Mezil Thyme of House Berendin.
The Vampire of Time.
Each grave of victims added unto the weight of unfulfilled dreams.
The Supreme Judge’s power is great.
The responsibility, even greater: for they carry the hopes of all who didn’t survive.
Many would wonder if a child should hold such responsibilities. Those were once his only thoughts, but not anymore.
Now he had another question:
‘Can I trust this person with anything at all?’
Lying face-down on the ground was the child who set the monsters free.
Saviour.
Murderer.
Both at once.
The judge stood over the judged, sword in hand. The blade he wields represent the authority of his words.
He rested the cold, sharpened edge on Frisk’s dampened neck.
“Does this feel familiar to you?” said Mezil. “It should. There is a spirited young man who’s always believed in you. And yet… your rampant RESETS dragged him away from the sun. Imprisoned him back under the Earth, and set his head on a guillotine with your name on it. You ended his life. Again and again.”
“Yet, despite everything, he still believed in you.”
Frisk squirmed. Just a minute in, and they’re regaining control of their basic motor functions.
They’re refilling their Determination faster than I can consume.
Such is the power of a Pure Red. Little wonder why everyone wants a claim on their life.
…Fools.
Mezil pushed the edge closer. Not enough to prick the skin, yet enough to make the kid feel the pressure.
Frisk stopped struggling. A wise action. Any movement would earn them a shallow cut across the neck.
The judge heard a soft mutter.
‘Is Papyrus okay?’
They had asked the same question before.
How could this person show concern for Papyrus in one world, then execute him in the next?
“Let me be clear, Frisk. I do not understand you. Your motives. Your aspirations. Your desire. None of them. You’re the purest Red I’ve ever encountered, filled with nothing but Determination.”
“Allow me to explain. The majority of Red Majors do not come pure. Our Minor traits shift our resolute, determined nature to their inclinations. Victory is always anchored to the other six Aspects.”
“So, tell me, what are you?”
Silence from Frisk. Was it the fact that they could not reply, or refused to answer? Defiance? Confusion? Mezil doesn’t know.
“Perhaps you need some help. Very well, I shall provide some. Let me tell you about those whom I had judged.”
Mezil pondered where he should begin.
There had been so many.
He needed a variety of motivations, accompanied by dire consequences, each connected to the threads of fate.
He recalled one such an event, unfolding in the span of a few days:
The War of the Red Victory.
He began: “Do you desire to protect your king and country?”
“I once met a soldier from an oppressed minority. He was noble as he was kind, going to any lengths to provide his people much needed security. Alas, his love was limited to a few: he won’t hesitate to eradicate others if it meant the betterment of his people. In the end, he’s no different from his oppressors.”
No response.
“Do you desire exclusive knowledge?”
“Some wish to possess the Keys of Fate to study the cosmos. Nothing wrong in itself. But, is this pursuit worth the cost of lives? There was one who considered life to be the greatest simulation. Action. Inaction. All numerics and data. The fate of humanity cannot rest on such a person.”
No response.
“Do you desire to escape from the shackles of mundanity?”
“I once met a simple housewife who gave up her career to manage a home. Dreamed of the power and excitement that came with the world of magic. Alas, her nightmares turned true as well. The wicked hunted her down like predator to prey. Ill-prepared both in body and mind, her magic failed to save her from their hands.”
No response.
“Do you desire power?”
“To become an unstoppable force with the perfect cover, that was the path of the Legendary Hero, no-- Genocider: founder of Gungnir and creator of the Persona system. Always victorious, in battle and in escape. Many die for this fruitless mindset. Many more consumed by me.”
No response.
“Do you desire control?”
“Is reality a game to you? Where people are pawns and life is all but a stage? That you could play without consequence? If that is your answer, I will end you without hesitation. It is against my creed to let such manipulators live.”
Still, no response.
“Hmm… Have you ever heard of the ‘Ascension’? Perhaps you did. Perhaps you had forgotten. Nonetheless, I shall explain again: when a person’s mind, body, and heart achieve unison, their Psychia unleashes the pinnacle of power. Potential is magnified, and all limits are broken.”
“That is how I -- a man of no magical training -- survived the fires of Hell and turned back time.”
“The Ascension is often summarized as an oath. In my case, it’s something like this: ‘As long I walk on this Earth, I shall preserve peace. No schemer nor manipulator shall tarnish the hearts of the pure for their sick and twisted amusement. My loved ones must be protected, no matter what’.”
