Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Snowfort was, perhaps, the most comfortable bastion in all of Snowfall. In many ways, it stood at the heart of the underground—separated from the far warmer Sea Shoe by strange, layered caves, and from the cold but steadily warming streets of Smokestack and the Industrial Core by thick, icy distance.

Most of Snowfort’s denizens dressed in heavy layers, swaddled against the biting air. Many were Suzies—one large, sprawling family of strange, chaotic beings with a knack for troublemaking. Beneath their need to appear “cool” and “fierce,” they had good hearts. Seam couldn’t fault them for it. In truth, the Suzies didn’t fault much of anyone these days. There was little sense in judgment, not in a place as fractured as this one—stitched together from what remained, slowly settling into something… different.

Occasionally, the old cat would light a lantern and examine their hand in its glow, letting out a faint, rasping cackle before letting the shop sink back into dimness. They, too, were wrapped in warmth—not just the heavy fabric of their tent, but their own thick fur and coat. This shop had been theirs for a long time now. Over the years, wanderers had simply drifted in and out. But some, like the Suzies elected to stay. There was value, after all, in someone more adept than a common monster when it came to magic.

A small form slipped through the flap, and Seam’s eyes settled on the child.

Toriel—one of two strays alongside her brother Asriel. Technically, as far as Seam was aware, she was a “junior” version of a taller, older being… one who, sadly, was no longer around.

“Ha ha… welcome, little wanderer,” Seam greeted warmly. “Step out of the cold—it’s warmer in the dark.”

Toriel had changed of late. She’d been wandering into places she ought not have. The goat-monster girl, dressed in her purple gown with its long white sleeves, was far quieter now than she’d once been. Sometimes she walked with her eyes closed for days on end, navigating the familiar streets by memory alone, speaking to no one.

She spoke now, in her clipped way: “Strange carts.”

“Hm. The old train, perhaps?” Seam inquired, tilting their head. “North, behind that frozen wall?” A small laugh followed. “I hope your path there was safer than your last adventure. No flowers, I presume?”

Toriel’s gaze dipped, but she said nothing.

“The old lines,” Seam continued. “Slow little trains. Magic-fed, too small for the new rails. The world just left ’em there to rust and wait… like most things. Ha ha ha.” They toyed idly with a bauble from the counter. “Warm inside though, isn’t it?”

Toriel gave a small nod.

Seam’s grin bent wider. “Ha ha… warmer than most roofs you’ve known, I’d wager.” Their voice softened. “Thinking of making it yours, then?”

The lantern light caught the faint twist of Toriel’s mouth into a smile as Seam set the bauble down. It was warm to the touch.

“Mmh, you wanna know if it's safe. I think, perhaps, yes. You could do worse. Could do much worse,” Seam murmured, reaching for a wrapped sweet beneath the counter. “Just be mindful of your future passengers, ha ha ha. And remember—sometimes utility is survival.”

The girl tilted her head, puzzled.

They pressed the sweet into her palm. “Go on. Tell your brother the candy’s for sharing. And if he sees something with too many eyes… that’s his cue to run.”

Toriel turned to go. “Farewell.”

“Until we meet again, little wanderer,” Seam replied fondly, watching her leave.

The old magician sat for a time in thought. This was inevitable, they supposed. It felt as though her path was already woven into such a role. But that was the way of things, wasn’t it?

“To a point,” Seam said aloud, a crooked smile tugging at their mouth before a cackle rattled through the dim shop.

They decided they’d melt that ice wall soon. Not because the children mattered to them—at least, not in the way most would think—but because it was nice to have their company now and then. They were good kids. And Seam hoped their future wouldn’t be as grim as the cat’s own past.

Chapter Text

A noise like a wheel rolling across stone filled the air, the clanking of metal following suit, joined by the heavy thud of iron boots.

Steadily, the sounds approached the Throne Room—set close to the only accessible part of the barrier.

The walls of the castle were not as they had once been. The vast, ornamental structure now lay in weary disrepair. Various robots wheeled about, sweeping, mopping, and tending to the mess, though never truly fixing anything—only making the ruins a little cleaner.

The throne itself was spotless, gold and white with deep crimson trim, much like the long robes and finery worn by the figure seated upon it. She slouched there, tired and still, a staff leaning against the arm. Her orange hair hung loose, obscuring her face, elbows braced on her knees as she leaned forward in silence.

"Good morning, your majesty!" a chipper voice called out.

"Greetings, Empress Ceroba," came a more mechanical tone. "Report is now available for processing."

She gave no answer. The sounds stopped nearest to her, and someone leaned in to check. She was softly snoring—fast asleep in the chair.

"Nyeh heh heh. Ehhh... while I admire your work ethic, you work far too hard," the armored one murmured, adjusting his stance before lifting her into his arms. "Come along, you require sleep."

"She is already asleep," the robot pointed out as it followed.

"Yes, but she’s going to be incredibly sore if she sleeps like that," the warrior replied, carrying her toward a side hall. "And as the leading expert on all ailments and afflictions caused by improper sleeping techniques, you ought to listen—you might learn something."

"Unlikely," the robot replied, its tone somehow managing to sound annoyed, as a door swung open.

The room beyond was no grand chamber, just a bedroom—plain compared to how lavish the castle had once been. Dust dulled its corners, and the wear showed on every surface. He set her down on the bed; she twitched faintly in her sleep before he pulled a blanket over her.

"There, rest well. We’ll give you our report later," he said, patting her head as he turned to leave. "I think you'll find it most impressive,"

"It is my report," the robot corrected.

"Technically, I’m the Captain of the Royal Guard, so it would actually be my report. I was just trying to be nice," he countered while stepping out.

"Designation: Papyrus. Sub-designation: irrelevant," the robot droned.

"I think I liked the old you better," Papyrus muttered as he closed the door.

The Empress of the Underground lay in her bed, but her rest was no refuge. Sleep did not spare her from the relentless images that came night after night. Whether they were dreams or something harsher was a matter of debate—if the word “dream” could even apply.

Before her eyes even opened, whispers slithered in. Voices—teasing, taunting—curling with sneers. They grew louder, and louder, and louder until she cracked an eye open.

The world was a dull monochrome, a colorless wash over everything.

Someone was there. Close. Staring. Smiling. Nudging her.

"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mama. Mom. Mommy. Maaaa. Mom. Mummy. Ma—" The girl rattled off until Ceroba groaned faintly. "Oh, cool, you’re awake!"

"You must be so surprised," Ceroba grumbled under her breath, shifting upright and stretching the stiffness from her limbs. "Your faith rewarded—as if insisted upon vehemently."

The thing before her was also washed in monochrome. Hair dark and oozing, like living liquid, ever-dripping. Eyes black pits without depth. Skin a heavy, ashen gray—not quite black—while pieces of her outfit flickered between pale white and shadow, shifting in small, restless ways. It resembled a girl—a fox monster, much like Ceroba herself.

"I needed you to wake up," the girl said with an odd, almost too-wide smile. "Me and Betty were playing hide and seek, but I can’t find her." She tugged at Ceroba’s hand, asking, "Where did she go, where did you put—" The world around them broke into static, screaming for a heartbeat before snapping back into place. "C’mon, you have to help me. She’s just gonna jump out and scare me again if I can’t find her."

A dull ache bloomed in Ceroba’s head as she swung her legs from the bed. "O-of course." She felt like something had slipped—memories smeared over—yet still wagered she should get up. "Where’s your father, is he—"

"Buried in his work," the girl giggled. "He said to come ask you."

"He really ought to cease that project, take some time off," Ceroba muttered in mild disapproval. Still, she managed a smile, holding out her hand. The child’s cold fingers slipped into hers. "For now," she said gently, "let’s go find your sister, shall we?"

"If anyone can do it, it’s you," the girl replied as they stepped out of the monochrome bedroom, the colorless world stretching endlessly ahead.

How long had they walked?

How far had they gone?

How much had they searched?

Cabinets. Closets. The typical hiding spots her adopted daughter liked to haunt — behind curtains, under beds — always ready to watch someone jump in fright if she could manage it. Often, she ended up disappointed when her attempts fell flat.

Ceroba had found the habit… concerning. But Betty wasn’t a violent child. She just liked scary things — and, in turn, scaring people. It was Betty’s idea to start an “All Hollows” celebration: a day to dress up in costumes, try to spook others, and get candy and treats.

At first, Ceroba had been against it. The human holiday it was based on was… unpleasant in origin. Wildly racist, even — conceived as a way to “hide” from monsters by dressing up in caricatured, mocking imitations. But after some retooling, the new version was fun. Kanako, especially, had taken to it. She was brave, even if she got scared easily, and she and Betty both loved it.

She blinked — and found herself in the middle of a town.

Autumn leaves drifted through the air, swirling and dancing. Dozens of figures moved around her — still and monochrome, like the rest of the world. They walked in silence, mouths moving but producing no sound. All noise was distant, disembodied, as though the world’s ambience was playing from somewhere else. Nothing connected.

And yet… it felt normal.

A tug on her hand broke her thoughts. Ceroba smiled as she looked down at Kanako.

“Is she here?” Kanako asked.

“Hm?” Ceroba tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“We’re playing hide-and-seek, remember?” The girl pouted, part of her form sagging, melting more. “Mommmm, you said you’d help me.”

Ceroba's head throbbed. She nodded slowly. “Yeah… I did. She’s—” A faint laugh cut through the false ambience. Not part of the background noise. Ceroba glanced toward a shifting blur behind a tent flap. “…I think I know where she is.”

They ran ahead together, pushing past the tent — and found themselves in a place of countless trees. Water trickled nearby, through a stream. Ancient ruins lay scattered among the roots, entrances cut into the earth.

“Here?” Kanako’s voice held genuine surprise. “You had her brought here?”

“I…” Ceroba stepped forward — and suddenly stood in a long, dark hallway, luminous markings rippling across the walls. “…it was—” Another step, and she was somewhere else entirely. A shallow stream cut across a clearing, a low hill rising at its center. “She’s here.”

Light poured from somewhere above, spilling down onto cracked, mossy stone walls. At the heart of it all stood a tree — tiny, barely alive.

Ceroba approached. A pulse, faint but deep, thrummed from the ground beneath it. With each step she took, the tree grew — stretching taller, branches reaching outward, leaves unfolding. It alone had color and substance, a living flame against the world’s monochrome shroud.

Behind her, the girl was silent… until Ceroba stopped in front of the tree.

“You really are a coward.” Ceroba turned at the sharpness in her tone. Kanako’s smile was too wide. Too still. “Couldn’t even bury her at home,” the girl continued, her voice colder now. “Nowhere near where you are now. You had to put her as far away as you could… didn’t you?”

“It was… where she fell,” Ceroba said softly — true, but not the whole truth.

“What’s wrong, mama?” The color drained from the tree as Kanako stepped closer. “Couldn’t bear to look at the tombstone, so you never even made one?”

Ceroba’s throat tightened. Then, quietly: “…No. No, I couldn’t. You’re right.” She reached for her. “But I’ve missed you both so much. Kanako, I’ve missed you so much.”

Her hands met the cold, inky ooze of Kanako’s — and her daughter’s features warped, melting into something unrecognizable.

“If you really missed us,” the girl whispered, “you wouldn’t have done what you’ve done. But I’m not mad. I can’t ever be mad again. I can't feel...anything....ever again.”

“Kanako—” Ceroba began.

Something sharp drove through her chest. Black, jagged spikes burst outward, the ooze wrapping around them like veins.

“That,” the creature said, voice low and dead, “is not my name anymore.” Its eyes were bottomless. “Nobody chooses who they are in this world. No… you may call me—”

The dream ended.

Ceroba’s eyes flew open. She lay in bed, quiet and alone, heart pounding. She felt more exhausted than before she’d fallen asleep. The memory of what she’d dreamt slipped away like water through her fingers.

She rose, moving as though her bones were made of lead, and began her day. Trying to shake off the remnants of yet another nightmare. Uncertain why parts of it felt...

So real.

Chapter Text

The warm air of Sea Shore was always a welcome thing—by far the best section of the Underground, at least in Maddy’s estimation. Then again, that might have been because of her job.

The phantom within the animatronic cat-girl doll was, as usual, doing exactly what she tended to do while on duty: lounging. She sat at her sentry station, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. Her arms were crossed, resting comfortably on the plank of wood she’d secured across both ends of the station—her makeshift desk. Perfect for leaning on, and even better for the occasional nap.

