Undertale Bronze

by Nurrenbri

Summary:

He had seen it more than once. These walls, these monsters. He helped them more than once. But this thankless work did not make him any closer to his goal. And finally, having no more pointing finger for himself, he stopped trying. In the end, it was enough to observe some formalities on the way to exit. He could do without killing.

Chapter 1: Proctologue

The fucking mouth of this casino, shit! (c)

 

A human has fallen in the Underground for the umpteenth time.

He flashed a bronze spot in the streak of light falling from the hole in the cave roof, and with a dull clang of his bronze armor landed on his feet, sinking his heavy boots into the thickets of golden flowers covering the stone patch under the hole. He turned his helmet with its powerful crest around, as if looking around. On the helmet's face, two blue ellipses shone with lenses made of an unknown material, shining inserts of the same material covered the rest of the bronze surface of his heavy-looking closed armor. A kind of structure made of the same bronze was attached to his back, hugging his limbs and covering his breastplate through arches above his shoulders, like a mechanical parasite. From time to time, sparks and thin wisps of steam escaped from its joints.

The inspection of the surroundings, in fact, took a person no more than a second. The helmet tilted down, and the lenses stared at the slightly dented golden flowers. The human hurriedly walked away from the clearing, retreating into the semi-darkness of the cave, and a soft "LAAS-YAH-NIR!" came from under the helmet, causing the world around him to barely noticeably sway. The human looked around again and finally took off his helmet. Beneath it was a clean-shaven head and a scarred, middle-aged man's face. His stubborn mouth was surrounded by a black goatee with a touch of gray. Under the man's right eye, from the cheekbone to the lower jaw, there was a black mark in the form of a thick spiral line— either a burnt or inky fingerprint of a giant finger. The slightly faded green eyes looked at the world in front of him wearily and sourly.

And there was something to get upset about. This hole at the top, these flowers under it, this path squeezed by darkness leading to the time—worn portico with the Delta Rune spread out on the pediment - man has seen all this more than once over the past abyss of time.

"Ah shit, here we go again," he said. His voice, contrary to the expected hoarse rudeness, turned out to be a rather pleasant baritone. "It could have been worse, of course.… It's happened, hasn't it? ... but I don't feel any excitement... yes."

He glanced up quickly, as if expecting a response from above. But there was no response. There has been no response for a very long time. He knew exactly how long ago, but he didn't want to think about it at all.

The man looked at the golden flowers that had been crushed by his landing again, and his gaze became extremely thoughtful. The temptation was great. He had the knowledge, and he had a tool with which to repeat what he had done back then. When he came to the Underground for the first time.

When he was still  [DOLL, PUPPET, HOLLOW INSIDE, OF WOOD AND GLUE!]

Since then, he has been to the Undergrounds more than once. [I SEE YOUR STRINGS, BOY! DANCE, DANCE!]

Some of them were different. Some of them are even very good.

[I'LL KILL THEM! I'LL EAT THEM! I'LL DRINK THEIR BLOOD! LET'S SEE WHO WINS THAT FUCKING GAME!]

Many did not differ for the better.

The man clenched his gauntleted fists and exhaled, calming the swirl of voices inside him. Even if this Underground turns out to be good, even if he comes back here and does it.… Don't kid yourself. His path will continue anyway.

The man turned his head sharply. It seemed to him that a golden sparkling haze seemed to fly through the air from the glade of flowers to the dark portico. That was something new. The new could well turn out to be dangerous, and the man knew well that taking unnecessary risks in his current position was unacceptable. It was necessary to be safe.

Needed…

He reached into his inventory…

SAVE.

... and he took out a large, lively and very annoyed crow.

"Well, what should I say," he said, looking into the black pearl of crow's eyes. "My magic is like that. Not all the folks like it, that's why..."

The crow pecked at the armored finger and screamed, as if trying to say, "What you mean, bitch?!" The man, however, knew, as the crow himself knew, that this fluttering and screaming was nothing more than a show-off. Where humans were taught this trick, in a world devoid of women, full of perverts and dip, only crows witnessed the path of outstanding heroes, their victories and failures, preserved them for centuries thanks to their powerful memory and passed them on to other crows. The man in bronze armor was considered an outstanding hero himself in some places, but he could not rely on a high-profile title. Not in the eyes of this bird, no.

The man in the bronze armor was also a something of a scientist. He understood something about things that are remembered, and was not surprised when the secret of this trick was revealed to him.

