Chapter 1: Start in the middle
Summary:
*there's a bad feeling hanging over everyone. like everyone's just going to die here, trapped in the dark.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It starts with indecipherable sounds, grating in its chaos and soothing in its faux familiarity. They are music and voices and ambience from events long passed, rushed in its recollection.
Then, colors follow— multiple, blended colors. The kind that blurs together in recognizable silhouettes, as visions of memories compress themselves in a fast forwarded film in an attempt to have you instantly comprehend a life. Not your life; someone else’s.
You think his name is Sans.
After that acknowledgement, came agonizing Hell.
Emotions— raw and heavy and suffocating in their intensity. It is loss and regret and grief and sorrow and rage and loneliness and hopelessness and it feels like you’re dying until you feel nothing—
Somehow, in a narrow lapse of clarity, you manage to detach yourself from these feelings; now just a mere observer rather than the owner of a weighed down heart. It’s not as hard as you thought it would be, considering how they all felt ingrained to the culmination of your being.
Then again, these sentiments are not yours to begin with.
At that observation, you start to understand.
The memories flow a lot smoother afterwards.
Monsters.
Magic.
Souls.
What a surreal experience to discover they actually exist, easily proven by summoning your own. Even more surreal that you’ve discovered this knowledge through inhabiting an existing body after your former life’s end.
Reincarnation; life after death.
The cherry on top of this is that you’ve awoken as a skeleton— the universal symbol of human death. Because that's what you were before you died: a human.
Hah.
Life can apparently appreciate gallows humor if it can make an ironic joke like you.
The first sight that greets you in this life is a dark ceiling. You have Sans’ memories; so, you easily recognize that it's his bedroom ceiling.
Then, came the feeling of the lumpy, naked mattress you’re lying on; the musty scent of an unventilated room; the faint aftertaste of ketchup on the roof of your mouth. The familiarity of it all had you recall the scattered socks on one corner of the room, the trash tornado on the other, the unused treadmill in the middle— you know every detail of this place like you’ve been here before.
You know you haven't, though.
Just like you know that there's no bathroom mirror in this house. Or a bathroom at all.
You’ll find a clear reflective surface to study your new appearance later. For now, you don't get up from the bed, tempted to process everything later after a quick nap.
It's not like you have anywhere to go or anyone waiting for you.
At that last thought, you get up sooner than planned, suddenly uncomfortable with the mattress. Had your human soul not come along, you know from the deep recesses of your mind that a pile of dust would stalely lie on it.
Holding a face mirror in front of you, you gently poke and prod on the bright purple rectangles symmetrically decorating both sides of your skull’s cheeks. It's fascinating how they almost look like they're painted in place, if not for their subtle glow.
Kinda like Kakashi’s teammate what’s-her-name from Naruto, you think, amused.
Other than that, nothing about Sans has physically changed.
That is, unless you account for his monster soul encompassed by a purple cartoon heart.
The soul color of Perseverance, you recall Sans’ knowledge from his science background.
The capability to endure, you muse to yourself, surprised. Personally, it's not the first attribute you'd associate with yourself.
You wouldn't have died that easily, otherwise.
… Then again, you're here now, so maybe there's some truth to it.
It's jarring how easily you've adapted to living as a skeleton monster, as if you’ve always been one.
Your new center of gravity, the feel of texture and temperature on your bones, the obedience of magic in your soul. You know where your memories end, and where Sans’ begin. You suppose your personality remains uninfluenced by your cohabitant, but even then, your thoughts are sometimes occupied by things you never had to think about before.
Like how you’re now partial with ketchup compared to other condiments; how you feel responsible for bringing dog food over to the Lab; how… hesitant you are to exit the bedroom and see the neighboring door.
Sans is still there, just not conscious. You never met him, but it feels like you’ve known him all your life. He exists like an impulse, feeling faintly like an unresponsive companion— a silent friend you know like the back of your hand.
It’s why you feel shocked when he suddenly becomes active, giving you this unexplainable sensation of being choked both by hope and despair at the sight of two buttons that hold the ominous words of Continue and Reset.
Sans’ soul urges you to press Reset, and you do so with little hesitation. You know what it should theoretically do.
You wake up lying back on the mattress, as if you’ve just woken up.
Sans retreats back in his passive state, and you frown.
That was unnecessarily mean, you think wryly towards the universe.
You decide that Sans needs someone to depend on. You’ll take care of him from here.
You start with his neglected hygiene.
It’s been a year since the last human left; three months since Sans stopped leaving his house, before you arrived.
A lot of monsters are dead; the collected human souls disappeared; there’s no current ruler. In this epidemic of hopelessness, a lot of monsters are falling down, further lowering the population by domino effect. The Underground is slowly dying.
The house is too quiet.
(This home is lacking a voice.)
You’ve only been here for a day.
You’re… not sure what to do yet.
Or rather, you don’t know where to start.
You decide that fixing the machine in Sans’ workshop is your general goal and priority. With your ability to Reset, you can take riskier experiments, unafraid to permanently die from an accident or ruin the machine beyond repair. Once you eventually succeed, everything will be back to normal, because—
… Weird.
You don't remember what it is about the machine that gives you this kind of confidence, but you do know that fixing it will solve all your problems, because it will bring back someone who always knows how to solve everything.
Who am I thinking about?
You’re not grieving over your old life yet.
You think it still hasn’t sunk in, and it’s just a bomb waiting to blow up on your face.
None of this feels real to you.
You wonder when it will be.
You have Sans’ memories and experiences, his hopes and ambitions, his knowledge and thoughts.
You know things you shouldn't, but it's not like you could help it. It's both to your and Sans’ best interests to not have you start from scratch anyway.
Regardless, Sans is more of a theoretical scientist rather than a practical one. He’s good at formulas and equations; he can operate most gadgets; he knows quantum, soul and magic theory. However, he cannot innovate when it comes to machines. Not on his own.
It's simply not his branch of science.
Sans can follow instructions. He can read blueprints. He can use tools (albeit not expertly). But those skills are not enough to be adept at mechanical engineering. There’s a gap between his experience in theory and experience in applying it.
And you? Well, your best qualification was being a pharmaceutical scientist in your last life. Your branch of science is extraneous compared to quantum theories and machine construction. At least Sans’ knowledge is relevant.
You suppose you can study only the missing gaps you need to reduce your time learning Engineering 101 and go straight to repair, but that would be reckless. You know you’ll have to try different methods and invent a solution, but to do that, you’ll need the fundamentals and basics before delving into its complexities and hacking it apart to make something new. You can't break the rules if you don't know them, after all.
If the answers were only scattered in the notes or blueprints, Sans would have fixed the machine a long time ago.
You take a peek at the window.
It’s darker than what you remember from Sans’ memories.
After a few hours, you find yourself in Waterfall’s garbage dump, choosing to take a shortcut to reach your destination instead of taking the long route. You're not interested in seeing the not-so-scenic Underground’s depression, nor are you eager to interact with anyone you may come across on the way.
Luckily, the purple rectangles on your cheeks are retractable by lowering your usual magic output. Just in case.
Initially, your plan here is to hoard as many materials and supplies you could use for the machine before they either get taken, waterlogged or crushed by the piling weight of more trash. You’re not entirely sure if some of the things you’ll collect can be useful, but you’d sort that later and rather deal with the backbreaking labor now.
However, the plan goes sideways with an unexpected encounter.
“S-Sans?” A familiar, timid voice calls out, bringing your attention to the monster near the edge of the waterfall. “O-oh, my god! Y-you’re a-alive!”
Alphys rushes towards you, and you’re grateful for your insight to hide your new marks. You’re not exactly sure how to talk to her, as this is your first time meeting her, even with memories stating otherwise.
“A-after months of ch-checking the cameras a-and not seeing you, I thought…” She trails off, hesitant.
You had fallen down, you both hear but she doesn’t say. Sans had the same assumption about her.
She's not exactly wrong on her assumption though, you internally grimace, now uncomfortable with the following silence.
“H-how have you b-been?” She asks, part-concerned and part-awkward. Now that she’s closer, you can easily observe that she’s looking worse for wear. Wrinkled lab coat sprinkled with mysterious stains, her scales unhealthily chipping, dark bags under her bespectacled eyes— it’s like looking at a lizard reflection of yourself when you first woke up; the epitome of depression.
“I’m working on a personal project,” you answer. “You?”
“Oh, y-you know…” Alphys wryly laughs, her fingers twiddling with each other. “Just… searching for a way out. The usual.”
At this, she briefly takes a glance behind her— back where she was once standing when you found her, on the edge by the abyss.
You have good reason to suspect that her answer is not referring to her role as the Royal Scientist, and for a moment, you saw someone who doesn’t belong in Sans’ memories. A sentiment for a man long gone grips your soul and convinces you that you can’t just leave Alphys be.
“Wanna take a break?” You offer offhandedly, choosing not to confront her about her earlier intention. “Breaks sometimes give me inspiration for ideas.”
Alphys hesitates, “I… don’t know. I-I don’t think I’ve done e-enough to w-warrant one.”
“You won’t get anywhere if you dust yourself from the pressure,” you coolly say, your choice of words intentional and nonchalant enough in delivery to not tip her off that you’re aware of her attempt.
“R-right!… Right.” Alphys looks down, convinced that you wouldn’t budge on the matter. “M-maybe watching a Mew Mew episode or t-two can help.”
“I'll join,” you say, and she slowly lifts her head, disbelief plastered on her face.
In Sans’ memories, Alphys is a good friend; you can do this for him.
“R-really?”
Heavens know you wished someone did the same for your older brother.
“I got nothin’ better to do,” you shrug.
Sure, you’re delaying your progress on fixing the machine, but…
“M-my VHS tapes are at t-the Lab,” she says, a wordless instruction to have you follow her. She gives you a hesitant smile that’s a little less sad, a little less defeated.
This is more important, you think.
You have time.
Just as planned, you and Alphys watch episodes one and two of Mew Mew Kissy Cutie in all of their thirty-minute glory. You like how its simplistic theme felt nostalgic to your human half, and you make sure to tell Alphys your positive reception to it. It's the least you can do when she keeps glancing at you to gauge your reaction.
You think your little sister would’ve liked it.
You promise Alphys that you’ll come back to visit for the third and fourth episode. You know very well how Sans hates promises, that he doesn't give them freely, but…
Your promise gives Alphys a reason to stay. It’s small, it’s simple, but it’s enough of a reason.
So, she waits.
At some point, you pass by Grillby’s.
You don't enter.
You may now be Sans, but you can't go parading around like you're actually him, can you?
It wouldn't be fair.
Alphys was just an accident and the only exception you’ll make.
You follow through with your word the next week, much to Alphys’ unsubtle relief and appreciation.
You promise the same for the fifth and sixth episode.
Next week, seventh and eight.
Then ninth and tenth, eleventh and twelfth…
It goes on until you complete the whole series.
Afterwards, Alphys eagerly introduces you to the franchise’s dating sim, playing it with you, while also expressing her distaste for its second installment. You can tell she doesn’t want to play the latter, but if it means you get to stay around a little longer, she would power through it. You breach the topic of fanfiction before she could.
Alphys will never revert back into who she used to be from Sans’ memories; not after what she's lost. You know this.
Still, it’s a balm to your soul that she’s starting to look similar enough.
Sans doesn't like asking for help; this is one of his soul’s unfortunate truths.
You know why, but it doesn’t help negate the mixed feelings of disappointment and understanding when you review his memories with Alphys, and not once did he ask her for direct advice in regards to fixing his machine.
Sure, he made time for self-studies, but he doesn’t have a curriculum guide nor the books needed to give himself real progress. The Underground doesn’t always have everything on-hand. In the end, you’re reminded that most monster supplies came from human trash.
“Hey, Alphys, you're good with techs,” you point out as a matter of fact, pausing from your writing. “Mind if you tutor me?”
At this, she looks at you, tilting her head. Her scales are a tad bit brighter, healthier than when you first found her, her lab coat now properly laundered. Her eyes remain tired, but it’s no longer filled with only despair. There's a look on her face that you can't pinpoint.
“You… w-want me to be your i-instructor?” She asks, and you think over your next words.
Honestly, you have nothing to lose if you ask this of her.
“Yeah,” you answer. “I need some help on fixing something. I can show you the blueprints.”
“I-I’m not sure I’d make a g-good teacher,” she says, unsure, but your smile remains unwavering.
“That's okay,” you shrug good-naturedly. “I’m not sure if I’d be a good student either.”
Alphys snorts at this.
You stand in front of the barrier, the hypnotizing pattern of a black and white kaleidoscope filling you with dread.
It stands to reason that with Sans’ monster soul combined with your human one, you should be able to cross it, even with the unorthodox means of obtaining your soul. It’s in the legends, it’s in the history, it’s in the science. You know you can cross it.
But you wish you can’t. You don’t want to.
Otherwise, the choice of freeing the monsters would fall unto you.
You’re no longer human to give the monsters an ambassador to reliably communicate with human governments. You don’t have the credentials or the bloodline to lead an entire race like the royal family. You don’t have the charisma to make up for everything you lack. You don’t even want to address the monsters’ grudges towards humanity because of a child that decimated more than half of their population.
You know what will happen to the monsters if they even think of showing hostile intentions towards any human out there. They wouldn’t stand a chance, outnumbered and outgunned.
You don’t want to be forced to kill either.
You’re not prepared for the potential fall-out. You don’t know if your Resets would even work out there. You don’t want to make the wrong choice and have everyone suffer for it.
(They will, anyway.)
You’re not ready for that responsibility.
But you have to know for sure, so you push a hand towards the barrier’s wall anyway.
How unfair, you sneer.
You show Alphys your machine’s blueprints, and she’s quick to program a simulation of it in her computer. You can tell with how confident and quick she is with modeling the machine, that she's done this a hundred times before.
This is her expertise. You’re aware of this, but there’s something reassuring from seeing her work that gives your hope something real to cling onto.
If Sans were awake, you bet he’d be kicking himself right now.
For someone who likes taking it easy, he sure skirts around one of the simplest solutions.
“G-good, you already know your m-math and programming languages, b-but you’re a bit lacking in the f-foundation of electrical engineering. H-here, I’ll show you a circuit diagram a-and explain the basic circuit analysis—”
“O-oh wow, I-I always knew you’re really good at math, b-but you practically don’t need a calculator with how fast you solve—”
“Haha! Did you seriously spend time and effort to think of puns to name your programming variables? You’re unbelievable—”
“Oh my god, Sans! Don’t hold the welder like that—”
The next thing you know, a whole year passes.
You notice Grillby’s opens later and closes sooner than usual.
You never stepped foot within the place, only knowing it through second-hand memories. Besides, you don’t know what to say to anyone inside, and you’re not looking for anyone to prod over your current happenings in life.
To your guilt’s comfort, Sans stopped dropping by at Grillby’s long before you came along anyway.
Sans discovering the Amalgamates was how he first met Alphys.
It was an accidental encounter on his part, when he took a shortcut to the True Lab in hopes to find… something.
He happened to meet Endogeny as his first Amalgamate, and Alphys was horrified to find him there. You remember her being a sobbing mess, begging Sans to promise not to tell anyone.
Sans is good with secrets; so, this promise is easy to keep.
A friendship was made that day, and the rest is history.
You often reminisce about that particular memory whenever Alphys brings you with her to feed the Amalgamates. She never did find out why Sans was there.
“I… g-guess the reason why I was so hesitant to d-disappear is because I know they're depending on me,” Alphys shares, unprompted, to you one day, pouring dog food for Endogeny. After doing so, she places the bag away and turns to shyly smile at you, her eyes crinkling as if knowing a secret. “Thanks for finding me.”
Ah, you look away, your face heating. You thought you were subtle that day.
Throughout the entire project, Alphys makes sure to fill in your knowledge gaps, tutoring you as agreed upon. You make diligent notes, her explanations digestible to your non-existent (you think) brain.
She’s… really good at it. Teaching, you mean.
Amicable, patient, passionate.
Perhaps, in another life, she would’ve been a great school teacher.
Five years have passed since you met Alphys.
It’s… comforting to have someone look forward to your presence, that there’s proof that there’s still someone who cares about you. That someone is waiting for you at home.
(Since when did you start referring to the Lab as home?)
You think Alphys has the same sentiments.