She was technically a member of the Royal Guard, though her official title was Royal Sentry. Which, in practice, meant all she really had to do was sit here, keep an eye out, maybe calibrate a puzzle or two to deter any possible human intrusions, and otherwise relax. Not that the Robotic Guards the capital sent didn't do that already. Or 'would' if any humans bothered falling down here.

Her ears twitched idly, a small smile curling on her face as her thoughts moved to...a different topic. Her little daydream inspiring soft swishes of her tail. Recently, she’d made a “friend” of sorts—someone (or something) behind an old door on the cliffs west of Sea Shore. She’d started visiting to try out knock-knock jokes. Not exactly her specialty—she was partial to darker humor—but it never hurt to keep the classics in practice. It’s not like she could tell her kind of jokes to children. That was just asking for trouble.

"Unless they're orphans," The muttered to herself yawning. "Who could they complain to, their parents?"

She softly laughed to her own joke, while also feeling a little bit bad about it. That 'friend' of hers was a bad influence, in her estimation. Making her wanna do crazy things like 'try', and 'care'.

Then again, this place wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t Home—not by a long shot. That was somewhere she couldn’t return to. But for an unwilling travel destination? She’d could imagine much, much worst.

She cracked one eye open to glance around. Sea Shore had a beauty all its own. The “sky” above was believed to be an ocean—or something like it—held back by the Barrier. Most of the water stayed where it belonged, but now and then it seeped through, falling as gentle rain. Sometimes debris slipped in too, tumbling into the vast inland sea below.

The locals had made a whole thing of it—building boats, stringing up massive nets, sailing out to collect whatever drifted in. Useful items were repaired, refurbished, or repurposed into new creations. The rest—well, the rest was sent off to Smokestack, where it became fuel for all manner of strange projects.

Still, the best part of Sea Shore was the light. The water above bent and refracted it into shimmering, wavy patterns that danced across every surface. Like the reflections of a pool’s ripples on a wall—except everywhere.

She rolled up the sleeve of her dress to check her watch and chuckled.

“Well, looks like work’s done for the day,” she said, stretching until her joints gave a little pop, her arm briefly detaching before she slotted it back in. “And still no humans. I must be good at my job.”

With a yawn, she stepped to a nearby spot—and in an instant, the air seemed to flicker around her. She was simply gone, as though she’d never been there at all.

When she reappeared, it was inside town—stepping out onto the main street of the ever-so-cleverly named town of Seaport.

Technically, the name had been changed based on a vote… what was it now? Three, maybe four times? And there was another one coming up soon. She’d personally suggested Waterwho, Aquamarina, Towny Mc Townerson, Crabbyplace, and—just for something normal—Sea Port. The last one hadn’t been a pun or a dumb joke; it was just easy to remember. Considering it was almost literally the same as it was now.

Others wanted to change it to Seashore, like the name of the region. She didn’t care much anymore.

Wandering up to the front door of a two-story house with a small dock out front and a shed perched at its end, she reached up and tapped a few glass fishing floats strung along the building, their interiors glowing with warm lights. The bulbs inside made the green-blue glass shimmer like bottled starlight. She let the familiar clink settle in the air before opening the door and stepping inside.

“Hey, cousin, I’m—”

Before she could finish, something happened.

There was a flurry of motion—spools spinning, threads twisting, cloth swishing in midair. A sound of alarm, and surprise. She was shoved into a chair that spun in a dizzying whirl before stopping with a sudden jerk to the side.

Her head snapped off with a sharp click, flew across the room, and rolled to a stop with a dull clunk. Her now-disembodied face settled into annoyance.

“Why, why, why are you like this!?” she yelled.

“I’m just trying to help, darling—because you are in desperate need of a makeover,” came the voice of the pink phantom, their shimmering form swishing as though they had hair (though it was really more the idea of hair). “Do you need help?”

Her body moved her hands, picked up her head from the floor, then reattached it with practiced precision. A few sharp twists and she was set. She rotated her neck to check the alignment, already making a mental note to have her other cousin, Napstablook, fix the joint properly. Then again, they were busy working on something for Metta… so maybe she’d let it slide for now.

“I’ve got it. And what’s wrong with my dress exactly?” she asked, straightening up. “It’s classic, classic, classic!”

The phantom’s gaze swept over her: the worn patches, the stitched-up tears, the fraying edge of the tutu-like skirt.

“Maddy, cousin, darling, you know I love you…” they began. She raised a brow. “…but you look like you were buried last week, and didn’t get the memo.”

Maddy rolled her eyes—then grinned as she spotted her opening. “Wow, that’s grave news indeed. I should probably contact my primary scare provider,” The phantom gave her a flat look. “He's a funny guy, his joke will really knock ya dead." She snickered and asked. "What, too soon? C’mon, Metta, that was funny.”

“You’re a Royal Guard!” Metta shot back. “You must take this seriously.”

“I’m a sentry. It’s barely a job,” Maddy said with a shrug. “All I do is sit around all day. Honestly? It’s great. Especially when I’m dead tired.”

“Well, as I—” Metta stopped, glaring. “Cease this.”

"Such a serious tone, cousin—" Maddy drawled, her tail swishing in an exaggerated, feline rhythm as she made a mock-spooky gesture with her fingers. "Ooooh, so terrifying… I think I might just die of fright." She then flopped backward in an over-the-top slump into the chair.

"Maddy!" the phantom huffed, the sound echoing faintly as if coming from a hollow space. "Why must I be the only one to take this seriously?" They exhaled in long-suffering fashion, and Maddy straightened with a sly smile. "You may be a royal sentry now, but I’m certain to become one soon. I’m going to make sure you do your duties properly. And the first step—" Metta began scooping up the scattered mess around them with precise, deliberate motions— "is fixing this disaster. Now… what are we thinking? Something grand? Ooh, a ball gown? Or something ‘fierce,’ darling—let your mind wander."

Maddy was tempted to keep the game going, just to see how far she could push their fussiness… but she didn’t want to be cruel. Maybe she could just slip away for a bit. Float off mid-ramble, that always got Metta to get huffy for a bit. It was hilarious, but she'd been enjoying that a bit less as of late.

Besides, if she bailed on her body for even a second, her cousin would absolutely decorate it without her consent.

Her mind drifted instead to her recent trips—windswept cliffs west of the coastline, salt air in her fur—and an idea took shape.

"Something casual, but neat, I guess?" she said slowly. Then, a little too carelessly, added, "Like something you’d wear while hanging out… sparring… or going on a date?"

"Are you dating someone?!" Metta gasped, phantom hand flying to their 'chest' in theatrical shock.

Maddy froze. "W-what, no, no, no!" Her ears folded back in a panic as a nervous laugh slipped out. "I never said that!"

"Who is it? Is it someone I know? Oh, please tell me it isn’t that Sans fellow—he’s so dreadfully dull—" Metta started, already spiraling.

"It’s not— I’m not dating anyone!" Maddy groaned, running her claws through her hair in defeat. "But if I have to get a new outfit, it should be something… classy-looking, but casual. Makes me look cooler. Which I've been thinking to ask you about for awhile,"

"So you don't have to pay for the outfit?" Metta asked in an accusing tone.

Maddy hesitated, then admitted, "All honestly… I was just gonna try to find a way to get you to do it, while avoiding asking you. Nobody else has your sense of fashion. Nobody’s even close. But it is a little embarrassing to ask for the assist,"

Metta squinted at her, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. "Well… I do inspire a certain degree of awe, don’t I?" Their tone brightened into smug delight. "Fine. I’ll craft you something that fits your style. But—" they then indicated after— "you will tell me who you’re visiting one day. It’s inevitable. I’m an amazing listener, as you know. And I know you like telling me things."

Maddy smirked faintly. "Yeah, well, that’s probably true. I’d rate you high if nothing else." She relaxed as Metta set about taking measurements and sketching designs. "Still. I'm not dating anyone, like...seriously."

"Whatever you say, darling. Now hold still." Metta’s voice softened with focus as their work. "You’re going to shine like a star when I’m done."

Maddy snickered under her breath. Some people thought she didn’t like her cousin—far from it. She actually thought they were pretty cool. Always so confident, so self-assured. A touch egotistical, sure… but it was almost inspiring at times.

For now, she let herself just sit there, listening to their rambling about fabric and silhouettes. She didn’t show it, of course. But this, this made her feel more at home than anything else.

Chapter Text

Gardentown — one of monsterkind’s finest achievements in naming. Much like most other cities and places in the Underground, it was bluntly… accurate. The Caretaker of this place had once suggested a few other names — one of which contained a swear or two — but “Gardentown” had won out in the end.

Now, to those who lived here, it was simply home. Few remembered its naming, fewer still knew of the brief but spirited argument that had preceded it. Time had moved on; the trees had grown tall, their branches knitting together in places to form shady tunnels. The gardens had expanded until flowerbeds spilled over into the streets. The once-tiny hamlet, little more than a barracks for former soldiers, had blossomed into a proper village with cobbled roads, winding dirt paths, and — on certain days — the sound of children laughing from the commons.

All of this was reflected upon by the figure making her way down the main lane — a fish-like monster with deep blue scales and messy, wind-tangled red hair that fell across much of her face. A streak of white cut through the crimson, while several strands had dulled to grey. She’d meant to trim it more than once, but why bother? It would just grow back anyway.

Her footwear was a pair of split-toe boots, the sides cut with small decorative slits that let in a whisper of air. Above them were simple, work-worn trousers, one knee torn from a reckless slide across a pile of river-slick rocks. A loose white tunic rested over her frame, half-hidden beneath a long, open jacket — a haori whose back and sides bore a bold depiction of waves breaking against jagged cliffs, shipwrecks dashed upon the rocks. The colors ran in deep blues and blacks, with accents of rusty red and weathered brown, like sea-stained wood.

The haori was cinched loosely at her hips with a buckled belt from which a few small pouches hung. At the moment, she had shrugged the garment off her shoulders, letting it hang behind her like a cape, the belt keeping it from slipping to the ground. This made her left arm — and the bracer upon it — plainly visible.

The bracer was etched with detailed carvings: her own likeness beside a child, the two of them seemingly caught mid-moment, the smaller figure “painting” the very carvings they stood within.

"Morning," a voice greeted her. She glanced over. "You look a bit disheveled, boss. Everything alright?"

It was one of the village guards. She rifled through her memory for their name—new recruit, light on experience but eager. Ah, right.

"Morning, Shay," she greeted the Froggit, who had a small shield about the size of themselves, strapped to their back. "Just searching for my daughter. Also—did the armor not fit?"

Shifting her shoulder with a small roll, she caught a pleasant scent drifting on the breeze. The bakery must be open again—something sweet this time. Cinnamon, maybe? Or chocolate. She made a mental note to take Chara there later. A warm muffin might coax even the faintest smile from her daughter.

"Not so much," Shay replied with a sheepish little ribbit. "But I got a shield."

"And what a mighty shield it is," she said with a faint chuckle, before her expression softened into a sigh.

Shay glanced toward the street, then pointed with a quick nod. "Think I saw your kid heading that way. Maybe down by the creek?"

"That… yeah, probably." Undyne’s voice dipped into thoughtful muttering before she added, "Thanks. Really. And have a good patrol."

"You too," the Froggit replied, hopping away.

Undyne turned on her heel, boots crunching softly over the gravel path, and started toward the creek.

Something had been off with Chara for the past couple of days, and if she was honest, it worried her more than she wanted to admit. Maybe it was just… human things? Or maybe it wasn’t.

It wasn’t like there was a manual for this sort of thing. She’d already pestered the Holidays for advice on child-rearing, trying to translate their experience with monster kids into something usable for a human. It wasn’t a one-to-one comparison. Humans were… different.

When they bled, it wasn’t mana—it was real blood. Wounds didn’t knit themselves closed in seconds; their bodies were made of physical matter, not magic, and recovery was slower. Illness seemed similar on the surface, but when it hit humans, it could hit hard.

For Undyne, that had been the most shockingly stressful discovery of her long life. It still amazed her that beings so stubbornly resilient could be brought so low by something that, for monsters, was nothing more than a mild nuisance.

She pushed the thought aside before she could spiral into full-blown paranoia. Nobody liked an overbearing parent—she’d heard that somewhere. Still, if something was wrong, she wanted to know about it. And if anyone had caused it, well… they wouldn’t do it twice.

…Depending on the severity, anyway.

Elsewhere...

Family had always been an odd subject for Red — one she readily sidestepped whenever possible. The phantom-possessed puppet in the red hooded cloak had once been part of something vast. A network of kin, friends, allies... a life.

