The Play of Possibilities continued unabated.
Hours passed like seconds. Days passed like minutes. And here Sans Serif was to watch through it from beginning to end.
Wasn’t that what he had always done? Watching. Observing. Analyzing.
Stayed firmly put while that ‘Child of Calamity’ traversed the Underground…
Now, in this different time and place, he beheld a political crisis that firmly split the Dreemurr Nation in two.
One side favoured the evacuation clause, the other did not.
Asgore was more than ready to quit his job as King. He went live on MTT-NEWS to apologize to the masses, and then declared that he’d lead them one last time on an exodus to the sky.
Those who listened packed as much as they could carry. Brought along everything that fits in a bag.
The other camp stayed behind. They had many reasons: some wanted to defend their sovereignty. Others deemed themselves too old to bother leaving. Then there were those who worried about Queen Toriel.
It’s been a long time since anyone outside of the Ruins had seen her. A growing sense of unease lingered in the air.
The waterworks had stopped all production by now. There’s no one else in the office other than Sans.
He read over the documents one more time.
Tonight marks the end of the grace period.
‘Those who stay behind are responsible for their own safety.’
It pretty much means anyone who refuses to comply will be left for the dead.
……………
Is Cenna really the kind of person to call this shot?
I’m certain Mezil will issue an order like this. But, that noir detective? It doesn’t feel right. With her personality, she’d sooner fight against this notion than condone it.
It makes me wonder if this ‘Supreme Judge’ actually exists.
In Lucidia’s position, I would consider a puppet proxy to support my decisions. Scummy, but it works. Hmm. Nah. She’s not that kind of a person either…
Sans was then interrupted by three knocks. Three aggressive knocks.
“Come on in, Undyne,” said Sans. “It’s wide open.”
Turned out to be Alphys.
Uh. Okay. A fired up Alphys. May be worse than dealing with Undyne. I wonder how much backbone she gained in this version?
“I thought you had long evacuated. You’re part of the mercy agreement, after all.”
Doctor Alphys slapped down a document onto his desk. Signed by King Asgore. What’s left unaccounted for was Queen Toriel’s signature.
“There!” she said. “Right here! With the written permission of BOTH the King and Queen, The Royal Guard will have the legal authority to initiate a forced evacuation.
“That’s a little redundant isn’t it?” Sans questioned.
“No, it’s not! It means we can literally drag everyone to Lemuria by hook or by crook. That’s a huge difference!”
He read the reference number. It pointed to an old system. Ancient. It existed well before The Sealing. Due to some fine print, it’s still applicable in present day.
The only person who would even think of looking that far back would be…
“Did Gaster give this to you?” Sans asked.
Alphys clammed up. The doc must have asked her to keep it confidential.
“It’s okay. I get it anyway. So, you want me to go look for Tori right now?”
“O-of course!” she nodded. “You’re the only person who speaks to her on a regular basis.”
“What is that old man doing anyway?”
Alphys admitted. “Well. The usual. Researching science and law. Reasoning with the populace. Coordinating evacuation efforts. Nothing out of character. Anything odd from your end?”
“Nope. Gaster is Gaster. Always makes sure I have my three square meals.”
“Oh.”
Awkward seconds past. The lizard fiddled with the tips of her claws. Her behavior screamed of bottled up questions, too self-conscious to ask.
“C’mon Al,” said Sans. “You’ve known me for years. I can take it. Ask away.”
Alphys remained still for a moment. Then, she couldn’t hold it anymore and blurted her concerns: “Is Papyrus REALLY in there? What does it mean to ‘merge’ with Doctor Gaster? If he is still alive and well, why doesn’t he talk to us at all?”
“All I see is Doctor Gaster! Ever since that spaghetti night, Papyrus seemed to basically… vanish into the background.”
“I… I miss his presence. His wackiness. …His zany exclamations. More so for Undyne. It all feels so weird.”
Told ya, other me.
He’s a prison in the shape of a man…
That reality’s Sans replied: “He’s there. For sure. Ol’ G is just taking charge now due to our dire situation. I’m sure he’ll will loosen up once the danger passes. Don’t sweat too much about it, m’kay?”
“As for the forced evacuation plan, tell Undyne to prepare. Get the guards ready. Round up the civilians and take them to the Lab. That’s technically still the Underground, so they shouldn’t have any objections. If I don’t announce the good news by the final hour… lead them down the secret entrance.”
Alphys was shocked. “W-wait. But that’s more or less a forced evac-”
“By the time I meet Tori, it’ll be too late.”
“But can’t you just teleport into the Ruins and find her?!”
“Gotta understand her heart, Al. She doesn’t like being shoved into the corner. And what are you gonna do if she refuses to sign?”
Alphys dropped her jaw. “W-what? Why wouldn’t she sign?! Everyone is in danger from this… this ‘Persona’ thing!”