And if her touch lingers on your hand a bit too long when she reaches you something; if you occasionally stare at her without her knowing; if both your recent Mew Mew fanfic characters’ traits seem overly familiar, then…
“Alright, everything in the simulation prototype is operational and ready for building,” Alphys informs you, pride and excitement evident in her voice. “I know you mean to repair the already-existing machine, and it’s time-consuming to recreate it from scratch, but… but I figured that this way, our experimental tampering won't ruin the original. Plus, it wouldn't hurt to make our own modern improvements.”
Your permanent smile softens at her consideration, briefly forgetting that her worry is unwarranted with your ability to Save and Reset.
In Sans’ memories, Alphys can be selfish, lying to the king about her qualifications for the desire to be important; to compensate for her lack of self-esteem. To be someone worthy of love and praise.
But she can also be selfless. When she loves, she gives as much as she herself craved— whole and abundant, with everything she is. Alphys wants someone to love her as much as she would love.
Maybe she doesn't see herself deserving of love, that she's not a good enough person for it; maybe she even sees herself as a bad one after what she has and hasn't done. Good, bad— one shouldn't really care much about those labels anyway.
All an ordinary person can do is be better.
The assembly of the machine is faster than recalibrating and upgrading its digital simulation.
In just three months, you now have a functioning copy of Sans’ machine, with a few modifications to improve its multiprocessors and make it more energy-efficient. With what you know now, you can acknowledge that its original design is ingenious, if not outdated.
However, when you extracted a copy of its programming from the original, its operating system is a whole other beast.
“You really can't figure out its actual purpose?” Alphys asks you, to which you regrettably reply with,
“Was only left with clues.”
The machine took someone from Sans.
You… can't access that part of Sans’ memories to know who it was, only that they're important and that they designed and created the machine.
You don't know why this person made the contraption, but you do know it's up to you to reverse-engineer it and bring them back. That means you have to pick its codes apart and somehow counter its unknown purpose.
The thing is: whatever its purpose was, it’s not supposed to make someone disappear. The original machine was a failure; and you are to somehow recreate that failure, observe what happened, and then reverse it.
It's…
You’ll figure it out. You always do.
“I can’t understand any of these symbols,” Alphys says, her brows furrowing at the displayed codes on her computer monitor. “I’ve tried deciphering them through pattern recognition in our language, but it's like… I-I keep forgetting when I try to write it down.”
You stare with her, the characters on the screen giving you a vague sense of deja-vu, but…
The Unknown font is inducing a weird ache within Sans’ soul, as if a phenomenon is trying to make him ignore and forget it. It’s probably the same infliction Alphys is experiencing, you deduce.
Your human soul responds with a defensive pulse, and it is filled with—
“You don't have to. I can read it just fine and translate it into pseudocode,” you tell her. “We’ll work from there.”
It took a lot of weeks, a lot of work, and a lot of headaches, but you eventually reformatted the machine’s codes into Alphys’ personal programming language. Through this, you finally find out what the machine is programmed to do; what it was made for.
You’ve had hints of it through its construction— the heavy-duty power cells; the high-performing CPU to process trillions of cycles per second; the conductors designed to repeatedly transfer energy that’s powerful enough to maintain a small star.
You’ve had your theories, but this…
“A machine intended to warp space and time,” Alphys softly gasps in awe, then pauses, squinting at the monitor. “Through the power of… HUM_SL_VTL?”
For a reason you can’t quite grasp, you know which variable she’s referring to.
“Short for human soul vitality. In your terms, Determination,” you explain, and she gives you a look you didn’t quite catch.
“Are you sure you don't know who designed this?”
“Maybe I did, once upon a time,” you truthfully answer. “I forgot their name.”
Alphys is not a confrontational monster, so she lets it go.
“Well, without access to human souls— Determination— we can't progress any further than this,” she tells you, and you inwardly curse because you knew the moment you translated those variables that human souls will be a factor in all of this.
Alphys is right. You can’t progress further than this. Not unless you utilize your soul— the only human soul available.
But it's not like you’d reveal that to Alphys anytime soon. Or ever.
Yes, you do feel regret for having to deceive her, but it’s not like you can tell her that her friend has long passed and that you're the only reason why his body has yet to turn into dust. This is not even addressing the fact that you were once human and are currently possessing a human-monster soul hybrid.
She would think you’re some sick fuck, toying with her like this— using her old friend like a mask, dangling the hope of freedom with your soul.
You can't stand the thought of the most important person in your current life to hate you.
Otherwise, who would you be left with?
(You immediately stomp down the whispering temptation of navigating around her negative reactions without consequences by Loading back.)
“Um, so… ” Alphys breaks your contemplative silence, worriedly looking at you. “What do we do now?”
It will never hurt her if she never learns the truth.
But if you can't share this vulnerable part of you with her, you'll just have to share another.
“I don’t know,” you shrug, then you give her your usual grin. “Wanna go on a date?”
Apparently, an ideal date for two nerds is jumping into another science project.
It’s not as groundbreaking as Sans’ machine, but it gets the two of you occupied enough.
You can't say you’d prefer anything else.
Another year passes.
Grillby’s stopped opening.
“Is there anything you wanna do on the surface that you can't do here?”
It was an impulsive question on your part, your curiosity running your mouth before you could stop it on a Waterfall picnic date. You suppose that looking at the glowing crystals at the cave ceiling reminded you of Sans’ desire to see the real stars; you wanted to know what Alphys’ wish for the surface was.
“Ideally, I want to visit Japan for their anime merch and culture, and maybe even see real cherry blossom trees,” Alphys says, soft and melancholic. Once upon a time, she would’ve enthusiastically regaled you with fantasies of what she thought the surface was like based on her human media consumption. That was the Alphys of Before. “But, well, considering how a human killed more than half of our population, I can only imagine how the rest of them would react to us. So, that's a bust.”
The Alphys of the Now, on the other hand, is a jaded monster; her whimsy killed off with the majority of her friends. It’s disheartening, when you have acute memories of her excessive passion and excitable energy.
How do you even miss someone you’ve never met?
You look at her with furrowed brows, but your smile remains unmoved. Still, she seems to have picked up on your sullen mood, and decides to humor you.
“Maybe see a real tree. Doesn’t have to be a cherry blossom… Or feel the sunlight,” she adds after a long pause. “I’ve heard stories about the sun, so I guess I want to see what the big fuss is all about, you know?”
This Alphys is tired and occasionally dismal, but she is also yours. Even with her passion subdued and her energy minimized, you know her better as she is now than the monster in Sans’ memories. You are content with her as she is.
“Hmm…” You hum contemplatively, looking back at the artificial stars, with the waterfall’s rushing water as white noise.
“It's just a silly wish anyway,” she laughs weakly, deprecatingly. “We’re not getting out of here anytime soon.”
In your personal time, you scour the highest parts of the Underground to see if there’s a crack or crevice anywhere on this mountain. Anything that serves as a window to the outside world that’s not muddled by the barrier.
Weeks later, you eventually wander into the Ruins.
“Where did your shortcut take us?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I smell golden flowers. Are we at the Throne Room?”
“Nope,” you laugh, amused, slightly moving faster. “This is your third guess. Stop guessing and just let me surprise you.”
“Alright, alright!” Alphys laughs with you, relenting, but you know she’ll shortly spring her questions again after a few seconds. It's either that or she’d try to sneak a peek from her blindfold to satiate her curiosity.
It's fine; you've already reached your destination anyway.
“Okay, from here, I’ll have to carry you and lift ourselves up,” is your only warning.
Before Alphys could let out a word, you literally sweep her off her feet, carrying her bridal style. She yelps, arms instinctively wrapping around your neck as you summon a giant pillar of bone from where you’re standing, rising as a pedestal.
Had you only have Sans’ usual magic reserves, this would've spent half of his stamina. You're starting to see the depths of your human soul’s worth when you can barely feel a dent in your reserves with this stunt.
The makeshift elevator lifts the both of you, up, up, up towards the light above, passing the cavern’s walls and the abyss’ mouth, until eventually—
“We’re here.”
You carefully place Alphys down, hands on her back to guide her to the view, then finally untying the blindfold.
Here, you show her the mouth of the Underground’s cave; the very beginning of every fallen human’s journey. Here is the last glimpse of sunlight before a human enters and falls.
But it is also a one-sided gateway to the surface.
A monster soul may not be able to pass through, but they can at least see an unobstructed sight of the outside world— the trees, the sky, the birds, and then the setting sun. Only a partial view of the forest is visible, but already, it seems like the world is too big.
You can see why the king and queen moved away from here. It's agony, looking at something you can't have.
But Alphys wanted to feel the sunlight, and it's something you can give her.
You take a glance at her direction, the sunlight glinting from her glasses that does nothing to hide her wonder, highlighting her yellow scales with a glow you’ve never seen from her before. The golden hue encompasses her, and she has never looked so alive.
“It’s… warm,” she says, her eyes not straying from the sky’s gradient of purples, oranges and yellows. “Thank you, Sans.”
You turn to watch the view with her, the nauseating guilt swirling within you for knowing what you know and what you refuse to do— what you decided back at the castle when you pushed a hand through the barrier.
You didn’t want to make the wrong choice, so you settled to take the safest one.
(The choice where you don’t do anything, but you choose all the same.)
As penitence, you resolve to never indulge yourself to enjoy the surface’s perks either. You’ll be caged underground like the rest of them. Them, with the prison of the barrier; and you, with the prison of guilt. This, you swear.
It doesn’t make you feel any better.
The sky seems to reflect your turmoil, as dusk ends and the night reigns, shadows seemingly consuming nature. The sun disappears but its heat lingers.
As if to personally slight you, the world made it cloudy today. No stars are visible, and you think you deserve that.
The corners of your smile falter for a brief moment.
You don't see Alphys take notice.
The CORE remains alight, but the Underground only turns darker.
Still, no human fell down.
Another five years pass; you’re now in your late thirties.
“You're not aging with me,” Alphys observes aloud, and you hear what she means to say.
I’ll die long before you do.
“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyelights avoiding eye contact as your smile refuses to budge.
A thoughtful silence stretches.
“W-would…” Alphys hesitates, and you know how heavy the topic she’ll bring up because of it. She hasn’t stuttered for a long time. “Would you like to bond souls with me?”
Neither of you are really interested in that aspect of your relationship, but you know where she would go with this.
“It’s alright,” you say, softer, appreciative. “We don’t have to share lifespans.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and just holds your hand in comfort— scaly claws intertwined with gloved phalanges.
You don’t soul bond with Alphys.
But Alphys seems to be okay enough with matching rings being the alternative, if her in-depth discussions about engagements and weddings from anime and manga say anything.
Some of her information are lacking a bit of context or are just straight-up misguided, but you don’t have the heart to correct her.
Four decades have passed.
You watch Alphys grow slower, weaker, older. Her scales gray at the tip of her head, crow’s feet evident around her eyes.
Her time with you is almost up, and it’s not because her subspecies have short lifespans, but rather because of skeleton monsters having one of the longest ones.
You still look like the day you first woke up here.
“Where do you wanna spread your dust?” You ask, because you're the person cutthroat enough to address this issue first.
“I… don't know actually.” Alphys thinks, long and hard, her wrinkled scales furrowing on her brows. “I’ve thought about my VHS tapes, my collections, maybe even the Waterfall Dump where it all started. None of them seem right though.”
“What about a tree on the surface?” You offer, and she looks at you in awe.
“... You would wait that long?” She asks, her words airy with wonder and wordless gratefulness.
“I’ll find a way.” You give her a shrug and a smile, as if it’s only a small favor.
She sighs fondly at this, used to your nonchalance towards your own grand gestures of affection.
“You're a good guy, Sans.”
You look away.
“Would you be alright on your own?” Alphys asks, lying beside you.
The bed shifts when you turn to face towards her, your hand automatically reaching for hers. You give it a reassuring squeeze, before answering, “I'll manage.”
She studies your intertwined hands, aged eyes darting from it to your face.
“Once I… go,” she starts, distractedly fiddling with your gloved hands. “Head into the True Lab. I left a present for you in my workspace.”
Somehow, you just know it would be her last gift for you, and your grin begins to feel like glass shards on your cheeks.
A long pause settles. Just when you thought Alphys fell asleep, she speaks again, “I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help.”
“What are you talking about?” Your smile softens, now genuine. “You made me happy.”
Alphys mirrors your smile from your response, and finally sleeps.
She never wakes up again.
You hold Alphys' urn.
There were no dramatic last words, no tear-filled goodbyes, nor excessive sobbing. All words wanted to be said between the two of you were already said; you have no regrets.
You’ve made peace with it a long time ago.
So now, you stand by the Ruins’ part of the barrier, the sheen of magic useless in stopping you from stepping forward.
You don’t stop and sight-see around the forest; you don’t wander away; you don’t pay attention to the surface’s distractions that do not involve finding the perfect tree to pour Alphys’ dust on.
You promised you wouldn’t indulge yourself, so you don’t.
Eventually, you find a tree that matches your standards for Alphys— a healthy tree, surrounded by bush flowers that bloom the closest color to cherry blossoms.
After completing the funeral ritual, you say your quiet goodbye and don’t linger.
You rigidly return back to the Underground without looking back.
At least it didn’t rain; it must be a nice day today.
As Alphys last instructed, you head towards her workstation at the True Lab.
Some Amalgamates follow after you, fond of your presence. They eventually leave when you’re no longer within their territory, with Endogeny being the exception— they’re loyal like that.
After a silent walk with the multi-dog Amalgamate, you reach Alphys’ worktable, already spotting a gadget on it. Taking a closer look, you identify it as a touch-screen wristwatch with the features of a phone. It’s fully charged and functioning, automatically turning on the moment it senses your magic signature.
A phone call rings.
The caller ID claims to be Alphys, and you gawk at the impossibility.
What the fuck.
Morbidly curious, you accept the call.
“Hey, Sans.”
Even with the ID warning you of what to expect, you still startle at the sound of Alphys’ voice— a younger Alphys’ voice that you’ve long forgotten and replaced with her deeper, older voice that’s primed with age. You’re reminded of what she first sounded like when you met her.
“If you’re hearing this, that means I’m… gone.”
Ah…
You take a seat on her office chair, Endogeny planting their head on your shoulder, expecting pats. You comply.
“I started this project when I first suspected that your lifespan would surpass mine, and uh…” A pause, then a skitter of clawed footsteps. It hasn’t been long, and you already miss those sounds. “I don’t… really know how long you’d get to live. I just know that if you’re receiving this gift, it means you’ve declined my offer to soul bond— which is fine! I… I know you’re hiding things from me, and your soul must be one of them, because I like to think I know you better by now.
“You don’t like being on your own. If you weren’t hiding your soul to me, I know you would’ve accepted my offer.”
Your grin is stiff on your face.
“You like entertaining people, making them laugh, cheering them up. Even if I’m people. The only one. Haha… Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh at that. It’s just that, I owe a lot to you.
“Thank you. For everything. For your company, and… for being my first hope in a long while. I really needed that— you. I... I really needed…
“Sorry, this whole introduction is a mess. So, I’ll just do what I do best: ramble about this project—”
And then Alphys’ youthful voice proceeds to do just that, explaining to you that the wristwatch is now your new phone: complete with a Dimensional Box, your Gold wallet, access to the Undernet, a jetpack, and—
“I made it a mission to record a message everyday, then store them here. They’ll be formatted like phone calls! Just like this! Except, uh, I can’t reply… and the messages are years from the past. But, anyway, once this watch is online, it’ll receive scheduled calls everyday with my pre-recorded voicemails!
“That way, you’ll have something to look forward to everyday! So— live your full life! Don’t give up!”
In the background of the ‘call’, you hear a door being opened, causing Alphys to yelp. There’s a clatter of stuff being hastily hidden, and the message ends there.
You sit in silence, your hand no longer patting Endogeny’s head.
All at once, everything about this— the Underground, the magic, your souls, Alphys’ death, Sans’ fall, your death and what you left behind— feels so unbearably real. It’s as if a veil has been lifted, and the end to this veneer of domestic playhouse fantasy is the signal your brain is waiting for to properly process.
A wake-up call in the guise of heartbreak, as if reminding you what it’s like.
(A reminder of who you were, because who are you without your grief?)
You stop and feel. And oh, you feel.
You hunch over the wristwatch, cradling it close to your face as translucent purple tears drip on the screen.
