you knew how to greet a new pal. Your hand fits perfectly in Asriel’s.

“My name is Asriel Dreemurr! What’s yours?”