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“I wonder,” he said with a wide grin, “How bad that scar burns.”
Frisk could only groan in response. They laid prone, forced to watch with one eye as the demon circled them like sharks in the water. They couldn’t even think of moving; the scar on their left eye—an old slash wound that never fully healed—burned like the very flames of hell, sending waves of pain through their body so debilitating that even thinking was difficult.
“It was too easy, really,” the floating devil mused to himself. The lights in his eye sockets bounced to and fro, taking in every little detail, every little twitch of their body. “You were so desperate, so panicked to find a way to cling to your cushy spot in heaven. Are all angels like that—so devoted to your uncaring, arrogant God?”
“…Shut… up.”
He let out a little giggle, amused at the fact that they could even retort when under this much pain.
“Could I really blame you?” he continued. “No one would expect such a frail old lady, so weak as to be crumpled half-dead on the side of the road, to be the cause of your scar’s sudden aching. No one would expect that old lady to lie about her ointment that eases such pains, with a ghastly scar on her arm as proof, only for it to worsen the aches to such a degree.”
Another groan of pain, but Frisk held their tongue. Sans sighed, disappointed.
“You’re not curious about how? Won’t let me joke about my master plan?”
“What… What good would it do?” Frisk eked out, slowly but surely. “Your kind… loves nothing more… than to toy with your victims.
“‘Your kind’,” he repeated, displeased. “You always say it like it’s poison in your mouth. Like the very act of referring to us is beneath you. It must have been relieving, then, to slaughter them without restraint.”
There was no response.
“Was I that terrifying, Frisk? Did little ol’ lazy Sans scare you so much that you needed to lure me away? Or, perhaps, was it your plan for me to return just as you finished the job, leaving his disintegrating skull to fade to dust in the snow of those empty, frigid wastes?”
There was a barely veiled anger in his voice as he laid out their wrongdoings before them. “I saw everything, you know,” he continued. “After the fact, of course; the sprites of the Echoing Caverns were much too eager to replay your army’s march. Every. Single. Murder.”
Frisk opened their mouth to speak. Sans interrupted.
“Hush hush, little birdie. ‘Tis murder indeed. Your kind may see it as just, but it was nothing more than simple, needless genocide.”
Frisk grew angered. Their arms moved, slowly but surely, as they attempted to push themselves up. The wood beneath them creaked as they pushed against it. Sans ignored it.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m going to do now. Unlike us demons, you angels are immortal. Killing you here would only send you back to heaven, and you would be chomping at the bit to come back and erase me immediately.”
The air in the worn-down cabin suddenly grew cold. A quiet giggle filled the room, slowly growing into a mad, deafening crescendo that seemed to choke all air out of the room.
“But that’s not going to happen, you see.”
All of Frisk’s anger suddenly faded, replaced with confusion and shock. “…What?” They asked, before they even realized they’d spoken.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued his circling, growing ever closer. Their uncertainty grew, and fear crept in. What was he about to do? They could only ponder that question, before he finally continued his monologue.
“Your halo.”
“My…” There was a sharp wave of pain once more, a reminder of the karmic curse over their scarred left eyelid. “What?”
“It’s quite the lovely thing, isn’t it? The one thing that connects you to your God—that bestows upon you divinity and holiness to channel into your very being and, by extension, your weapons.” At this point, he was close enough to touch. He knelt before them, carefully caressing their halo. “A halo’s strength is determined by your faith and devotion to your God, isn’t it? And that devotion is infallible… usually. You may have the capability, but you don’t have the luxury of free will, that so-called ‘poison’ that separates humans and us demons from you angels.”
They laughed, their certainty in their safety returning. He was truly delusional, they’d thought. This path of logic was useless. There was nothing he could do to their halo; his goal was a truly hopeless one.
“That scar’s quite the curious one, isn’t it?”
Yet, they couldn’t help but wonder what he was up to now.
“You lured me away because you couldn’t take both of us on your own. It was smart of you—divide and conquer. The skeleton duo is undefeatable together, so take on the ‘weak link’ on his own first.”
He smiled, as if proud. His phalanges slipped gracefully off their halo, slid down their face and to their chin, which he raised until they were facing him eye to eye. “But you miscalculated. He wasn’t the weak link—there was no weak link. He was strong, and you got that lovely scar to serve as a constant reminder of your foolish mistake.”
There was a moment of darkness, as if the world itself had blinked, and when vision returned his expression has dramatically twisted. His face was uncomfortably close to theirs; a grin, disconcertingly wide and malicious, sat where his proud smile once was, and the soft, white lights that served as his eyes were gone, replaced with a singular, chilling light that quickly alternated between cyan and yellow, its gaze locked with Frisk’s only open eye.
“It’s fitting, I suppose, that that scar should be your downfall.”
They chuckled nervously, averting their gaze. “You… Demons sure do love speaking in riddles and flowery tongues… but you were always more fond of it than most.”