And then, you finally, finally grieve.
Endogeny whines at your distress, and attempts to pat you.
Somehow, in the haze of your sorrow and anguish, a sentiment between you and Sans’ soul is shared, and you voice it aloud.
“Man, fuck that kid.” You laugh dryly.
Notes:
Sans!MC (trying to comfort Alphys): don't be sad, ok? sad is for losers. we're not losers. we're worse than that.
Alphys:
...
Sans!MC (malnourished, heavy eye bags, dehydrated, and on the verge of insanity): fuck it, we ball.
...
Sans!MC: lowkey have a crush on my coworker and it might be mutual but the problem is i'm a compulsive liar and fabricated my entire life story over the months we worked together.
...
Sans!MC (living the domestic life): ah yes. me, my wife, and our mutated pets in the basement.
...
Me: *writing the most epic Alphys x reader prologue I've ever made for absolutely no fucking reason* (im kidding, this backstory is important for future interactions with the cast and plot lol)
...
In case my writing is still not clear, MC transmigrated into a Sans from a neutral ending. The neutral ending in question is not the genocide run, but rather a no mercy run. The difference between the two runs is that in the neutral no mercy run, you don't go out of your way to kill every single monster until the area is empty. You just simply don't utilize the mercy button lol
Also you can interpret Alphys'/Sans!MC's relationship as either romantic or queerplatonic. Personally, the romance option is funnier because of all the homewrecker jokes I can think of lol. Can you imagine the misunderstandings?!?! Lmao. Dw, post-pacifist Alphyne will remain together, and MC won't interfere with their relationship. MC respects boundaries and understands that their relationship dynamic wouldn't even be the same. It's sad, MC will occasionally yearn, but they'll move on.
This chapter is not my average word count for this fic, just so you know. I just really wanna get the premise and backstory outta the way and focus on the transmigration. Next chapter, we'll get some character introspection and development for MC, before finally reaching the most-awaited universe travel! Yes, yes, lots of time skip again, but I promise it's important. We gotta establish that MC is the SUPERIOR sans lmfao (just kidding... unless--)
Btw, MC refers to themselves as they/them, but uses he/him pronouns as Sans.
Also fair warning: I have no guarantee I'll finish this fic. I'm just churning out these undertale plot bunnies in this anon series so that my brain can finally stfu. Regardless, if you choose to stay, please do enjoy my cringe lol. I have at least a full skeleton (lol) for this fic
Chapter 2: The world moves on anyway
Summary:
*it’s gotten so quiet.
Notes:
Sorry for the delayed update, I was actually drafting something for Mermay, but it's not actually a mermaid/siren fic lol. It's a Pirate!AU, but it kinda fits the sea theme so I’m considering building an outline guide for it. So far, all I have is a premise/prologue. Idk if I’ll publish it for the public, but we’ll see.
I’m also working on another fic inspired by Oshi no Ko, where MC is an international idol keeping it down low in Ebott city and finds twin babybones from another AU, then proceeds to adopt them. Meanwhile, the skele-lodge is panicking where the mystery AU travelers are and why they haven't made themselves known yet.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Good morning, Sans! New day today!... Uh, not for you I guess, because this day has long passed in your perspective. You’d remember, right? I’m working on a new programming language with past-you, using your machine’s operating system as inspirat—”
Alphys’ engagement ring accompanies yours in a thin chain, the simple metal bands dangling just around your white sweater’s turtleneck.
The sweater wasn't always white, you passively recall. It was black when Sans first bought it.
What happened was that you had a lapse of judgment, forgetting that monster laundry soaps operate on magic, not chemical reactions. Was it really your fault that a detergent featuring a ‘Guaranteed Blank Slate!’ slogan made you believe it would only wash away the stains and not the fabrics’ entire color palette?
In your defense, Sans wasn't in charge of laundry. Not until you took charge.
You remember Alphys absolutely losing it when you pulled your batch of clothes from the washing machine with the most confused face you’ve ever worn. You had a considerable amount of white clothes in your closet that day; still do.
Perhaps that particular memory is what prompted you to bleach your entire wardrobe with the same detergent. It's not like anyone is present to judge you for it.
(Her laughter still rings in your ears.)
… God, you're such a sentimental sap.
“It’s Saturday today, and I just saw you pour ketchup in your coffee. Now, you see, I don't know if you actually like it or you're just messing with me. Knowing you, it's probably both and—”
You never stopped working on Sans’ machine.
Or rather, you never stopped theorizing what went wrong.
When one utilizes human soul vi…
Determination, you correct, because that's what Alphys called it.
When one utilizes Determination on a machine, most would assume it would be used as a power source. It's not an outlandish logic, but it isn't the case for Sans’ machine; it uses traditional electricity and magic to function. The use of Determination here is more… innovative than that.
It was intended to work as some form of safety net for the subject: protection, but not quite. Insurance, more like.
Because one does not travel through space and time whole without straining their matter or magic into self-destruction. The voyage would be too fast, too arduous, too abstract. Dangerous, unpredictable; to enter the unknown is no different from a death sentence in this context.
The creator needed a guarantee.
As a circumvention, they designed the machine to transport the subject's soul to its chosen destination, and serve as an anchor for the body to materialize around it. It would tear the subject apart and then reassemble them somewhere-sometime else. That's where Determination comes in; to hold something— someone intact. To persist in the beyond.
The machine was always intended for a monster soul. If a monster soul survives the entire experiment, their vessel will survive with it— that's the creator’s guarantee.
But a lot of things could go wrong here.
The top two you can think of are as follows: either the creator miscalculated and lacked the Determination for the machine, or it was too much of an amount to work as intended.
Worse, you think grimly. It might even just be the right quantity.
Did the creator know? You wonder. Did they have any idea what Determination could do to a monster? You don’t think so.
There was no documentation or records about this particular research anywhere in the True Lab; Alphys had to learn this the hard way.
There's a chance this machine killed its creator— torn and scattered apart, not too dissimilar to the Amalgamates. Lost in space and time.
But in the deep recesses of Sans’ soul, you know there's a chance they're still alive. It's all in the matter of whether or not you can bring them back.
So, you continue to work.
“Just saw some weird, white dog today, and it has some kind of orb in its mouth. Somehow, it's dodging all of Hotland’s puzzles by phasing through and flying over obstacles, and I want to study i—”
You miss your siblings.
You can't recall the last time you stopped grieving for them, your heart numbed to the feeling of longing. However, the familiar tendrils of guilt take hold, when you come to a realization that while you do miss them, you yearn for Alphys’ presence more.
It’s just that you’re married to Alphys longer than you’ve known your siblings. It doesn't help that you're surrounded by the proof of her existence, while you remain unsure if you're even in the same world they once lived in.
No photos to reminisce, and no graves to visit.
Only vivid memories of your older brother who believed he had nothing to live for, and your younger sister who had so much to live for.
And then there's you: the middle child turned into an only child by circumstances out of your control.
(Maybe you find more comfort in Alphys, because she’s lighter than what your siblings represent in your life.)
You pause when Sans’ soul pulses from the familiarity. Then, empathy akin to a comforting pat on the back.
Oh, you blink, dazed from the revelation.
Hmm. Another blink, solemn in understanding.
The machine’s creator was Sans’ older brother.
“I’ve always wondered what you do in your spare time, back when… you know, things were normal. You can't possibly just be napping all the time, right? You're too much of a genius to—”
The machine never returned to Sans' basement.
Not because it would be a chore to transport it back, nor does it need to be exclusively worked on in the Lab. You just… never returned to Sans’ house either.
One moment, you’re having a particularly long sleepover at Alphys’ place, and the next, you just continuously live in the Lab as if you've always lived there your entire life.
You think over your relationship with Alphys, trying to pinpoint the transition of when your feelings shifted into what you had for each other. Maybe it was just as seamless as your unannounced move.
Looking at your part of the Lab, it's a wonder how you never noticed.
The way Alphys allotted a space for your workbench; how Alphys’ gifts decorated your shelves; the photographs that lined your walls. Then your clothes (it's just socks, really) haphazardly scattered on her side of the room; your post-it notes that were never removed from her computer; the borrowed tools that never returned to their rightful owners until you and Alphys just agreed that neither of you exclusively own them anymore.
The change had been subtle and quiet and constant. It was drastic, but it was always there.
You sigh at the uninvited melancholy, pausing at your task of listing down the recorded settings of the machine’s last operation. This is why you barely stray away from Alphys’ side, used to her constant chatter that drowns out the silence of the Lab and the noise of your thoughts.
It's only been a week.
You lean back on your seat, eyes closing in frustration. Then, contemplation.
… Maybe it's about time you let the Amalgamates out of the True Lab.
“Iiieee! Oh my god! Your anti-gravity skateboard is amazing! It was working and flying and I was flying and you were flying— where did you get the inspiration for this?! Can you imagine what we can do with it?! Transportation, support, convenience, a-and— and even more puzzles! The possibilities are endless! Un— Err…
“... Heh, Undyne would've loved it. I think your brother—”
It takes a while before your body catches up with your mind that it no longer has to hide the purple marks on your cheeks; the fact that it's powered by your human soul.
It takes longer for you to stop putting up a performance.
I’m not Sans, you remind yourself. Not really.
You don't have to fake naps; you don't have to make puns; you don't have to be a slob. You don't have to be someone else to comfort Alphys with her brand of familiarity.
… But it's not like you're pretending the whole time either.
After all, you're not entirely your human self; not really. They died the moment you woke up as Sans, regardless of how solid your grasp is on which part is you and which part is Sans.
The past-you never experienced magic, never developed opinions on things you frankly never knew existed before. The past-you never could’ve built what you’ve built, never could’ve had the same relationship with Alphys like you had.
You’ve lived as Sans, and it's inevitable that you’ve adapted as him. For better or worse, you’ve changed.
Not wholly the monster, not wholly the human.
There's only you in both their places, and all that implies.
So naturally, you explore the intricate part of yourself that you’ve neglected for a long time: your magic. What you're really capable of.
What it means to be you.
“Sorry if I’m blabbering a bunch of nonsense. It's just that, when you record a message everyday, you run out of things to say, so hopefully you won't mind if I use this project as some kind of journ—”
Months pass, and you can't deny that it gets lonely.
The Amalgamates can sometimes take your mind off the deep end, can make you feel less alone with their presence, but they're not really good conversationalists.
There are instances when temptations— whispers of a new start with newer possibilities— arise in the form of a button. It beckons you with a yellow glow, until a memory surfaces of Sans stressing over graphs and reports of timelines jumping and restarting.
It brings forth an image of a child with the same power over time, and almost immediately, you reel at the thought of comparing yourself to them. You can't bring yourself to do the same thing they’ve done, due to both personal feelings and principle.
You won’t disrespect the memories you’ve made with Alphys like that. Even when your once-nonexistent regrets slowly pile up in her absence.
You don’t want to lose the feeling of regret. You’ve made your choice, and you're not above its consequences. You're better than that fucking kid.
So, you persevere on your own.
“You know, I originally meant to experiment with my soul for this project. The plan was to surgically break my soul and place a fragment of it in the wristwatch to give it sentience. To give you a living piece of me; my real thought and voice. It was inspired by Mettaton’s prototype blueprints.
“But then, I thought better of it, because… if it were to go wrong, I’d leave you sooner than expected. I can never do that to y—”
You forget to keep track of dates, the days blurring together.
It’s fine, you assure yourself. At least this way, you don’t count the days of how long Alphys is gone and how long you can keep this up.
Instead, you bury yourself with work, currently trying to figure out what coordinates the creator used for the machine’s test run that incapacitated him. You piece together his blueprints’ notes, translate his programming comments, review the machine’s schematics.
Where did he attempt to send himself to?
You wonder if you’ll ever figure it out.
Whether you meant the creator’s coordinates or this life you’re currently leading, you don't know.
“Sometimes, my mind drifts to the people outside the Lab; that they're not coping as well as me in this… this situation. They're slowly dying out there, and I’m in here enjoying my life with you. Well, past-you, but you know what I mean.
“I've spent so long wallowing in my guilt, berating myself for being selfish. Just once, after everything, I want to be selfish and be happy with that choice. This world is hell enough. Is it really so wrong to keep a slice of paradise to myself; to keep you to myse—”
Doubt is both a medicine and a poison you know very well, its bitter, grounding tang instantly recognizable on your tongue. It trickles, slides down your throat— manageable in droplets, until it’s too much and begins to corrode your insides with questions you don't really want the answers to.
It's the companion that sabotages you in your success and comforts you in your failure. It does both, and calls itself a ‘friend’.
It's alright to doubt, you told Alphys once upon a time. It keeps things realistic. Attainable.
It makes me afraid, Alphys told you then. It keeps me hesitant. Insecure.
Doubt will always be there anyway, you said. But we can keep it in check together. You keep me from being too idealistic, and I’ll keep you from being too pessimistic.
Then, vice-versa, she added. We’ll ground each other.
But Alphys is not here anymore.
And so, with no ground to stand on, you drown in fear over the possibility that Sans’ brother can't fix this; that he can't bring everything back to the way things used to be before the last human’s arrival.
Alone, you fear the possibility that there's nothing for you here.
You persevere anyway.
“The more I observe your magic, the more I realize how deceptively powerful you actually are. And, I wonder… Why didn't you go against that human? But then, I know you’d ask me back with ‘why didn't you?’
“I don't want to be mad at your choices. I don't want to be a hypocrite. So I thought, if Undyne— an actual trained warrior—couldn't defeat the human, you wouldn't be able to either, regardless of your magic reserves. You're a smart guy who seems to pick his battles. If you can actually beat that human, you surely wouldn't let them get away with killing your br—”
No matter what you do, the numbers won't budge; not unless you mess with its code, but that would defeat the purpose of the creator’s design.
Had you followed the blueprints blind without understanding its programming, you wouldn't know that the numbers on the biggest screen are supposed to help you identify your current coordinates, not to have you input your desired destination. It simply functions to tell you where and when you are in time and space.
A lot of things about the machine are misleading in an ostentatious kind of way, which leads you to suspect that the creator is one for theatrics.
More flair than practicality. Presentation; the need to impress.
It doesn't help that the very few hints left behind are written in a font that's indecipherable to those lacking enough Determination to retain it in their memories.
No wonder Sans thought it was unfixable.
“I get this weird thought sometimes that you're an entirely different person. Maybe I can chalk it up to grief changing you, but I’ve spent my life around computers to know if a new variable is added to a pattern, or if it's a new pattern entirely that's simply similar to the last one.
“But people aren't computers, so it's not a good comparison. Maybe I just didn't actually know you like I thought I di—”
You distractedly swing your legs underneath your office chair, your fluffy lavender slippers dropping from its loose hold on your feet. Briefly, your mind brings forth a memory of Alphys gifting them, her eyes searching your face when she handed them to you. For what, you didn't know.
But it's curious, isn't it? Of all the colors she could've chosen for you, it was the hue of your human soul. Not the exact shade, but it's enough to seem suspiciously intentional.
Perhaps you’ve unknowingly slipped at some point, and somehow clued her in to give you the lavender slippers.
… Hah, Alphys would've loved that unintentional pun.
“I wonder, once I die, will you cry for me? It's a morbid thought but the idea of you mourning for me is comforting— that my existence matters that much to someone. Not that I want you miserable! It's just…
“Is it bad to have these feelings? Sorry, this entire project is supposed to—”
Endogeny coaxes you to play fetch with them.
You think they’re trying to make you feel better. From what, you’re not really sure, but you welcome the distraction anyway.
“About yesterday… in case you're curious… I'd cry for you. You're the only one that matters to me no—”
You spend the whole day shortcutting all over the Underground, searching for any signs of living outside yourself.
You don't know what kind of person that makes you; only beginning to care when there's no one else to care for. Caring only when you're lacking something.
You’ve lived your past life being depended on. There’s security in knowing your purpose, what you should do, and then the gratification that comes with it, as if reassuring you that you’re doing something right— your desire to be needed, rewarded by love and affection. Time and time again, proven by your father and your brother and your sister, and most recently, Alphys.
To some extent, Sans too.
Your smile grows tight on your face when you’ve done all the searching you can. Most of the monsters you found are from the Ruins: some Vegetoids, a couple of Moldsmals, and from the Waterfall: a few Moldbyggs and Temmies.
None are sapient enough to form a proper relationship with. You would've settled with the Amalgamates otherwise.