But, like so many others, she eventually wandered away, driven to find her own place in the world. Originally, she had taken up residence in a simple training dummy and had been perfectly content to simply exist there — to be overlooked, stationary, and still. That life ended the day events shattered the dummy, forcing her into a new shell: a mannequin of sorts.

It was just before the War with Mankind.

It felt strange, thinking about it now — how long ago that all had been, and how much had changed since... and how much hadn’t. She’d joined the first incarnation of the Royal Guard, and at the time, like most of them, she had been fiercely motivated. Angry. Ready to avenge the wrongs done to her kind.

Then came the first fallen human.

And everything after that had been... well, everything. A long chain of strange encounters, impossible circumstances, and unexplainable turns — all of which had led her here, of all places.

Now she stood alongside Undyne and her little band of ronin — rebels who had decided that maybe wiping humanity out entirely wasn’t the best plan. At least not all of it.

For her part, Red still believed there were humans who deserved whatever came to them. If all of them were good, then monsterkind wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. But she also knew better than to think every monster was a saint.

The surface had shown her that reality was messy. It wasn’t black and white, no matter how much people liked to pretend. Good and evil weren’t clean lines — they were smudges that bled together. Everyone liked to imagine the world ran on simple rules, but the truth was, everything was complicated, all the time.

And refusing to understand that didn’t magically make it simple.

Not that she wanted to dwell on it. She only was because the moment required no real focus, and her mind, left idle, tended to wander.

Her gaze drifted to her arm — the new one. A pale fracture ran along its surface. She’d left the break untouched for now, still growing accustomed to the feel of it. She wanted to finish shaping and defining the body before she truly bonded with it. And intended to fill that break with resin, leave it looking like a neat scar, perhaps.

She was going to replace it, but that was before someone — unintentionally — had broken her previous form, forcing her to dismantle it entirely and start the infuriating process over. It was too much effort, and scars were cool. So it would work for now.

One day, she hoped, she’d be able to create a body that lasted. Maybe she’d even find it here. The village was peaceful enough, after all.

And their human... well, she was better than most. A brat, yes. But a decent one.

Though, she was having trouble finding her knife—and partially suspected that the human might have swiped it at some point. Honestly, Red couldn’t fathom the human fascination with sharp or dangerous objects. Didn’t they realize how hazardous that kind of thing was?

She patted her pockets again, eyes scanning the ground, and sighed. Turning to look over her shoulder, she immediately yelped in surprise.

Standing there—quiet as a shadow—was the Human. Well… this human. Chara. The most recent arrival to the Underground, having fallen down some time ago. Unlike the couple who’d fallen before, this one hadn’t bolted off out of the Ruins or vanished into trouble the moment backs were turned. No, Chara had stayed. They’d listened. And, perhaps strangest of all, they’d seemed content to remain here.

They’d taken to life in the Underground, and Gardentown far quicker than anyone had expected—maybe too quickly.

Still…

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Red demanded, frustration edging her voice. The child didn’t answer, simply sitting down beside her. “Hello?”

Red had come here to be alone—traveling away from the settlement to the creek, a quiet little bend in the water she’d been considering fitting with a bench someday. For now, there was only a fallen log on the rocky bank, the shade of tall trees draping over them while the creek rolled past in lazy ripples. She’d been using the peace to work on her arm in relative solitude.

She anticipated disruption, but Chara was… different today.

Just a couple of days ago, they’d been a whirlwind—mischievous, full of light and energy, forever teasing or bouncing from one distraction to the next. Stillness hadn’t been in their vocabulary. Yet now, without warning, they were subdued.

Chara wore a multicolored bandana tied into a neat bow around their neck, paired with a green shirt bearing a single yellow stripe. A skirt was cinched with a belt, from which hung a small pouch. It was from that pouch that the child produced something.

“Red,” Chara said quietly, holding the object out.

Red blinked, recognizing it instantly. Her knife.

“H-hey!” She snatched it back with her good arm. “I knew you took it—what were you thinking?”

“You left it here,” Chara replied, voice flat, their eyes hidden beneath the shadow of their hair.

Red was about to chastise Chara but hesitated—she couldn’t quite recall what their gender was exactly. She vaguely remembered hearing she a few times, but also they too. One of the other kids had once said he, which seemed to visibly agitate Chara. So, probably not that one at least. The phantom paused, considering. Maybe it was some sort of combination.

If she was going to scold the human, she wanted to do it properly, after all.

“You should have informed me, girl. This isn’t something for a child to play with,” Red responded, then added with a soft uncertainty, “It would be girl, yes? Feel free to correct me if I’m off.”

Chara shifted slightly, an eye becoming visible beneath her hair. “Either or,” she replied, adding, “Undyne used Daughter—that was nice.” She adjusted the bandana tied around her neck, a soft fabric woven from white, light blue, and pink. “But maybe she was wrong.” Her voice grew monotone, cold. “Maybe I’m… more an ‘it’, a creature.”

Red noticed the edge of pain beneath those words.

“You may be a brat, but you’re not an ‘it’—not some ‘creature’,” she said firmly. Then, leaning against the log, she added thoughtfully, “Also, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call her by her first name. It’s always ‘Mom,’ ‘Mama,’ even ‘Mommy’ once. You two argue about something?”

The human was silent, curling tighter, arms wrapped around her legs. No response came.

“Can’t recall the last time you hung out around me either,” Red admitted only now processing that. “Usually, you’d be running off by now… Did you just want a quiet place to be for a while?”

“Maybe?” Chara said quietly, then added, “Sorry I didn’t return your knife.”

Red gave a half-joking sigh. “Hmm, well, as long as you didn’t go stabbing yourself or others, it should be okay.” Chara glanced away, and Red continued, “I’m, uh, fixing my arm, so… I’ll leave you be. But thanks for returning it.”

Char fell into silence. Red used the knife to carefully etch decorative engravings around the fracture in her wooden arm, delicate swirls and lines that somehow brought her a strange sense of déjà vu. Here. Now. She didn’t know why.

What she did know, was that Chara had closed her eyes, sliding slowly to the side to lie down on the ground. Red figured she should probably tell Undyne where her daughter was once she finished.

Meanwhile, Chara stared ahead at a light only she could see. The golden glow faintly reflected in her visible eye for a moment, revealing a shimmering save file displaying her name alongside “LV 4.” With quiet determination, she willed the save, watching as the information shifted and altered to show her at LV 1.

Saving over what had been there before, as if it never happened.

At that, she closed her eyes tightly. Listening to the soft waters of the creak, and the rustling of tree leaves.

Chapter Text

Doing the right thing was fine and all—but it had gotten boring. Technically, she didn’t even enjoy what she was doing now. She just… had to try it. To see what would happen. It would get fixed… soon.

That was the excuse of the monochrome child drifting through Smokestack. The once-bustling town of steam and vents had fallen silent; its many machines and churning waterways had gone still. The air was cooling fast, each breath frosting faintly as the massive heaters—once used to thaw the icy freight from Snowfall—sat lifeless.

Gaster, for her part, slowed at the edge of a wall plastered with paper. Her fox-like ears flicked once before she stepped closer. A wanted poster offered a reward for information on the “Kanako” impersonator. Around it, various evacuation notices flapped weakly in the chill air. Apparently, the Star of the Underground had been working to shepherd monsters to safety.

Not that it would matter in the end.

Her inky, empty, ever-shifting black eyes lingered on a nearby poster of the so-called star. She had really… really disliked the television program. It was all so unbearably bland.

Honestly, wouldn’t it be doing everyone a favor to just… end the broadcast? Assuming there was still anyone left to watch.

The murderous entity turned without another glance, ignoring most of the surrounding streets. She stooped only once—to pick up a broken bottle, its jagged end gleaming faintly in the dim light—before tossing aside a scuffed plastic bat she'd been using. Her gaze shifted forward, drawn toward the towering shapes ahead: grand buildings rising through coils of steam, and beyond them, the labyrinthine paths that wound toward the Core’s boiling heart.

It was almost delightful to feel the temperature drop. The change gave the air a strange weight, a texture she could almost taste—and different was exactly what this creature craved. Anything to break the monotony. Even if it meant walking headlong into active traps and barriers, each one bristling with automated malice.

She welcomed it.

Black tendrils lashed from her form, surging outward to lock down security systems, block lancing beams of light, and weave makeshift bridges across otherwise impassable gaps. Each obstruction became just another opportunity to move forward. In truth, it only proved how paltry Monsterkind’s defenses had grown.

The end of the path opened into a massive complex: clusters of apartments, a squat studio building, a yawning warehouse—and dominating them all, a sprawling restaurant-hotel whose size dwarfed the rest.

A low, steady alarm hummed through the air, a sound that vibrated faintly in the ribs. She pushed open the double doors and stepped inside.

The Shining Star was not waiting where she’d expected—no dramatic pose beneath the lights, no grand speech from the far end of the room. Instead, Muffet stood right at the center.

The ground was tacky underfoot, thick webbing carpeting the floor, walls, and even the elevator that had likely ferried monsters to safety. Every inch of the space was claimed.

Her outfit was familiar, though altered for the occasion: black pants, a purple button-up chef’s coat hanging open to reveal a bright white shirt beneath—a relic of her earliest days, back before she’d become the underground’s celebrity darling. A simple piece of merchandise: the old “Spider Bake Sale” tee. A silky white apron hung loosely around her hips.

In two hands, she clutched heavy cleavers; another held a notepad, and the last balanced a plate topped with something indistinct but aromatic. Her usually neat hair had been let down, curling softly about her shoulders. Four of her eyes tracked Gaster the moment she entered.

“Ahuhuhuhu… oh, dearie~ You’ve finally arrived.” Muffet’s voice carried an almost weary sweetness, ending on a sigh. “You’re not just stingy with your money… but with your mercy, too, it seems…” Her smile thinned into a glare.

“After our first meeting, I realized something most foul,” she continued. “Dearie, you’re a horrible creature. Spiders. Monsters. I bet even humans… you’d kill them all, wouldn’t you?”

Gaster’s only answer was a faint, unreadable smile.

“Ahuhuhuhu… then we have a problem.” One cleaver twirled with a flourish. “To give my kindred a better world, I have to be a star everyone adores. And I can’t do that if they’re all dead.” With a casual motion, she tucked the notepad away, lifted the glass from the plate, and took a sip—never breaking eye contact as Gaster stepped closer. “Always so eager to hurt someone, aren’t you?”

The plate flew without warning, shattering against Gaster’s form before she could move.

“Ahuhuhuhu… very well, dearie~” Muffet’s voice sharpened to a hiss. “I’d use you for my next batch of pastries, but the taste would be revolting.” The world flashed black and white. “So I’ll just bury you instead.”

The fight began.

And Gaster knew, with the grin stretching across her inky face, that it could only end one way.

Somewhere, spiders began to play music.

The air snapped taut.

Muffet struck first. Her cleavers spun in a blur, flung wide to pin her opponent’s movement. She seized a strand of web and yanked; the sticky lattice cinched tight, trapping Gaster’s footing just as something slammed into her head. Small spiders scurried above, pelting her with whatever they could carry.

She jerked forward, narrowly avoiding a second volley of cleavers as her soul flickered purple.

Gaster darted in when Muffet caught her blades, slashing with the jagged bottle—but struck only a pastry tossed from one of the smaller spiders. Muffet’s grin widened as a taut strand yanked Gaster back across the room.

Black tendrils shot forward, spiking through the air—only to be caught and mummified in layers of silk. Muffet closed in, cleaver flashing. The first swing split the floorboards; splinters flew as Gaster’s form melted backward, reforming out of reach of the second blow.

The fell child roared, hurling more tendrils in a storm. Muffet danced away, batting them aside with trays and steaming confections that burst into sticky sugar shrapnel.

A sign advertising a skull and crossbones descended on a spider-thread as she snapped her fingers in time with the beat played in the background.

From the walls, her trap revealed itself—silk-lined alcoves pulsing with movement. Pale, chittering shapes emerged: massive muffin spiders, each the size of a hound, legs bristling with barbs.

They swarmed toward Gaster.

Muffet tossed her cleavers—two more joining them from unseen places—and laughed.

Gaster answered with an explosion of tendrils, whips of black ink flinging one muffin spider into the wall, skewering another. Ink splattered across the webbed floor as she tore gaps in the tide.

But Muffet was still closing in.

A cleaver kissed Gaster’s arm, slicing a deep groove that spilled more inky black across the webs.

And the music only got faster, as more instruments joined in.

Muffet didn’t give her room to breathe.

