Chapter Text
It was a phenomenon that Flowery had to be involved in, because Asgore would not let it go. He had to know why there were two Fountains, reflections of each other – and worse, copies of everyone else. A copy, but as if everything that had happened hadn’t been so fucking horrible. And as the Demon Lord, it was his right to claim new citizens and enact his violence and anger across new lands.
It was the duty of the Human Leader to step forward. Asgore did not need to concern himself – though the presence of multiple Krises had been alarming enough. Flowery’s job was to keep them apart, and yet, he and the rest of the Demon Generals now had new foes to contend with.
“Foes.” Hah! Pathetic wastes of water. If only Asgore had done the smart thing and pressed all those weak imitations of his cohort! Alas, his blade would not be sated by such lowly sap.
The gardens filled with a sweet breeze, so different than the Demon Lord’s castle – a beautiful garden, alive and rich with life, a celebration of care given by the King. And on that breeze came the Leader, the King’s right hand, jacket fluttering in the breeze and sparkling like dew in the morning sun.
It was a cruel joke, to trade blows with him. Any move he made was met with a fist or foot; it had been a dance between a practiced general and an absolute buffoon of a pretty boy. It was deeply insulting, to have this be their best. And yet, he felt a true kinship. A true warrior stood between him and the other Castle – one that made up for the weakness of his cohort.
If he were the best they had, the Demon Lord would lay them low. It was his duty to serve, but he did not want to see more flowers’ lives end without good reason.
His opponent flipped backwards, effortlessly perfect, using the power of friendship to keep his strength up. “That’s stupid (TOO SOFT!) bullshit!” He spat, taking on a defensive stance for whatever this fool was planning on hitting him with.
He would have pruned that golden flower down, if Asgore hadn’t gotten in the damn way.
It wasn’t that things just became more complicated than he could have ever predicted or prepared for, but how tightly wound he felt. It was like all the water had been sucked from him, leaving him dry and like it was hard to breathe from the moment the first fight ended. The introduction had left him breathless, one could say.
The kind of thing that made him bite right through his lollipop. That sweet scent of petals brushing his faux flesh, like a finger on his petals he’d not felt in so long. Reflecting on it pissed him off, to this day. The first day they met, and how it all changed. Changed for the worse, for everyone.
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Flowery did his best to be kind, but this was a lot different than Kris and Company wandering into the perfect world. This wasn’t stopping little Raly from getting involved, or the irritating Kris from drawing his beloved Asgore away. This was almost diplomacy, a rivalry, a... collaboration. He knew these concepts existed, things in Asgore’s media, put onto him by the power of the Fountain, but what could he really do?
How do you handle an “evil twin” plot line, when you have no concept of who you even are?
The Seven Flowers had been in distress, and he’d been so negligent to let them be put into that kind of danger. He was too busy trying to make Asgore happy, focused entirely on the reason for his continued life, and yet, his beloved family had been in danger. He watched the intruder, sword in hand and eyes glowing, using the exact same tactic he himself used: Stat Hacking.
Which meant only Flowery was a suitable challenger. He’d come at him, catching his blade in the heel of his shoe and kicking it aside in a perfect curve, the sweet wind at his back. The challenger shouted insults at him and the other Flowers, talking about how they were too weak to protect anyone. He and the Demon Lord would take this Fountain over, and get rid of all the extra trouble and annoyance they had brought with them.
“Sorry about the interruption to your daily life!”
That had done nothing but make the challenger angrier. He didn’t need a sword to attack, vines bursting forth from his shoulders and hands as he transformed his limbs into hulking, spine-covered clobbering fists. His eye blazed red beneath his long bangs, the petals parting aside as he charged to the annoyingly sparkly man.
“I’m your worst nightmare!”
A floral opponent? This was none of the Garden. This had to be a side effect of the Fountain overlap. He was – no, was this a proto-Titan? Flowery couldn’t let something like this go. Nothing this aggressive could enter the safe zone, to cross upward to the Castle. He had to nip this in the bud and trim this rotten branch immediately.
He was unrelentingly aggressive, the spines tearing through Flowery’s Clothing cell layers and drawing sap from his arms. Even with max stats and unlimited HP, this guy was able to do damage to him, making it harder to weather his blows than expected. Usually Flowery could, as designed by himself, simply shrug things off as the Hero – but this was clearly a higher-ranked enemy from the other side.