Throughout your whole search, your hopelessness was slowly being replaced with crushing guilt. With every area you visit, with every home you enter, you only find piles of dust on floors and beds, and you begin to wonder.
Had you cared earlier, could you have prevented these deaths? Saved them? Just like you did for Alphys?
You didn’t want the monsters to be killed by humans; so, you didn’t free them. But you didn’t want them to die hopeless in the dark either.
You can't lead; you can't promise false hope.
What could you have done?
(You consider that if you ruled the Surface as a god, maybe there doesn’t have to be a war. You just have to kill six—)
… Fuck, this is going to make you spiral if you don’t do anything about it.
Trapping yourself here in the Underground is no longer enough to assuage your guilt. You need to repent in another way, if only to give you something to do and make this a little more bearable.
So, you decide to collect every dust pile you can find, and pour them on the Surface’s trees.
At least, Alphys would be less lonely up there.
(The dust clings to your clothes.)
“When I realized I had nothing left to teach you, I… kinda expected you to leave. Instead, you just started teaching me new things you discovered, bouncing ideas off of each other. I guess that’s insulting to you, doubting you like that. If future-you is… are…? Uh, if you’re here right now, you’d probably poke my snout to scold me that that’s just my insecurity talking. And then you’ll tell me how great I am. And then eat ice cream together—”
You stare at your full body reflection, eyelights scanning for any changes on your appearance, for any signs of aging after the day Alphys...
You make a clicking noise with your mouth, when you find none. To be honest, you’re starting to suspect that your human soul may have lengthened Sans’ original lifespan. Either that, or worse: you’re functionally immortal.
The only noticeable change in your appearance is your clothes— white hoodie, white jogging pants, and a white lab coat (more of a habit than a style, really). The only colors you have outside of monochrome are the purple rectangles on your cheeks, and the lavender slippers on your feet.
You lean your weight on your right leg, the silver necklace holding your and Alphys’ rings glinting at the movement.
You suppose it wouldn't hurt to add a bit more color to your palette.
You remember Alphys having purple-rimmed glasses somewhere.
“Sometimes, I wonder, if we were this close earlier in our lives, do you think we could’ve found a way to free ourselves from here? That we could’ve prevented all this? We’re brilliant together; just look at what we’ve accomplished during our pastimes! The things we could’ve shared with the Underground, if we…
“… But, I like to think we couldn’t. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to help but resent the day you declined my invitation to work with m—”
You don’t know Sans’ older brother enough to understand his thought process.
He’s a mystery to you, through and through— only coherent in his left-behind notes, if barely. Most of what you know about him came from vague recollections in Sans’ soul, only triggered by familiar memories or sentiments. It’s not enough.
If Sans weren’t essentially comatosed, you would’ve asked him for more information. He remains indisposed, however, and after combing over everything, you’re now aimless.
You don’t know why the machine failed the creator; you don’t know where the creator attempted to send himself to; you don't know how to bring the creator back.
You’re stuck, and you don’t know what to do from here.
(You don’t know how to help Sans anymore.)
You… persevere.
“That's it for today. As usual, live your full life! Don't give up! Love you!”
Reclined on your office chair, you don’t look away from the Lab’s ceiling when your muscle memory has you swipe a finger on your watch’s screen. With a drag of your gloved pointer, you rewind a part of Alphys’ call.
“—live your full life! Don't give up! Love you!”
Another drag.
“—life! Don't give up! Love you!”
Another.
“Don't give up! Love you!”
It becomes a mindless habit.
“Don't give up—”
“Don't give up—”
“Don't give up—”
You stand in front of Sans’ old house.
You’ve scoured its entirety in the past to find any hints in regards to the machine. Sans’ memories reassure you there's nothing left hidden for you to find.
Then, what are you doing here?
You… don't really know. You're tired of not knowing, so you don't think much about it when you enter the house, and…
Everything is right where you left it; frozen in time. Untouched, but not necessarily orderly— as if you’d come back for it one day, and you did.
There are no cobwebs, but a thick coat of dust— the ordinary kind— covers all furniture and house decorations. The air is stale, the lights are off, the house’s ghosts are quiet. And yet, you can hear a familiar, loud voice telling you to clean up.
With nothing better to do, you spend the whole day doing just that.
You dusted the furniture, wiped the windows, vacuumed the floors (you left the socks and post-it notes alone). You cleaned the kitchen, the living room, the upper floor’s hallway, Sans’ bedroom, until eventually…
You stare at Papyrus’ door.
You never really entered it before, only knowing what to expect from the other side based on how Sans remembers it. Heh, looking back at it, the caution tapes decorating the door were working as intended.
Time passes, and you don't know how long you've spent stalling.
You technically have no real attachment towards Papyrus. Your feelings for him are second-handed, courtesy of Sans. It's like knowing someone through stories of a friend, having you build a mental image of a person from biases.
You never met him, but you feel something for him regardless. It’s a default, with how Sans valued him. But, it’s not like you don’t have your own sentiments in regards to his existence.
After all, you know what it’s like to lose a younger sibling from forces outside your control. You know how Sans’ hurt feels.
You want to reunite the brothers; give them the happy ending you would’ve wanted for yourself and your siblings.
But you can’t bring back the dead, and you don’t really want to waste a life.
Your gloved hand hovers over Papyrus’ door handle, hesitantly touching the metal. A depressing thought surfaces,
Hah, wouldn’t it be nice if the owner of this room is just waiting on the other side?
Then, an idea.
Almost immediately, you shortcut back to the Lab, inspired and motivated.
You never opened the door.
“I won’t lie. I’m scared for you. That once I leave you, you’d spiral and hurt yourself and… I sometimes look at you in your quiet moments, and I just know, if left unchecked, that you’d… I’m just not sure if this project could really help you. What if it’s not enough…?
“To be honest, I don’t think either of us is enough for each other. Only enough to keep ourselves from going insan—”
There’s mania in your movements: hurried but precise, impatient but meticulous.
You have recently abandoned the idea of bringing someone back to this wasteland in the delusional idea that Sans’ brother can restore it.
Why should you depend on someone to fix this? Why have the creator as your only option to have Sans reunite with?
Why not have yourself fix this? Why not have Sans reunite with Papyrus instead?
You can’t recreate the mistake that took Sans’ older brother away, but that doesn’t mean you can’t repair the machine to work as its creator intended. Even better: you can repurpose it. Bring yourself in another timeline— a time where Papyrus, Alphys and the others are alive.
All you have to do is to install a specific radar, program new instructions, have the machine scan for the universe with the most amount of magic— monster souls, and then—
I can do this, you coach yourself. You and Alphys built a copy of it from the ground-up; have slaved over its programming; have made it better. Surely, you can upgrade it again.
If it fails? A doubt asks. If it kills you?
Your grin widens.
Then, at least I can say I died trying.
“By the way, I noticed how discontented you are with a lackluster life, like you're holding yourself back from wanting something more. Don't do that. Life is bad enough to limit yourself like that. Do whatever you can to make yourself happy; if not for yourself, then at least for my peace of mind.
“... Promise me that, please? I know you hate making promises, but I also know more than anyone that you deserve to be ha—”
You don’t know how long it took you to finish; the passage of time doesn’t bother you. Maybe months? Maybe a year?
It doesn’t matter. You’re getting out of here, one way or another.
After multiple inspections, power test-runs, and needed recalibrations, it’s eventually time for the actual test demonstration. There are no safe experiments here, as the machine needs a soul to transport; you’re not willing to sacrifice any of the remaining monsters for that.
The creator proceeded his test with one guarantee, and that’s his use of Determination. You, on the hand, have a supposed guarantee, and a contingency plan.
Your guarantee? You have a human soul; you have innate Determination that doesn’t risk your vessel from melting.
And your contingency plan? Well, there’s a nearby Save Point you’ve recently interacted with.
To be honest, you’re not sure if your Resets can save you from a time-space failure. It’s a gamble, but really, what do you have left to lose?
The Amalgamates will be alright without you, now that you’ve set them free. You’ve cleaned the Lab; performed a maintenance check on the CORE to ensure that any remaining monsters could still benefit from it; and lastly, you’ve packed your things in your Dimensional Box within your wristwatch.
You’re ready.
But, you think. Just in case.
You wait for Alphys’ daily call.
If it all fails and you don’t come back from this, you’d like to at least listen to a familiar voice before you go.
Notes:
Sans!MC to Sans’ soul: i miss my wife, sans. i miss her a lot.
…
Sans!MC (about to find out how ‘well-adjusted’ he really is after isolation by interacting with multiple people): why am i the only normal person here?
…
Sans!MC with the other skeletons be like (probably): just talked to my wife on the phone, it was awesome. i know a lot of you are lonely and pathetic with nobody who really loves you or cares about you but you can always rest assured that that is not the case for me.
…
Alphys sounds less filtered in her calls mainly because she's not looking at anyone to think about what she's saying. There’s comfort in talking to thin air, regardless who your message is directed to. There's nuance to Alphys’ and MC’s relationship, because having only one person in your social circle would kinda fuck you up. Here, you see the hints of “behind the scenes” of their paradise. Also, this Alphys is not the Pacifist-ending Alphys, so she hasn't really learned to build courage or to confront people. But don't misunderstand, they really do love each other!... Just not healthily oof.
I hc Gaster to be like Papyrus in terms of showiness, but instead of attracting attention to himself, he points it at his inventions. Like cmon there's no reason the DT Extraction machine had to be shaped like a cow skull lmao. And the Gaster Blasters? Also screens scattered across the True Lab’s halls?? To monologue?? Bffr, he was theater kid in his day lmao
Chapter 3: Intermission: A glimpse of the beyond
Summary:
*that's your fault, isn't it?
Notes:
here's a brief intermission to establish the other side's setting! hope it doesn't sound too info-dumpy; i tried my best lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It's been two months.
To others, it has only been two months since the monsters escaped the Underground.
To Sans, it has already been two months since the monsters escaped the Underground. It's nearing three.
According to his computer reports, it isn't their first time to achieve this timeline’s route, and it usually doesn't last a few days before they end up back within their prison.
But the kid has yet to Reset.
When the first week passed, Sans thought that maybe the kid was taking their time this run, and shrugged the milestone off. When the second week rolled around, Sans thought it would happen anytime by then. And when the third week came, Sans thought it wouldn't hurt to try.
And so, he half-heartedly worked on the machine with an unknown deadline.
He found a property— an old lodge— for his project. It was a hefty purchase, even when he was only going to utilize its basement, but it was the most isolated place he could find that didn’t leave Ebott city’s area of jurisdiction; hidden away by distance and forest trees. It’s not like he had a lot of choices anyway, with monsters barely having started integrating into human society. They’re not allowed out of Ebott city just yet.
Besides, it wouldn't even matter in the long run. He didn't bother to furnish the place.
Though Sans may not be one for aesthetics, he does care about precautions. After brief reviews and test practices, he casted a magical dome he learned a long time ago that keeps any stray magic in. It’s no Underground Barrier, but it’s powerful enough that if anything were to go wrong, he can trust it to isolate any dangerous reactions within the lodge’s property. A containment spell that keeps everything but the caster in.
It's essentially what saved the rest of the Underground from disappearing with him.
Sans may be a scientist, but he wasn’t curious to see what would happen if the machine malfunctioned, and there’s no barrier between it and the outside world. It’d make one hell of a once-in-a-lifetime study, though.
In the fourth week, Sans came and went to the lodge at odd hours to work. Otherwise, he would be at his and Papyrus’ place, napping. Sometimes, maybe even at Grillby’s for a well-deserved break. There was no significant shift in his schedule for others to notice.
He wasn’t desperate enough for it.
But the next week had him change his tune; the fifth week was the first week of a new month.
Sans saw a calendar page ripped for the first time, and it’s a milestone that he can no longer ignore. He checked, double-checked, triple-checked his computer records, and confirmed to himself that it's the longest the kid has let the timeline be.
This was when something familiar, dangerous began to creep into his soul.
Maybe this can be permanent, Sans thought to himself at that time, sanguine. Cynicism bled in, regardless. That’s not guaranteed.
Sans will have to work harder if he wants to make it so.
Because if there’s anyone who could make the Resets stop, who could relieve Sans from this looping hell, who could maintain this happy ending, it would be its catalyst— the monster who messed with space and time; who created a rift in reality for the impossible.
Sans is now finally given the chance, the time to attempt to bring this catalyst— his older brother— back.
For the first time in a long time, Sans identified the hope in his soul, and it’s a scary thing.
Desperation is a motivator like no other, but then again, he has nothing to compare it to when it’s his only motivator. Still, he thinks that ambition, inspiration, passion, and even spite would all pale in comparison to the feeling of having to fight with everything you are; to struggle because failing would mean a doom you’ll never recover from. To be desperate is to be terrified.
And Sans is very, very desperate.
Sans worked in a frenzy, afraid that the kid would Reset sooner than he’d succeed. He dreads losing progress— for everything to mean nothing— and he can’t help but wonder when was the last time he felt this kind of specific fear; this helpless futility.
Too long ago, he presumes, if he no longer knew how to cope with it.
And so, as a result of time crunches and recklessness, Sans unleashed… something— someones into his world.
Welp, he guesses that’s one way to prove alternate universes exist.
What followed was a hell of an adjustment period. Sans thinks that that period is still on-going, the progress dragging with constant clashes of personalities. One would think that multiple variations of himself and Papyrus would get along like a house on fire. Sans supposes that statement would be correct if only taken literally.
Thankfully, there’s no house fire just yet. It’s mainly thanks to a tentative truce in place— a deal.
It’s simple, really. If they cooperate to bring back his brother and fix the machine, they get to take copies of its completed blueprints home to recover their own versions of their older brother. And then, they get to free their own Underground, having their own happily-ever-afters.
The swapped versions of him and his brother easily agreed, as they have friends waiting back home. The aggressive, swapped versions, on the other hand, liked the idea of being their Underground’s saviors; the same sentiment can be said for his aggressive, non-swapped versions too.
All agreed to the deal, except for the latest arrivals.
“There’s no Underground for us to return to,” they had eerily said with equally eerie appearances, and Sans didn’t have the time to unpack any of that. He’ll address that when everything’s over and done with.
What’s important is that they’re all compliant. For now.
This was especially crucial when they eventually discovered they’re on the surface. With the magic dome in place, they’re trapped within the lodge’s property, unable to leave either for leisure or self-provision. They’re essentially dependent on Sans for their needs, and he expected the resulting outbursts from this.
Sans pacified them with a logical explanation that no outsiders can learn about them, with human-monster relations still being shaky. Monsters making attempts to mess with time and space is not a good look, especially when he somewhat succeeded. He can’t have monsterkind appear more dangerous to humans than they already are.
It was fear that brought the first war, and it would undoubtedly be fear that would ignite a second one.
The kid would undoubtedly Reset by then, and it’s not a risk Sans is willing to take.
Besides, who knows what would happen to his alternate versions in an event of a Reset.
Would they return back to where they came from? Maybe return with him to Snowdin, Underground?
Or would they simply cease to exist? Erased, just like—
Needless to say, this rational fear kept them all in check. In fact, it had most of his alternates motivated to work faster.
… It doesn’t keep them from grumbling complaints towards Sans’ form of accommodations, though. How was he supposed to know that he should’ve furnished the lodge before they arrived?
Still, their unprecedented arrival got Sans delayed on the machine’s progress for a couple of days.
He… doesn’t see much of his brother and his friends anymore, much less spend time with them. Lives are on the line here now, and it’s his responsibility to return all versions of himself to their universes. He can’t waste time when the kid’s impulse is a ticking time bomb.
Sans can tell that Papyrus knows something is up, and it would make Sans more avoidant— both in shame and the fact that Sans can’t afford to involve him in any of this mess. It’s his mistake, his fault. He’ll deal with it like he dealt with all his problems: on his own.
… Sans misses his younger brother, regardless.
In the lodge’s basement, Sans sighs on his office chair, his head slumping on his workbench. It’s currently lunch break, his counterparts are upstairs, and his sandwich remains untouched. He’s not that hungry anyway.
He hopes he figures this all out soon.
If I don't, well…
In his quiet lonesome, the easy air of despair shrouds his soul, his thoughts instinctively growing detached, uncaring at its presence. The familiarity of numbness hugs him like his signature jacket— fit and snug and comforting— and whispers consolations in regards to his potential failure.