His loved ones…
His thoughts wandered to Lucidia, that shy and delicate crystal. She reflected the many facets of brilliant radiance. The beauty of life that Mezil once considered a mere fantasy.
He then watched that same prism shattered in the toying hands of the wicked. Hacked into a weapon with lies, stained and tarnished by blood.
Papyrus, sunshine personified, would surely suffer the same.
His loud and egocentric outbursts are like blinding glares to the unacquainted, but his wife took a liking to the young man nonetheless. In time, he will shine much-needed light in an otherwise dark world.
Question is, can he handle it?
The powerful and the self-centered believe they’re above consequences. They mock the good and exploit the pure for their own gain. Evil personified; they cannot risk having their wretchedness exposed by the Seer’s Eye.
Then there’s the weak and disbelieving. They also fear those words of prophecy. Hide their heads in the sand. Hearing nothing but their own delusions. Ignorance personified; they know no counter to the coming storm.
Once upon a past timeline, such cynicisms already threatened to drown out hope.
* * *
Lucidia paced before Mezil’s desk, fuming so hard that her being defied gravity. The ends of her massive curly hair and the fabric of her sapphire dress danced as though she’s under the sea.
Loose coin change floated around her. They didn’t remain as usable currency for long: bending and squeezing into tiny lumps of compressed metal.
Dear husband hadn’t seen his wife so furious since… he can’t recall. Lucidia may be fussy and moody at times, but this temper was a whole different reality.
“How DARE they!” She huffed. “No one strips my husband in public! I don’t care if they’re humans or monsters or even a deity, such humiliation is unforgivable!”
Mezil replied, “I’m not affected by it. In fact, it would be safer to say that their stunt backfired. Full-body tattoos had a tendency of inflicting fear into the hearts of others.”
He meant every word. At the very least, he could take comfort knowing that his underwear was left intact. In the end, it's no different from going to the beach.
Getting caught in Sans’ blasters was the more frightening experience in retrospect. One more hit and he'd be dead if it weren’t for Frisk’s non-lethal stance.
“I’m more concerned about the young Seer. The way the town treated him, it’s either he’s a child or he doesn’t exist. That troubles me.”
Lucidia said: “Papaya attempts to catch attention by being loud and self-glorifying at all times. Unfortunately, this results in an unconscious desensitization to his presence. It’s like white noise: it eventually fades into the background.”
Mezil rose a brow. “Did you just call him ‘Papaya’? He's not a sweet tropical fruit, dear.”
“I-I mean Papyrus!” She flustered. “Mmgh, how unprofessional of me. I shouldn’t be making this mistake.”
Lucidia had misheard his name in the first timeline. As a result, his data folder was not named ‘Papyrus’, but ‘Papaya’. The name stuck, despite subsequent corrections in the files themselves.
“It’s alright,” he replied. “It’s a cute nickname. Would you address him as such when you meet face-to-face?”
The wife flustered. “No! Not at all! U-unless he wants to.”
Lucidia stared down on the ground, sad and downcast. “I never had the chance to speak to him before. Or, anyone from Ebott Town for the matter. I hoped that this timeline would be different…”
“Maybe you’ll get a chance in the next one.”
“Will there be a next one? You no longer have the Keys of Fate. If Frisk RESETS again, the world might end. The likelihood is very high.”
What should he say?
Her concerns were valid. On the accounts of honesty, Mezil knew he too dreaded that possibility.
However, he wouldn’t be alive today if he gave into despair. He had to be strong: for his wife and himself.
“I’ll figure something out,” so said the husband. “As long the Barrier remains broken, I can reclaim my powers.”
His phone started to ring. The number came from none other than Papyrus.
Mezil answered the call: “Yes? Mezil Thyme here.”
“MISTER MAGUS… DO YOU HAVE TIME FOR A CHAT?”
There’s a strange unstable quality to Papyrus’ voice. Almost as if he’s on the verge of slurring.
“I do. Please give me a moment to set things up.”
Husband and wife nodded to each other. Lucidia gathered all the crushed coins before she retreated to a hidden chamber. There, she will monitor the call without causing any accidental interference.
Mezil never liked spending any longer than ten minutes on a direct phone call. The awkward arm position in combination with some old scars caused more irritation than its worth.
