In the dark of night, Papyrus lay in his car bed with his sockets closed and his bony brows furrowed. Tossing and turning, his once so peaceful slumber was disrupted by a restlessness that gripped him tight.
As his skeletal fingers clutched his pillow, orange flames seeped out of his right eye, preventing him from finding solace.
This fire… The Seer's Eye.. it was the product of an ability, sealed long ago, yet now on the verge of awakening. And it was determined to simmer when nobody’s watching. As it did so, vivid sights and sounds, as well as smells, manifested within the depths of his subconscious.
What the dream showed…
They were visions of the past.
Visions of the present.
And visions of the future.
* * *
Two familiar shorties, Sans and Frisk, sat down together on the couch. Though they had made themselves comfortable, the situation was far from comfy.
Frisk, the monster's ambassador, had broken down crying.
What struggles challenged them...
What troubles plagued them...
And what pains ailed them...
No one knew.
Only Sans, his beloved brother, might have some inkling of the hidden truth.
“Hey, kid." He tried to console them, saying: "You’re not alone, y’know. You got Toriel. Asgore. Papyrus. Undyne. Alphys. Every monster in Ebott. We’re all willing to help. Even lazy ol’ me.”
Sporting his trademark clown-face, he asked: “Mind giving me some motivation?”
The human peeked out from the corner of their eye, curious yet reluctant at the proposal.
“You know I hate making promises, kid. But when I do, I follow it through."
In an unusual gesture, he extended his pinky in oath.
"Will you do the same? If we overcome this, promise me that you’ll never RESET again. Keep that power under lock and key. Forever.”
Wiping their tears away with one hand, the other wrapped its soft finger wrapped around Sans' bony bone.
“Welp. The deed’s done.”
Now there was no more turning back the clock.
* * *
“You who declare yourselves as saviours…” a man's stern voice bellowed.
* * *
A female mystery Magus showed up, a Vanquisher dressed like a noir detective. She tipped her hat, then outstretched her arms. The lass exuded a formidable aura, striking a unique combination of femininity, power and undeniable suave cool.
But, what caught Papyrus' attention the most, was the intricately crafted pocket watch that hung around her neck from a black cord, gleaming in the sunlight.
On its casing, stood the symbol of a four-point star.
He remembered: that golden star of brilliant light had set them free from the Underground, their SOULs becoming like birds in the vast open skies.
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* * *
“…I accept your challenge.”
* * *
On a cold, cloudy day, the overcast was as pale as the snowy land beneath.
In the middle of a flat field, standing out against the whiteness, was a skeleton whose body flowed like a blotch of ink on paper.
Darker yet darker.
Upon the first opportunity, Sans summoned his Gasterblasters and fired at will.
Snow scattered in the air from the force of every beam and bone he conjured.
Never before had Papyrus seen his brother fight with such killing intent.
One could not help but wonder if Sans was secretly an assassin in disguise.
* * *
Next, Papyrus’ own image appeared, fighting a human that resembled Frisk but was not Frisk.
A clash of blade and bone ensued amidst dusty laboratory halls.
The child was evil, Papyrus could sense: a DEMON in the flesh.
And he... he stood on the side of Justice: a great hero like no other.
His heart fluttered at the endless possibilities.
* * *
Bone versus bone.
Brother versus brother.
Assassin versus hero.
His brother’s Eye flashed between too many colours, each driven by an arcane magic circle of his own creation.
Papyrus’ Eye burned too, with a bright orange light cloaking his body. One could say sheer power radiated from his being. It condensed deep into his bones.
In time, the both of them would come to see how this clash would not play by the standard rules of monster combat. Instead, for their destined battle, there'd be no such thing as turns.
* * *
“Prove to me the strength of your determination!”
* * *
Finally, the source of the voice revealed himself.
Behind the most ornate of doors, in a bright lit room of nothing but white, awaited a person wearing fancy clothes.
He was a human, a magus mister, though somehow closer in vibe to the vampires of yore? The intimidating kind that'd steal your lifeforce without warning.
From the shadows, you stepped forward, Determined though not quite ready for what was to come.
Then, you felt something hit your chest. Like a small pebble kicked up by a car’s tyre.
When you looked down you realised that something had gone horribly wrong.
Blood spread around a small puncture wound on your chest, staining your striped shirt.
But wait. Weren't you a skeleton? As far as you were aware, SKELETONS DID NOT BLEED! And you hadn’t worn a striped shirt in YEARS!
Those small, fleshy hands… they belonged to Frisk. They were the one who had been bleeding. From their 2nd person point of view, Papyrus had witnessed how the magus had fired his gun and planted the Mark of the Butterfly on their being.
That one shot could very well have been an immediate death sentence, should such a willful judgement be imposed.
Despite everything, mercy born of sentimentality was their sole saving grace.
* * *
For certain, a whirlwind of chaos followed Sans and Frisk's fateful pinky promise. The Surface thereafter was a real wild ride.
Yet nothing could have prepared Papyrus for the grand finale.
A quiet town at the foot of Mount Ebott basked in the spring sun.
A dusty town at the foot of Mount Ebott burned to the ground.
Pinky promise or no pinky promise.
When faced with such calamity… Papyrus hoped that the light could illuminate the darkness.
That, if given no choice, THEY'LL RESET for the betterment of monsterkind.
* * *
The dreamer awoke with a gasp.
“W-WHAT WAS THAT??? A… DREAM?” Said Papyrus, confused.
Bereft of fuel, the orange flames of the Seer's Eye had died out. And just like that, the dream was forgotten.
In a dazed autopilot, he reached into his ribcage, straight through his pyjama collar, and pulled out an old vintage alarm clock: the round type with twin bells on the top.
It was 8 a.m. the analog display read.
"OH NO! I MUST GET READY OR ELSE I'LL BE LATE!"
Time waits for no man, or skel. Posthaste, he hopped into his battle body and dashed out of the house, bread slice in mouth.
“NYEH!” He yelled, muffled by his frantic chewing.
* * *
Little did the Papyrus recognise that the young Seer himself was actually being watched.
On a monitor, far, far away from Ebott Town, a trio of Mages discussed how to proceed from here.
The Magi had caught wind of Papyrus' untapped potential and thought: perhaps, only perhaps, he could be essential to guiding Frisk back on the path of good.
After all, fate revolved around that child. That child who he so affectionately would end up calling…
The Golden Quiche.