That talking, yellow flower remembers the past timelines best because it’s the most determined being, only second to the actual holder of the Resets. And him? Heh, might as well be a blank slate.
Because that’s the thing with being the least determined monster in the Underground, ain’t it?
The poisoning thought of apathy croons, if all your efforts lay to waste by the end of this, at least you won't remember it to regret it.
This train of thought comes to a halt when the machine alerts him of being activated. Almost immediately, he stands and shortcuts over to its side, checking over its diagnostics.
At first, he thought it was just a false-alarm; just noise with no following action. However—
The machine is unmistakably online, connected to a foreign anchor that’s not dissimilar to his other variants’ when they got dragged here.
But none of us touched it, what the hell—
The installed power cells rise in temperature; the monitors blare their warnings; the conductors are charging. Sans can hear the others climb down to check on the noise, but his eyelights do not move from the machine. The way it’s functioning is familiar; he knows what the machine’s readings mean.
Someone’s coming.
He doesn’t know if that thought stayed in his head or if he said it aloud, but it doesn’t stop from being true. There’s nothing they can do at this stage without risking an explosion.
Smoke creeps from the machine and fogs the entire basement, obscuring all vision of the machine except for the glowing lights. Sans can hear multiple curses being spat, along with panicked, agitated questions about what’s happening.
One moment, everything is too overwhelming and bright and loud; and the next—
Still quiet.
As if intending suspense, the smoke slowly clears, and Sans can already see a silhouette similar to his own.
A Sans variant… but no Papyrus.
That’s new, Sans thinks.
Eventually, the smoke dissipates, revealing what looks like his exact copy, except he has purple patches on his cheeks, while wearing… rectangular purple glasses.
The new variant makes eye-contact with him, and Sans freezes at the look he can’t quite decipher. It’s off-putting, when Sans should know himself the best, no matter the version.
As if having satisfied his unknown interest, the new variant looks behind Sans, no doubt seeing the basement’s other arrivals.
Finally, to break the silence, the un-nicknamed variant talks first.
“Are we on the surface?” His voice is familiar, but the intonation is… off. As if it's not a Sans speaking.
Still, what a specific question that makes Sans hesitate to answer.
“Yeah, we are.” Just like that, Stretch removes that option from him. “What’s it to ya?”
And then, the new variant laughs as if it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard.
Notes:
Who would win this race? An educated quantum scientist with his copies specializing in relevant fields, or one stubborn child?
…
Sans: man, i need a break.
Sans!MC: uh, nuh uh lol *transports to classic sans’ timeline on purpose*
…
Sans: the doctor said if i can’t find a new way to relate more positively to my home environment, i’m going to die.
AU Sanses and Papyri (enter Sans’ home environment):
Sans: i’m going to die.
…
Doctor: Show me where it hurts.
Sans (pointing at his wallet, after buying the Lodge™): right here.
...
poor sans, oof lol
i debated to myself if i should introduce the AU cast via sans' POV, but then i thought, nahh. i would much prefer to introduce their characters through MC's POV instead. so, uhh...
also!! i headcanon that sans can't really remember the resets-- he just depends on his computer reports for that. he's aware of the other characters' deja vus, and he happens to know the explanation for em. he seems like he remembers because of what he says to the player, but i think he's just really good at reading people. like, scary observant. it makes him more badass like that lol. my proof? uhh, well, if you do the genocide run as your first playthrough, he talks to you like yall had a past together. like, nuh uh, i came down swinging first lmao
anyway, my most consistent update with long chapters is monthly! but if i have extra free time, maybe earlier, like say two or three weeks. i'm currently working on my production bible for my animation thesis, so i cant guarantee much haha;;;
thanks for reading!!
Chapter 4: Through the purgatory
Summary:
*Don’t you know how to greet a new pal?
Chapter Text
You stand and wait patiently by the machine, eyelights lazily scanning the dimmed Lab that’s illuminated by the limited light of a few active computer monitors. It would seem that even after reincarnating, the habit of turning off the lights before you leave home never really left your system.
Hmm, maybe you didn't die hard enough for that habit to die with you. Who knows?
An hour passes; maybe two. And eventually—
The Lab’s ringing silence is disrupted by your wristwatch’s ringtone, the opening theme of Mew Mew Kissy Cutie’s anime echoing throughout the room. Usually, the song doesn’t reach more than its first three notes before you accept the call, but this time, your finger hovers just above the ‘accept’ button.
For the first time, you let the song just… play.
Despite its upbeat, positive tune, burrowed underneath are memories echoing opposite sentiments: warm sorrow, comforting wistfulness. Haunting, but also loving.
You resist succumbing into nostalgic daydreaming, to lose yourself in the memory lane of less-lonelier days. To ground yourself, you hum along with the melody instead, finally accepting the call just before the theme song could reach its last three notes.
The message begins, and you look back at the machine’s monitor.
“Evening, Sans. Or well, it's past midnight, so maybe it's morning.” Alphys’ voice is hushed, and your pattern-recognition instantly picks up that past-you must be asleep; like all the other times whenever Alphys speaks quietly.
While her message is playing, you check the machine’s settings for the last time.
“I’m, uh, having trouble falling asleep again, so I decided to just make an extra recording session today. Right now, you're upstairs in our room, snoring. Kinda curious what you’re dreaming about…”
Alphys pauses, the clacking of your fingers on the machine’s keyboard serving as white noise within the temporary silence. If one were to strain their hearing, the mechanical humming of the CORE’s wide-reaching pipes can be heard in the background too.
“Nights like this make me melancholic, as I’m sure you’ve long noticed. It’s what made me traumadump about my old crush on Undyne during movie night. Hah, you remember, right?... You weren’t the first person to save me from the edge of that abyss.”
The monitor presents you with a loading screen, before showing you rows of the recalibrations you’ve set earlier. You double-check its contents.
“Heh, looking back at it, it's kind of funny, right? How I fell for both my saviors at some point? Maybe I have a type, and it's people who can talk me out of suicide.” She softly, genuinely laughs.
A corner of your smile stretches, then you huff out a small laugh with her. It’s fucked how both your humor adapted to your lives’ bleakness.
“Ah, sorry, that was dark. I shouldn't joke about that.” She says that but you know she's still smiling.
After a pause, her voice returns to being thoughtful, contemplative. Reminiscing.
“I guess, what I mean to say is that you and Undyne have given me hope at the two lowest points of my life. It kept me going, you know? Back then, when the point felt pointless; when everything felt like nothing, I remember Undyne, and think: if not for me, then for her. And when you're all I have left, then especially for you.”
You feel your soul both clench and flutter.
“... It's easy to leave. Easy to die. What makes it hard is knowing you can't come back. To live, on the other hand, is to pursue a purpose. A reason to stay; to be needed. And… You and Undyne were my inspiration. Your patience and kindness— it made me aspire to be someone’s savior; someone’s hope too…”
Your brows furrow, eyelights darting back and forth on comparing your written equations with the contents on the screen.
“So I made this project to be that; for you. I want this to be your hope. You see where I’m going with this, right? I know I’m getting repetitive, asking this demanding favor from you after every message; to not give up. But that’s because if you leave, then that means this was… I failed.”
What a manipulative tactic, your eyes crinkle with amusement. Not even subtle.
Then, your eyes turn downcast, solemn.
That just means she's terrified for you.
“So, take care. Even if I'm no longer with you, know that I’d still care about you. And… if there's a higher being out there, I hope they’d let me watch over you at least.”
Satisfied, you exit all the unnecessary programming windows, and hear her usual farewell.
“Try to live your full life. Don't give up. Love you...”
You blink, back slowly straightening from your slouch over the computer. You flip a switch, and press a button.
“And if you’re going to bed at this time, sweet dreams.”
The call ends.
The machine hums to life, charging. You watch as more columns and rows of lights slowly turn on, as if acting as a timer.
You look at your watch, taking note of the time. Then, your sight drifts to the small numbers on its left corner, properly looking at it for the first time; it's today's date. It can't be right. You remember when Alphys died.
There's no way it's already been thirteen years.
… But, why would that matter? Everything about you has remained stagnant, anyways.
You have all the time in the world for that to change.
What are the chances I get this on the first try? You muse to yourself, hand on the machine’s lever. Then, your other hand reaches for the pair of rings dangling on your necklace. You hold them in a clenched fist, as if performing a silent prayer on a rosary.
Maybe Alphys will give you some angelic luck, or something like that. You wonder, do monsters believe in gods?
Sans didn’t. You would know.
If he did, he’d despise them.
“Hey Alphys,” you greet aloud. You don’t bother to wait for a response, when predictably, only silence replies. “If you’re really watching over me… If you see me die, just know I didn’t mean to.”
You ruefully laugh.
Then, the lever is pulled down.
The machine was never really given a proper name.
Not because Sans lacked the creativity to think of one, nor was he waiting for it to work properly before naming it. The reason is simple: the machine is not his to name.
There’s sentimentality on letting the machine’s identity stay blank. Just like its name, its creator remains missing. A reminder of sorts.
A paradox of a memorial where there are no names to remember, only the space they left behind— unfinished, abandoned, but not forgotten. Sans tries not to forget.
But if it were up to you to give the machine its name, it would be—
Distortion.
Abstraction.
Freefall.
Push. Pull. Forward.
Constant speed. No acceleration. Never pausing.
The inbetween of time and space; nothing and everything. Touch, hearing, sight— you can't sense anything but your soul, your body non-existent. The culmination of your being is bare, exposing you to unknown, passing elements that overwhelm and stress and hurt.
It pulses determinedly despite it all.
You can feel the journey try to tear Sans’ soul away from yours, prodding you to give him up if only to lessen your burden of travel. The pain tells you to let him go.
But you refuse.
You don’t hear an inaudible whisper— both awed and resigned in a way as if he’s expected it of you.
You're something else, kid.
The subconscious reach of power over time remains with you, but the two yellow buttons don’t greet you when you open your eyes.
You live.
“What the hell is—”
“I can’t see any—”
“This smoke—”
“Is everyone okay—”
“A’ight, which asshole last worked on—”
You arrive in a room full of smoke and voices, your vessel steadily adapting with the feeling of your soul being lurched in a new destination. Your face scrunches in discomfort at the sudden return of your senses, hand reaching to readjust your glasses.
The strain on your soul settles, and you can still feel Sans. You’re both fine.
Eventually, you manage to reorient yourself, straightening your posture, as you wait for the chaos to clear. Just in case, you remain cautious; your magic braces.
The machine shuts itself down, and everything goes quiet.
Through the smoke, you see a familiar silhouette move.
It doesn’t take long to clear, and when it does, you’re greeted by a reflection without a mirror. You stare.
That’s Sans, you instantly recognize, smile frozen.
The signature blue jacket, the pink slippers, his plain white skull that’s absent of any of your soul’s modifications. No glasses, no purple patches. This is what your Sans would’ve looked like if you never took over; and underneath his lax grin, he looks like what he’s always been.
Exhausted.
You’ve considered the possibility of ending up in a universe where he’d also exist. You’ve thought of contingencies, how to co-exist with a double, but then, you look behind him, spotting…
Another Sans and Papyrus…? You slightly tilt your head, counting the six additional skeletons by what seems to be the basement’s staircase. Did you somehow transport yourself in a universe that’s populated only by Sans and Papyrus?
That’d be funny.
In a cruel, ironic kind of way. A genie’s wish.
Curiously enough, you don’t see the version of Papyrus your Sans has lost. Hah, just when you thought the universe couldn’t be any meaner. But…
You don’t feel the oppressive magic of the Underground Barrier limiting your void magic. If your forming suspicion is right, then—
“Are we on the surface?” You pointedly ask.
“Yeah, we are.” A Papyrus with Sans’ posture answers, and you don’t bother to listen to what he says next as your mind is overrun with multiple lines of thought. Emotions— overwhelming in their intensity— overflow, as if you’ve reincarnated again for the first time.
You think of your breakthrough, the responsibilities you’ve left behind, the fact that you and your Sans are still alive. You think of the opportunities of meeting other people, your newfound freedom from your oath of self-imprisonment, the unspoken promises you’ve made for Sans’ soul and Alphys’ grave.
Maybe my Sans and I can be happy here.
And so, you keel over, clutch your stomach, and laugh. From hysteria, from pent-up fear, from relief. From everything you’ve endured and worked for.
The purple patches on your cheeks glow erratically as a reflection of your soul’s emotions, your glasses still attached on your face only because of magic.
You laugh… and laugh… Until finally—
“I’m an actual fucking genius,” you humorously mutter to yourself, sighing, before straightening your stance.
When you raise your head, you’re greeted by mixed looks of wariness, concern and incredulity.
The red Sans scoffs, “Great. Another whacko.”
“Sorry. Adrenaline.” Your smile is not intended to be fake. You didn't intend to smile at all, really; it's just stuck on your face. It would seem that you've spent so long pretending to be Sans around others, you instinctively wear the role again when interacting with anyone.
Heh, even with himself, apparently. Imagine that.
“Anyway, is it safe to assume you’re all Sans and Papyrus? Or am I in a universe where all monsters are skeletons?” You ask, pocketing your hands in your lab coat’s pockets, as you walk towards them.
“Right,” your reflection starts, then begins to explain in a way like it’s all rehearsed before. “This is my universe, where monsters are now free on the surface. In an attempt to fix the machine, I accidentally brought in my counterparts’ and their brothers here.”
He points at what seems to be the swapped versions of him and Papyrus, “That’s Blue and Stretch.”
“Nice to meet you!” Blue enthusiastically waves at you, juxtaposed by his brother who only half-heartedly raises a hand.
“Hey.”
The others take this as a cue to introduce themselves. You don’t know if it’s because it’s practiced, or they just don’t want Sans’ lackluster introduction to taint their first impression to you.
“I have been appointed with the moniker of ‘Edge’, but heed that I have also been known with the title ‘Great and Terrible Papyrus’!” You’re not sure if pointy Papyrus is telling you that as a boast or a warning. You try not to stare at his dual scars on his left eye.
“Red,” the red Sans gruffly says, and you catch a glint of gold from his sharp frown.
“You may call me Black,” a Sans with two diagonal scars over his left eye says, posture stiff in a way you recognize his discipline to be from the military. He gestures to the Papyrus beside him, looking like a combination of Red and Stretch, with a singular eye scar being his own unique trait. “And this is Mutt.”
“And then there’s yours truly,” the original Sans shrugs his shoulders. “Most call me Comic.”
“Literally no one calls ya that.” Red gives Sans an unkind smirk.
“There’s absolutely no way I’m indulging his attempt at a pun name!” Edge exclaims indignantly.
“We call him Vanilla, actually,” Stretch tells you, joining in the pile of ridiculing ‘Vanilla’.
“Or Bean, short for Vanilla Bean!” Blue adds— not to make fun of Sans, but just so he could participate in the conversation.
Black only watches the entire interaction, while Mutt pretends to be disinterested. Sans predictably doesn’t really care about your perception of him, and just wordlessly decides, yeah I’m Vanilla Bean now, I guess.
What a funny bunch.
“Anyway, there’s one more pair of brothers upstairs, but I’ll introduce you to them once they leave their room,” Sans says, ending the introduction.
Finally, you get the chance to ask your burning question of,
“And where’s your Papyrus?”
Sans doesn’t miss a beat on answering with a vague, “not here.”
All you hear is: not dead.
“Where’s your Papyrus?” Sans asks you back.
With an ache in your soul and a cheeky grin on your face, you reply, “not here either.”
Wanting to swiftly shift the topic, you point at the group and frankly ask,
“Also, why are you all dressed like prisoners?”
The most visually notable detail you observed from the entire group is that Sans is the only one wearing… well, non-generic clothing. The rest are just wearing T-shirts and jogging pants of the same style, except with variations in sizes. And they’re color-coded.
Maroon for the edgy brothers, orange for the swapped brothers, and scarlet for the edgy swapped brothers. It’s like they just shopped for clothes without thinking too hard about it; barely an effort really.
At this, Black is possessed with a liveliness that’s similar to Blue’s. However, unlike Blue’s optimism, Black’s energy expresses the opposite when he points an accusing finger at Sans.
“I told you the lack of clothing variety makes us look like uniformed peasants!”
“It’s laundry day,” Sans reasons, not really bothered.