She snapped her fingers and purred, “Dearie, when was the last time you had a birthday cake? I think you’re overdue.”

From the rafters, dozens of spiders swung a massive decorative cake by its stand, the motion cracking its sugary shell and rattling the glass plate beneath. Muffet stepped back in rhythm with her own snaps, her entourage tossing utensils, plates, and even hot pans through the air. Gaster had no choice but to keep moving, dodging through the crossfire as the enormous cake toppled, shattering in an eruption of frosting and glittering shards.

An opening revealed itself—and Gaster laughed in earnest. One of her empty black eyes flickered with a pinprick of red. Oozing black hands surged up from her back, shielding her from flying debris. She cut through thick strands of webbing in a single motion and lunged straight at the celebrity.

“Ahuhuhuhu…” Muffet’s laugh rang sweet and venomous as dozens of webs snared Gaster mid-stride. “Welcome to my parlor~”

From the shadows above, razor-thin strands dropped—each tipped with a weapon scavenged from the kitchen: gleaming knives, sharpened forks, skewers, even a rusted butcher’s hook. Muffet gave one sharp tug, and the deadly chandelier of steel swung down in a savage arc.

Gaster’s body split in two—half dissolving into black smoke, the other half whipping upward, tendrils slicing the weapons loose before they could skewer her. She slammed into the ceiling, the blow cracking plaster and raining dust. Muffet barely avoided the impact, ducking aside and hurling a cleaver in the same motion.

It missed—but only by inches. Gaster retaliated instantly, her tendrils lashing sideways to crush the smaller spiders that had been pelting her with kitchenware. The air filled with their shrieks as limbs were torn free, chitin snapping like brittle glass.

For a moment, predator and prey locked eyes.

Then Muffet glared sharpened. She stepped back, fingers twitching over a hidden web-line. One sharp pull—

—and every piece of furniture still upright in the lobby came to life, jerking violently toward Gaster. Webbing turned them into flung projectiles: tables, chairs, shelving, even the shattered remains of the cake stand hammered toward her from all directions.

The air was chaos—dust, silk, splintering wood, and the drumbeat of destruction.

And then—movement. A blur within the settling haze. The glint of jagged glass.

The broken bottle flashed downward, cutting clean through Muffet’s torso. She staggered back, eyes wide, her breath hitching. The steady background music cut out with a sharp click.

“Ahuhuhuhu…w-well then...” she murmured, voice thin. Falling to her knees, she looked up at her killer. “What an empty smile… you don’t even enjoy this, do you, dearie?” The question made Gaster hesitate—just for a breath. “I almost pity you. Alone. Desperate. So empty it almost hurts." She scanned the creature's response. "Tell me, how does it feel… to be such a pathetic creature?” Muffet laughed, louder this time, the sound trembling. “Ahuhuhuhu…”

And then the laughter ended.

The bottle came down again. And again. And again. Slashes became rips, rips became tearing, until there was nothing left but violent frenzy. The spider-woman’s body unraveled into dust, scattered by the cold still air.

Silence fell over the ruined restaurant.

Gaster stood there, gazing down at the fractured remains of the bottle. Too broken to use again. She let it fall and stepped forward, retrieving one of the chef’s knives from the debris. A bit dull—but serviceable.

Without a backward glance, she moved toward the back exit.

From the shadows, a lone spider crept out, small and trembling. It placed a single rose in the pile of dust that had once been Muffet before skittering back into hiding.

Chapter Text

There was…a blurry heaviness to the start of the morning as Chara awoke in her bed. She blinked slowly, letting her gaze drift across the room. Hadn’t she just—

The memory clung to her like smoke. A foul dream. Or, what she had once been able to call a dream. Now she knew better.

In it, something sharp had driven into her—so sudden she hadn’t even seen what it was. The pain was merciless, like being snuffed out while her guard was down, while she was only trying to help. She had bent down to pick up something for someone who had dropped it—just one small kindness—and was rewarded with a death so vicious it still echoed in her chest.

Her body shifted against the sheets as she sat upright, legs sliding over the edge of the bed. Her hair hung over her eyes, hiding an expression that had long since grown neutral, practiced. It had been easy, at first, to tell herself these were only dreams. Strange dreams, sure, that twisted themselves into little variations each time—but always circling back to the same end.

But she knew now. This wasn’t just a dream. She’d had this “dream” the last time she woke up today. And the time before that. And the time before that.

Her gaze slid toward the alarm clock on the nightstand. She didn’t need to look at the time. She could already count it down in her head.

Three. Two. One.

The shrill beep erupted. Exactly as it always did.

Again. And again. And again.

The world pressed against her with the weight of déjà vu. Too heavy. Too familiar. And yet inescapable.

A thought came, cruel and tempting: she could just wander into the kitchen and plunge a knife into her own chest, skip ahead to the next “today.” But no. That wasn’t an option. Not anymore.

One of her eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, catching a strange brightness in its depths. She stood, pulling on her shoes with quiet, deliberate movements. Without another word or glance back, she left her room.

She stepped into the short hallway beyond her room and, just as expected, was greeted by the note pinned neatly to the wall.

Anticipated.

Chara didn’t even need to read it anymore to know what it said.

Still, her eyes passed over the handwriting, bold and hurried, unmistakably her mother’s:

“Hey punk, I know you haven’t been feeling well. So I got you something in the fridge. We don’t have to train today, or anything. Just rest well, okay?

I love you.”

The words washed over her, processed and catalogued like lines of a script she’d memorized. Once—once—they had made her smile. The idea of being loved, of being cared for, had lit something bright inside her.

But now?

Now the meaning had dulled, worn away by repetition. Each time she woke, each time she read, the less weight it carried. It was like hearing the same line of dialogue on loop, or rereading a short story until the ink itself seemed to fade. What once felt warm now felt empty. Maddening in its predictability.

Undyne was far more sentimental, far more caring, than she ever let the world see. Chara had admired that about her—had tried, in her own way, to live up to it.

But lately… it was so hard to feel anything at all.

She rounded the corner into the kitchen-living room, divided by an 'island counter'. The familiar space laid out exactly as always: the piano pressed against the wall beside the window, its silent keys glinting faintly in the morning light. Her steps carried her to the fridge.

Her mother’s 'discovery'—the infamous “hot fridge”—still made her grimace to think about. At first, Undyne had been so proud of it, beaming as though she’d brought home a treasure. But the food had spoiled too often, and one time it had made Chara so sick she thought she’d never stand again. After that, the fridge was replaced immediately.

Although her mother had assured her it was fine, Chara didn't... feel that way. The guilt of it lingered, as if she had ruined something her mother had loved.

She pulled the door open, the wave of chilled air spilling over her like a sigh. Inside: a few drinks, plastic containers stacked neatly, and, sitting there as always, a single chocolate bar. Her hand closed around it, mechanical, rehearsed.

And then the déjà vu struck like a flood.

She froze, staring at the bar in her hand. The hum of the fridge was loud in the silence. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her grip didn’t loosen.

“Don’t stop now… not now,” she muttered under her breath.

If she broke the pattern—even for a second—something would shift. Something would change. And she couldn’t allow that. Not yet. It would ruin everything.

Because her former 'friend' had to be bored by now. Had to be. Or at least, almost. And once that happened...maybe she'd stop?

Leaving the fridge door hanging open—it didn’t matter, not anymore—she wandered back into the living room. Her gaze fell on the bandana waiting where it always was… and beside it, something new.

The jacket.

The one her mother had given her long ago. Every so often, rarely, it appeared here, folded neatly as though set out for her. Not always, just sometimes. Variations. Glitches.

She slipped on the bandana, fingers fumbling with the fabric of the jacket before shrugging into it. It was warm, heavier than it looked. For a fleeting instant, she felt something—the tiniest spark of comfort, of belonging.

But the spark burned cruelly, collapsing inward, crushing her chest with a weight so unbearable it made the idea of ending it all right here seem so appealing, she let out a strange little laugh.

Still, she forced herself onward, letting the jacket slip from her shoulders as she stepped outside. The fabric crumpled to the floor, destined to be covered in dust.

And Chara walked toward her inevitable fate.

Chapter Text

Long ago, before the war between Monsterkind and Mankind—

before the slaughter that followed,

before the great sealing,

before the last glimpse of the surface faded for those driven below—

the world was a wilder place.

There were things in that age, long, long ago. Creatures, horrors, entities unnameable, roamed the world. Ravaged it. Consumed it. Their fate, to be contained, brought to the ruin they craved by those who lurked in the space between Man and Monster: the Fey.

Some believed them to be progenitors of both races—at least once, before the libraries were set aflame, before the cities crumbled into embers and the fields turned to dust, before the land grew cold and the wild was stripped of its wonder and left to ruin.

No power in that time was wholly benign, nor entirely innocent in how matters unfolded. Least of all the Fey. Their tricks, their mischief, their darker impulses haunted both Man and Monster alike, though it was humankind who seemed to draw the lion’s share of torment when they strayed too near fey domains.

What might have been solved with conversation became a contest of cruelty: rituals, traps, malicious stunts and punishments. To human eyes, such acts only proved the Fey no different from the creatures they once brought to dust—and so disdain and mistrust deepened. Some whisper still that their relentless provocations helped stoke the flames of the great conflict to come.

But history is a thing rewritten. Erased by victors, misrepresented by the fallen. Who, after all, would rise to dispute either account? The few who yet endure below the earth are withering, their kind dying out in silence.

They vanish two ways: their blood mingling with monsters until descendants became wholly magic and Monster… or else rotting away to dust, forgotten, fading into the dark where no one will ever mourn them.

No one will know.

No one will remember.

Save, perhaps, for one.

If a single Fey survived to see the end, it would be Puck. Advisor then, and advisor still. The last immortal among the sliver remaining. Condemned—or blessed—to witness the final flame sputter and go out for their species, even as they struggle to keep Monsterkind from sharing that same fate.

Doing all that they can. For as long as they could.

Today was a special day for Puck.

The Fey, as a people, had once been arrogant—so certain of their own wisdom. They were gifted, or cursed, with the ability to glimpse the threads of possibility: the most probable outcomes, the brightest hopes, the darkest fears. Yet those visions were never pure. They were always warped by desire, tainted by dread. A flawed foresight.

For Puck, the gift was less blessing than burden. It gnawed at them daily, feeding their paranoia with a thousand branching tomorrows, each whispering doom in its own way. Recently, they had even approached the royal scientist, begging for a way to quiet the storm. After long and wearying effort, a remedy was given—an imperfect salve, but enough to silence the clamor of futures for a time.

That was what made today so remarkable.

Puck had long believed they had seen all there was to see, prepared for every contingency the visions ever showed. And yet here they stood, confronted with something wholly unforeseen—an impossibility they had never glimpsed, not once, in any strand of fate.

“Puck.” The voice cut through their reverie like a clear bell. “My dear advisor, are you still with me?”

The owlish being adjusted themselves, feathers ruffling as they turned toward the speaker. “Hmm? Yes, your Majesty. I’m present.”

Ceroba.

Puck had to admit, she was a remarkable ruler. Not the heir they had once expected to triumph, but one they were quietly pleased to serve nonetheless. There was a brightness to her, a steadiness, that few monarchs carried. Her only fault—the only shadow that ever gave Puck pause—was her devotion to her husband. A fine quality for most, admirable even, but in Ceroba it bordered on dangerous. Devotion, when taken too far, could become destruction.

Ceroba was watching them now with a knowing smirk. Clearly, she had spoken while Puck’s thoughts drifted elsewhere.

“Did you hear a single word I just asked you?” she teased, lifting a brow. “Puck, drifting again like that… you wound me.”

“I slept poorly,” Puck lied smoothly.

“Mhm.” Ceroba’s smirk softened, but her tone sharpened. “Very well. Now… the child?” She gestured.

Ah, yes. The child. The very reason today was unlike any other.

Puck shifted on their heels, their long coat swaying, half hiding their face as they turned to observe. And there it was. Small. Fragile. Inconceivable.

Well before any anticipated incursion, the First Human had fallen into the Underground. A true anomaly—arriving far earlier than any vision suggested. And not only that… but the Princess herself had delivered it directly to the castle, as though it were a treasure rather than a threat.

Puck had been preparing for humanity’s arrival for years, even centuries. They had overseen the Emperor’s “future project,” crafted deterrents, reinforced walls and wards. They had seen endless visions of soldiers storming down, vanguards of mankind exterminating the last remnants of Monsterkind, horrors without number. Every dreadful possibility had danced before their foresight.

But not this. Never this.