“And I’m the Hero of this Dream!”
He sidestepped this bruiser of an enemy, grabbing a particularly large vine and letting it pierce his flesh. It gave him leverage to swing himself up and onto his shoulders, grabbing him by the hair and pulling. Beneath his fingers, he felt petals – lush and not poorly cared for, but not quite like his. The magic in this one made Flowery’s hands tingle, going all the way up his arms.
It was scary. He’d never felt anything like it before. A sense of deep, painful... knowing. He crushed the enemy’s neck between his thighs. Yet, feeling a bit too violent despite his deep discomfort and psychological shock at whatever poison this guy had on him, immediately let go.
Flowery was grabbed and tossed off immediately by the pair of huge, vine-woven hands. The enemy did not approach him again, however. Like a beast, he simply stood, circling Flowery slightly and watching him leap up to his feet. He also did not feel particularly inclined to attack – he didn’t want to hurt him. He wanted the guy to go away, to leave his King, his Castle, and his Flowers alone.
“We don’t have to fight. We’re both a bit confusion right now.”
“But we do, because I’m the Commander for the Demon Lord. It’s Rest in Posies for you, bi(SHOW ME!)nen!”
Flowery shrugged, shaking his head, arms out dramatically. His jacket had long since fallen to the wayside, tossed safely away when Flowery made his first attack. He couldn’t let his nice jacket be damaged – what if a sweet-faced princess or handsome prince needed it wrapped around their shoulders? He’d take care of the interloper and head back to make sure everyone was safe and happy.
The sword drew sap from him, tearing up his sleeve and across his chest; Flowery survived because he had speed stats to narrowly avoid having his head clipped off. The villain must have collected his sword subtly, using this vines in his arms. Foolish! It was clever, truly, but he couldn’t permit such behaviour in his dream realm.
“Try harder!” Flowery’s Clothing layer, sliced asunder, sloughed off. The sap-laden and sticky underlayers were exposed to the air, on his arm, shoulder, and across his chest. “If you want fan-service, I can sell you some.”
He made a point by dragging a thumb across the diagonal gash, now revealed under a freshly opened window in his Sunday Best. It wasn’t like actual clothing; the layers hung loose, like torn flesh. His outfit was all an illusion conjured of magic and desire to be a Perfect Human Man. It was no different than one of his bromides, with a flirty, revealing gap to show his lean, soft, healthy chest. He flicked the sap towards the enemy, charging at him with fists aglow in a rainbow of Friendship.
He was not interested in hurting. He did not want to strike to kill. He was a Hero, and Heroes shouldn’t kill unless absolutely necessary; if they were both made from Fountains, they should co-exist. But his opponent was less reticent to show kindness or mercy – he was not trying to exhaust or push Flowery into a corner, but instead aiming at parts of his body with his blade in order to injure him. If Flowery held up an arm, a strike would come at his armpit or shoulder, trying to take out the arm; if Flowery weaved around it, the villain would sweep with a leg to the stomach. It was not dirty fighting, but clever. Strikes to disable and maim enough to stop combat.
Flowery, however, was pushing him back across the bridge. This single piece of neutral land, the false sun blazing gold down on them from the false horizon – heat lamps, changed to the sun for Flowers – was the place Flowery would have to defend with his life. He didn’t want to have to use his life, but if it came to it, he could not let an aggressive force in to hurt everyone.
Sap, the blood of plants, splattered across his body as he took more damage than he ever expected he would. He didn’t want it to be like this – not so soon. Not when Asgore’s dream hadn’t come even close to an end. In an act of desperation, he took two steps back and blew the enemy a kiss. The air filled with rainbow sparkles and sweet petals, and on the wind that followed, splatters of his sap were carried like heavy raindrops. Prism Blow!
The villain took a drop across his visible eye, making him curse and try to wipe it out on his arm. But more importantly, Flowery saw something important pop up in the UI: Mercy +1%
That wasn’t what it should be. But it was something.
It was enough to summon his own vines, a barrier between himself and the enemy, covering the bridge in a thick barricade. If it would bide him even a few seconds, he could try to heal himself and regain some MP. He didn’t want to have to throw the guy off the bridge, but he wasn’t going down as easy as Flowery hoped.
“Taste my NIGHTMARE THORNS!”
