Mezil Winston never had much of a choice. Everything boiled down to two decisions: do, or die.
Run the house, or sit in the filth of his dysfunctional family.
Raise money in advance, or join the swarths of debt-laded graduates.
Pull the trigger, or others will pull theirs.
Remain as Supreme Judge, or pass the torch to another person -- ill-prepared to carry the burden.
The answer was as clear as day.
From the beginning, Mezil had the feeling that he’s not so different compared to The Seraphim. It was exactly why he considered that short skeleton to be the most dangerous monster in the known world.
And how right he was.
The King Under the Mountain held Mezil’s hand. ‘Be determined’, the gentle giant urged.
Again, the man was presented with a clear choice.
Fight… or the Persona reigns victorious.
So he struggled. It had reached a point where he comprehended nothing else other than that one sole desire to exist.
Live.
Live.
Live.
Live.
Yet due to his powerless state, his consciousness slipped. Perhaps at some point he had blinked for too long.
He heard voices: the kind king, the sweet queen, and his wild brother of a different mother. They talked, but he did not understand what the words meant.
Everything became a muted mess of rumbling…
…Until at its most silent moment, he heard ‘her’ call for his name.
Mezil stirred from the brink of darkness.
“Lucidia…?”
Warmth filled his veins. Beats of his heart strengthened. The man began to recall the meaning behind the sensations of existence.
He had risen from the abyss of death and washed back to the shores of life.
Breathe. Breathe he did. Each cough and gasp granted him foothold.
When he regained consciousness, he found himself sitting against the wall. Any source of light came from the Crimson Hall. A gloved skeletal hand soothed his chest.
“Are you feeling better?” asked Lucidia.
Dear wife did this routine for years. Where would he be without her support?
“I’m… uncertain.” Mezil replied. “Maybe even a little confused.”
Disorientation shouldn’t be his answer.
“Well fuck. You reeeeally don't look good, Mez. Thought putting ya back into your real body would at least add some colour to your face.”
He turned towards the only person who'd call him by that name.
Cenna stood at the entrance of the Spirit Gate, right beyond the line as well. She sported a hairstyle that Mezil had not seen in over a year.
It's a short boy's cut.
The Ebott people may always remember Cenna as a hotshot with long, flowing locks. But that's not her preferred sense of fashion.
After a brief wobble on his feet, Mezil managed to stand. He faced Cenna to say: “It’s been a while since I last saw you this radiant.”
“Three years, at least?” Cenna replied. She then shook her head. “I’m asking the wrong person. Time stretches on a ton longer for you.”
Right as always. The battle with Persona ended a decade ago, but the whole ‘Undertale’ fiasco added more illusionary years than he could recall.
She asked, “Did Frisky pass?”
Mezil huffed. “Of course. A pure Red descended from two Crimson Keepers… What else did you expect?”
“Hah! Finally! Looks like I can pass over to the Spirit World in peace.”
“Tsk, what’s with that nonsense? You’re not dying before the big mission. We need the strength of your Ascension.”
Cenna chuckled. “Then ya really oughta get the med team here. ‘Cause I’m like, one minute away from bleeding out. Seriously.”
The Vanquisher stretched her arm beyond the borders of the stone gate. It's covered in blood.
It doesn’t take much to connect the cause of her perilous state. “I’m amazed you survived the Seraphim this time.”
“Heh, same here.” She smirked. “A timely blackout blessed my luck for a last minute dodge. Still cut my chest pretty deep though. So, yeah. Blood banks. Medics. High flow diesel. I ain’t gonna step out of this chamber if I don’t see any of those.”
Mezil huffed. “That goes without saying. I’ll get them done as soon as possible.”
“No rush.” Cenna pointed her thumb over her back. “I’ve still got bigger fish to fry. That’ll take a while.”
Her gesture coincided with Jury Number 5 nerding out about Undyne. Clearly not the intended target.
Mezil furrowed his brows. “Are you sure? Even with access to your full might, it’s wasted effort if you don’t have a strategy.”
Cenna cocked back her head for a hearty laugh. “Of course I do! I may not be the brightest bulb compared to you and Lucy, but I ain’t a total dumbnut.”
“Trust me, Mez. I got this one.”
Lucidia said: “Judge Caraway, I shall get the Chronograph up and running ASAP. Equipment and medical support are vital against someone of Sans Serif’s notoriety.”
“Sweet!” The Vanquisher chirped. “I’ll let the others know too.”
Leaning a little forward for a whisper, Cenna added: “You better have an antidote for King Goatdad. Last thing I wanna deal with now is an internal fallout.”