Of course, at the best of times, he probably wouldn't do something like that.

But at the best of times, he didn't have to worry about saving progress. It was a concern [THEY DON'T WANT TO KNOW YOU. IT'S A GAME FOR THEM.]

The man gritted his teeth and took out a corkscrew for wine corks from his inventory. The gleam of the spiral was reflected in the eyes of the frozen crow. The man released his grip, but the bird did not even think to run away from what was coming. He knew it would happen, it had happened more than once. But he still wasn't ready to think about why crows let themselves be bullied like that from time to time. Someday he'll get to the bottom of it. Someday... later.

The man lifted the crow higher and with a confident movement screwed the corkscrew into the bird's cloaca.

A long, high-pitched croak flew into the depths of the cave.

 

***

 

As soon as he passed through the portico with the Delta Rune, a fat, whitish Froggit darted out from under his feet with a croak. After jumping a few meters away from the man, he turned around and stared at him with the sad look of an idiot with his upper eyes. The man stared back at him, examining him carefully and tenaciously. It was the usual Froggit, familiar to him — big-mouthed, colorless, with an additional face on his bulging belly. There were no spiked accessories, symbolizing the indomitable assholity of their owner, no fangs and insane hunger in his gaze, which would indicate a deep commitment to eating relatives and fallen people. However, the man did not relax. There was something else to check.

"FAAS!"

A rushing scarlet cloud burst out of the helmet, which was put back on his head after torturing the crow. It slammed into Froggit's body, enveloping his soul in terror, and the monster rode screaming into the depths of the Underground. The man did not pursue him. He stared intently at the patch of greenery in front of him that Froggit had just crossed.

The spot was empty. That was something new.

The man came closer. Once again, it seemed to him that he saw a golden haze, a small cloud that slid through the green circle and rushed further into the Underground. However, there was no other way, so the man went the same way, clanking and stomping loudly to warn in advance, to notify all the nervous and faint-hearted about his appearance. If his guess was correct, that would be the entire population of these caves... except for her.

The one who greeted the people who came here most often.

The runaway queen.

And—speak of the Daedra—he met her almost immediately, as soon as he entered the next room.

The lady goat gasped softly, pressing her fluffy white paws to her muzzle, covering her impressive but quite familiar fangs. Taking advantage of her confusion, he quickly scanned her and the room around them. Everything looked quite familiar—the purple brick, the red leaves on the purple floor, the double white stone staircase against the opposite wall. It's familiar, but somehow subtly different. Toriel herself was dressed in a purple robe instead of the blue one familiar to the man, and something like a scarlet scarf was tied around her neck. The man got close — it didn't look like a combination of black and red, and there was nothing spiky about Toriel's appearance, except for the usual horns on top of her head.

But the man believed that with his adventurous lifestyle, he would not have lived to his old age without a huge reserve of caution.

He did not change this thought, even when his will was controlled by [DANCE FOR ME, KILL FOR ME. SHOW ME WHAT YOU'RE LIKE INSIDE...]

The man gritted his teeth. The lady goat slowly lowered her paws, recovering. Experience told him that it was not worth starting a conversation with a demonstration of his own awareness if he did not want to wait for her to come out of her stupor for a few more hours. He hadn't been in a hurry for a long time—if he had anything to hurry, they hadn't bothered to tell him about it. The man grinned — he was slightly relieved, and he finally made his choice.

He bypassed the queen of monsters, who was following him with an astonished look, and headed for the double stairs at a clanking rhinoceros trot.

Leave the conversations to others, his experience told him. Even if you don't want to, they'll tell you the most important things anyway. The main thing is to hear.

In addition, he again looked a golden cloud rising up the white steps. This time it seemed to come out more clearly.

"Wait!"  The goat lady finally came to her senses and rushed after him. The man did not look back. The next room contained several pressure plates, a lever on the wall and two tightly closed door leaves with the Delta Rune depicted on them. After thinking for a split second, the man decided not to impress the lady with his physical form and did not try to open the passage with brute force — even with his wonderful armor, there was a considerable risk of shit yourself, even figuratively. He ran through the pressure plates in the order he knew, pulled the lever. Oh, the miracle! The doors swung open, and it even seemed to him — no, not a cloud, but a small figure, as if woven from a golden glow. The man ran forward, the monster queen was already puffing at the back of his head. There were no pressure plates in the next room, but there was a bridge over a small stream of water gurgling from under one wall to the other, there were as many as three switches, and there was a passage blocked by ridiculously high and wide spikes.