Not a child.

And the very fact that it was a child—that was what unsettled Puck most of all.

At the moment, the human—Betty—was darting around the chamber with the young heir to the throne, Kanako. The two were playing in their own chaotic way. Betty had discovered a toy spider, much to her delight, and Kanako was apparently terrified of it. Thus the chase began. The princess tore across the hall, shrieking and laughing, while the human pursued her with glee.

In her scramble, Kanako veered toward a table, snatched up a stalk of broccoli, and brandished it like a sword. Betty gasped in mock horror, stumbling back as Kanako advanced, cackling with newfound bravado. The chase reversed, the human letting out a deliberately exaggerated scream as the two of them tumbled through the hall like a storm of giggles and shrieks.

The sight coaxed a small laugh—and a rare, soft smile—from Ceroba.

But the moment those shrieks had started, however brief, Puck’s hand went to the dagger on their hip. Their grip tightened until their knuckles whitened. Then, catching themselves, they forced their feathers flat, carefully relaxing their hold. A quiet breath. A calculated mask of calm. They brushed aside the longer plumes that had fallen over their left eye.

“Majesty,” Puck said carefully, their voice low. “This is…”

The Empress turned, amused, still watching the children with that quiet chuckle of hers.

There it was—that little smile. That fragile ember of hope Puck had not seen so vividly in far too long. A terrible, beautiful thing. The Fey advisor’s gaze flicked once more to the children as they careened past, their joy filling the chamber.

“Hm? Were you saying something?” Ceroba asked, one brow arched.

“My Empress,” Puck murmured, “that… it’s a human.”

“I am aware of that fact,” Ceroba replied curtly, though there was no edge in her voice. “A human child, to be precise. It’s not as though she’s a hardened soldier. Besides—” her eyes twinkled faintly, “—didn’t you look after human children on the surface?”

Puck stilled. Their feathers shifted as old memories pressed in.

It was true. Once, long ago, the children of the Isles had sought them out at the forest’s edge, calling to the strange feathered figure in the trees. Mischief-makers, orphans, wanderers—laughing voices that had begged for tricks, pranks, distractions. Not every Fey had indulged them, but Puck… Puck had.

There had been something endearing about it: teaching them how to carve slingshots, how to dart through the underbrush unseen, how to vanish when the angry victims of their pranks came searching. They had shown them which berries were safe to eat, how to watch one another’s backs. How to survive.

But that was another life. Another Puck.

Not all human children were content with simple mischief. And even those who were… grew up. They always grew up.

And perhaps that, more than anything, was what unsettled Puck the most.

The two girls whispered conspiratorially to one another. Then, with a shared glance, Betty plucked a blanket from a nearby bin of folded clothes—meant to be stowed away before the maid noticed their absence. Draping it around herself like a ghostly cloak, she crept toward a dozing soldier. Kanako stifled a laugh behind her hands.

A sudden shriek from the man echoed through the hall as the “phantom” pounced, the girls collapsing into breathless laughter at his expense. Their delight filled the chamber like a burst of sunlight.

Had this been the surface, Puck thought, this would have been one of the children that would once have sought them out. One they might have taught tricks to, shown mischief, guided toward survival. Then watched as the years twisted that playful spark into something… revolting.

“This child is a troublemaker,” Puck muttered, feathers shifting uneasily. “You do remember, Majesty, that humans are a predatory species.” They gestured toward Betty, sharp-eyed. “Like cats—they practice young. Their games sharpen instincts they will one day use in earnest.”

“I take that to mean you’re not fond of my idea,” Ceroba replied with a soft laugh, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“I am concerned you are not thinking rationally,” Puck admitted, their voice measured but edged.

“Not every human was violent,” Ceroba reminded gently. “There were those who sheltered us, who helped us escape.” She tilted her head, her expression softening. “Do you not remember that young man? The one who was so fond of you?”

Puck tensed. “Exceptions exist. A minority. A very slim minority.” A sigh slipped from them. “Your Majesty… if this is truly the path you wish to walk, then precautions must be set. Lessons must be imposed. I never saw this outcome in any of my visions.” Their feathers ruffled, betraying unease. “It is… an unknown.”

“For most of us, it always is,” Ceroba answered softly, her hand coming to rest on their shoulder. “I know you’ve lost faith before, Puck. But have some now. I think this could be a positive thing—tactically, yes, but also socially. They are much stronger than us, physically. To understand them—and to have even one human who learns to see us as people—that could prove invaluable.” Her eyes turned toward the laughing children. “Besides… she gets along well with Kanako.”

The advisor closed their eyes briefly, gathering their composure. “Yes. I understand.” Their voice dropped lower. “I will... do all I can to support you. I can only hope this is not a choice we’ll come to regret.”

“Not every future is grim,” Ceroba said, releasing them with a reassuring pat. Her steps carried her toward the brightly lit hall beyond. “Nothing is written in stone. And ours is bright. I know it.”

Puck watched her go, one eye cracked open. A long silence pressed between their thoughts.

“I certainly hope so,” they murmured at last, before turning sharply on their heel and slipping into a shadowed corridor, where the light did not reach.

Chapter Text

There was a myth, whispered by the younger generation, that monsterkind had been utterly incapable in the war with mankind. That they were caught off guard, helpless, never even managing to slay a single human. That it all came without provocation, or cause. That mankind were bloodthirsty creatures who purged them on a simple whim.

But revisionism had always been a problem, regardless of peoples, and since coming to this underground world, it had only worsened.

An icy figure made her way across the permafrost beyond Evergreen—the one warm haven in a land otherwise locked in frost. Ahead lay cliffs and winding paths, where the barrier thinned and the sky sometimes broke through in hail and shards of ice. This region sat beneath what had once been an inland sea, its rivers still carving their way through stone. When the barrier had first sealed this world, the caverns had been drowned, but as the waters slowly receded, new passages opened for exploration. Torches and painted markers dotted the rock, evidence of where others had gone before.

Even so, the air here was changing. Warmer currents stirred where once there had only been killing cold. Strange machines and constructions, the work of the Emperor, were seeing to that. His ambitions stretched beyond Evergreen’s walls; the ruins alone were no longer sufficient for the sheer number of monsters crowded together.

The icy woman slid across a glassy stretch of frozen ground, heading toward a harsher domain still—a wellspring of ancient cold, its magic older than memory. Snow fell here without end, and no grand visible source, drifting between twisted trees that bore the strangest of fruit.

They grew like pomegranates, though at a glance they resembled crystalline apples. Their skins were clear and reflective, catching the dim light so that each fruit looked carved from glass. But cut them open, and the flesh within glowed a soft orange-red, steaming with warmth despite the bitter cold. Their taste was alien: part kiwi, part apple, part warm water. She had always found them fascinating.

But she was not here for fruit. She had come to find an old friend.

After some searching, she spotted the patchwork tent—furs and pelts stitched into crude walls, huddled against the endless snow. Pushing aside the flap, she blinked in surprise: the interior was no mere shelter, but a shop.

“Ha ha… always barging in.” A voice purred from behind the counter. A cat-like monster sat there, one socket covered with a strange brass button while the other eye studied her sharply. “Good morning, Freis. It has been some time, old friend.”

“Seam,” Freis smiled, relief softening her frosted features. “I almost didn’t believe that traveler’s tale. But here you are.”

“Sit, sit. I’ve time for your company, and no reason to rush you out,” Seam said warmly, swinging open the side of the stand so she could step through.

Beyond the counter, the tent unfolded into something larger than it had appeared from outside. A glamour cloaked its true size: a bed, shelves stacked with trinkets, and narrow walkways like a maze of hidden alcoves.

With a snap of Seam’s fingers, a thread of magic laced out, tugging chairs into place. One for Freis. One for them.

Freis settled into the chair, folding her arms across her lap. “I imagined you dead,” she admitted quietly. “Not a soul has seen you since well before we were driven underground.”

“Mmm. Save for recently,” Seam replied with a small smile and an airy laugh. “History has grown flexible in the minds of many.” They lifted a delicate porcelain cup from the counter and sipped. “Why should my story be any different?”

“The rest of the guard mourned you,” Freis pressed, her voice clipped, though the grief still showed beneath it. “If you wanted privacy, you could have just… resigned.”

“I couldn’t quite juggle all that was needed. And a judge is rarely afforded resignation. Ha ha… especially after 'everything,'” Seam said, eyes narrowing as they studied her, the brass button on their face catching the faint glow of the lantern. “Besides, I offered quite a bit, gave more than I aught once. Believed it would service history… but in the end, I lacked vision.” They tapped the button with a clawed finger and gave a low chuckle. "Not a soul recalls, wiped away for the warm darkness of comforting lies instead. Ha Ha..."

Freis leaned forward, searching their face. “I understand that much.” A pause, heavy with thought. “I imagine you have no intention of returning?”

“To the sides of our new Lady and Lord?” Seam teased with a crooked grin and a cackle. “Ha ha… no. My oath was lost in the dark. No sense indulging in this sparking light.” Their smile thinned. “Not that it will last.”

"They are competent rulers, capable, just," She indicated.

"Most tragedies begin with joy," They responded calmly.

“And how do you imagine that?” Freis asked, a challenge lacing her tone.

“The topic of the day, old friend… history. The rules of it. How it breathes.” Seam swirled their tea as though divining patterns in its surface. “You and I, we’ve obtained the cruel curse of standards and honesty. What we see is a dim, acceptable light. But it is not what people crave. Why endure the brutal clarity of a cruel reality,” they said, their words sharpening, “when one can stitch over it with benign fantasy? Something with no teeth. No challenge. No meaning.”

“You’re worried about that as well?” Freis asked, glancing aside as a cup of chilled tea slid across the counter to her hand. She accepted it with a nod. “Puck is alarmed. They were informed of the new lesson plan and requested it be… overhauled. Out of concern for accuracy, though...it wasn't entirely dishonest...”

“Ha ha...a singular concession leads to more, every single time. If you don't believe me, then why does it only grow more skewed?” Seam asked knowingly, their eye glinting. “Surely there’s a reason such revision is permitted in the first place, an intent you're far too intelligent to pretend you don't realize?”

“The Emperor wants the people to be proud of themselves. To feel strong. To be united, after countless centuries of difference,” Freis lifted the cup, staring into its faint frost before sipping. “He believes they need something to believe in. And a... common enemy,”

“To make those bearing any fault, seem faultless...well, there's ever and always a justification. But it matters little, the truth is simple,” Seam drained their own cup and set it down with finality. “It is pleasant to believe lies. So much harder to face the truth. And so, we will doom ourselves. Not that it matters I suppose—this world would remain broken even if we did not.”

“Old friend...do you have no faith that we can save it?” Freis asked, sipping again. “Even with this instance, I don't foresee it as a path of demise. It's a misstep surely, but not unsalvageable." She scanned them worriedly. "Also...you’re beginning to sound a lot like—”

“Ha ha… I know, I know. Well, what can I say?” Seam interrupted with a shrug, though their tone softened. “It’s natural to miss a friend, despite the chaos.” Their gaze flicked toward the tent’s flap, as if watching ghosts pass beyond. “And no. Perhaps it can be saved. Yet, it is easier to accept what comes than to fight it.” They looked back to her, smiling faintly. “I'm afraid I've abandoned such interest. But you—you are welcome to try, old friend.”

Freis set her cup aside and rose, straightening her shoulders. “Then prepare to be amazed.” Her lips curved in a determined smile as she looked at her old comrade. “The Empress is right. There’s a bright future waiting for us. We only have to seize it.”

“Then I shall await this glorious light,” Seam said, bowing their head with dry amusement. “Farewell, old friend. We’ll cross paths again… or not. Ha ha ha.”

Freis left the tent with a steady stride. She didn’t begrudge Seam their cynicism—given everything, it made sense. But she hadn’t given up. Not yet. Her steps rang with purpose, carrying her forward.

It was true: sometimes it was hard to keep moving. Sometimes hard to keep the faith alive. Sometimes hard to speak the truth in a sea of sweet lies.

But she was convinced. They could do this. They all could. They only had to try—just a little harder.

Freis wandered through the frost, her breath curling into the frigid air as she neared the boundary where the monsters now dwelled. The thawing lands stretched before her, silent save for the occasional groan of ice shifting under its own weight. Then, a sharp crack split the stillness. She turned just in time to witness a massive slab of ice break away and plummet, shattering against the frozen expanse of water below. The impact fractured the surface into jagged shards, and for a brief, violent instant, a geyser of dark water burst into the air before collapsing back into silence.

