Chapter Text
“Why are you like this? Always taking the high road?”
“Aren't you ANGRY? Aren't you JUST?!”
“PULL THE TRIGGER ALREADY!”
“Pull it…”
...
Clover landed on the floor with a solid thump, a somewhat familiar dull, throbbing ache coming to life behind her eyes as she regained consciousness. Tasted like something died too, vaguely. Peeling her eyes open, she glances at her clock. 5.30 A.M. Too early to get out, too late to properly go back to sleep.
She groans, rolling onto her side, only for the motion to send a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. Her stomach lurches, and she barely manages to swallow back the urge to puke.
But it also made it harder to think about…
Her stomach turned over again. Clover didn’t bother thinking, or arguing with it this time. She pushed herself up and scrambled for the bathroom.
It took her around 10 minutes to clean up, stop feeling like garbage, and for the headache to somewhat die down. A few more minutes of scrubbing and rinsing and the mirror showed someone who could pass for functional, though the gray rings under her eyes still argued otherwise.
Heading back to her room, Clover collapsed onto the edge of the bed and sat there, elbows on her knees, staring at nothing in particular. Her clock ticked on. 5:42 now. The day had technically started, whether she liked it or not.
Her jacket lay where she’d dropped it the night before, half-slid off a chair. She fished through one of the pockets out of habit, fingers brushing against folded paper, a pen, a lighter she didn’t remember buying…
A sudden door knock jolted her out of her still sluggish morning thoughts. Martlet had a spare… and nobody knocked. Ever. Clover glanced across the room, eyes falling onto her revolver, discarded carelessly into the far corner, as usual. Moving over to pick it up and shove it into her jacket’s pocket, she quietly moves to her door, looking through the peephole. Cloaked, and too dark to discern any features. Too quiet for a salesman, too confident to be lost. Revolver wasn’t loaded, but she could bluff ‘em…
Clover eased open the door a fraction and kept the chain on. Her voice was slow and careful. "Who is it?"
There was a pause, then an even, measured answer that didn't sound like any delivery boy or drunk neighbor. "Clover?" the voice asked. It was small, as if the speaker had rehearsed it in their throat. A human voice, light, patient, maybe younger than Clover expected. The striking, red eyes that met hers were steady in a way that neighboured on bluntness. They measured her the way someone measures a strange weapon before deciding whether to trust it.
*Her grip tightened on the door. "Depends who's asking. Did someone send you?"*
The visitor hesitated, then smiled once. Small, too controlled to be comforting. “No one sent me. I came because I thought you might want to talk.”
Clover’s laugh was a dry rasp. “People don’t come knockin’ at five fifty in Snowdin to chat.”
“Maybe not,” the visitor said. “Maybe I’m the kind of person who knocks anyway.”
When the door eased and the chain held, Chara had been ready for suspicion, the quick, reflexive show of force. The too pale face at the crack, the graveled laugh, the conspicuous placement of her other hand: these were patterns she knew. Patterns were useful. They let you guess what someone might do next. Clover’s eyes were flat, tired. The person behind them moved like someone who’d learned to wait and measure.
Clover didn’t invite them in. Didn’t refuse either. The chain stayed on. Not an illogical choice.
“I won’t take long,” Chara said, keeping their hands where they could be seen. Palms open, posture loose. Non-threatening on purpose. “And if you want me gone, I’ll leave.”
Clover didn’t relax, but the door opened another centimeter. The chain stayed. Her eyes flicked once. Down, right: inventory, options. Chara felt the tug of that old, familiar pressure at the back of their skull as they weighed the possibility of a physical confrontation, the reminder that moments could be turned back if they went wrong, for those few brief, silent seconds.
Clover let out a soft sigh, before the chain rattled as they finally slid it free. The door opened wider, just enough to count as an invitation. Not trust. Not yet. “Gimme a mo’, I'll just…” They gesture toward the kitchen. “Put on some coffee…”
Clover took a long sip of her mug, carefully watching the other human out of the corner of her eye. Coffee, black. In contrast to her own generously whipped cream drink with milk. “You could at least get something that isn't literal poison, Lieutenant.”
Chara’s eyes flicked toward her, calm and unbothered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of their lips. “It’s fine,” they said softly, voice even. “Tastes how it should.”
Clover raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “How it should? That stuff could strip paint off a wall if it hit it hard enough.”
Chara shrugged, taking another slow sip, eyes never leaving Clover. “I like the taste. Strong, bitter… clear. Doesn’t hide behind sugar.”