The figure was there too. And she was definitely waiting for something.

Or someone else?

...Him?

The man approached cautiously. Behind him, the goat queen was breathing heavily, not daring to approach. The figure raised its head in a dashing wide-brimmed hat, and the attentive eyes of a child stared at the man. The child was just a toddler, barely past the first decade of his life, or a very underfed teenager. A colorful handkerchief was tied around his skinny neck, the monotony of his appearance did not allow a man in armor to recognize colors. Blue and yellow. His hair was long (brown), obviously not cut for a long time. Hat…

The man took a deep breath. He remembered.

Slowly reaching into his inventory, he pulled out an antique revolver along with a battle-worn cowboy hat.

The child of golden light was looking at him. Even if he was made of flesh and blood, he bore little resemblance to the body that the man had once raised in a ritual along with five others to remind the king of monsters of his mistakes.

He lifted them out of their coffins, into which they were sent by the mercy and compassion of pounding together monsters hearts.

"What is it?" It came to him from behind. "What are you... what are you doing?"

His heart ached uncomfortably. [BUT YOU WILL REMAIN A PUPPET. HOLLOW INSIDE, WITHOUT FEELINGS!]

The child turned away from him and stepped to the third lever. The man knew that this lever should not work, but the child went up to him anyway and pulled. Instantly, a grid of cracks spread like dark gold under his feet, turned into a hole, and the child disappeared. The dark golden spot remained visible for a few more seconds, then also disappeared, leaving the purple stone floor. After hiding the revolver and hat back in the inventory, the man came a little closer, crouched down, carefully examining the floor in front of the lever.

"Who are you..." the Queen began again.

"FUS-RO-DA!"

The Shout hit the floor with unrelenting force in front of the non-working lever, and it, as the man had expected, collapsed with a crash. The queen screamed and staggered away from him, flailing her paws, sinking to the floor. Ignoring her, the man peered into the hole. He had not seen this part of the Ruins yet, moreover, he was sure that it had not been in the Underground he had visited before. Darkness, mustiness and desolation reigned below, the only sight for sore eyes was a clearing of golden flowers, which, due to the human rhinoceros pressure, was sprinkled with purple debris. It seemed to the man again that a golden haze was flowing into these musty depths. But now he was sure that he would figure it out on his own.

He estimated the height, looked back at the still dumbfounded goat lady. No, she's not going to jump down here after him. It simplified a lot. He rose to his full height, continuing to drill her with the blue glow of the lenses. She answered him with a confused and frightened look.

He searched for some words to lighten the mood and at least keep up appearances, but found nothing suitable. It had lost its meaning for him a long time ago.

The man lifted his foot, lifted it over the hole, and disappeared just as the little cowboy of golden light had disappeared before.

Chapter 2: Cornsucker

— ARE YOU DELUSIONAL, BASTARD?! ©

 

 

 He landed slightly to the side of the flower patch, slightly miscalculating and almost biting his tongue — it was not a soft landing. To his right was a sheer chasm into which a narrow bridge had collapsed. The only way out of here was ahead, through an opening in the wall, a drafty strip of purple stone in a solid void. The man took a closer look, and sure enough, there was a chain of golden lights, no bigger than a pinhead, hanging over the untrustworthy bridge. The path was clear.

The light above his head darkened, obscured by the shadow of the horned head. The man hurriedly strode forward, activated one of the features of his helmet on the move, and the world around him brightened, turning gray-colored. He crossed the chasm, entering another narrow corridor on the other side, reached the little room and almost stepped on Flowey, who jumped out at his feet.

"Ouch! Damn it, look where... I mean, howd... oops…"

The man stopped and carefully examined a flower with yellow petals and a somewhat confused smiling face on a white inflorescence that suddenly grew in front of him on a thick stem. Flowey also looked quite normal, although, judging by his look, he didn't quite understand what he was doing here right now.

Now they could talk.

"You're Flowey. A Flowey the Flower. Your name used to be Asriel," the man said indifferently from under the helmet. Flowey blinked for a second, and then perspiration broke out on his inflorescence, although he did not stop smiling. The man understood him—it was always a difficult conversation between them—but he almost didn't care. Suppressing another [DANCE, DANCE AS THEY SAID], he ruthlessly continued. "I'm aware of what's going on here. And this is for me — listen carefully!" He grabbed Flowey, who was trying to escape, by the stem and pulled him towards him, almost pulling him out of the ground. "I don't care about that. It doesn't matter. Don't-give-a-fuck. Is that clear to you?"