“You should see what it will look like one day,” a voice cut through the quiet.

Puck wandered closer, wrapped head to toe in a heavy coat that looked comically oversized on their slight frame. The sight drew a flicker of amusement from Freis, given the fey’s notorious dislike of bitter frost.

“I suppose you’ve glimpsed it?” she asked, stepping toward them.

“I have,” Puck replied, gesturing to the broken expanse. “Once most of this drains, it will form an inland sea. The climate will warm, lush and tropical. Beneath this ice—warm sand already waits, patient. There will be beaches here. A town, too. All glass orbs and fishing trinkets strung from painted boats.” They pointed, eyes distant with memory or vision. “It’s… strangely beautiful.”

“And where are we in that future?” Freis asked gently, tugging at the collar of their coat to keep it snug.

“I’m not sure,” Puck admitted after a pause. “Try as I might, I cannot seem to find us there. My foresight has grown… fragile of late.” Their expression tightened. “Perhaps a side-effect of the treatment. Maybe I should stop?”

“It’s your choice,” Freis said softly. Then, leaning in, she pressed a kiss against their cheek, leaving behind the faintest trace of frost. “But I’ll remind you of this—watching you lose yourself was loathsome. That ability does not define your worth. You are already enough, Puck. You don’t need it to matter.”

They shifted, uneasy, eyes flicking past her to the endless horizon. Slowly, they clasped her hand with their gloved fingers. “I know… yet it feels as though I don’t do enough. As if I ought to be doing more.”

“You owe no soul anything,” Freis answered firmly. “The war was not your fault. The suffering of others does not erase your own. And if I must be selfish—then so be it.”

“Selfish, how so?” Puck asked, a faint chuckle escaping despite the weight in their voice.

“I hate watching you destroy yourself. I won’t allow it. If you need justification, then take mine: stop for me. For us.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by the occasional drip of thawing ice.

At last, Puck exhaled a weary sigh and leaned against her. "I've no idea what I did to deserve you. Nor what you see in me."

"Countless things, they're beautiful. You should see them." She responded with a quiet sincerity.

Freis wrapped them in her arms, holding tight against the cold. She would see the future turn brighter—she had to—but never at the cost of those she treasured. That was one price she refused to pay.

After a time, the two walked back together, their footsteps leaving paired trails in the snow. They spoke of Seam’s troubling words, of choices yet to be made—and, to Puck’s reluctant amusement, of how they would be spending their mandatory day off. Freis had decreed it, and Puck knew better than to challenge her when her tone left no room for negotiation. Their grumbling only deepened her smile.

Chapter Text

The morning had started out fairly mundane for Sans, but that wasn’t an inherently bad thing. His life up to this point? It had been pretty good.

He’d moved into his grandfather’s old house—a small shack in Seashore, complete with a restaurant in front. A classier joint than he would’ve ever pictured himself running. Honestly, he’d always imagined his brother would be the one in charge of it, but Papyrus had taken another path. The Royal Guard. And, being Papyrus, he’d climbed through the ranks with relentless determination until he became Captain himself.

For the longest time, that’s how things stayed. Papyrus would stop by on occasion, proudly showing off Sans’s restaurant to his friends, helping business pick up. And Sans… well, he’d do his best not to laze around too much and actually put some effort into the place.

He made friends. Met people he liked. Honestly, that alone made it worthwhile.

And then that afternoon came.

He stood behind the counter, a glass in hand, while the back room filled with townsfolk who hadn’t managed to evacuate in time. He could hear their murmurs, the nervous shuffle of feet. Sans knew a few things most people didn’t—secrets about the world, about the rules it played by. Oddities of design, he liked to call them. A friend of his had even hinted at some of it weeks earlier, when she’d come in to drink—every morning, every evening. Something had been building, even then.

The door creaked open.

Sans paused, polishing the glass, as his eyes settled on the little abomination stepping into his restaurant. Funny. Everyone had always feared the end would come by human hands. And yet… here it was, in another form.

He flicked a bone across the room. It thumped against the old jukebox, sparking it awake with a slow, warped tune that dragged like a tired heartbeat. Fitting.

The creature shuffled closer, dragging a hardened plastic bat against the floor. Wrapped in nails. Unblinking eyes stared from a body that oozed and flickered between solid and unstable. And then, as if by some instinct, her gaze locked on him.

“hey there, freak,” Sans greeted with his usual grin. “what’s the matter? all that murder work up an appetite?”

He tilted a sign over the counter—mock options, little reminders of the ‘rules’ he knew applied. A way of keeping track. The thing, still wearing the faint shape of a monster child—a kitsune, if you squinted—glared at him.

|Talk|

“heh. hey, it speaks,” Sans said with a chuckle.

“How’s business today, Sans?” the thing asked—Gaster. Her voice carried that strange flatness, but her eyes wandered over the room with faint curiosity. “Seems a bit empty.”

Sans shrugged, setting the glass down. “eh, kinda happens when a tiny tormenting terror tears their way through the town.” He flicked a glance at her bat. “maybe it’s just that I haven’t cleaned up. dust sure piles up fast these days, huh?”

“You’re going to end up like they did,” Gaster said flatly. “You. Your brother. Everyone.”

“we all die eventually,” Sans replied, almost casually. “a friend of mine reminded me of that not too long ago. what can you do about it?” He hummed. “don’t worry though, pal. you’ll be joining us sooner or later.”

Gaster’s glare deepened. “Step out here and fight me.”

Sans tilted his head, still polishing the glass. “you? fight me? ehhh, pass. left a couple bones piled in the corner though.” He gestured lazily. “feel free to impale yourself on ‘em a few times. pretty much the same thing.”

Silence stretched. Gaster’s jaw clenched. “I’ll be back for you, when I’ve killed everyone else.”

“wow, that sounds like a real productive use of your time,” Sans answered, unfazed. “but hey, honestly for a second...what’s the point? let’s say you pull it off—you kill everyone. congrats. now what? it’s just you, and your sins, sittin’ alone in an empty world.” He leaned back on the counter, one hand tucked in his hoodie pocket. “had you played things different, you could’ve had friends. good food. maybe even heard a few funny jokes, and some… not-so-funny ones. but hey, what do i know? unlike you, i’ve actually had those things, so maybe i’m biased.”

Gaster snarled in frustration, spinning toward the door.

“that pile of bones’ll still be there if you wanna kill yourself later,” Sans added with a shrug. “door’s always open, you little freak of nature.”

The door slammed behind her.

Silence fell again. Only the warped jukebox tune hummed faintly as Sans stood behind the counter. From the back, he could hear anxious whispers—the people hiding, waiting. He sighed. Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to take a nap, let the world sort itself out.

But he knew if he did, his brother would be disappointed. And everyone in the back would surely die. The least he could do was stand here, do nothing—and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to save a few lives with the odd knack he had for doing the bare minimum.

The title of Captain of the Royal Guard meant, inherently, that people relied on you. They placed their faith in you, believed in you, looked up to you. It was a heavy responsibility—even if, to most, the role had grown more ceremonial than practical. After all, robotic guardians patrolled the Underground now, deterrents designed to deal with aggression before it spread.

But it was hard to look up to something that processed a person on threat analysis alone. Machines offered no calming words to frightened children. No encouragement to the weary. No inspiration when someone was struggling. They only carried out their function—efficient, unfeeling, absolute.

And even that wasn’t enough anymore.

Papyrus stood waiting, tall and resolute against the falling snow. Many had already evacuated past him, including much of Snowfort’s population. Across the Underground, monsterkind was facing something terrible. The rumors called it a monster gone mad, but the reports didn’t fit. This wasn’t madness. It was something else. Something worse.

Still, it didn’t matter.

Crunching steps in the snow caught his attention. Papyrus raised his visor, and recognized the figure approaching—a familiar regular at Sans’s restaurant, and one of the Sea Shore sentries. Maddy.

The sight of her made his unease rise. To say she looked miserable was an understatement. Her lips curled into their usual smile, but her eyes held no light. Her movements were mechanical, as if she were going through the motions of being alive.

Her outfit, too, was different from what he remembered. Comfortable blue pants, pink sneakers, a white shirt with a cracked black heart graphic across the chest. Her fur-lined pink jacket was unzipped, and the bell collar at her throat jingled softly with each step. Her green eyes, once bright, were shadowed now.

She stopped in front of him, reached into her pocket, and pressed something into his hand.

Papyrus looked down at it. “What’s this?”

“my cousin was… a fan,” she muttered. Then she brushed past him. “later, Captain.”

“Wait, just a moment,” Papyrus called, turning to her. She paused, though she didn’t face him. “I know the situation seems hopeless, but if you’d join me, this creature wouldn’t stand a chance.” His voice rose with conviction. “I can’t change what’s already happened—but there are still others who need our help!”

Maddy didn’t answer. The wind howled between them, driving sharp snowflakes across the empty field. The temperature was dropping by the moment, spreading farther than even Snowfall. The systems that regulated it—once maintained by careful hands—were silent now, abandoned in the rising tide of dust.

Finally, she muttered, “there's no point. Our choices don’t matter, in this world.” She added, almost absently, “maybe it’ll be better for us next time.”

“Next time?” Papyrus echoed, frowning. But she offered nothing more.

Her form shimmered, then flickered out, vanishing into the storm.

For a long moment, Papyrus stood in silence, her words lingering in his mind. He’d already tried reaching out to the other guards in Sea Shore, but he knew how that had ended. He wasn’t oblivious—at least, not in his own eyes.

He turned back to the path ahead, and there he saw it: a shadowy figure drawing closer, each step deliberate.

Papyrus tightened his grip on his bone claymore. In his offhand, the letter Maddy had given him crinkled in the cold.

“Even if everyone else has given up, I can’t afford to,” he told himself, his voice firm despite the doubt crawling inside him. “Maybe they just need… a guide. Someone to teach them how to be better.” His conviction wavered, but he forced himself to stand taller. “Well… it has to be worth the attempt. It just has to.”

He planted his feet in the snow, ready to gamble everything he had on one belief:

Everyone could be a good person. If they just tried.

Chapter Text

Warmth. Every kind of shop and restaurant one could hope for. A thriving, bustling community tucked into the heart of the Underground.

In Asgore’s opinion, Smokestack was a perfectly lovely city. Sure, some of the old machines still pumped out more smoke than they should, but improvements were always being made. Newer, cleaner methods of production cropped up every year, and Asgore liked to believe the city was always on its way to becoming just a little better.

He walked down a narrow alley toward his destination. It wasn’t often he took a day off work, but today he had. This errand was important to him—more important than most things, if he was honest with himself.

Halfway through the alley, someone leapt out at him—a wiry bird monster, feathers ruffled, beak set in a scowl.

“Don’t move an inch, ha—” The words cut short. “...oh. It’s you.”

“Afternoon, friend,” Asgore greeted warmly, his trademark smile disarming as ever. “I thought you had a new job?”

“Eh…” The would-be thief shifted uncomfortably, talons scraping the stone. “It, uh… it was… I sort of lost it. So, you know… figured I’d fall back on the robbing thing. I mean, I’m pretty decent at it… I think?”

“Hm.” Asgore hummed in consideration, then reached out to pat the other’s shoulder with a gentle weight. “Well, while I’ll admit you’d make a wonderful thief, I much preferred seeing you behind the counter at the store when I visited. What happened?”

The bird winced and laughed nervously. “Uhm… listen, we don’t have to… talk about this—”

“Nonsense. I’ve time for a friend.” Asgore gestured toward a nearby crate stacked against the wall. “Come. Sit. Let’s talk.”

The thief hesitated, then sighed and slumped onto the crate. Not everyone in Smokestack was lucky; the factory jobs were long, grueling, and sometimes dangerous. A position at some corner store had seemed a far better fit for someone like them. But, as it turned out, a misunderstanding about food in the employee fridge had soured things. A coworker accused them of stealing, tempers flared, and arguments followed until they’d been fired outright.

Asgore adjusted his jacket, straightened his suit, and tucked his paw over the small package in his pocket—a gift for someone special—as he listened. He offered what advice he could, his voice calm and patient.

Helping others gave him joy. He wasn’t naïve, as people often assumed. He knew not every thief or burglar would change their ways. But wasn’t it still worth trying? Wasn’t it worth offering someone a chance, if only to prove that kindness hadn’t yet burned out in this city of smoke and steel?

And so, after promising to visit tomorrow and help smooth things over with the store owner (a friend of his), Asgore bid the thief farewell. He walked on, reinvigorated, shoulders straighter, stride lighter.