In the background, King Asgore tried to prevent a certain someone from skewering a guilt-ridden Gaelic with her trademark spears.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Mezil also noticed that Captain Grillby wore one of his own personal bartender uniforms, a reminiscence of his pre-college days. He questioned the how and the why, but at the very least the humanoid fire helped maintain order.
Lucidia stared at the scenario in annoyance.
“I see Sir Latinoros’ prejudicial stance has once again stirred the hornet’s nest.”
“I’d rather describe it as releasing a crate of angry mambas, to be honest. Snake thematic and all.”
Mezil agreed with Cenna’s imagery, but kept to his own thoughts. He will deal with Latinoros in due time.
“An apt description,” Lucidia continued, “Gaelic’s concoctions are notoriously difficult to delete without his own antidote. I shall try my best, but I can’t guarantee a full recovery until King Asgore Dreemurr leaves the Crimson Hall.”
The woman of magic wrapped her hands around her husband’s arm. Her powers lightened some of his body weight so he could walk without wasting precious energy.
“Judge Thyme, it’s imperative that we make our leave now.”
He nodded.
“Good luck to you, Vanquisher.” Mezil blessed Cenna, “Preserve your life in this skirmish.”
She saluted in the fashion of a police officer. Mezil returned the gesture.
Lucida then shut the stone gates for everyone’s safety. The couple thus made their way up towards the surface. Good thing the elevator’s upper maintenance hatch was already open. Most likely to transport backup down from above, Mezil guessed. Saves them some time.
Lucidia scooped her husband into her arms, princess-style. Should Cenna witness this, she would never pass up the chance to jab at their switched roles.
Sadness weighed down on the wife’s face as they floated up towards ground level.
“Judge Thyme,” she said. “Please steel your heart. Much has happened during the Trial.”
Dear husband started to feel his stomach knot. But, for her sake… he maintained his stoic visage.
It still wasn’t enough to prepare him for reality.
Under his watch, the headquarters of the Magus Association suffered a great razing.
Lower half of the Spire, gone.
All immediate education facilities, gone.
Core infrastructure such as water and electricity, severely damaged.
All that remained intact were auxiliary facilities such as the greenhouse.
Inspecting the damages, Mezil recalled how he walked through the cold, charred streets of years past. It’s a fateful day that continued to haunt him.
On the year of Frisk's birth, the Vampire of Time crushed the Gungnir’s ‘god’.
Many thought it's the end of a legacy, but they were wrong.
The Persona issued a decree long before the battle. Should he depart from the physical world, his cultists had one duty to fulfill:
‘Expose their weakness.’
They thus targeted the city’s Magus affiliated areas, creating a daytime blaze that the masses will never forget. Many dead, more injured.
However, the public did not remember it as a terrorist attack. On 1520 hours, a freak earthquake stemming from Mount Ebott shook the region. It caused industrial malfunctions on massive scale, further exacerbated by Gungnir sabotage.
All ‘scrutiny’ accused the Magi for failing to quake-proof their facilities. Watchdogs and activists questioned the safety of magitek. Malpractice they called it. Fear of magic spread. With that, more and more people agreed to Gungnir ideology.
A new generation of Gungnir thus rose from the Persona’s ashes: one made of anonymous faces from ordinary backgrounds. They’re ignorant, gullible participants in an ancient conflict far beyond their comprehension.
The lines blurred. Persecute anyone, and the naysayers will accuse Mezil as a cold dictator.
But the Supreme Judge refused to let public opinion tie his hands as they had done to his predecessors. Choice was a luxury. Do the dirty work, or more innocents die from his perceived negligence. He can’t afford the latter. Not again.
Never again.
……………………
Despair and helplessness threatened to gnaw on his bones. Chased them away without a second thought. Lack of willpower be damned.
Lucidia debriefed as succinctly as she could. When she described the Gungnir’s current leader, poor Mezil almost flipped his top.
“Yet another son?!” he exclaimed. “Just how many damn bastards does that DEMON have?”
She replied: “About as many as an Emperor could bear, I imagine. He did adopt the ‘productive’ lifestyle of the historical greats after all.”
“Tsk. The fact that Aiden is an Aratet worries me further. If word got out that their tribe has modern Gungnir ties, that country will explode into yet another ethnic war.”
Mezil forecasted his own future to be rather grim. Condemnation sank claws into his back. He was reminded of the textbook definition of insanity: repeating the same faulty actions while expecting different results in the end.
It made him wonder if escaping from the Persona’s clutches again would only lead him down a different deathtrap… one more political and annoying in nature.
“Perhaps I should address the press,” said Mezil.
Lucidia held him back. “No dear, you’re wounded.”
“Am not.”