The flower made a strangled squeak. The world around them blinked, turned black and white for a moment, and a stream of golden light illuminated them. Flowey's eyes widened hysterically. The man knew that the flower was now seeing his stats in front of him—an impressive digital expression of his vitality and level of experience.

Since his first fall in the Underground, man has rethought his accumulated knowledge. Opened up new horizons. In short, I've grown above myself.

If you believe the numbers that shocked Flowey, about five and a half times.

From the hundredth level to the five hundred and fortieth.

"Seen enough?" with a slight smile, which was clearly felt in his voice, despite the closed helmet, the man asked. The world around them has regained its colors — purple twilight for the monster and gray twilight for the human. "Did you like it? And now," he shook the flower slightly, and it shook with a small tremor. "Say my name. You've seen him, haven't you?"

Flowey groaned inarticulately. The man almost felt sorry for him.

He never really put pressure on the reborn prince. Even when he was blinded by his own bravado.

He just wasn't sure Flowey could take his slaps.

"Come on!" He repeated patiently. "Tell me my name."

"F... Ferg..." Flowey finally managed. " Ferg... re... Remo…"

"The first part is enough for you." The man released the flower, and it bent weakly with its inflorescence to the purple floor. He must not have experienced such a shock since his God-defying rebirth by the royal scholar. The man twitched his cheek and squatted down next to him.

"I guess we already understand each other," he said softly. "But I'll make it clear anyway, just in case. I know your breed well, and I know that you don't understand well. Are you listening?"

Flowey picked up the flower, and Ferg poked him in the face with a bronze-clad finger, almost shoving it into his mouth.

"You've seen my Level of Violence. You've seen my health points. I hope this is the best argument against trying to kill me, frame me, attack me from behind—against anything that might come into your bud. Don't mess with me. Don't bother me. Stay. Away. From. Me."

Flowey's eyes were wide and he was smiling nervously. He was still trembling.

"I... and... you..." he choked out.

"I'm in transit here," the man continued. "Just passing through. Went in and out. And I won't need to kill anyone to do that. Even your father."  Flowey twitched as if to protest. "Shut the fuck up," the man said harshly, and after making sure that this was taken into account, he returned to a softer tone. "If they don't put insurmountable obstacles in my way, I won't kill a single monster... and I'll even leave you with your collected souls. How many have you already, by the way?"

"F... five," Flowey stammered. Ferg nodded with satisfaction.

"Five," he said. "As many as five people. A great achievement for your rickety brethren. Was there someone of my level among them?"

Flowey shook the flowerhead so violently, as if he had a cramp.

"That's what I thought."  Ferg got to his feet. "Toriel looked pretty nonchalant..." He looked ahead, into the aisle behind Flowey. — Well, then I'm off. We understand each other, don't we?

He looked down, but Flowey had already run away.

 

*** 

 

These Ruins lived up to their name much better than the neat walking tunnels Ferg had seen before. As he walked between the crumbling decorative columns on both sides of his path, he thought gloomily that the monsters living in such devastation would be much more marginal than ordinary ones.

And the fact that the monsters would be here, he found out even before meeting with the local Toriel.

And one of them was already waiting for him in the next room.

Something like a bug-eyed baby in pajamas, with horns and a pair of furiously flapping fly wings, hovered expectantly in front of him. Ferg looked at him with some curiosity. The creature squeaked a question, and sluggish fat flies flew at the man.

"Ah," he remarked, barely making an effort to dodge. "The famous friendliness and openness of monsters. I didn't yearn it one bit."

He sent a paralysis spell at the monster and enjoyed the sight of the flyer crashing down like a man who had finally nailed an annoying mosquito. Now he had a chance to look around. It was a tiny room with four levers on the opposite wall, and two rows of low, thick spikes blocked the passage beyond. As Ferg jumped over them, he remembered the traps of the Nordic tombs, which he had often encountered before. Needless to say, it was foolish to expect monsters to build like humans.

The next rooms were more picturesque, but Ferg only glanced at them, jumping over another barrier of spikes. The corridor widened, and a slight rise in the floor appeared ahead — perhaps in the old days it was something like a stage?