He put on a wireless headset and activated the microphone. “I’m done now. Sorry about the wait.”
“IT’S ALRIGHT.” Said Papyrus, “It’s… alright…”
“Excuse me?” For a moment, Mezil thought that someone impersonated his proxy.
“Um. I know… you’re not used to hearing this voice. I am usually very energetic. This is just me, minus the energy.”
“The last time I had this… was Alphys’ lab? When I got my superpowers. But. It hurt so much they had to give me lots of medicine. Then there’s another time I had the sneezles.”
Something’s wrong. Mezil could tell. It’s still Papyrus’ speech patterns, but without his usual boom.
He heard the unmistakable clink of glass in the background. It soon got followed up by glugs of liquid.
It’s a rhythm he had heard too often back in his old home and at his post-school part-time job.
“Papyrus. Are you drinking?”
“Uh… I-it’s important to stay hydrated! Even if. I’m. All bones.”
Mezil couldn’t decide if that’s the worst lie or the best diversion.
“Even if you look like a skeleton, it doesn’t mean you’re the same as the dead shells of humans. You’re a living being. Life needs proper nourishment.”
“Yes! Yes. You got that right. You really are very smart, Mister Magus.”
Mezil frowned. “There’s no need to lie to me, young man.”
“Lie? W-why would I do that to you? Lying is… is…” Papyrus couldn’t finish his statement.
With a firm yet reassuring voice, Mezil repeated: “You don’t need to lie to me.”
“I…”
“Hmph. Who do you take me for? Even if you try, I can perceive the truth.”
In his heart, Mezil bit his tongue. Some bad habits refuse to die. He’s fully aware that this isn’t the time for him to sound harsh.
…Yet, he did it anyway. The close and the perceptive could read between the lines. Anyone else would have misunderstood his well-meaning intentions.
Papyrus chuckled from the other side of the line. It quietened down.
“Was that normal?” Mezil asked.
“Huh?”
“The way the town treated you. Was that normal?”
“No? I-I mean, they’re nice to me! Things got better since I got on the Surface. People started calling me by my name! Usually. Usually it would be ‘Sans’ brother’. Undyne never did that. But she’s not here now. She. She really cares about me. A-and then there’s Monster Kid! They know my name! Um. I don’t… I don’t know theirs.”
There’s something off about the whole situation. As far as he could tell, Sans held his brother in high regards. Frisk did too.
Why didn't the others?
Why didn’t they support Papyrus when he needed it the most?
“What about Frisk? And your brother, Sans. Is this how they treat you too?”
“No. Sans. Sans is very good to me. I mean, he never got mad, even if I break something. He’s always very patient.”
“And Frisk is my best human friend! The… the very best. That’s because they’re the only one. Wait… Oh! I’m so sorry, Mister Magus. You are human too! You are the second best! Yes. Right next to Frisk. Not number two, but the second number one. Miss Aunt can be the third number one!”
Papyrus started to sob.
“I’m sorry.”
The young man’s words shook more and more with every apology.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Everyone treated you so bad. They set you up for the worst jape. They ganged up and wrecked your fancy clothes. I-it must be expensive and time-consuming to make! And they ruined it!”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“I failed to get the town to like me, Mister Magus. To trust me. Because they can’t trust me, they refuse to believe you’re good. You made me your all-important proxy and I failed you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m so… sorry.”
Stop. Saying. Sorry.
Mezil urged himself to comment. Carefully, because he didn’t want the wrong words to further deepen those wounds.
Relationships had never been his forte.
“Papyrus,” he answered at last. “It’s nothing. I’ve been through worse.”
The sobbing intensified. That attempt of reassurance backfired. In hindsight it was a half-baked effort still.
“We’re supposed to be the better people! The library books said that monsters are made of Love, Hope, and Compassion. So… so… why?”
Mezil grit his teeth at the sheer injustice of this situation. Why the hell should Papyrus -- the sole person who didn’t participate in the mockery -- shoulder the blame?
He slammed his fist on the table and exclaimed: “Enough about them! I’m worried about you more than anyone else! Didn’t I tell you already? Perceiving the truth is my job!”
Whether or not he realised it, Mezil had lost his cool. “One, you’re drowning your sorrows with alcohol. Two, the whole town looked down on you! Unacceptable!”