The alley spilled him out into the cluttered streets of Smokestack, alive with motion—pedestrians weaving through bikes and carts, streetlights flickering against the evening haze. He greeted people as he passed, and more often than not, the greeting was returned.

He paused briefly at a stand to buy a newspaper. It would be important for the gift. He tucked it carefully under one arm and couldn’t help the smile tugging at his muzzle. He was excited.

A short while later, Asgore reached his destination.

The day had led him here, to this moment—an important one. A chance to give his gift, and to see the look on her face when she received it.

The paper he carried and handed alongside it displayed its bold headline: The Core of the Underground.

"Vast machine that ran on a mixture of energies, predominantly steam. Near the border of Snowfall, massive engines churned through ice, frost, and snow, transforming them into rivers that wound through the region. Heated by the process but cooling as they traveled, the waters kept the entire area temperate.

Add to that the countless factories and their towering exhausts—plumes of vapor streaming into the sky—and the name of the region was born: Smokestack. Never mind that most of the haze was steam; “Steamsack” had been suggested once, but most agreed it sounded… indecent. Smokestack, then, and so it remained.

That was the official story. But in truth...it's.... it's...

A cover-up! A shadow cabal of humans rules from the dark! Monster dust ground into seasoning! Magic used as flavoring! Wake up. WAKE UP SHEEPLE!"

The newspaper lowered slowly, revealing a skeptical glare over the rim of a new pair of glasses. A dog-monster woman stared down at the nonsense print.

“Asgore…” she said flatly, adjusting the frames—frames he had just given her. “What the hell even is this? What am I supposed to...do with this?”

Asgore, standing there in his vested suit with his jacket neatly folded inside her apartment, beamed at her with that big, earnest, foolishly handsome smile of his.

“Well—they’re glasses,” he began hopefully, then faltered, his brow creasing. “Did I… get the prescription wrong?”

She blinked, then shook her head quickly. “No, no. They’re fine—really good, actually. I meant the paper, you idiot.”

“Oh. I didn't read that side,” Relief softened his face. He flipped it around and brightened again. “Look, there’s a nice story on it. See? Local families come together to help out a neighbor who fell ill.”

Now that was more like him. Simple, heartfelt, and exactly the kind of thing that made his eyes light up. She caught the tiny smile tugging at his mouth and let out a small huff.

“Didn’t see that one,” she muttered, before softening. “Anyway… thank you. For the glasses. It was dumb of you, but… I appreciate it. A lot.”

“I can’t imagine how giving you a gift is dumb,” Asgore said warmly, chuckling. “But I’m glad to 'see' you like them.”

She narrowed her eyes, adjusting the glasses again. “Did you just… I swear, making a pun at a moment like this—” She stopped when she noticed his glance flick toward her tail, wagging traitorously behind her. “That proves nothing.”

“I think it tells quite a tale,” he teased, and she groaned aloud, though her smile betrayed her as well. “Besides,” he added gently, “they look wonderful on you.”

“…Yeah?” she asked, cheeks warming as she looked him over through the new lenses. “Then I guess you could say I’m a hot-dog.” The realization hit her too late. She slapped a hand over her mouth. “W-wait—no, I didn’t mean to—”

But she was already caught, swept into his arms. His laughter rumbled against her as he hugged her tight. “That was hilarious. I’m so proud of you!”

“Ugh, noooo what have you done to me? Infecting me with your humor,” she groaned, though she leaned into him despite herself. “I should kick your ass for this.” A sigh, soft but resigned. “Eh. Maybe tomorrow.”

He was, perhaps, the clearest definition of a giant goofball that she could imagine. As she hugged him back and let herself sink into the warmth, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of irritation at herself. He wasn’t her “type” in any conventional sense. Not the kind of person she’d pictured for herself, not the way she’d thought it would go.

But then… he made her laugh. Not in a forced way, not to impress, but because he genuinely wanted to make her happy. And not just her—everyone. He was a fool for that, sticking his neck out for people who barely deserved it. It was reckless. It was infuriating. And yet… it was kind. So kind, that try as she might, she couldn’t help but adore him for it. Admitting it out loud, though—that was the hard part.

When the hug ended, he grinned and said, “I’m really glad you like them. And hey, maybe those folks who were rude about hiring you before will give you a second look?” He gave her a wink and a playful nudge.

She rolled her eyes and let out a short laugh. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re not funny.” She stepped over to a little table and sat down, trying not to look too pleased.

“And yet, you laughed,” he teased, taking the chair across from her.

“That’s a symptom of the infection,” she countered with a smirk. “Involuntary laughter. Nothing to be done, until a cute is made.” She tapped the glasses thoughtfully. “As for the whole job thing… eh. Who knows. Maybe?”

The two of them sat in what she loosely called her backyard. In reality, it was more of a back patio, enclosed by a fence and a sagging cover overhead. Sheets were pinned up to block the gaps—her idea—but the strings of colorful lights woven between them had been his. She’d tried to say no, she really had, but eventually she’d caved. It would’ve been annoying… if seeing his face light up every evening when they flickered on didn’t make it impossible to hate.

There was a table here, and a couple of chairs—the one they sat at now. Off to the side sat a small burn pit, currently filled with crumpled notices, overdue bills, and a graveyard of envelopes stamped Urgent: Open Immediately.

He broke the silence. “Well, there’s always my idea. Maybe we could open a flower shop?” He gestured to the scatter of potted plants and flowers around them. “It’d be fun to work together, don’t you think?”

The thought blindsided her. For a moment she just stared, heat rising in her chest, wondering why everything suddenly felt warmer. She shook it off quickly.

“I dunno if that’d work out,” she said.

“Why not?” He inquired.

“Because, unless I was watching you the whole time, you’d just give them away.” She reached over and poked him on the forehead.

“Well… not all of them,” he argued weakly. “Maybe just to the people who liked them.” The look she gave him was enough to make him laugh awkwardly and scratch at his beard. “Er. Yeah. I think I see the problem.”

She leaned on the table, narrowing her eyes at him through the new lenses. “Speaking of which… these glasses... your job doesn't pay you well. And you spend most of your money helping others," She said, as he glanced to the side. "Thinking on it now...you can’t afford these.”

“But you needed them,” he said simply, his smile tugging nervously at the corners. “You said so yourself.”

That look on his face—the big, sheepish grin—always meant the same thing. He’d done something reckless again. Her smile faded as worry slipped into place.

“How did you afford them?” she asked, raising a brow. “Asgore. What did you sell?”

He hesitated, then admitted, “Well… it was my old guitar.” Her heart sank, and her ears folded back slightly. He added quickly, “But it’s okay! I barely played it anyway. Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal. I promise.”

She sighed, long and tired, as the big goat-man rubbed at his beard with that same nervous grin.

“Seriously, Asgore?” she muttered, staring at him across the table. “What am I gonna do with you?”

She leaned back, letting out another breath. There were times—moments like this—where she almost regretted their relationship. He was relentless in keeping her afloat, even when it cost him pieces of himself. He would always sacrifice first, always put her ahead. And she...well she really appreciated the sentiment. Just not at the cost of his own wellbeing.

"Are you upset with me?" he asked, his voice more earnest this time.

"A bit, yeah," she admitted, arms crossed. "You can’t keep doing stuff like that. You’ll end up homeless—or stuck staying here."

"I wouldn’t mind staying here more often," he replied with a sheepish little smile.

"That’s... you—ugh, shut up," she huffed, looking flustered. "I’m being serious, and...I don't even have a job, and if you lose your home you're gonna lose yours too."

Asgore for his part frowned some. "I...I do understand. But... you said it yourself. Nobody was getting back to you, due to your vision." He countered delicately, as she glanced to the side. "Were they?"

"No. Not really. I mean..." She trailed off, remembering something. "Actually, one place got back to me yesterday. I think I have their letter inside."

His ears perked. "Really? That’s amazing! What was it? The job, t-the business?"

"Don't sound so excited. It was the Royal Guard," she said, sitting up straighter. Then, almost on impulse, she added, "They just said they have a few openings."

"The... Royal Guard?" he repeated, blinking. "Aren’t most guards just robots these days?"

"Captain Papyrus says he wants more actual monsters, to handle the more mundane things. Those robots are freaky, I mean, you remember how they smashed up that dance guys studio?" She asked him, as he nodded reluctantly. "So it's more like... it'd just be standing watch somewhere, keeping people safe. Handling things the robot guards shouldn't be doing. And well, if humans showed up, we’d sound the alarm and get civilians out."

"We?" Asgore inquired.

"Er, it's nothing I just... well the pay is good. And I was going to... suggest that it was 'possible' we could...both do that," She said a big hesitantly, and noticed him smile more. "d-don't you go smiling like that, it's just for...tactical reasons."

"You sound a bit... guarded," Asgore rubbed his beard, with a little smile as she huffed. "So... are we actually supposed to fight?"

"Only if we have to," she replied. Then, with a shrug, "But to be honest, when was the last time a human even fell down here?"

"I heard there was one a few years ago, out northeast somewhere..." He frowned, trying to recall, but came up blank.

"Those are just rumors, Asgore," she dismissed. "If there had been, it would’ve been new everywhere. Probably would have had Miss Muffet do a whole segment on 'human foods' for a week after."

"I thought the segment was fun," Asgore admitted, adding. "Didn't you like the calzones?"

She thought for a moment and admitted. "Okay yeah maybe it was...pretty good. But not the point. What do you think?"

"Honestly?" he said slowly. "It makes me a little nervous. But... helping people sounds good. Isn’t that what matters?"

"That and getting paid, but hey, we can do both at once here," she agreed, a small grin tugging at her mouth. "And we’re both broke. You hate factories—" He blushed. "—and so do I. So?"

"Well..." He hesitated, then gave a little shrug. "If nothing else, we could at least ask about it. I’m not as tough as you, though. I’ve never really fought before."

"You are no doubt tougher, but sure... don’t worry," she said, a sly smile forming. "I’ll train you."

"Really?" His smile widened.

"Hell yeah. Nobody gets to kick your ass but me," she teased, her grin softening after a beat. "You stupid...handsome big lug." She stood, brushing herself off. "Now c’mon. Let’s go figure out food before you sell off the rest of your stuff."

"Yes, dear," he replied warmly, earning a fierce blush from her. "Er—yes, Ressa. Sorry, I forgot again."

"It’s... you’re—ugh, it’s fine," she muttered, rolling her eyes as her tail wagged despite her best efforts. She opened the door. "Just move your fuzzy ass... dear."

She scoffed under her breath at her own slip, cursing how doomed she was. Especially when he leaned down and kissed her cheek, leaving her head swimming. For half a second, she even imagined getting a shirt with his face on it—though knowing him, he’d probably want one of her.

Shaking the thought away, she forced herself to play it cool. For as long as she could.

Chapter Text

Compared to most other things, school wasn’t a whole lot of fun.

Having to sit still and stay quiet for long stretches of time was… taxing, even miserable. The longer the day was, the more it felt like her body buzzed and shook, demanding something to do, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

The only reason she put up with it at all was because her mother said it was important. And, well—she loved her mother. If her mom thought it mattered, then it must’ve been technically important, even if Chara didn’t fully understand how.

Still, when school let out, she was always the first one bolting through the door. She’d breathe out a tense breath, then draw in a fresher, freer one, as though she’d been holding her lungs hostage all day. While she lingered in that small ritual, the other children of Gardentown streamed past her on their way home.

A voice tugged her attention. “Hey, Chara… may I get my pencil back?”

Chara blinked, turning to find Noelle standing there, looking a little hesitant.

“Pencil? I don’t—oh. Oh, yes, I do!” Chara let out a sheepish laugh, digging into her pocket and producing the wayward pencil. “Apologies, I… thought I’d returned it.”

“It’s okay.” Noelle smiled faintly, though her ears twitched in relief. “I was just worried because I can’t lend it to you tomorrow if I don’t get it back today.”

And Chara, well—she had to admit, that was flawless logic. “Thank you all the same. I can't hang out right now, or I'd ask if you wanted to do something." She then gestured. "I have to meet up with mom. So... I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Well, alright. Later, have a good day.” Noelle gave a small wave before heading off.

With that, Chara jogged away, energy sparking in her steps. Normally she’d try to rope the other kids into a game or two—something lively, something fun to burn off the day’s stillness. But today, her mind was elsewhere. Today she wanted to spend time with her mom, who had promised they’d train together. And Chara was positive she was only one day away from becoming an all-powerful sorceress, clad in gleaming armor that would leave everyone awestruck.