Anyway, someone was standing on the stage.

Ferg came closer, deliberately clanking and making noise. With his back to him, a short figure in a cloakstood on a raised platform, with two impressive white horns sticking out of the hood. Ferg came even closer, glaring at the figure, but she didn't even think to turn around.

"Hello..." an uncertain, quiet voice came from under the hood. Ferg said nothing, waiting.

"I'm happy to finally meet you face to face," the figure continued without turning around. "How long has it been?"

Ferg sniffed through his helmet, but said nothing.

"I was wondering if you'd ever come back..."

At any other time, Ferg would have been puzzled by this, but he again reminded himself of the words of his own experience and did not stop the horned figure from piling up the exposition.

The figure hesitated, as if embarrassed.

"No..."it finally came. "Too forward. Who am I kidding? I'll never be able to meet you in this state."

Ferg wondered if he should cough, preferably using his Voice to make the walls shake. The creature under the hood seemed to lack the determination to take a step, and he reminded himself once again that he had long ago sworn off being a personal growth simulator for the locals.

"I just hope t you know… I had no choice. It must be this way."

Ferg chewed his lips and reflexively tried to open the card to check the time — the helmet interface was malfunctioning again. However, there was no point in this — most of the time the map showed nonsense, and he had to fill it out himself, even with the help of magic. Besides…

He didn't want to look at the time. I didn't want to figure out how much time had passed since [AND THEN THEY WILL CUT THE STRINGS. YES! THEY WILL CUT THE STRINGS!]

The figure finally moved forward. It shuddered.

"Huh?"

It turned around.

"Who..?"

Ferg crouched down, spreading his arms at waist level, palms forward, and spreading his legs wide, as if he were sitting on an invisible pony. It was a greeting he had learned some time ago, a bawdy gesture that appealed to the bawdy part of his middle—aged soul. "Have you seen my testicles?" the gesture seemed to ask. "If you haven't had the pleasure yet, then I'll be happy to demonstrate, the sight is truly impressive!"

"I-I must be seeing things..." the figure muttered, clearly impressed. Ferg grinned, even though he couldn't see it under his helmet.

"Just don't worry so much about it," he said in a deliberately patronizing tone. "The skill compensates for everything, it would be with whom."

The monster, however, was not satisfied with these words and, apparently, remaining under the strongest impression of the man's equipment covered with armor and a plate skirt, hurriedly went somewhere ahead.

"Sissies," Ferg grumbled, breaking his pose and stretching with a grunt. There were no other paths around, and after waiting for a while, he followed the figure that disappeared into the depths of the Ruins.

The golden lights also led there. He was fine with that.

 

*** 

 

In the next room, he came across the monster almost immediately. It looked like a wooden jerboa, clutching in its paws—he took a closer look—a pencil the size of a log. Ferg looked around, but he didn't see any drawings. But he saw smaller pencils flying at him, each of which left fluffy magical traces in the air, from which he wisely tried to stay away. Yes, his armor could take down a lot... but he couldn't vouch for his soul. So far, Ferg has tried not to provoke himself too much, but the monsters, who did not even think to restrain their provocations, did not help the process.

He spelled Paralysis at the monster and picked up a huge thick pencil that had fallen out of its paws. With the toe of his boot, he turned over the completely stiff little body, as if searching for something, apparently, he did not find it. There was a growl from under the helmet, and the pencil hit the floor, splattering with splinters and graphite chips. Ferg glared at the monster one last time and moved on, following an increasingly distinct chain of lights.

 

***

 

On the threshold of another room, he froze in disbelief. In the soft light of the purple walls and low ceiling, a small field of corn spread out in front of him. Ferg leaned against the doorjamb, deep in thought. He hadn't seen so much corn in quite a while. Since the time of…

He put his palm against his helmet.

Since the Great War.

From the time when he was still very young, barely twenty years old, marching along the battered cobblestones of the Imperial road in the ill-fitting armor of the Imperial Legion among the same jingling youths, and the corn was just beginning to crop. They were heading west, to where the Aldmeri Dominion troops were laying siege to Anvil on the Gold Coast.

Struggling with his memories, Ferg started forward, following a barely noticeable path among rows of corn, but stopped. Surrounded by towering stalks, he could become too easy prey. But there was still a passage between the corn bushes and the purple brick walls on either side of him. After thinking about it, Ferg turned right.