“I don’t care if one kid, or some friends, or even your family hail you as great on a normal basis! The true test comes when a storm rolls by! If they’re not there when you fall, then what’s the whole bloody point?!”
Mezil’s vision had gone blurry from the well of tears. It reminded him too much of his own childhood, of how his unhappy parents would waste their time behind a bottle.
They became quiet. Too quiet. They never abused him. Never hit him. Never took out their frustrations on their children.
But with that kind of silence, they might as well not exist.
The dysfunction grew more and more obvious as Mezil grew older. They stopped running the house. His own siblings? Hopeless addicts to their own vices.
In the end, it was his job to pick up their mess. It eventually became his life’s description. Always having to fix the stupidity of humanity with his time-travelling powers…
Mezil couldn’t give a damn about ‘humanity’. He just wanted a peaceful world for his loved ones.
Papyrus started to laugh. It’s soft, but delighted.
“You only get angry at the people you care about. I’m so happy.”
Again, Mezil lived up to his newly-crowned tsundere title.
He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. “If you want to show your gratitude, put that bottle away. I won’t let you become an alcoholic. Face the future with determination!”
“Actually… I can’t,” answered the young man. “I’m telling you this because you’re the only one who’d believe me.”
“I looked forward in time. Before I made this call, that is. I wanted to see… what I could do to help you.”
“…It’s a dead end, Mister Magus. So much fire. So much violence. Blood and dust, everywhere. And I can’t do anything to change our current course. You can’t either.”
“You have… um… until tomorrow. Sorry. It’s kinda short notice.”
Mezil heard a swish of that legalized drug through the microphone.
“Apparently, strong alcohol makes me forget things. I wouldn’t know I sang a drunk opera if Sans didn’t record my shenanigans. So. I have to forget. Otherwise, I can’t be myself. And if I’m not myself, everyone will notice. They will think you had done bad things to me.”
Another glug went down. Followed by more sobbing.
“…I can’t deal. I’m not my brother. No, my brother can’t deal with it either. We don’t know how. We don’t know anything. We’re just two immature, pretending kids, keeping each other happy with sweet lies.”
“You’re right, Mister Magus. You’re right on so many levels. No wonder you can’t trust us with Frisk.”
Why does it break his heart to be right?
Finally, finally someone admitted that the monsters weren’t prepared for the Surface. He should be glad.
Yet…
It’s so bitter.
“Mister Magus?” Papyrus asked. “Can I ask a favour? I… I won’t remember it when I wake up tomorrow. But…”
“For certain,” Mezil answered. “I will honour it, even if you don’t recall your own request.”
“Teach me. Guide me. Help me grow. I want to be someone who can deal with the bad things. To face them without needing lies or questionable bitter liquids. Please.”
How could any teacher decline such sincerity? Mezil replied: “I will do everything within my power to provide the best education for you.”
“Thank you.” Sweet, genuine gratitude resonated from his every word. “And one more thing.”
“Hm?”
“Mister Magus… please believe in Frisk. Please believe in Sans. I know they’re not nice to you in this timeline. But, they can choose to be good. They just need a little encouragement.”
The skeptical judge scrunched his brows. “Even after all of that, you’re still on their side?”
“Of course! I’m their coolest friend and brother after all! If I don’t believe in their goodness… who will?”
“Hmph. They have to return the sentiment. Otherwise it’ll just end up in a cycle of betrayal. I will not have any of that nonsense.”
Mezil imagined Papyrus smiling on the other side. He knows the youngster enough to be certain.
“You won’t hear this side of me anymore. I guess… the ‘OOC Papyrus’ will be ‘dead’ by morning. So…”
“Please, save us. I believe in you.”
Papyrus choked as he uttered his tearful farewell. “Goodbye.”
The call ended there.
Mezil stared at his phone for what seemed to be eternity.
“Mezzy?”
The voice of his dear wife caught his attention. Her lineage may be of bone, but her soul beats the life of any other human.
She smiled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so emotional over a new person.”
He responded: “It’s been a long time since someone new believed in me.”
Faith.
Mountains move and sky parts on such a small, often-scorned seed. The world will attempt to trample it again and again… only for it to sprout elsewhere.
The Vampire of Time then made his decision. If this timeline cannot be salvaged, he must do everything he can to make the next one count.
This could very well be his final chance.
“Lucidia, contact Gaelic. We need to map the safest route to Ebott. By sunrise, all hell will break loose.”