His eyes returned to normal and his grin narrowed back to its usual lazy shape. “Oh, quiet you. You’re smart enough to know what I’m getting to by now.” His hand left their chin and he rubbed his thumb against their closed left eye. The scar burnt more intensely when he touched it, causing them to sharply jerk away. His grin grew. “There was nothing really special about the scar itself, sure, but you never forgot it, did you.”
They feigned ignorance.
“Even after everyone was dead, after your God declared the hunt over and simply ordered that I would be left alone unless I was deemed an active threat, you couldn’t help but itch for more. But there would be no excuse to hunt me down that wouldn’t involve outright disobedience.”
They refused to acknowledge that what he was saying was true.
“So you hoped, hoped I would show up before you sometime, so you could have an excuse. Because, you knew you could kill me, and you thought it would be fun, and so that ever powerful determination within you burned you from within.”
“AND WHAT ABOUT IT?” They snapped, causing his hand to jerk away in surprise. “Yes,” they relented. “I wanted, so desperately, to find you,” They admitted. “It was always a regret of mine that I couldn’t bring you down myself, erase the famous Jester’s ever present smile and take back your horns as a trophy.”
“So what of it?” They asked once more.
He simply giggled. “Ironic, that the determination that made you such a reliable, powerful General, is what will be your downfall.” He got up, satisfied with himself, and began to flex his wrists.
“What are you talking about?” They asked, for perhaps the millionth time this monologue.
The scar’s burning rose in intensity in response, as if telling Frisk to hush as the finale approached. They could feel the karma—Sans’s signature demonic skill—growing in intensity. It had just been the scar, acting as a reminder of the slaughter—of the rules Sans had deemed broken—but now there was more. There appeared a multitude of arms growing from below, phantoms of the cruelly slaughtered grasping at their body, trying to pull them below. They dared not look down, lest they saw the faces of those whose resentment they fostered. Those people didn’t truly exist anymore, neither had Frisk ever cared for them, but for some reason they couldn’t put a finger on they could not help but feel anxious at their presence.
“It’s quite simple, my dearly beloathed Phoenix.”
He grabbed their halo suddenly and without warning, then jerked them upwards, leaving them supported only by the force holding their halo and their head in close proximity.
“I’m sure this feels uncomfortable. A demon, something that should be beneath you, manhandling you by the very thing that keeps you above us.” His grin grew sinister, one final time. “But unfortunately for you, you won’t be having it for much longer.”
There was a pause, a moment of silence and confusion consumed their expression. Then, slow realization and, finally, dawning horror.
“Your devotion to your God is not as absolute as it seems. You’ve put your own desires, your free will, over the will of your God.”
They screamed. They cursed. They yelled.
“You’ve left yourself vulnerable to me. It was almost too easy to predict you going on this excursion as an excuse to find me.”
They clawed. They raged. They fought against the pain.
“So I ask again, dear Phoenix.” His hands gripped both sides of the halo and began to pull.
“How bad does that scar burn?”
There was a snap and a blindly bright burst of light enveloped the room, accompanied by a loud boom. Then, all fell silent…
…and a halo, snapped cleanly in two, clattered to the floor.
There was a screech, yells of pain, and the shrill sound of nails scraping bloodily against the wooden floor. Curled in pain, laying in the center of the room, laid the newly fallen angel.
“How…” their voice started low, but rose in volume, distorting as if unable to settle on a consistent sound. “…DARE YOU.”
Their wings involuntarily sprouted, eliciting giggles from him. How could he hold back, when their disgustingly perfect radiant white wings were replaced with wings dyed a gradient of twilight colors?
“Kill…” An anguished scream erupted from them as horns sprouted from their head, pushing painfully through their skin, adding onto their suffering. “Kill me.”
“Oh, but that would be too good for you, dear.” He knelt down once more to watch them closely, enjoying every bit of their tormented writhing. “You’re going to live on in this painful reality, and I’ll make certain of it. You fallen angels still have us demons’ immortality, after all. Nothing short of an angel’s blade will cut you down.”
They could only groan in defeat, unable to accept their fate.
“So falls the Phoenix,” he continued, ready to finally end his monologue. “Burned to death by its own flames. Never to rise again.”
His left hand returned to their chin, comfortable as if it was always meant to be there.
“I was never one for revenge, but…” His eyes studied their face intently, grinning with satisfaction. “Defeat is such a lovely look on you, I’ve come to realize.”
Anger rose within them once more at that comment and they powered through the pain, forcing themselves to move their head to face him. They gave him a look of contempt, then spat on his face.
He only laughed. “Feel however you want, but I have won.” His body began to sink into the ground, signalling his return to hell. He’d spent enough time on earth and had accomplished everything he’d wanted, and perhaps a little more. “You can have all of eternity to curse me, but it will change nothing. It won’t change the fact that I’ve dragged you down to hell.”
“I’ll kill you. I swear it. I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do.” They cursed and cursed, hate seeping through every word as they too sank into the floor.
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” he said with a grin. “I look forward to it. Good luck, my beloved fallen Phoenix.”