“Exactly!” Black does not exactly cry out, but it’s close. “The clothes on our backs when we arrived here are the only stylized attires we all have!”
And then Black proceeded to rant at Sans with an animation you didn’t expect from his earlier demeanor. The next thing you know, Edge joins in, with Blue trying to play peacekeeper, and the basement is loud again.
“Now look at what you’ve done,” Mutt chastises you, but his entertained expression tells a different story.
“What? Made a sitcom episode?” You joke, and he gives you a deadpan look for it.
“What the hell’s a sitcom?”
Uh… You blink at him, wondering if he’s fucking with you.
He’s not.
When you let the awkward silence fester, Mutt surprisingly picks the conversation up again.
“But you’re not that far off, y’know?”
“Hm?” You hum your confusion.
“Prisoners,” he says. “But I suppose we’re not really that, if we’re compliant. Other than ‘Nilla, none of us can leave the lodge.”
Something inside you coils.
“What do you mean none of you can leave?” You ask, and you must have voiced that louder than intended when the others’ conversations abruptly stop.
Sans seems to pick up your apprehension, already addressing your concern.
“It’s temporary,” he appeases. “Once we fix the machine, we can reverse your accident and return you to your world with the finished blueprints. Afterwards, you can free your own Underground.”
Ah, you think you understand now.
“Accident?” You repeat, your grin rigid. “I didn’t bring myself here by accident.”
“Bring…?” Sans pauses, and seems to process your choice of words. You see the brief moment when the corners of his smile minutely slacken. It doesn’t drop, however. It never really does. “You got here on purpose.”
“That was the goal,” you confirm for him, before sternly stating, “I succeeded and I don’t intend on going back.”
“You can’t really live here,” he says, eye-contact prolonging. “We can’t reveal to others that there’s more than one Sans or Papyrus.”
“No one will know,” you agree.
“That means you can’t leave the property,” Sans says with finality, eyelights dimming.
There’s a pause in the moment when you feel a corner of your smile quirk up, as your eyes narrow. Between you and this Sans, you feel a rise of Intent— not yet hostile.
You tilt your head. “And you think you can stop me?”
The neutral, if not amicable, atmosphere earlier grows thick and heavy with the apprehension of a fight. The entire group responds appropriately and braces for it.
Magic hums in the air with anticipation.
"Hey, hey, let's relax--" Blue attempts to deescalate, but his efforts went ignored.
“You don’t know what you’re risking here,” Sans warns you, his smile tight. “We don’t know what could happen with the catalysts you’d potentially cause out there.”
“Then, we’ll never have to find out.” You wink at him, before suddenly summoning a pillar of bone beneath you, swiftly rising you upwards headfirst and—
“Huh—”
“Ain’t no—”
“What the fu—”
You pass through the basement’s ceiling.
No matter how often you’ve practiced, it would seem that you could never remove the feeling of disorientation after turning incorporeal. Invulnerable.
To your consolation, your recovery time is faster than when you’ve first started. Fast enough to be alert of upcoming company, about to confront you in the…
Is this supposed to be the living room? You squint your eyes in judgement at the glaring lack of furniture. No table, no couch, not even a rug.
It’s so bare.
These poor bastards’ living conditions are subjected to Sans’ chronic laziness.
Maybe you would’ve felt more sorry for them if you didn’t feel your vessel being forced to submit to gravitational magic.
And then, a Check.
“How the hell do you have high stats with only one LV?” Red seems to be the first to have a good look at your numbers, and you sneer.
“For a skull with no nose, you’re kinda nosey, huh?”
The rest of the cavalry arrives in record time, with Sans already blocking the front door when you look at its direction— a shortcut, you’re sure.
“Yield, or we’ll be forced to dust you!” Edge threatens, summoning a sharpened bone. You don’t doubt that they’ll follow through with the threat, if their scarred appearances tell you anything. You’re not afraid, though.
“Fuck you and this undecorated dance studio!”
“Dance studio?!”
Maybe you could’ve solved this diplomatically. Maybe you and Sans could’ve come into an agreement. Maybe you could’ve settled all this like civilized monsters if only you’d just calm down.
But frustration is a funny, irrational feeling. Perhaps, it may even be anger.
When was the last time were you even angry? The last time you expressed it? The last time you had someone to direct it to?
Your Sans’ rage is cold and composed, whereas yours is hot and impulsive. What do you get when you combine both contradictions into one personality? Into you?
I didn’t get this far only to willingly imprison myself again.
Your eyelights dart towards the sight on one of the windows, seeing a free patch of land on the front yard for you to shortcut to.
Sans seems to realize what you’re doing, and immediately warns the others to block your view of the windows. Too late.
With a pulse of magic, you overpower the hold on your soul and shortcut outside, only to be greeted by… oh?
Your lavender slippers crunch on grass, as you take a closer look at the translucent, blue-tinted dome that surrounds the property.
A Containment spell, you instantly recognize. You remember freely applying it at the Lab, back when you and Alphys would try dangerous, volatile experiments. Controlled explosions really, like that time you tried to reinvent fireworks for New Years.
“The spell may be casted by a Sans, but try as you might, the magic doesn’t acknowledge any of us but the original. I know; I tried,” Black informs you with crossed arms, from a good distance behind. “So, back away from the barrier and behave.”
"Yes, that's right! Your first impression may just be salvageable yet!" Blue optimistically says, pointing up a finger as if to emphasize his point.
“Your party trick earlier won’t work here either,” Sans adds. “It keeps all kinds of monster magic in, short of a Boss monster. As strong as we are, we’re not that.”
The thing about it, though, is that—
Your counterparts and their brothers watch you warily for your next move, and you resist widening your grin at a particular memory.
—whenever it’s Alphys’ turn to cast the spell, I’m extra careful to not accidentally pass through it.
So, you turn your back towards the barrier and face your variants, hands up in what can be interpreted as surrender. Some visibly relax at the sight, only to tense again when they notice your face remains smug.
The dome may be a powerful barrier, but it’s no Underground Barrier.
Because you’re a petty show-off, you don’t drop your hands when you proceed to moonwalk backwards, feeling the cold magic of the spell harmlessly pass through you. It doesn’t take long for you to reach the other side.
You don’t bother to stay for them to recover from their shock, already shortcutting to the surface coordinates you know by heart and soul.
You reappear on what was, once upon a time, Alphys’ grave; her tree.
Except, you don’t recognize the tree. Or maybe you do, and you’re just reeling at the differences between what you remember and what you see. You know your coordinates are not wrong; you’re right where you want to be, no matter the timeline, as void magic is reliant on space, not time.
The sight in front of you is Alphys’ tree. Or rather, what will be, in a different universe.
The tree is decades younger, shorter— its offered shade inferior compared to what you remember it giving. The pink rhododendron bushes have yet to be pollinated and planted near it too, so the overall sight is not as awe-inspiring as it was in your world. However, it will get there. You know it’s only a matter of time for the flowers to migrate nearer, when you can see the same bush flowers just within the area.
You think the machine transported you in a different universe. You also consider that maybe it just transported you in a different timeline. There's a difference, and you'll find out later once you have more factors to compare.
Still, visiting your late wife’s grave is a wild way to confirm the hypothesis that time is not linear.
Alphys would appreciate the absurd humor in that, you think, hand automatically reaching for your necklace.
Though, what’s really different is that in the place where you pour Alphys’ ashes, a familiar yellow star floats innocuously.
A Save Point, you narrow your eyes, pushing your glasses up in case it’s a trick of the light. That’s not supposed to be there, last you checked in your former world. You don’t know if this little difference is of any significance.
Actually, you’ve yet to see the major differences between this world and yours.
Are Papyrus and Alphys happy?
How did they free their Underground?
Are humans and monsters integrating alright?
Eventually, you realize you’re free to find all that out by yourself; to see everything for yourself.
It takes a while for that to sink in, like gaining consciousness after a long sleep and you finally begin to pay attention.
For the first time in a long time, you let yourself be.
And just like that, you start to experience what you've never noticed before: the sounds of bird songs and rustling leaves, fresh air that’s not recycled underground, sunlight highlighting the whites of your entire clothing.
“Heh…” You look up and see the sky, eyelights quivering at the sight of such a bright blue.
Was the world always this alive?
Knowing that it is fills you with determination.
Notes:
*Sans(?)
*Check
LV1
EXP 0
HP 200/200
AT 95
DF 95
*Pities the state of your living room.
...
Sans!MC: no meds, no therapy, no psych ward, just raw dogging this mental illness the way god intended.
…
Black (pertaining to Sans’ clothes shopping): THERE’S NO WAY I’M WEARING THESE RAGS!
Sans: aight, be naked then.
…
Sans!MC: since it's impossible to know which part of my life is the middle, I decided to have an on-going crisis.
…
Edge and Sans!MC's interaction basically:
Sans!MC: Nobody cares.
Edge: Be silent! Keep your forked tongue behind its teeth! I have not passed through fire and death to exchange words with a witless worm!
Sans!MC: Blow me.
...
Sans!MC to Sans (in the future, probably): hol' on, tf you mean the murderer of my underground is your savior?
...
Yeah, that's right, I'm glazing the human-monster soul hybrid. If our Sans wasn't depressed, those numbers would be higher!!! asjdhkl
Anyway, I don’t think sitcoms exist in the Underground, if only because their local robot makes it impossible to have a media with more than one cast on the screen lol
No nickname for MC just yet! Or at least, not officially. The other skeletons certainly have a bunch of names they have for MC in their heads. MC may start off as a lil selfish, but let em have this lmfao. Also, I didn’t reveal MC’s magic capabilities during their time-skip, because I think the pacing would be faster if I just made their abilities known through active applications. I'll reveal all their capabilities slowly over time! Speaking of reveal, the skeletons are not aware of MC's soul just yet, even with encounters, because ordinary monsters don't really reveal their souls-- not in fights or in deaths. And if you're curious, yes, a single ordinary human soul can freely pass the containment barrier. The spell was mainly created with monster magic in mind.
And yeah, I have thoughts and headcanons about human vs monster magic haha. Btw, Boss monsters are not to be confused with boss fights. It's canon that Boss monsters are an entirely different species, with the game only providing us with the Dreemurr family. The title of Boss monster is not reliant on strength, but rather on their 'biology', particularly how their souls temporarily persist after death. We saw Papyrus die on-screen, and his soul was never shown breaking, so that rules him out as a Boss monster. One can argue that Sans can be one, since we never see him turn to dust, but that would mean him and Papyrus are not related. So yeah, haha.
also
Me (shoves these on your faces like a proud parent presenting their kids' drawings on the fridge): look at these amazing fanart!!
Chapter 5: The past that looks forward
Summary:
*someone who, in another time, might have even been… a friend?
Notes:
Since Deltarune ch 3 and 4 were just released, I’m reminded to inform yall in advance that my work will not feature any lore from the Deltarune continuity. The backstories I have for this fic are already fixed, so… yeah lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Red and his group stare at the spot the latest arrival disappeared from with shocked, wide eye sockets. When his darting eyelights didn’t spot the missing Sans anywhere, Red’s reaction transitions into terror. Then, it’s immediately masked with rage when he realizes that Vanilla is still standing on his spot like a fucking dumbass.
“The fuck are ya still here for?!” Red stomps over to the original idiot, then points at where the rogue last stood. “Go after ‘im before he does something to make your human Reset!”
Smoothly, as if unaffected, Vanilla shrugs.
“Heh, sorry, guess all of us were just spellbound with what happened,” Vanilla places his hands in a what-can-you-do pose. In the background, Red can hear his brother grunt in annoyance, and he doesn’t need to look to know that Stretch just did the equivalent of an eyeroll.
Red would’ve decked the smiling moron if the latter was an actual moron. But Red is a Sans too, and he can see the gears turning within Vanilla’s skull that’s hidden under the veneer of laidback playfulness. It’s a coping mechanism.
Red has that too; he just calls it yelling.
“If we get Erased just because you wasted time to think of that joke—”
“Yeah, I know, not my best work,” Vanilla says.
“You’re fuckin’ dead to me!” Red finishes, snarling.
“I’m going, I’m going,” Vanilla placates, seemingly unhurried, before disappearing with a shortcut.
Nothing to do but wait at this point.
“Tch, of all Sanses to be this rebellious, it just had to be the Boss monster,” Red grumbles lowly to himself, already turning to seethe inside the lodge. His temper slightly flares when he recalls the way the other Sans exited.
Fucker’s smug about it too.
Though, apparently, he didn’t grumble lowly enough for Blue to not be able to comment on it.
“Have faith! The newcomer is still a Sans!” The blue goody two-shoes says cheerily. “I’m sure he wouldn’t recklessly endanger any of us when time-space shenanigans are involved. If he’s anything like us, he would be smart!”
“Well, you clearly aren’t, if you genuinely think that! You shouldn’t trust a Sans,” Red scoffs.
Look at Vanilla; he’s got the right idea trapping all of them here. Doesn't mean Red has to like it though.
“You're a Sans,” Blue counters.
“Exactly,” Red smirks condescendingly, and notices the disapproving glare of his blue counterpart’s brother. Then, pointedly glaring back at Stretch, he adds, “in fact, I don’t trust any of you assholes as far as I can throw you.”
“Devastating,” Stretch deadpans, because he obviously gives a fuck about what Red thinks of him.
Then, Mutt nonchalantly adds, “yeah, same here, in case our stances aren’t clear enough already.”
“ None of us like each other!” Edge summarizes all the relationships under the lodge’s roof— relationships outside of their own brothers. The only time Red can recall their group uniting is whenever they're dogshowing Vanilla, but even then, they're neutral with each other at best, caught up in the euphoria of making fun of the source of their problems.
He supposes them trying to capture the rogue Sans had them unite too, but that was a self-preservation thing. It’s expected, because what’s predictable about all of them is that they’d do anything to protect their brothers. Even if it means working together.
“That can change! It has only been a week!” Blue says. For reasons Red won’t expound on, he is especially wary of a Sans acting that positive.
“Four,” Black corrects, in that annoying, calm ‘as a matter of fact, I know more than you’ tone. “For you, it has already been four weeks, as you and your brother are the first arrivals. Mutt and I arrived a week after, followed by Red and his brother, then the horror brothers. Clearly, there's a test run going wrong every week.”
And goddamn, what a special kind of hell those weeks’ adjustment periods were.
“It has only been a week, ” Blue insists, “since all of us got together, and we haven’t given each other any proper chances.”
“And why the hell should we?” Red sneers.
“Because!” Blue emphasizes the word, hands on his waist like some kind of scolding mother. “If you all got along, maybe fixing the machine would go a lot smoother for all of you!”
“Tch, as long as we do our jobs right, progress should go as expected,” Red says, but surprise-surprise, none of them are doing anything right. Heh… As expected.
Well, too bad, die mad, they're all they've got.
“Hmm, I suppose failure can be counted as progress, as one can learn a lot from it!” Blue surmises, a hand on his chin as he nods to himself consideringly.
Okay, so, Red doesn't know if that was an underhanded jab or genuine optimism; so, to cover all bases, he raises one middle finger up as he leaves— acting both as a retort and a farewell, entering back into the lodge.
Edge follows after him, catching up beside him with only a couple of strides.
“I would advise against making enemies out of your blue variant,” Edge tells him, once inside. “Gods know we need at least one peacemaker in this hovel.”
All Red hears is that they've made enough enemies in this household. Especially that Black and Mutt, despite how passive they seem.
“I wouldn't insult him if he ain't dumb,” Red gruffly says, still facing forward.
“Not dumb,” Edge corrects, not to be nice. Just to be accurate. “Naive.”
Lucky, they both think but neither say aloud.
Your first use of Invulnerability magic was akin to consuming an emetic drug that would have you vomit every content of your stomach if you had any.
It's dizzying, nauseating, but you think it's because you were unprepared for the feeling of having your body turn incorporeal. To suddenly have foreign matter pass through you, to have air and pressure be inconsequential, to feel physically nothing and not be. You don’t remember passing out, but you do vividly remember waking up sick.
It took a long while for you to try that again, but you’ve learned to brace for it. The resulting experience is significantly a lot less worse than when you first started. Disorienting, but manageable. You’ve built tolerance from then on.
This is not the case for void magic: Sans’ shortcuts. Whether it’s worse or better depends on who you ask.