* * *
A true prophet ignored.
Such blasphemy.
Never again.
Never.
Let his own hands stain. Not others.
Mezil pulled his sword upwards. The razor sharp slice made a shallow cut on the skin and implanted another Mark of memories.
He thus narrated the playback, as he had done before this moment.
“There were three known survivors of Ebott’s massacre. Sans Serif, Papyrus, and you. No more. The Gungnir plucked their golden child from the dusty battlefield as a prize of victory. They call it ‘rescue’. You know better than that.”
“With the Magi in forsaken ashes, it became difficult to track you down. Lack of manpower and equipment greatly complicated matters. Papyrus tried his best, but the Gungnir kept you in total darkness to hamper any Seer-related efforts.”
“Hours turned into days, days turned into a week. Only then, the combined efforts of my surviving Seers managed establish contact with a willing informant.”
“Are you surprised? Yes, it’s Linda: the one who constantly riled Cenna with her Gungnir-poisoned statements. The madness finally opened her eyes to the true ugliness of Persona’s remnants.”
“Linda told us that your captors planned to smuggle you out to their stronghold in a different country. Did a poor job in keeping you healthy as well. Despite all her unpleasantries, she’s still a mother at heart. Your maltreatment must have bothered her deeply to turn against her former allies.”
“With new information, we stormed their hideout. We managed to break you free from their dungeon. As we feared, you were malnourished and dehydrated.”
“It’s amazing that you did not RESET, for you had done so over less. Was it because of a half-baked promise? Perhaps guilt from your failure? Or maybe, fear of the DEMON?”
“I hurried you to the Crimson Hall via a makeshift Spirit Gate. Only there is it possible for me to plant a Claimed Mark. The Keys of Fate were then returned to me. And here we are today.”
Mezil took a deep breath. So much to question, too little time.
“Back then, before the clock rewound, we didn't get much chance to talk. Yet there's so much to discuss. Tell me, ‘Child of Mercy’, why did you kill him? Why did you kill Papyrus? Was it because he's easy? Because he’s trusting? Innocent? The so-called ‘idiot’ brave enough to fight without violence? Is that it?”
Frisk yelled: “No!!!”
“No? Does that mean you killed him because his purity aggravates your darkness? Is his light too bright for you? Or maybe, you thought it might be fun?”
“Which is it, ‘Child of Mercy’?!”
Frisk got back on their feet. Will they fight back, or remain silent?
The two engaged in a glaring standoff.
They’re upright now. Growing agitated. Desperate. Which means soon… I will need to put my sword skills to good use.
“You did not respond with words,” he said. “Should I take that as a confirmation of your sins? Very well then, show me your darkness!”
His soles tapped on the ground. Upon which his Mark shifted his position to close in the distance. Aimed the tip of his blade off to the side so he’d just graze their cheeks at most.
Frisk dodged it despite their handicap. Impressive. He wondered if they can keep it up.
“Is it abandonment? The belief that you were thrown away into a care institute? Therefore, you had no need to bother with those who live and breathe?”
No response.
Mezil executed a series of slashes. The kid hopped back, avoiding each one.
However, by the fifth attack they lost their footing and fell. It’s a lapse in defense the cruel will surely take advantage of. Right now, the Judge must play this role; he leapt forward for a downward strike.
Living up to their reputation, Frisk rolled aside. They’re athletic enough to recover, swinging their legs upward to execute a swift hop back to their feet.
“Is it betrayal? Do you resent your friends and family for failing you in your greatest time of need?”
Another slash. Another dodge.
“Is it hypocrisy? No one is perfect in this world. No one can fully understand each other. No one. You are no different. So why do you blame?”
Frisk had too much ground. Very well. The Crimson Hall exists in the Void where everything was digital. As such, the standard laws of material physics don’t apply.
In a single swing, Mezil cleaved the ground beside him. That entire section collapsed into the sea of crimson.
“Do you remember the exorcism, Frisk? Did you know that you once died, and the nation held a wake for you? Did you know Papyrus offered himself to save your life on the first opportunity? You don’t. But, I do.”
“That young man struggled countless times to save you. He stared at the darkness of everyone he knew. How they became twisted images of themselves under the circumstances you put them through!”
He cut away another section. It’s now half of its original size.