At present, though, her outfit was a little less impressive: a red horned headband, a green jacket, a plain white shirt, and the skirt she’d been gifted not long ago. She wasn't sure about the jacket and shirt combination. But that skirt, though—she liked it a lot. She liked the way it swished when she spun, the way it brushed against her knees. The feeling brought a curious, unexpected joy she hadn’t known she was missing, a quiet euphoria humming through her chest.

Still, it wasn’t without its quirks. The ends sometimes dragged along the ground, and she found herself tugging it higher as she moved. A belt might help, she decided, and tucked the thought away for later.

Her scattered thoughts settled into rhythm as she bounded through Gardentown—darting between gardens, slipping through yards, her laughter trailing in the air. At one point she scrambled onto a fence, carefully balancing on the narrow wood as she peered out over the neighborhood. Not that she needed to, of course. But it was fun, and really, wasn’t that reason enough?

Walking along the fence, Chara realized she couldn’t spot her mother anywhere. Where had she gone? Perhaps she was in one of the shops?

This was usually the time her patrol route wove through the town… wasn’t it? Had she changed her path? Maybe she’d slipped into the forest trails instead?

Reaching the end of the fence, Chara hopped down and struck a triumphant pose at what she felt had been an incredibly impressive jump. It had to look super cool. …Or maybe it had looked super lame? She liked to think it was the former.

“Bravo, little fish,” a deep, older voice called from a nearby porch, followed by a slow clap.

“Thanks, Mr. Segora,” she answered with an embarrassed laugh, realizing too late she’d had an audience. She rubbed the back of her neck. “I, uh… I mean, I thought about trying a front flip or something, but—” she trailed off, cheeks heating, “Mom got upset last time.”

The goat monster chuckled warmly, his dark fur flecked with gray. “Well, of course she did, little fish. You faceplanted into the dirt.”

“I-it wasn't that bad. Like, I didn’t cry or anything. I was fine!” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“Uh-huh. Sure you didn’t.” He gave her a knowing look, his smile creasing the lines of his muzzle.

Chara padded closer to him, eager to steer the conversation away from her not at all disastrous attempt at acrobatics. “Well… off the topic of my super cool front-flipping skills… have you seen Mom anywhere?”

Segora was something of a fixture here in Gardentown, a friend of old Mr. Gerson and a familiar presence since Chara’s arrival. He helped in the shop now and then, though these days he spent more time in his chair on the porch, moving slower, quieter, more tired than before. His fur was streaked heavily with age, and his eyes had that faraway look of someone who carried old burdens.

Her mother had once told her that monsters tended to “age faster” after having children. And Segora… he’d had children once, though he didn’t know where they were anymore. His wife was with them, somewhere deeper in the Underground. Certain events—beyond his control, he’d said—had made it unsafe for him to live there with them. So here he remained, alone, trusting that they were safe.

Chara always felt a pang in her chest when she thought about it. More than a little pang, really. She wished she could do something for him, but… what? She had no idea.

A sharp snapping noise drew her out of her thoughts. Segora had snapped his fingers.

“Lost in thought again, little fish?” he teased, his voice gentle. Chara flushed with embarrassment. “Glad to have you back. Can’t go asking a fella a question and then drift off.”

“S-sorry, I was just—” Chara let out a nervous laugh. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Goodness.” He shook his head in mock exasperation. “You’ve gotta learn to focus, child. But yes, I saw your mom. She wandered out toward the Exit. Said she wanted to make sure it’s secure.”

“Really?” Chara blinked.

“Yup,” he confirmed, stretching with a tired groan. “She does that now and then. Usually at night, though.”

“Weird,” Chara muttered under her breath. “I… didn’t know she checked it at night.”

In fact, she hadn’t known her mother checked it at all. It made sense, of course—of course the Exit would need guarding—but it had never crossed her mind.

“Well, someone’s gotta, right?” Segora said around a yawn. He waved her off lazily. “Go on now. Grab some grapes along the way if you want.”

The side of his house was heavy with vines, clusters of ripe grapes drooping low. Once upon a time, he’d made juices and wines from them, or so she’d heard. She wondered why he’d stopped. Was it because of his age?

Still, she smiled and said brightly, “Right, definitely. Thank you, Mr. Segora! Have a good day!”

“You too, little fish, you too,” he answered, settling deeper into his chair with a tired wave.

Chara hurried to the side of his house, plucking handfuls of grapes. She stuffed some into her pockets and popped a few into her mouth—sweet, bursting with juice—before setting off again, feet quick against the dirt paths. Her thoughts circled restlessly, wishing she’d been told about these “security checks.” Wondering why she hadn’t been, and what else her mother might be keeping quiet.

The Exit.

The gateway to the rest of the Underground. Beyond the Forest Ruins, beyond Gardentown. A place she had never gone.

Her mother had always insisted that what lay past the door was not safe. Not friendly monsters like those she knew here, but ones hardened by resentment, carrying old scars of a war with humankind. They would harm her, her mother said, even if Chara herself did nothing to invite their wrath. To them, the fight was the only way forward.

Adjusting the plastic horns headband perched on her head, Chara grimaced faintly. She didn’t like being compared to humans. She knew she technically was one—but humans had treated her like something “less than.” Something unwelcome. She couldn’t be a monster, but she didn’t want to be human either. So instead, she decided she was something humans feared. A demon.

The holy humans had always spoken of demons with dread—“fallen human souls, tainted with sin, like monsters.” But here, monsters were kind. Monsters were family. If demons were like monsters, then surely demons must be kindly too. Surely they weren’t so terrible after all.

Her wandering thoughts broke when the familiar path to the Exit Door came into view. The trail wound right alongside their house, ending at a great, rusted iron gate with tall spiked bars. The lock had broken long ago, and it gave easily beneath her small hands.

Chara slipped through and descended the long, winding staircase carved into the earth. Torches lit the way, their orange light flickering across stone walls. Glowing markers—painted with the same luminous paint she’d once used on the old ruins by the great tree—guided her footsteps downward. The air grew cooler as she went, quieter, until she reached the bottom.

The Door.

The vast structure loomed over her, intricate and still. She scanned the empty space and found no one else.

“Mom?” she called, her voice echoing softly across the chamber. No answer. “Guess not…”

Her eyes climbed over the carved surface, drinking in the artistry etched into the stone. The emblem of the Delta Rune spread across its center, bold and unyielding. There was something about it—something beckoning. It pulled at her heart, inspiring both hesitation and an almost electric anticipation.

She’d only seen it once before, when she was smaller, when the Forest Ruins had felt endless and unknowable. Now she knew their limits, though even today they still held pockets of mystery. There were adventures enough to be had with friends and family. It was sufficient. It should have been enough.

And yet… sometimes it wasn’t.

Sometimes the danger beyond this door didn’t frighten her—it called to her. Less a warning, more a dare. A curiosity. How badly she wanted to see what lay beyond.

She edged closer, unable to help herself, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Grand Door, you haunt my mind,” she whispered. “I know I ought to leave you closed, and yet…” Her hand lifted, hesitating just shy of the carved surface. “I almost feel… determined… to see beyond.”

She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as though expecting her mother to appear. “I shouldn’t. I should… stay. But… will you haunt me if I don’t?” The question escaped in a trembling breath. “Oh… what should I do?”

She imagined the silence would hold her. That she would weigh her choices with careful thought, sinking into deep introspection. That she would be still, waiting for clarity to come.

That is not, however, what happened.

"It's not every day I hear a brand new monologue through the door," a voice remarked from the other side, making Chara cry out and stumble backward. "Un-boo-lievable, really."

"What the who—" Chara tensed, staring at the door before scrambling back to her feet. "H-hey. Who… who’s there?"

"Owl goes," the voice answered smoothly.

"Owl goes who?" Chara blurted, then realized too late what she’d just walked into.

"They do, they do, they do," the voice laughed from the other side.

Chara huffed, stomping up to the door and pressing her ear against it. "That wasn’t even clever. Just so you know."

"Everyone’s a critic these days," the voice—definitely a woman’s—snickered.

"Yeah, well… it’s—" Chara scrambled for a comeback. "A-door-able that you think you’re funny."

"Hey, hey, hey, that wasn’t half bad," the woman admitted. "Still though… I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, kid."

Chara’s brows knitted. "How do you—er, why do you think I’m a kid?"

"It’s kind of obvious," came the easy reply.

Chara stepped back from the door, glancing over her shoulder toward the staircase. This wasn’t supposed to happen, right? The exit door was supposed to stay hidden. Could outsiders get in? What if there was an army waiting out there?

"Yeah, well… you’re not getting in," Chara bluffed. "So you can just… go away now. Okay?"

"Is that right?" the woman asked.

"Y-yes!" Chara shot back, her confidence wavering. "Even if you did get in, you’d just get beat up and kicked out anyway."

"You sound awfully confident," the woman said, amused but with a faint warning under her tone. "You should be more careful before picking a fight."

"I mean, I could totally handle you myself. I’m well trained, you know." Chara puffed herself up, trying to sound intimidating. "And—even if I couldn’t, you wouldn’t stand a chance against my mom. She’s super strong."

There was silence for a moment. A soft hum on the other side, like the woman was considering something. Had her threat worked? Chara frowned, then knocked on the door hesitantly.

That’s when she heard the noise behind her.

"Boo," a voice whispered at her back. Chara yelped, spun, and swung wildly at the source. The intruder leaned easily out of reach, dodging the blow. "Hey, hey, relax would ya… you…"

Chara froze, scanning the stranger. She hadn’t seen her before. She looked—vaguely human? No. The joints gave it away. The seams. She was ghost like Red, this one wore a mannequin, or some kind of animatronic shell. A cat-woman frame, complete with ears, tail, and everything.

She was dressed casually, almost comfortably. Soft shoes. Pink pants, a couple shades lighter than the black shirt tucked above them. A fur-trimmed pink hoodie. A bell collar glinting at her throat. Her eyes studied Chara, unblinking, as if processing every detail.

"You… you can’t be in here!" Chara blurted, adjusting the plastic horns on her head with shaking hands. "I—how did you—"

"I took a shortcut," the woman said, tone less playful now. Her gaze lingered on Chara. "You look like a…"

Before she could finish, Chara bolted for the stairs. But her body flashed blue, her soul lighting the same color, and she yelped as she was lifted clean off the ground—hauled back upside down into the stranger’s grasp.

"H-hey! Put me down, you oversized housecat!" Chara kicked and flailed, dangling helplessly. "If you don’t, I'll... I'll kick your ass! A-and a-and..."

The woman’s expression darkened. Her gaze locked on the glowing blue soul in front of her, before finally sliding to Chara’s eyes. Dread prickled over Chara’s skin, an instinctive, suffocating sense of danger.

"You know, you weren't who I was waiting for but...maybe we got off on the wrong foot," the woman said evenly. "What’s your name, kiddo?"

It was around then, that the sound of footsteps came from the stairwell. Enough to reach them both, and snap them from this brief, and intense moment.

"Mom!" Chara screamed. "Mom, there’s a person!"

The intruder’s ears twitched. "That's...that should be...Undyne…" That came with a blink and a breath. "Your mom’s Undyne?"

"Eh-huh! How do you know her?" Chara demanded, even as the woman abruptly set her down. "I...what are...you doing?"

Surprise flickered across the intruder’s face. Confusion. Calculation. Her hands slid into her hoodie pocket as she exhaled. Like this information was conflicting for her to process.

And then, Undyne stepped into view at the bottom of the stairs, her presence filling the room, as she took in the scene.

"Running late today?" the stranger greeted lightly, motioning toward Chara. "Think I found something of yours."

Chara bolted to her mother’s side. "She got inside! I don’t know how, but—"

Undyne’s hand landed on her daughter’s head, steadying. Her eye never left the stranger. "Chara, deep breaths...it’s...it's fine."

"W-what?" The girl glanced back at the cat-lady, and huffed. "But—"

"We'll discuss this later. For now, go home, Chara. I’ll be there soon." Her tone sharpened, brooking no argument. "And don’t go yelling around about this. I know her."

Chara blinked up at her, wide-eyed. "Really? But she's from—" One look from her mother was enough. "R-right. Uh… I’ll… see you at home."

She hesitated, glancing back at the stranger as she ascended the stairs. They knew each other? How? Her stomach twisted, uneasy, but she obeyed. Racing home.

Her mother would be okay—Chara had never doubted that. Nobody alive was stronger than Undyne. At least she thought so, hoped so.

Still, she couldn’t shake it. She really hoped someone would explain what was going on afterward.