Unlike how your Invulnerability magic had your vessel spurn its sensation, the void is comforting, beckoning. It welcomes you in, calls itself ‘home’, invites you to stay, but not forever. Nothing in the void stays forever.
Perhaps, it would've successfully lured you in if only you didn’t have Sans’ instinct to reject it. The temptation doesn't last more than a microsecond to insist. It’s quick to shrug off once you get to your destination, your mind already preoccupied by what you would be doing there by then.
You think the reason why your use of Sans’ magic feels smoother is because his memories of it are embedded in yours. Your magic, on the other hand, is entirely new, with no past experiences to fall back to as reference.
With this, and the fact your new life was spent Underground, you often depended on Sans’ knowledge to navigate your lifestyle. Your human memories were useless there beyond additional melancholy.
Up here, it’s different, you think, looking at a wide view of Ebott City, before looking back down on your watch’s screen. You should be near enough to civilization to connect to a cell tower.
With a few taps on your watch, you activate its hologram screen to have a bigger display to work on. You curb down the memory of Alphys’ victory dance when she got the hologram’s first prototype working. Instead, you recall basic radiation physics, adjusting that watch’s wavelength and frequency to match the cell towers’ radio waves and—
“Oh! Yay!” You successfully hijacked the nearest cell tower, your wristwatch now connected to the human internet.
You wonder what this universe’s equivalent of GoogolMaps is.
On a sidewalk, you wait for the pedestrian stoplight to turn green.
Your ring necklace is tucked inside your turtleneck; your purple marks are retracted; your glasses and lab coat are hidden away in your watch’s dimensional box.
You look like Sans… if he took a bath in bleach with his clothes on, but you can always wave that away as a visual gag. Because that’s what Sans does, isn’t it? He jokes with the confidence of a jester who can freely insult a king and knows he can get away with it. He’s used to crowds, to perform center-stage with all eyes on him.
So why are you so bothered by this many people?
You pull your hood up.
Every human you’ve come across has taken a glance at you, some shamelessly staring and others pointedly looking away, either out of politeness or discomfort. You think you’ve even heard a phone camera’s shutter. You may be wearing attractive all-white clothing, but you know better than to assume that’s the reason why they’re staring.
You’ve yet to encounter another monster, after all.
But it’s not the humans’ attention that has your bones itching underneath.
Loud cars pass by the street in front of you, mixing with the loud conversations of fellow pedestrians and loud hollers of vendors and the loud honks and beeps and dings and—
Loud, loud, loud — everything is too loud, amalgamating into convoluted noise. Too many people moving, too many activities happening, too many things you can’t focus on. It’s nothing like the Lab’s quiet, nothing like your Underground’s stillness.
Everything is constantly going and bustling and rushing. You never realized how busy a city actually is, even when you were still human. How could you? Your human self was part of its urban cog; you grew up with it, and didn’t know anything else. Now, you do.
Here, as an outsider, seeing people hurrying to their destinations, with so many things to do, it’s…
Nothing here is stagnant.
People are still treating time like it mattered, and… It still does, doesn’t it? They’re not like you who watched time pass by with nothing to lose.
Your eyelights twitch when a body brushes a bit too near to your personal space. You decide that where you are is too populated to explore in. You remember the map showing you there’s a beach near the city.
When the pedestrian stoplight turns green, crowds of people begin to cross the street, obstructing your figure with their height and numbers.
By the time the crowd thins, you’re no longer in the city.
The sunlight is warm during the beach’s afternoon, its heat not as harsh as you’re sure it would’ve been on a high noon. You can distantly hear the rhythmic waves by the seaside, the occasional chirps of seagulls. Your slippers crunch on the stone-tiled boardwalk that’s sprinkled with lost sand, as you take in a view of the ocean’s horizon. It’s a beautiful day today.
The beach is an unofficial neutral ground, where monster and human population are as equal as it could get. You can see monsters and humans occasionally interacting; however, it’s usually in a professional relationship of vendor and customer. Nothing casual yet, but the intrigue on both sides would have to give in eventually, and it won’t be long before someone breaks the ice.
It’s been two months— nearing three— since monsters have emerged from the Underground, you’ve learned. Fairly recent, but you can only imagine what the first month was like when the humans’ curiosity was at an all time high.
You’ve yet to familiarize yourself with the political atmosphere the monsters’ emergence bred, but so far, publicly, it seems… optimistic. As a past human, you know the history of what humanity is capable of— the kindness from altruism and goodwill, and the cruelty from fear and prejudice. You think that maybe, to some extent, the royal family is aware of that too.
Why else would they limit their subjects from having a life outside the monster district?
They don’t say or do it explicitly, but the implications are all there in their ground rules that you’ve recently learned. But you’re not judging their decision. You wouldn’t know how to directly break the news to the monsters either— that they now live in the same world with beings who can easily wipe them out on a whim. It doesn’t help that a monster’s remains is easily disposable evidence.
Ignorance is bliss, however, and the monsters you’ve encountered here on the beach seem blissful enough if how they greet you is any indication.
“Sans! Long time, no see!”
“Oh, Sans! We barely see you in Grillby’s anymore.”
“Hey, Sans! When are you performing again?”
“Lovin’ the new all-white get-up, Sans!”
Familiar monsters greet you as you pass them by, their faces brightening at the sight of you; of Sans. They look at your Sans as if he didn’t abandon another version of them, and you look at them as if that’s true.
You suppose, in a way, it is. After all, it wasn't exactly Sans who abandoned them.
Eyelights bright, grin wide, you respond to all of them with casual greetings or non-answers that would’ve been expected from Sans. With every smile you give, every word you speak, it gets easier to ignore the constriction of guilt in your soul.
Pretending comes as second nature; of course it would.
Because that’s what Sans does, isn’t it? He—
“S-Sans?”
Your world suddenly screeches to a halt.
That voice came from both behind you and from an event long past.
Immediately, instinctively, you double-check if you’ve hidden your marks, if you’ve maintained your smile. If you’re still Sans. Nanoseconds felt like hours, when you mentally combed over your checklist. Then, with practiced casualness, you turn, bracing to face a memory’s ghost, and—
A young Alphys looks back at you.
Huh, you think to yourself, confused.
Seeing her doesn’t elicit the emotions you’ve expected from yourself. You anticipated pain, sadness, longing, maybe even excitement, or desperation for things to go back as they were with her. Instead…
“It’s… It’s been a month since we’ve, uh, last seen you,” she says with a hesitant smile, briefly looking away as if to check on something. She’s wearing an unfamiliar orange sundress that you’ve never seen from your Alphys’ closet.
It’s like meeting a new person, you mind supplies.
You’re not sure what’s causing the dissonance between the Alphys you know and the Alphys in front of you.
Maybe it’s because the last time you’ve seen your Alphys, she had crow’s feet on the corner of her eyes with sagging cheeks that came from a long passage of time. Maybe it’s because the first time you saw your Alphys, she was a depressive mess standing next to an abyss in Waterfall’s darkness. Maybe it’s because the whole time you’ve known Alphys, she had never looked so light and unburdened, with hope still glinting from her eyes like this monster before you.
You’ve never seen this Alphys before in your life.
Out of all the emotions you expected to feel, you didn’t expect relief.
“A month, huh?” You echo numbly. Your eyes crinkle with your widening smile. “Longest break I've had yet.”
Alphys, for some reason, looks concerned about that remark, then asks you, “s-so, how have you been?”
You’re struck by the intense sensation of deja vu. What a familiar script with all the wrong settings.
“I’m working on a personal project,” you answer, your dialogue coming from a memory. “You?”
Before Alphys could answer, a friend you know but never met appears by her side and answers for her.
“We’re on a beach date!” Undyne exclaims excitedly, holding two nice creams. She hands one of the popsicles to Alphys. “Oh, here's yours, Alphy!”
Alphys bashfully thanks her, both of them sharing a silent, quick exchange from eye contact alone. You wonder if that's how you and your Alphys seamlessly communicated at some point to outsiders (if there were any).
“Anyway!” Undyne faces you. “Where have you been, you nerd?! We haven't seen you in a month! Not even Papyrus knows where you went, and he ran all over the monster district calling your name!”
“What?” You say, caught off-guard.
“Yeah, we’re all worried about you! You haven't been attending our weekly dinners,” she expounds. “It's like you dropped off from the face of the world without a word!”
Your eyebrows furrow, then you ask, “w-what about calls? Texts?”
It's Undyne’s turn to furrow her brows.
“Dude, you don't have your own phone,” she says, confused. “You share with Papyrus, remember?”
You review Sans’ memories of his Papyrus, and it's true. Why would Sans have his own phone, when he doesn’t usually stray away from Papyrus? He doesn’t even have anyone to frequently contact.
But it's such a trivial fact that you just kind of… disregarded it a long time ago.
“Hey man, you feeling alright?” Undyne asks, worried, with Alphys’ face evidently sharing the same sentiment. “You look tired… more than usual, I mean.”
“I…” For some reason, your throat feels tight; your soul weighs heavy.
You curb the instinctive habit to fidget with your rings inside your turtleneck, your hand reaching instead for your wristwatch hidden underneath your hoodie’s sleeve. Behind you, your fingers trace over the contours of the gadget, distracting yourself from a dread you don't quite understand.
What am I dreading about?
“You, uh… You said you were working on a personal project…?” Alphys fills in for your silence, waiting for your continuation, and you're thankful for the shift of the conversation.
“Right.” Your eyelights cautiously flicker between Undyne and Alphys, before forcing yourself to relax. You can improvise. “I’m actually working on an invention.”
“Oh!” At this, Alphys seems intrigued. “Do you plan on contributing to the science trade?”
“The what?” You say dumbly.
“Y-you know…” Alphys tilts her head, stumped with your clueless reaction. “In three months, we’ll officially be declared as this country’s citizens. There will be an event involving human representatives who will negotiate business with monster trades. Food market, clothing retails, entertainment— Mettaton’s got that covered for sure— and the likes. I thought you planned on sharing an invention for the science department.”
“Huh.” You blink, impressed. You didn’t think the bureaucracy would process the monsters’ newfound rights and laws that quickly for them to already be discussing business collaborations. “I don’t think my invention is safe enough to be qualified for trade.”
“Oh…” Alphys visibly droops from this, and you immediately seek to somehow rectify this.
“I mean,” you pause, thinking. “Have you thought of what creation you’d contribute?”
Alphys perks up, and you almost had to hold back a small laugh from how predictable she still is to you.
“I’m scouring through my past projects’ blueprints that’s easy enough to redesign to somehow remove magical features, but still retain their function!” She rambles excitedly. “I want to create something that humans can replicate without the use of magic, because, well, you know… Humans can’t use magic.”
“That’s considerate of you,” you tell her, and she laughs sheepishly at the compliment, her face tinted pink.
“That’s Alphy for you!” Undyne exclaims passionately, gushing. “Always so kind and thoughtful!”
Alphys’ face flushes red, her claws already cupping her cheeks to somehow cool them.
You stare at the couple, observing them as they get lost sharing affectionate words and gestures. They’re younger than when you and Alphys got together, their infatuation for each other stemming from a history your Alphys would tell you in melancholic nights. It’s a sweet love story; a parallel to yours that came with the aftertaste of bittersweetness.
You’ve always known that had things gone differently in your timeline, Alphys would always end up with Undyne. It’s a fact you’ve come to terms with a long time ago.
This is Alphys’ happy ending, the thought pierces through your temporary peace. The place you yearn is occupied, and will remain that way for the rest of her time. But…
“I can be an assistant if you want,” you offer, interrupting them.
That’s alright.
“That's— That’s great!” Alphys says excitedly. “I can use a lab partner!”
That doesn’t mean there’s no place for you in her happy ending. You will be content with that.
“Wait,” Undyne raises an eyebrow. “You’re actually volunteering to work?!”
You huff out a quiet laugh.
“I think it's about time I do something with my life,” you tell them, and Undyne gives you a look you can’t quite decipher.
“You won't… disappear again, right?” Undyne asks, and you give her a genuine smile.
“Yeah,” you reassure her. “I won't.”
“Good!” Then, she grins wide, sharp teeth glinting menacingly. “Because while you and Alphys were talking earlier, I called Papyrus and he’s on his way! Don’t you dare escape!”
“Uh…!” You balk, and sure enough, you see a red car from a distance closing in.
It’s a marvel how not once did your smile falter throughout the entire interaction.
Afar but never too far, Sans watches his brother— his actual, in-universe brother— pacing within their house, in a pattern that Sans memorized by soul at this point. He knows the mental checklist Papyrus would go through, breezing through his daily chores and routine that… no longer involves Sans.
A longing to greet his brother surfaces, but Sans curbs it down and reasons to himself that he wouldn’t be able to look at his brother’s face until his whole mess is fixed. Sans can’t afford to lie to Papyrus anymore; not when he knows that his brother is at his limit with Sans’ secrecy. At the same time, Sans doesn’t want his brother to be involved with the truth either.
As a compromise to this dilemma, Sans chooses to just omit, so he doesn’t have to tell Papyrus anything at all… by cutting contact.
It’s only temporary, Sans justifies to himself. Just until everything settles. Not a good plan, but it’s a working plan.
As long as it keeps Papyrus from wanting to help.
Shelving his previous thoughts, Sans focuses back on keeping a lookout for the rogue Sans.
Back at the lodge, he’s thought of where the rebel would most likely appear if set loose in Sans’ world, and Sans easily deduces that there's nothing more predictable than a Sans gravitating towards a Papyrus.
So imagine his surprise that it wasn’t Papyrus who the rogue first interacted with.
“You found him?!” Sans hears his brother on the phone. “Great! Please do keep him there while you await for my arrival, as I have multiple pieces of my mind I want to share with that lazy bones!”
Papyrus doesn’t waste time to exit the house and enter his red convertible, driving to where Sans assumes the rogue is currently at.
… Yikes.
He hopes that rogue Sans is an equally good liar.
Notes:
MC’s Sans: not dating for marriage or fun but for a secret third thing (to live in each other's skin and merge souls until we destroy the illusion of separation and experience god through our love and devotion to each other)
…
Sans!MC: the universe removed everything i touched to teach me about detachment.
…
Sans!MC: *escapes the barrier spell with raised hands and a smug grin*
Red (glaring, in his mind): fuck, that was lowkey kinda hot.
…
Blue: wow, you’re kinda mean.
Red: if you guys weren't fucking stupid i wouldn't be mean to you. change starts with you.
...
Pacifist!Alphys and MC may look chill now, but once MC starts seeing their Alphys in her, it's so over lmfao. but for next chapter, we'll go back to the lodge!
Idk if yall are curious but just a heads up, my top skeletons are Vanilla, Stretch, Mutt, and Horrortale Sans. So like, don't be surprised if their character studies/interactions are more intricate than the others. Don’t get me wrong tho, that doesn’t mean i’ve neglected the rest of the cast to be one-dimensional. I just want yall to know I have obvious favorites. because there will be signs!! Lmao
Anyway, yall were really curious with the skelelodge’s reactions towards MC’s escape and I thought over it and im like, sure ill give it. why the hell not lol. I guess it also helps to serve as an exposition of what the general dynamic is like in the lodge. Everyone in that house hates each other lmfao
Oh, another thing, yall might get a whiplash from how i’d interpret some of these characters. Especially the horror bros, because like, im basing their characters from their source comic. But i promise that just makes them funnier. When i say them, i just really mean horrortale sans in all his bastardness lol
Fun fact: In my original premise, MC was supposed to wake up as Alphys. However, when I outlined the plot, it’s kinda hard to build some of the character conflicts/developments/relationships I had in mind with MC in Alphys’ place.
That said, can you imagine MC!Alphys who was married to her deceased Sans and just sees the same copy when she arrives in the pacifist timeline? And when she says she’s married, the skeletons immediately thought it's undyne?? And never considered a sans??? And now she’s living with him again???? Like, I want a funny fic, but this AU is a whump fest for MC, like damn. I mean, i guess it can also be funny in a ‘haha look at my other self, she’s so happy. I wish i could be like that’ kind of way. But the most important factor that influenced my decision was: I want to be besties with Pacifist!Alphys, so here we are lol
Chapter 6: Set the stage lights for the main lead (Part 1)
Summary:
*my brother’s a real star.
Notes:
YALL I PASSED MY FINALS AND GOT ENDORSED!! IM FREE…until next term oof.