“Papyrus cried over his own flaws. Witnessed the worst of his brother, his parents, and his uncle. Discovered the truth behind his own isolation and the gifts he was denied.”
Slice.
“You think you’re abandoned? You think you’re betrayed? You think others are liars? From what I see, you and his miserable excuse of a brother are the real traitors! I had never seen such disrespect for a true clairvoyant Seer in my life!”
Slice.
“You ignored his pleas! You ignored his warnings! You treated him as though he’s a forgettable child when he’s doing his damndest to save you!”
Slice.
“Yet, despite everything. He. Still. Believed!”
By the time Mezil’s done, there’s only enough space for two people standing face to face.
Frisk looked around in distraught. There’s nowhere left to run. Nowhere to hide.
“Prove to me that you will not betray the world on your whims! Prove to me that darkness will not consume you! Prove to me that you are worthy!”
Still no answer.
Only silence.
Why?
The Gungnir believed that they could own Frisk.
Fools. Shortsighted fools. Do they really think it’s possible to bend a Pure Red to their will? Impossible. Mezil knew there’s no guarantee that Frisk would adhere to the Magi tenets either.
Who knows if they will become a person deadlier than Persona in the coming decades?
Frisk must come to terms with themselves… or pay the ultimate price.
Reinforcement, activated. Mezil’s charged arm grabbed the child by the shirt. Lifted them off the ground to stare at them in the face.
No matter how they struggled, he refused to let go. He cannot let go. Not until he’s certain that his decision to preserve this life won’t bring future calamity.
“So I ask you now: why did you Ascend? What is your oath? Tell me!”
There and then, Mezil felt a sharp force striking him square in his gut. In the midst of their trashing, Frisk had kicked the most cursed spot on his body.
It’s none other than the Persona’s Mark.
The wounds inflicted on that fateful day returned. Fresh. Raw. The lightning gored through his innards like it had done so many years ago.
Blood ejected up his throat. It sprayed on Frisk’s horrified face. That was the last thing he saw before the corrupted Determination skewed with his mind.
Mezil fell to his knees. Stabbed his sword to the ground to stabilize himself. When he did so, he noticed that his legs sank into black quagmire.
Mud. Tainted, filthy, mud.
The symbol of those who had lost their Love and Compassion: the substance of the restless dead.
It first consumed his blade.
“No…” he muttered. “Why now?”
Gone were his trademark butterflies. Sickly red thunderclouds loomed overhead, pulsing scarlet whenever lightning leapt across their playground.
“It appears you never believed I’m dead.”
Standing before him was the shadow of his nemesis and the creator of this demonic realm.
The Persona.
His eyes and mouth glowed with sheer Determination.
“It’s Gungnir tradition.” So said the confident shadow. “As long as this Hex exists, ‘I’ still live.”
Mezil snarled. “How wishful. You’re nothing but a mere figment of imagination now. Some twisted personification of my darkness.”
“Oh? If that’s the case why didn’t you just turn yourself into a Lich sooner? I know you, Mezil. More than you’d like to admit. You fear that I might hijack your remnants during the conversion ritual.”
“I wonder… what would be the first joy of my new life? If she’s human, I’d want to ravage her as I had done to you. Lucidia, was it? Alas, she’s all bones. It’ll probably be much more satisfying to crush her piece by piece.”
A surge of righteous rage numbed the pain from those internal injuries. Mezil put all his might to push himself off the ground. Stand tall, stand ready to deliver death to the deathless.
“I’ll deny you.”
The Persona narrowed a glare. “Such disgust! Have you forgotten how your paltry band of justice warriors killed my lovers? An eye for an eye, I say. Tooth for tooth. Hand for hand. Foot for foot. And blood for blood. Your wife for mine.”
“Tsk. They had it coming.” Mezil retorted, though deep inside he knew had no right to vilify their demises. Dear Lucidia always wondered if there was a better way.
“And now you’re testing a mere child? Talk about a fucking joke. They won’t help. You know this deep inside. If they’re as gracious as everyone claims, this ‘Frisk’ would have tried talking to you. Instead, they chose MY path. Tried to rid the world of those puny monster lot. Says everything, hm?”
The Persona crossed his arms and leaned to one side. Cocky. Arrogant. Some things refuse to change.
“You know what? Who cares about your weak excuse of a body anyway? All you have is your good aim. No strength nor athleticism. If it weren’t for your witchcraft, you’d be nothing. But here we have someone who surpasses you before even hitting puberty.”