And immediately, a pulsating corn cob flew out of the corn thicket at him with a narrowed smile of porcelain dummies that Ferg had seen in some worlds. Squinting at him, the man tried to move on, but several stalks of corn, hitting the wall with unnatural force, forced him to linger.

"I was trying to be nice," he grumbled, cast a Paralysis spell on the cob. The creepy mask of a smile disappeared, burying itself in the purple earth, and he, though more cautiously, walked on.

In an amicable way, the field should have been burned in order to have a better view and at the same time scare away ambushers. But the man still didn't want any extra sacrifices.

Besides, it would bring back unpleasant memories.

Memories of how the golden-skinned Dominion soldiers chased them back, successfully capturing Anvil, and in order to slow down the elves even a little, they burned everything that could burn.

Including fields of unripe corn.

 

***

 

"Is it wrong to hold doubt in my actions?"

As soon as Ferg entered the next room, he immediately heard the mumbling of his recent acquaintance. He looked for the lights and saw them turning to the right, right through another line of ridiculously high spikes. The muttering came from the front, and Ferg stopped at a crossroads in thought, which the words of the monster successfully fell on.

From his first experience in the Underground, he remembered that the path that fallen humans had to follow often turned out to be unnecessarily confusing due to not the most convincing obstacles. Should he follow exactly the path that the little cowboy offers him?

"I enjoyed life before... I did... But I can't go back."

"But I can," thought Ferg, and, stepping noiselessly — an art that not everyone knew how to combine with wearing heavy armor — he moved forward.

"What happened that day would  only repeat."

There was another chasm ahead, and the purple path above it turned into a narrow bridge without railings, which, however, did not surprise Ferg at all — in his memory, not only monsters neglected safety. The bridge looked battered by life, and in the middle it completely collapsed, leaving a hole about one and a half meters wide. Perhaps the child would not have dared to jump over it, but for Ferg it was not an insurmountable obstacle.

A familiar horned figure in a cloak stood on the other side. As if sensing something, it turned on the spot and stared at the man sneaking towards the hole.

"What is it?" they said. "Why do they appear every time I start monologuing?"

Deciding that there was no point in hiding, Ferg straightened up and greeted the monster again (he hardly doubted it) with his obscene "have you seen my pony's bony" gesture.

"I need more rest," the figure said, hurrying away. Ferg sniffed. It occurred to him that perhaps he had left Toriel a too early. They'd worked out a few things briefly a couple of times, and he could use it.…

He shook his head, and in his memory, which was frustratingly rare, Ysolda's face popped up. He had plenty of time to think. He had decided everything, as he had decided more than once before. Gods knew he could be lying, standing in front of Mara's altar. Whether it was his decision or [I'M A PUPPET, YOU'RE MY PUPPET, WE'RE ALL HIS PUPPET.]

Now, for a while, he could make decisions on his own again. Sometimes it wasn't easy. But, as before, he tried not to regret anything.

Taking a short acceleration, he jumped over the gap to the other half of the bridge and trotted after the hooded figure who had left.

 

***

 

"Ah!"

Ferg guessed right. Jumping over the gap, he walked along a short corridor, trampled on the flowers, ignoring the sign on the wall next to him — someone forced a detour with crates of corn - and finally came out into another room, clearly once a public place. To his left was another ledge that raised the floor level by several meters, and water flowed from under it along a short chute, disappearing under the lower floor. On either side of the chute were two staircases leading up to a modest opening in the wall.

An old acquaintance, a horned hoodie, was climbing the stairs farthest from Ferg. The man's appearance seemed to frighten him, but Ferg ignored it.

He guessed right.

"Umm..."

Golden sparks hung in the air above the far staircase and disappeared into the opening at the top.

Where the monster retreated

"I don't know who you are but I ask you..." came from under the hood. "Please leave!"

"I'm afraid that's impossible... for number of reasons," Ferg said, but the monster had already disappeared into the passage. Ferg kicked a nonexistent pebble and slowly climbed another staircase. There was a wide plaque next to the opening, one of the ones he had often seen in different versions of the Ruins. Coming closer, he read:

"Property of Dalv  

(That monster in the cloak.)

NO TRESPASSING!"

Ferg looked around, read the sign again, and looked at the golden haze disappearing into the dark doorway. It was hardly a trap—he believed in his own strength—but it wouldn't hurt to be safe. Something about the monster's words bothered him. Something reminded him of the madmen from the Ratway, of the vagabonds praising the Mad God, who often ran out at him, as if sensing the presence of their lord's artifact. Something that reminded Ferg of the mad wizards he had to raise every now and then, often with fatal consequences for them.