If you guys read my tumblr sneak peek, I recommend reading the first paragraphs again, because I did some heavy editing. And before we begin, I just want to put emphasis on the tags “codependency” and “unreliable narrator”. No i won't specify whom those tags will (mostly) apply to but I guess if you guys are updated with my tumblr asks, you’d get a hint of it lol
Also, I decided to split this chapter into two or three parts because it's so emotionally loaded, it's going to take me a while to write. Plus, it's been a while since my last update lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A memory from your school days surfaces— back when you were still human.
It's not a perfect recall, not vivid or clear. You don't exactly remember the color of the hallway walls, or how old you were in this particular memory; only that you were young.
But you remember two muted voices muffled behind the principal’s office door. You remember sitting just outside, on the shitty connected chairs that wiggle and squeak with every shuffle of your body. You remember the dull throbs of a forming bruise on your cheek, the sharp stings from your split lip, the gentle caress of your thumb on your bloodied knuckles.
Two feelings stood out to you from this memory.
The first was the itch from your fists. It urged you to continue where you left off, to pursue what you were held off from when the teachers got involved. It's not fueled by anger, nor by a need for violence. You don't even remember whom you fought with, what got you into that brawl, if you even started it.
You just remember wanting to properly finish it, as if it's a task left halfway done.
The second feeling was the itch immediately dying when the office went quiet, followed by your older brother’s exit from the principal’s office. He didn't look at you angry, not even disappointed. Just a look of understanding, crossing with his exhaustion that was there for as long as you can remember.
The following silence wasn't painful. Your brother choosing not to say anything didn't hurt your feelings. It's not daggers to your chest, or a tightening rope around your neck, or a burn behind your eyes.
The quiet was just invisible weight— present and heavy but you chose to carry it anyway. And when your brother gave you a tight smile in an attempt to ease you, it weighed heavier.
You eventually realize this unbidden memory came to the forefront of your mind because you’re reliving that familiar feeling— that itch dying. Killed by eyes that care, and a presence that grounds.
But it's not from your older brother; not this time.
Suddenly, Alphys isn't your top priority anymore. She fades into the background, with Undyne’s awkward excuse of, “you guys go ahead and talk, we’ll… just continue where our date left off.”
Now, there's only you, and a newly-arrived Papyrus standing before you.
In his battle armor too , you think, just a bit hysterical. Exactly how my Sans last saw him.
And then, you're a kid outside the principal’s office again, the silence heavy only because you care enough to carry it. Just like what you did for your older brother when he didn't know what to say.
But this time, someone else carries the silence with you. Papyrus may not seem to know what to say either, but unlike your brother, he fills the silence anyway.
“While I’m aware my presence tends to make people speechless, I know better than to think my own brother is one of them.”
Sans’— not your Sans— brother is looking at you, the sight of him both familiar and alien. Like an opening click of a rusty lock from a home you thought you’ve long forgotten.
His look towards you is not accusing, just inquiring. Wordlessly asking for you to explain, not because he wants a confession, but simply because he wants to know how you're doing. How his Sans is doing. And, well…
You're not his nor are you really Sans.
Does he even know that? Can he feel how different you are? Will he eventually figure you out?
… If not, would you want him to?
"Are you feeling alright, Sans?" Papyrus speaks again, visibly bothered by your silence. His hand makes an aborted move of reaching for you.
It's then you realize you’ve yet to say a word.
"Yeah…” You find your voice, raw with feelings but stilted by secrets. Hesitant but genuine. Your head tilts, your eyes crinkling with your widening grin. “Now that I'm seeing you again.”
Surprisingly, you find that to be true.
It doesn't last long.
On the drive home— to Papyrus’ home, you don't flounder; you don't panic. You think it's because you can adapt. Improvise. Just like your Sans.
Improv is the skill that earned you the unplanned life you had with your Alphys. But to improvise is to be first given a prompt. So, what happens when there's a lull in the script? When there's nothing to respond to? When it's quiet and you're not distracted?
Simple. The whole act falls apart.
It's what happened when you lost your Alphys.
So, when you finally start talking, you don't give silence the chance to settle. You don't wait for yourself to process what it really means to be introduced to a version of your loss.
You keep talking to Papyrus.
You tell him about some of your scientific accomplishments; he asks a lot about your terminologies and jargons. You tell him funny anecdotes about the chores you've done by yourself; he asks if you now live by yourself to be doing them. You tell him the little things about you that's different; he asks when you’ve changed without him.
The more you talk, the more Papyrus grows upset. The longer you expose yourself to him, the more obvious how off the dynamic between you is: clashing wavelengths and unsynced energies. Neither of you know what to actually say, but the both of you keep talking anyway.
It's getting harder to maintain a conversation.
You persevere regardless.
Self-preservation is just one of fear’s prettier names, like how hope is to expectation.
When your human father called you fearless, you know he meant it in a way that you're not afraid to get hurt. You wince from burns, you hiss from cuts, you grunt from strikes, but you push through the pain anyway.
He said that you should consider being a stuntman as a career. He hoped you would, if only for a slim chance that you can introduce him to the Hollywood industry that way.
Heh. Delusional bastard.
But you digress.
Despite your lack of self-preservation, you're not entirely without fear; not really. Doubt is a kind of fear, so is insecurity— it's just that you don't exhibit the typical responses to fear.
You don't fight or flee or even freeze. You fake; camouflage. Blend in, lest the hammer strikes the nail that stands out. And if the danger comes for you anyway, you brace, you take, you endure.
So when Papyrus sits you down on the dining table of his home, you pretend there's nothing wrong. As if you're where you're meant to be. As if his Sans never left.
(And isn’t it crazy that you’re in the exact same copy of your Sans’ house that you left behind?)
Naturally, Papyrus doesn't let you get away with it. Just not the way you expect from him.
“I think it's about time that we really talk,” Papyrus begins, halting your inane story retells. His theatrical front is subdued and replaced by something a little more solemn, a little more honest.
“I mean, aren't we?” You grin cheekily, hoping your bait would coax it back out. His performative annoyance with Sans’ humor is a lot more preferable than whatever this is.
“Really talk,” Papyrus repeats— deadpans, even. “And I don't mean: Papyrus voices out his concerns and Sans shrugs with his hands in his pockets .”
That's… an oddly specific visual.
“I'll start,” he continues. “How are you really doing?”
You blink, unsure how to proceed. Do you lie? Tell the truth? You don't think Papyrus deserves to be lied to, but you don't think you can tell him the entire truth either.
“I…” You decide that you’ll just have to tell him every truth, except for the truths that matter. Omit, but never lie. “There were… circumstances that pulled me away from you.”
Circumstances like a child’s whimsy, a knife’s slash, and piles of dust left behind.
“But now that I'm seeing you again, I’m…” You pause, thinking, before settling with, “I’m glad.”
Because happy is not exactly true; hopeful is too loaded. But glad is just enough.
Papyrus relaxes, his shoulders slacking so visibly that it's only then you realize how tense he was.
“So, you're not…” He trails off, before sighing, relieved. “Okay, that's— that's good.”
What the fuck is this universe’s Sans doing?
“I’m sorry for disappearing like that… without an explanation.” You can't believe you’re apologizing in place of this universe’s Sans— Vanilla.
“Will I get an explanation now?” Papyrus tentatively asks, and your smile tightens.
You don't want to lie, but you're not ready to give up this charade either; not until your Sans responds. He needs to feel reassured by your soul that this second chance can be real and eventually realized. He needs to feel that he has a future with this Papyrus.
He needs to know that he can have this.
(And maybe, you’ll vividly feel him again.)
But then, what about Vanilla? It's not like you can just replace him. This is his Papyrus; his life.
It can just be temporary, you rationalize. Just until Vanilla figures all of this out, you and your Sans can be a little selfish. If Vanilla retaliates, you can fend him off; for your Sans, you will— you’ve fought for less.
After all, your Sans deserves to be happy; you deserve to be happy. Your Alphys told you so.
Besides, you internally sneer, a little vindictive. If Vanilla didn't want me here stealing his brother, maybe he shouldn't have cut contact with his Papyrus in the first place.
And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, you could—
“I should have guessed…” Papyrus’ disappointed sigh snaps you back into the conversation. Your silence lasted too long, you realize.
I’m sorry, you instinctively wanted to say, but instead you tell him, “it’s… not exactly my secret to tell. I don’t think I’m even allowed to tell you.”
You know how Sans is with his secrets.
However, when you see Papyrus’ teeth form into the closest frown he can make, you’re convinced that this secret is not worth Papyrus’ feelings. You hesitate when you also think that you want to indulge in this farce a little longer.
After a brief contemplation, you settle with a compromise: a self-imposed deadline.
You don't want to make the same mistakes as Vanilla. You don't want to let this Papyrus down.
So, you add, “but I’ll trust you with it.”
Papyrus perks up at this.
“While I can’t directly tell you, there’s no rule that you can’t figure it out by yourself. And if I happen to lay down the clues, well…” You shrug, giving him a challenging grin. “I’ll give you three puzzles— all their rewards are related to the answer you’re looking for. After you solve the third puzzle, I’ll tell you the rest of the pieces you’re missing.”
“How unnecessarily convoluted,” Papyrus says, but his tone no longer sounds as despondent. If anything, he sounds lighter. Amused.
“It’s a loophole. It’s something.” You playfully wave a hand. “‘Sides, there's nothing the Great Papyrus can’t solve.”
“And this isn't a ploy that would end up being a prank or a half-baked answer?” Papyrus asks, and you reassure him with something absolute.
“It’s not,” you say, sincere. “I promise.”
And there it is— after your declaration, Papyrus smiles at you; it's nothing like yours or Sans’.
Papyrus’ grin is unrestrained and beaming, and it makes you darkly muse to yourself, I see why my Sans fell apart when this was taken away from him.
The tension in the room doesn’t exactly disappear, but it's replaced with something looser. Easier. Still weighted, but not as burdensome.
The following conversations flow naturally afterwards.
You relax.
Dinner is timed at six in the evening, and somehow, eating bland spaghetti has never felt so… touching.
It’s literally just crushed tomatoes on overcooked pasta, you think, and yet it tugs something in your soul that tricks your magic tastebuds into thinking it’s the best thing you’ve ever consumed.
It’s not the taste that does it; it’s the simple fact that Papyrus made it.
A part of you thinks it’s love; the Sans part of you thinks it’s nostalgia. Together, you think it’s the comfort of familiarity, the return of a routine. Like coming home.
“I see you’ve yet to tire from my specialty. Though admittedly, it’s my first time seeing you actually eat it in front of me,” Papyrus says from his seat, eyeing your empty plate, while clinking his spoon on his empty bowl of oatmeal.
Too at ease, you carelessly comment, “could use some seasoning, but definitely better than your earlier tries.”
It’s only when you catch the bewildered blink Papyrus gives you, you immediately backtrack.
“I mean—” You blank, eyes wide with your own disbelief.
Sans never criticized Papyrus cooking to his face. He was always appeasing his younger brother with half-genuine compliments that’s fueled more by encouragement than honest praise.
“I don’t—” Papyrus cuts off your attempt at self-correction.
“No! It’s fine!” He exclaims, hurriedly waving his hands in front of you. It takes a moment for him to recover from his outburst, before he then hesitantly fidgets with his gloves, his eyes intently staring at them. “This is good. Being blunt is good. This… It’s a start. I’m glad you’re taking my advice.”
Advice? You repeat to yourself, bewildered. What advice? A start from what? What context am I missing here?!
“Right…” You resist your nervous habit of reaching for the rings tucked within your turtleneck, suddenly reminded that just because you know Papyrus doesn't mean you know this Papyrus. You’re getting too comfortable to forget that.
Not wanting to endure another tense session, you think fast for a distraction.
You subtly open your wristwatch’s Dimensional Box and pull out a piece of paper, a pen, and a ghost cube you 3D-printed from boredom a long time ago.
Hurriedly writing on the piece of paper, you immediately fold it into a small pinch to hide its content, before holding up your puzzle toy for presentation.
“This is your first puzzle: a 3x3 ghost cube,” you introduce to Papyrus.
“You can touch it,” Papyrus points out as a correction, skeptical.
Right. Ghost monsters exist, and they’re typically incorporeal.
“It’s not a literal ghost cube,” you patiently explain. “It’s just called that because unlike ordinary rubik’s cubes, it has no color.”
With a twist on its middle, you split the cube in half, revealing the cavity within.
“In its solved form, you can access the small compartment in its middle. I’m putting your first clue here.” You then insert the folded paper inside before closing the cube, your fingers moving dexterously to scramble the puzzle into asymmetry.
You hold up the deformed toy on your open palm, offering it to Papyrus. He gingerly takes it, inspecting it.
“This is your first step,” you tell him. “All you have to do is turn it into its cube shape again.”
“And I’ll get my first clue?” He asks not for clarification but for reassurance, scanning your face.
“And you’ll get your first clue,” you confirm, with an encouraging smile.
“Great!” Papyrus exclaims. “I have purchased various puzzle books for moments like this! I’m sure I have something that could help!”
You blink, trying to recall if Papyrus knows how to solve a rubik’s cube, much less its misshapen cousin.
“I’ll start on it immediately!” And just when Papyrus is about to rush to his room to do just that, he suddenly pauses, as if remembering something. Then he eyes you with something fragile, scanning you carefully. “You’re… staying this time, yes?”
Ah, you realize.
As much as you want to…
“No,” you hesitantly say, and when you see his shoulders slacken, you immediately try your best to console him. “But I’m not disappearing without a word this time. Not— not again.”
“Then, where are you staying?” He pushes.
“That’s…” You fail hiding a wince. “That’s part of the secret.”
“I see…” He says, not exactly disappointed. “And when will I be seeing you again?”
“I’ll often be dropping by the Lab this coming months,” you tell him, rushed, eager to compensate with information you’re free to share. “With Alphys. We’re having a project together, for the upcoming event with the humans. I volunteered as her assistant.”
“You… volunteered.” Papyrus tilts his head at that.
Why does everyone have the need to repeat that part?
“Yes,” you slowly say. “We haven’t discussed our schedule yet, but once we do… if you want… you can hang out with us…? I know it’s not your usual scene but—”
“Of course I’ll be there!” He instantly accepts, not skipping a beat. “It’s not everyday you invite me out with your friends— or, well, friend, in this instance. For work too, of all reasons!”
At this, he unexpectedly nears you in just a few strides, arms wide and unhesitating. It’s only when you feel your feet dangle beneath you, your sides crushed with warmth, before you process what’s happening.
“You’ve changed,” Papyrus says beside your skull, his hug tightening but not suffocating. “But that’s good. I just missed you.”
It takes a while for your brain to catch up. When it does, you exhale, arms slowly but steadily returning the affection. As if you’re savoring the moment, taking in every sight, every feel, every second into your memory.
The weight of Papyrus’ skull over your shoulder; the texture of painted basketballs on your gloved hands; the bright red color of his scarf-cape that’s obstructing your vision as you bury your face in it.
It’s your first time to make physical contact with Papyrus, you belatedly realize.
He feels so solid. Real.
And within you, you hear the tail end echo of your Sans’ sentiments, prompting you to voice it aloud.
“I miss you too.”
Despite the emotional roller coaster you’ve rode today, you think it’s been a good day.
So, of course, the universe ought to balance it out with a bad night.
Notes:
Papyrus after Vanilla cut contact with him:
Sans!MC: It's free brother.
…
Papyrus: *being out of character*
Sans!MC (in their mind): what the hell happened here?
...
Papyrus: Wowie!! I'm glad our past talk has gotten through to you!!
Sans!MC: there's no way vanilla is cheating his character development through me.
…
Sans!MC: man, i love the pacifist timeline when having a bad day cuz no matter what kind of day i’m having, chances are: vanilla is having a worse one.
…
Me: writing a sans character study not to have an in-depth understanding of his character intent and theme, but to psychologically attack him.
…
What do you think MC wrote on the paper? It’s only two words haha!
Guys, I promise, I didn't completely change Classic Papyrus’ personality!! There's a reason why he's introduced like this! MC is missing context from past conversations between Classic Sans and Paps! I have a plan! Trust!!! asjkdhsak
WE'RE GONNA FORMALLY MEET THE SKELELODGE NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE AND IT'S GOING TO BE FUNNY... well, it's a mixed bag, so kinda subjective lmfao...
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