Lightning flashed overhead.
A star emerged from the nothingness. It appeared right next to Persona. When the shine faded away, it was none other than Frisk.
The child sat up. Confused. Terrified. Realised that they’re in mucky goop.
They looked up at Mezil and asked: “Where are we? I can’t shake this stuff off...”
Frisk’s Psychia popped out of their chest against their will. The child grabbed it, trying their very best to squeeze the magic back into their body.
It refused.
Mezil felt his heart sink.
Is this still a hallucination?
Please let it be a mad nightmare.
Please don’t make this real.
Please, God. Let him stay dead.
The Persona rested his hands on Frisk’s shoulders. They froze upon contact. The controlling had begun.
“Well, well, already penned your signature I see. Always so greedy, Mezil Thyme. Claimed all the Reds as your own and left none to make their choice. How infuriating.”
“That’s different now. You and I share the same body. Which means… I can rebrand your frilly design with something better.”
Currents of electricity zapped across the butterfly mark. Each pass corrupted it into a whole new image, one that fit the DEMON’s reign of terror.
Mezil urged his body to move: to reach out so he may reinforce his will upon his calling card.
His strength failed. Completely. Utterly.
A bolt of lightning now controlled the very essence of Frisk’s being.
The Persona laughed out of joy. “Now THIS is what I call willpower! It truly is the purest Red. Little wonder why you’re so desperate to keep them out of Gungnir hands. Oh? What about this little trinket?”
Against their will, Frisk displayed the Trap Harvester.
“Hah. So they’re the new owner of this stupid watch? What a rich legacy. Wonderful! Not only I have the perfect host, I will also gain one of the most lethal Magi weapons in existence!”
Mezil felt his chances of survival slipping away.
If Frisk becomes fully possessed by the Persona, the end is nigh.
“Frisk!” he called out, “Fight the influence! Be determined! Do NOT let that man own you!”
To his horror, The Persona gripped Frisk’s arm and forced them to use the Trap Harvester.
“So meddlesome. I wish you stayed a near-mute like during our schooldays. Made life so much easier for the both of us.”
“Now, my new Persona,” so he said. “Why don’t you enact some sweet revenge for all the nasty things the ‘Supreme Judge’ had done to you? Look at him, halfway in the grave. Yet he’s telling you what to do with your life. Don’t you feel stifled?”
Frisk’s arm trembled.
Try as they might, they can’t escape the DEMON’s clutches.
Mezil too continued his struggle to act. It’ll be a matter of time before The Persona drops his fatherly facade. This moment of suggestion will be his sole opportunity to retaliate.
“You can’t decide? I have a few suggestions. His dominant hand is the left side. Which means it’s also the deadliest. Why not remove that?”
The child shook their head.
“Is that too much? What about his right then? I’m sure a person can live without a limb or two.”
Again, Frisk declined.
“We should go back to your leg idea. See them rot all the way through. Or shall we raise the bar and rid ourselves of the lower half of his body? Doesn’t the prospect make you even the slightest bit curious?”
“...Please. Target the SOUL.” They proposed.
“Hmm? You wish for me to have this body? Interesting. Let’s draw it out then.”
The Persona claimed Frisk and charged up the Trap Harvester.
Aimed it at Mezil’s Psychia -- or SOUL -- as the monsters dictated. When the beam comes into contact, it will temporarily disconnect Mezil’s body from his will, thereby allowing complete control by the Persona. Or so he concluded.
Papyrus. Your faith in others will have to remain a mere dream.
Curse me to Hell if you must. That is where I belong. It’s where all of us DEMONS belong.
Blood for Blood, was it? The consequences of our dark ways.
Mezil yanked his sword out of the mud. Lifted its glimmering edge high above his head with the intent to strike through both Frisk’s and his own SOUL in a single swift blow.
Father. Gaelic. Please take care of Lucidia. Papyrus too.
We will meet no more.
At the very last moment, Mezil’s sharp eyesight spotted a radical change of events.
Despite the legendary strength of humanity’s worst DEMON, The Child of Mercy slammed the reversed side of the Trap Harvester right into their Psychia.
The quagmire quaked. The air trembled. Time itself began to slow as the child glowed brighter and brighter from the feedback loop.
At the peak of their brilliance, a massive light exploded outward.