Clover snorted, a sound somewhere between disbelief and genuine curiosity.
A few moments of silence passed as the two quietly sipped down on their drinks. “So,” Clover said, voice softer now that the initial wariness had mostly passed, though it still kept a hint of that hard edge. “What exactly did you want to know? What specifically made you come ‘round here at this time?”
Chara set the mug down with care, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as if grounding themself in the drink's heat.*
“There’s pressure building,” Chara said at last. Not dramatic, just factual. “Outside the Capital and places nearby, it’s no longer contained. Local authority is… optional, depending on the area. Some places are holding together out of habit alone.”
Clover didn’t respond immediately. She took another sip instead, eyes narrowing just a touch. Now, there's the full story. “Capital loses its grip, outskirts start fraying... that's actively going on. You didn’t hike all the way out here at dawn to tell me things I already know.”
“Of course I didn’t,” Chara said. “I came because Snowdin hasn’t followed the pattern.”
That earned a reaction. Clover’s fingers stilled against the mug, just for a beat.
“Places like this,” Chara continued, “either deteriorate slowly or collapse all at once. Snowdin’s done neither. Crime’s low. Incidents don’t escalate. Conflicts end before they spiral.” Their red eyes stayed on Clover, unblinking. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”
“Dalv and Alex–”
“Are important, yes.” Countered Chara, cutting them off. “But who tried their best to talk down dangerous situations? Who ran around doing…” They paused briefly, the faintest hint of dry humor creeping in. “‘Sidequests,' for the monsters around here? And who listened to them, learnt how they felt? Martlet spoke highly of you.”
Clover looked down, away from Chara. Silence passed, long enough to be awkward. “You’re awfully pushy. Guess Martlet told you about the whole “Justice” soul trait schtick, too.”
Chara didn’t react immediately. They leaned back slightly instead, folding their hands together. Composed, measured, every inch the image of someone who liked to be seen as older than they were.
“She mentioned it,” Chara said. “Not in detail. Maybe I'm putting too much faith in the old stories. They exaggerate, after all. Humans like neat categories. Souls as virtues, monsters as cautionary tales.” A hint of contempt crept into their voice for a bit, a minor crack in their armor.
The contempt faded as quickly as it had appeared, smoothed over by composure practiced in warmer rooms and harsher conversations.
Chara exhaled slowly through their nose, fingers still laced. “Justice. Perseverance. Integrity.” They ticked the words off without looking at Clover, as if reciting something half-remembered rather than believed. “Legends say humans carry these like cores. That they define us. That if you know the trait, you know the person..”
A small, rueful tilt of their mouth. “How literal? I don’t know, who does? If souls, if people, were as tidy as those stories, the Underground wouldn’t look the way it does.”.
Clover glanced up at them sidelong. “So what, you come all this way to philosophize about soul traits? Test whether I fit some mold from an old book?”
Chara tilted their head. “No. I came because Snowdin is stable in a way it shouldn’t be. Because places under pressure don’t just… hold. Not without someone absorbing the strain.” Their eyes met hers again, steady. “And because that someone doesn’t look like they intend to stay put forever.”
Clover’s fingers tightened briefly around the mug. “Snowdin’s my mess, I know how it bends. I know where to put my weight so it doesn’t crack.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon it,” Chara replied. “Just… consider that the same skills apply elsewhere, and that no part of the Underground is ever truly isolated, circumstances included.” The Lieutenant pushes their chair backwards, standing up. “I'll give you my contact, if you happen to change your mind. Have a good morning.
…
It had been 38 minutes since then.
Chara could see it. Fractals in a palm of a single tree, drawn out like a map in their mind. Variation drawn from a single point, some identical-, overlapping mostly-, some twisting wildly, before collapsing all the same.
With every reset, Clover was less hesitant, faster. Experience without recollection. Muscle memory written straight into the soul. There was hope yet.
But then again, how many times had they told themself that?
Clover would call. She always did now. That strange Deja Vu, culminating and persisting between resets... The pressure, the unease, the sense that staying still was the wrong answer… it all leaked through eventually…
A vibration. Subtle. Familiar.
Chara’s hand was already moving before the sound fully registered, fingers closing around their phone with practiced ease. The screen lit up.
Clover, thirty nine minutes on the dot.
Chara exhaled slowly, something between relief and dread loosening in their chest. “Just on time,” they murmured to no one, thumb hovering just above the screen.