Ferg took out the raven and, without looking, confidently screwed the corkscrew into the bird's cloaca.

An anally offended croak swept through the Ruins again.

 

***

 

Wherever Dalv was going, he was clearly in no hurry, and Ferg caught up with him almost as soon as he entered the doorway. They were standing on a narrow strip of purple stone, and water stood on either side of them up to the walls. Small ripples waved some debris on the surface. Ferg leaned slightly to the side, trying to assess the depth, but then Dalv spoke up.

"You're... still following me?"

"I don't care for you," Ferg grumbled, trying to turn his helmet so that he could watch the monster, while still trying to assess the depth.

"I thought I made it clear that#  I want to be left alone." The monster was still standing with his back to Ferg, and his voice carried hollowly over the water.

"The world does not always meet our expectations. — Shrugging his shoulders, Ferg gave up trying to assess the depth and straightened up. He wasn't afraid of drowning—the enchants on his helmet allowed him to breathe underwater—but being in the water would make him vulnerable.

Especially when you don't know what your opponent is capable of.

Ferg preferred to win on the first try. And, as a rule, he won. But without [YOU DON'T CONTROL YOURSELF AND YOU'LL NEVER BE YOUR OWN MASTER, YOU'RE A PUPPET], the stakes have gone up a bit. And Ferg had to be careful again, just like before that encounter with the evil wizard Gowart from the Besesda.…

"I don't understand."  The monster finally turned to him. "You...  you look just like them."

Ferg thought about these words. He remembered Flowey's obtained by threats answers. If someone who looked even a little like him had fallen into the Underground, the flower would have known about it and probably would have indicated it in some way.

Therefore, either Dalv was talking about some kind of monster, possibly from the royal guard, or…

An unpleasant question began to form on Ferg's tongue.

"Is this some sort of haunting? Or have you come to finish the job?" the monster asked again.

Two more possible answers to this monologue were added to the maturing question, but Ferg brushed them aside, holding them for ... for example, for someone's unplanned pregnancy.

Male pregnancy.

"Retreating here wasn't enough#  so you hunted me down... Right?"

The question had already matured on the tongue, and although Ferg had already begun to guess what a bad story was behind it, this question was still relevant. Besides, there's good to be had.…

"Are you delusional, bastard?" he asked gently.

Dalv seemed to really think about this question, however, when he spoke again, Ferg realized that he had not been heard.

"And I was just starting to accept my reality. The cruelty..." The monster's voice faltered. "Whatever I did to you that day was not my intention, I was only..."

"You little fucker," Ferg cooed, shaking his head. "Even your king can't run away from what he's done, let alone you, so merciful and compassionate." He raised his hands in front of him and flexed his index and middle fingers a couple of times in a sarcastic gesture learned from one of the worlds he visited.

It must have had an effect. There was a grim determination in the monster's voice, a rare quality for their "biological" species.

"Nevermind. Words aren't enough."

Dalv glanced briefly at Ferg and turned away again.

"I... I don't want to fight anybody, but you've invaded my home. The exit is blocked and you can't stay here. I will not allow it."

"I didn't really want to." Ferg glanced behind Dalv, at the path, over which a golden haze was streaming. "But what can i do. Something from above has laid its rails here, and you are now on the path of the locomotive. I won't slow down. If you want to live, get out of my way."

Dalv raised his hand, pushing the hood off his head, and turned back to Ferg. He looked almost like a human boy with a pretty, though haggard, cyanose—purple face, a pair of horns sprouting from his thick dark purple hair and a pair of fangs protruding from under his upper lip, at the sight of which Ferg pulled himself up and prepared in his hand a golden ball Aura of Stendarr, a special spell that he used every time facing the undead.

He had fought against vampires more than once, but he had never seen one in the Underground, much less a vampire monster... although he had heard that it was possible.

Well, there's always a first time for everything, he thought grimly.

Non-ironically closing his eyes to what was happening, the monster said:

"Only one thing to do..."

Electricity shot through the air around Dalv, and Ferg was glad he hadn't gone into the water.

However, as he reasoned, it would not hurt to wash his brain. And Ferg was not without pleasure ready to offer his help.