“I don’t mean the physical sort. With or without your Determination, you are too exhausted to present a solid case. Let Mister Mettaton handle the reporters for now.”
Mezil wasn’t sure if he should be glad or horrified to have that glambot as an elaborate decoy. “Are you certain he’s not going to raise a riot again?”
“I gave him some guidelines.” Dear wife winked. “As long he’s aware of the media’s trappings, he’ll have his way of weaselling around.”
“I thought excessive cunning is a human thing.”
“There’s apparently a saying in Ebott: ‘Mettaton will be Mettaton’. It appears that he's the exception to every rule.”
“Shallow yet shrewd,” Mezil mused out loud. “Frisk’s circle of friends is a rare combination of talent and danger. All in a concentrated spot. It’s somewhat frightening.”
Mezil slouched at the end of his sentence. Tired. Drained. Whatever remaining Determination in his bloodstream had waned…
“…We need to get you to Grandpa,” said Lucidia.
She led him through the path back to the Berendin Manor, straight into the silent darkness of their bedroom.
Lucidia planted a kiss on his forehead. “I need to attend to my duties. Try to relax, dear. Conserve.”
He flashed a weak smile. “Do what you must.”
The sapphire lady shut the door behind her. As soon as the locks clicked, a shadowed figure appeared out of thin air. The glow of crimson ethereal eyes peered beyond the slits of a mask.
Step forward. The bottom end of the staff tapped against the ground.
Another step forward. The golden gem encrusted top lit in scarlet flame.
As the mysterious figure walked, the fabric of his clothes brushed here and there.
“What restlessness,” the figure commented. He had a male voice and a slight echoing timbre in his speech. “Until today, The Persona clings to his miserable existence.”
The charged staff tapped Mezil’s afflicted abdomen. The red flames of this wizard’s magic leapt to the Hex. It flared tall and bright.
Seconds later, this unusual power condensed into the ember-like glows of a Mark.
It’s the Ace of Spades: the Grandmaster’s signature itself. It chained down the destructive tempers of the lightning bolt, granting Mezil relief for the time being.
The one with glowing eyes sat down by the bedside.
“It's rare of you to be this downcast, Winston.”
Mezil stared at the ceiling and sighed. “This is your son-in-law without his stubborn grit.”
“Yet still sharp of tongue. Perhaps more. I gave you some of my Determination. Are you then well enough for a debriefing?”
“Anything to distract me from the silent wallows of my failures, Father.” Mezil responded.
“Even if it means discussing them?”
“Of course. Constructive criticism is better than emotional ruminating. You taught me this throughout the many timelines.”
“That, I did.” said the Grandmaster. “I think it’s clearer than ever that we’re harboring turncoats in our midst.”
“How bad?” Mezil enquired.
After a brief musing, he answered: “Not as dire as the War of the Red Victory, but it might be more complex. It’s still too soon to gauge the full extent.”
“I think I am losing the Seers’ support.”
“Why do you say so?”
The son-in-law replied: “Sir Lawyer insisted that Lucidia should remarry some other ‘worthier’ men after my death.”
“In front of you?”
“Yes, Father. Pissed off Gaelic as usual. I’d honestly let that prick suffer a bite or two.”
“Now, now, Winston. The way of teeth is never the appropriate rebuttal to poor rhetorics. Even if it’s mighty tempting.”
Mezil snickered. Ah, how accurate.
The Grandmaster then commented: “Perhaps your lack of popularity could make a nice catalyst for change.”
“And not spell doom?”
“Monopoly breeds complacency. Should the Lemurian Council cease to change their ways, the Dreemurr Nation will provide valuable competition in all the three major areas: economy, technology, and diplomacy.”
“Go enjoy the company of Ebott. Let the ocean folk know they’re not the only rope to cling on. Soon enough, you will witness many a person’s true colours.”
The Grandmaster rested his staff across the thigh. “With all things considered… I certainly hope the future will give you a new lease on life.”
Mezil pointed at his own face with a skeptical brow. His wife’s father didn’t need to look at him to notice the disbelief.
“You’ve walked a bloodstained path for the entirety of your career. As a result, your victories rarely satisfy. If ever. I know you’ll choose to steep in darkness if it means your loved ones may see the light of dawn.”
“But as your father-in-law, I refuse to abandon you to the fate of demons. Heaven had sent that young Seer to build a bridge of peace for you. Take faith and cross it.”
Faith. It’s a concept that Mezil struggled at a personal level. The notion that he wasn’t limited to just do-or-die was almost too good to be true.
“You never give up, do you?” he commented.
The dark room echoed with soft, hopeful laughing.
“Of course not,” the Grandmaster replied. “Those with the Keys of Fate preserve our sense of self no matter where the cosmos turns.”