Whatever vines Flowery had summoned became tangled in crackling brown and orange ones, thorns slicing against the brambles of Flowery’s barricade. The two began to twist together, two invasive plants trying to take over the space at a rapid pace. They knotted together, the sharp spines clashing against each other not unlike two blades as they both tried to out-grow each other.
“I can’t believe I have to do this, but you’ve left me no choice. Do you accept the consequences?”
Flowery’s vines twisted upwards, lifting the writhing mass; a single archway formed, a tunnel in which he could walk through towards the enemy. If this was how it had to be, then he would use his ultimate ability. The other Flowers were not here to help him.
They were both alone.
The villain put on his Cruel Grin, and Flowery could see his TP increase slightly. That wasn’t good. But Flowery would not give up. He had to drive this guy away or Pacify him in some way. A root that ends in no death or hurting... that’s all he wants. He was halfway through the vines, expecting this floral samurai to fight with nobility, when he sensed something wrong.
“Hah! You think the Demon Lord wouldn’t use such an opportunity?!”
Flowery could feel the sharp thorns around his neck. He knew they had curled down, waiting to grab him. He wasn’t afraid.
“But you’re not the Demon Lord, are you?” All Flowery did was smile. What else does one do?
He let the sharp edges dig in; he’d already been injured, and he could recover from it. Asgore would be there, his knowing, practiced hands making sure his best flower was given the best care. He knew his friends would come – they knew where he was, and would not let anyone hurt him like this.
The villain faltered. He could see something in his visible eye. Or, Flowery wanted to believe he saw it – which made it real. That’s how it worked. The closer he got, his natural sparkle – the reality shifting magic that gave form to the hopeful dreams and delusions he carried with him – bent the scene from one of carnage to something a bit softer.
But no matter how Flowery appeared, in his torn Clothing layer, overly dramatic injuries across his body and sticky sap soaking the Clothing around the wound sites appropriately, the villain did not shift. He was... a different type of magic. It was like he could not be pulled into a uniform visual style – his edges were sharper, more dramatic and harsh, while Flowery was soft and warm. The difference in genre was stark.
“There’s no (FUCKING!) way you can do that, too.” The villain held his sword out. “You’re a plant, you’re – you’re --”
“You’ve known the whole time, once you tasted my Jarona. Haven’t you, Commander?”
Flowery felt this was the right thing to say. That strange tingle. The sense of knowing. They had to be the same flower type – he smelled just like Flowery did. Golden.
He let the blade graze his side one final time, as he walked around it. A single thin, tiny, almost invisible layer of cells sloughed off his body, fluttering down, shimmering in the false sunset. His fingers found the commander’s sides, and he was just as thin and slender as Flowery was. It was like he knew him already.
“Don’t make Asgore sad by taking me away. Don’t make your king sad by getting hurt.”
Flowery wrapped his arms around him, putting his head on his shoulder. They slot together, and that tingling sensation was back. It wasn’t as unpleasant as before; it was like when one of the coloured flowers would touch him. The sense of comfort, of companionship and safety. Similarity and familiarity.
“Afinihug.” Flowery had to say the attack name to give it power. That’s what Heroes did. He saw the UI flicker and give him the Mercy increase he was hoping for, right as the Commander pushed him off.
There was no sword inside his chest, nor a punch to the face. He simply pushed him off, and Flowery grinned as he flushed a bright orange. His hair tinted a reddish pink, like a Floradinn or the tips of an Echeveria. His eye was wide, the pupil a bright orange-gold, staring Flowery down.
“Back off, compost! Who do you think you are, approaching me?!” His sword was brandished, immediately going into a defensive stance.
“Flowery.” He stood, polite, before tossing his golden hair. He felt so desperately thirsty. This had to end soon, for everyone’s sake. "I'm Flowery. So rude of me to withhold introductions!"
The silence was so long and loud, he could hear himself breathing hard. The villain’s hands shook on his katana handle. In this tense moment of stillness between them, Flowery could now see all the bruises where the strikes had hit, now turning a dark, painful brown. He’d pulped this guy pretty good. A shame he couldn’t take a hint and leaf. He opened his mouth, beautiful glossy lips parting to say some funny quip, when the guy rudely cut him off.
“No. No, you’re not.”
The villain’s sword fell. He stood there, holding it at his side. His eyes blazed red hot, looking at Flowery with an antagonism worse than before.
“Because Asgore is the Demon Lord, and I’m Flowery.”