Even if Dalv himself didn't show any obvious desire.

"WULD!"

The figure in the massive armor shot forward like an arrow shot from a bow, and it crashed into the monster, plundering it into a bronze embrace. Dalv tried to sluggishly resist, but then his feet left the ground, the world turned upside down, and the monster's head sank under the water with a splash.

Ferg held Dalv's ankles and stared at the wavering, bubbling purple patch where his head should have been. Being a kind of scientist, he made a lot of observations and conclusions about the nature of monsters. One of those conclusions was their need for breathing, and he could only hope that breathing problems brought monsters to their senses as well as humans.

"It works on drunks," he said to himself, lifting his hand to let him breathe when the bubbles around the monster's neck became dangerously small. The monster waved his arms stupidly, and Ferg lowered his head back into the water, moving it from side to side so that the fallen cloak would not stick to his unwitting patient's face and suffocate him completely. "As I've heard, they try it on the feeble-minded too."  He lifted the Dalv out of the water again, and now the monster was no longer fluttering, only breathing heavily and rapidly. Water gurgled from his hair, shirt, and raincoat.

"Don't worry, I won't let you go," Ferg grinned under his helmet, plunging Dalv back under the water. "What if you can't swim? It's going to be ugly."

Dalv gurgled and twitched sluggishly in his grip. Ferg took it enthusiastically.

"It seems that we are making progress in the treatment!" he proclaimed, picked up and dipped the monster again, barely giving him a chance to catch his breath. "I take it you've been treated with shock therapy before? You're still sparkling. I wonder when they realized that it's all…"

He suddenly froze, still holding Dalv underwater, and stood there for a while until he said in a hoarse voice.

"...futile"

He pulled Dalv out of the water, shook him by the ankles until he coughed, and laid him on the path away from the edge. The monster's chest was heaving, he stared at the ceiling with an unseeing gaze and did not even try to move when the man, with a clank of his gauntlet, plopped down next to him on his ass and, hugging his knees, stared with the same unseeing gaze at the already barely noticeable circles on the water.

"Ha. Hah. Ahah."

A dry and cracked laugh escaped from under the helmet.

"The child would like that..."

He reached into his inventory and took out something small that shone with a reddish copper sheen. He stared at it for a while, then clenched it in his fist, put it back in his inventory, and stood up. He glanced at the monster—briefly, just to make sure it was still alive—and trudged after the golden haze to the heavy double doors, on the sides of which narrow waterfalls murmured.

He glanced indifferently at the Gothic decoration of the living room, which was clearly not intended for receiving guests, glanced at the table littered with surreal pencil sketches, looked back at the refrigerator. He was once a kleptoma... a collector, as he preferred to say. He usually did not steal from other people's homes unless circumstances required it, but he rarely refused any curious things that the owners themselves offered him. Without even intending to take anything into his inventory, he took it with his eyes, darting around the house, opening and closing chests, books and secret rooms, if any.

But right now, he wasn't in the mood to poke around the house at all. He looked at the golden haze again and walked forward. A long hallway with breath—taking parquet floors and depressing lilac wallpaper led him to a small room with a single door-apparently, it had once been an entrance hall. The door was boarded up. Ferg snorted and took out a chainsword from his inventory, the same bronze as his armor. He ran his hand over the casing covering the chain on the side closest to him, gripped the handle tighter, and the weapon rattled, as if welcoming its owner. Of course, nothing prevented Ferg from using something more practical from his arsenal - an axe or, at least, a war hammer. He could have done it with his bare hands.

But the chainsword had a voice. It was comforting.

Ferg swung his sword and brought it down on the door. The sharp, shiny teeth began to move with a hungry roar, merging into a shining ribbon, screeching into wood and metal, throwing dust and pieces of wood at his feet. Over and over, he raised and lowered the weapon, as if in a silent rage, until all that remained of the door in his path were the lonely, crumpled hinges in the opening. Ahead, another purple trail could be seen over the abyss, and beyond it, an indistinct patch of clearly daylight. Ferg strode forward, scattering a pile of wood chips and metal fragments from under his feet, feeling the approach of relatively fresh air and snowy cold with every step. He was also familiar with these places, and at the very edge of the Ruins he stopped to use a raven, ironically thinking that this must be the first time these places had heard the voice of a real bird — even if it was the cry of the desecrated remnants of the raven's honor.

Time will show that he was somewhat mistaken.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 6 of Remoraniada