Not merely a star.
Brighter than the sun.
A supernova.
Mezil wasn’t sure what happened next. Did he get knocked off his feet? Somehow, he didn’t think so. He didn’t feel a flat hard surface slam against his back like usual.
When he came to, he found himself squinting at the shine of a red-blessed child. Sometime between his consciousness, Frisk had hugged him. Buried their face deep into his coat to boot.
The titular ‘Child of Mercy’ had become the embodiment of their Mark: a powerhouse of Determination, burning itself to bless others.
Emptied of its contents, the Trap Harvester resonated its ticks like any normal pocket watch. The serenity of peaceful DT suppressed Persona’s curse in a stillness that seemed like an eternity.
“I’m sorry.”
At long last, Frisk looked at Mezil to speak. Their eyes glowed red: a proof of their Ascension.
“I’m so sorry.” The child sobbed. “I can’t answer your questions. Ever. What did I want? I don’t know. I think… I was trying to look for a solution. A golden path where everyone can be saved and live happily ever after. But… the more I tried… the more hopeless Surface life became. Everything directed me to what I thought was the truth: ‘You must sacrifice some to save others’. That’s how it began. The killing.”
“I think I pitied Papyrus. He’s trying so hard. Always trying so, so, so very hard. But, he never really got anywhere. He didn’t hold any important jobs. No friends either. So I thought maybe… maybe he’s in pain. He said he wanted to meet ‘Death’. I wondered if he meant it literally.”
“Maybe it’s because he believes in me. Believe that I could make a change. But maybe you’re right, he’s easy because he would never kill someone.”
“Maybe I thought he’s insignificant. Forgettable. I… I can’t remember anymore.”
Mezil said: “But he’s not.”
Frisk nodded. “He wasn’t. But. That only kept me going. See, if killing someone without anyone noticing could change so much… what about the others? The big guns. Undyne. Mettaton. Sans. Mom. Dad. Everyone. Toward which great unknown will this ‘No Mercy’ timeline lead? It’s just… things got worse. Not better. Almost to the point of selling off my SOUL.”
“I was too selfish to realise that the Surface needed help too. Not just the monsters of Ebott. When you won the custody case, I could have waited longer and listened to your story. Of all the painful fighting you endured to protect the world. Instead, I did all sorts of stupid and crazy and idiotic things…”
Frisk admitted: “I really don’t know what I was thinking, Mister Thyme. You said I’m a Pure Red. Just ‘determination’. I guess if I set my mind to it, that’s what I’ll do.”
“When I reached this ‘Ascension’ you talked about, I only had one thing on my mind: ‘Be Determined’. I guess that’s my ‘oath’. I was determined to save monsterkind. Now, I’m determined to save you.”
Mezil still didn’t understand. “Me?” he asked. “What about me? I…”
The metallic taste of hemoglobin served as a stark reminder of his current condition.
“Please stop the Trial,” Frisk pleaded. “You need to go to a hospital and get your insides checked. I don’t want you to die because I can’t decide. If you’re not happy, I’m willing to try again. For now, please… just end this.”
Such sweet concern.
Mezil activated the Grams on his body. Without Persona’s curse getting in the way, he had the liberty to patch himself right up. Soon enough, the pain subsided to just a mild, nagging sensation.
Meanwhile, he had also restored the Crimson Hall to its original form.
Pristine. Clean. Spotless.
“You need not worry,” he said. “Remember what I said? The Crimson Hall creates digital replacements of anyone who enters this chamber. Only the Psychia is real. When we walk out of that door, we will return to our uninjured bodies.”
“We?” Frisk blurted? They stared at him with the innocent wide-eyed gaze of a child.
“Of course.” The Judge replied. “You think I’d leave the most powerful of Crimson Keepers idle in The Void?”
“Crimson Keeper?” A few seconds later, Frisk cupped their hands over their mouth in utter disbelief. “I… I passed? Really?”
“Check your ‘SOUL’.”
They popped it out. Rubbed the surface for any signs of a butterfly or lightning bolt. Mezil knew that they would find none: no Mark could survive that explosion at point blank.
The kid held their breath. Kept pinching their cheeks. Tossed glances at Mezil trying to ascertain that he’s not throwing a bluff.
The Supreme Judge responded with a slight yet approving smile.
“We have a lot of work to do, Frisk.”