Sans replied, “She could think that it’s a hoax concocted by Lemuria. We don’t exactly know their intentions. That’s a possible reason for Queen Toriel to reject.”
“But YOU know! Why can’t you convince her???”
“Still too late.”
Sans began folding up the document, neither confirming nor denying the lizard lady’s queries. “You better get going.” he said, “Don’t let the red tape kill you, or anyone else. If there's any issues, just pin them on me.”
“What about you?” she asked. “Are you surrendering?”
“I’ll take care of myself.”
* * *
According to the clock, there’s little more than two hours left before the gate to the sky closes.
It’s D-day.
Sans opened his cupboard, swapped his attire and strapped the Seraph System onto his right arm. After concealing the weapon under his sleeve, he pulled up his hood.
To think that in this alternate reality I've left such a different impression on people.
As the owner of a prestigious water plant, Sans Serif the Skeleton certainly wasn't known as the bum who’d wear a sky-blue hoodie, a white tanktop, black short pants, and a pair of pink slippers.
Welp. Some things never change.
One cut through spacetime later, he’s standing before the entrance to the Ruins.
“Knock knock?”
It’s silent.
He kept knocking a few more times, hoping that she’s just upstairs. Maybe reading about snails over tea and crumpets.
Still silent.
She’s not here.
If I’m not a moron, I will teleport into the Ruins and search for Tori right now.
Use that noggin. Please.
Before long he stood before the bed of Goldenflowers. It’s well-kept and healthy thanks to Toriel’s care.
…Not here either.
Sans began searching for Toriel through the entirety of the Ruins.
The puzzles.
The hallways.
The emptied town of Old Home.
Not a single monster remained anywhere, except for their motherly Queen.
Where could she be?
Did I miss her?
Maybe she had already made her way to Undyne and Alphys? Sans checked his phone for messages from the scaly couple.
There were none.
He reached the chamber with the ever-autumn tree. Dry brown leaves crunched beneath his slippers.
There…
His nasal cavities were filled with the aroma of a freshly baked cinnamon butterscotch pie.
Pie? At a time like this?!
Is she trying to have a last supper or something?
Sans hurried to the front entrance. Knocked on the door.
And…
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Toriel answered it.
“Sans!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you to come from the front door. You tried to look for me at the flower patch?”
It took Sans a moment to register her presence.
“Tori,” he said. “Y-you’re safe. I kept knocking at the Snowdin entrance and you didn’t answer. I thought something might have happened…”
The goat covered her mouth and gasped.
“Oh dear, I deeply apologize! You see, I was making some fresh Cinnamon Butterscotch Pie for an esteemed guest.”
“An esteemed… guest?”
“Yes. They claim to be the Supreme Judge of the Magus Association. At first, I thought they’re joking. Maybe hit their head a little too hard in the fall. But then they performed genuine magic before me! Caraway, was it? Ah, yes. It’s after that spice.”
‘They’…? Cenna is obviously a woman. How’d she even get past the Barrier? Did she merge with a monster? Or, a monster merged with her?
While Sans pondered, Toriel continued: “It’s a little sad to see someone so young taking on such a heavy burden. I wouldn’t think someone of their age would try to convince me that their offers of evacuation are genuine!”
That statement caught his attention. “Young? How young?”
“Hmmm, since they’re about your height… I would say somewhere around ten?”
Every bone in his being froze.
Sans grabbed her by the arm. He told himself to flee. Run away. Get out. Exit the Underground. Before that kid takes any further action.
Her confused gaze snapped into a shocked gasp.
It’s too late. Life drained out of her eyes. Her body lost integrity and turned into a shower of dust.
The Boss Monster’s SOUL floated in midair. Got plucked from its spot by a small human hand.
A burst of fire forced Sans to retreat to the ever-autumn tree. A certain stoic-faced human child emerged from the flames, armed with a knife.
It’s Frisk. Supreme Judge Frisk Caraway.
Sans stared at the kid. Dread? Shock? Fear? Anger? All at once?
Toriel, dead. Right before his eyes.
Papyrus, imprisoned. Wrought by his hands.
The one human that he worked for so hard to restore their childhood… came back stronger. Deadlier.
A red star burst forth on their forehead, burning bright and intense. It’s far from the static yellow glimmer that the old Frisk depended on. This overt display of power indicated that the young Magus had long mastered their Red Magic.
He can’t read their stats. Lucidia must have packed them up with lots of protection. It’s clear that they dropped into the Underground with the intent to kill.
Their target: anyone who refuses to leave.
Sans staggered back. Hit the tree trunk. More leaves shook off.
His right arm trembled. Rattled. Dying to get out of that damned pocket to unleash the might of the Seraph System.
His logical mind forced it to stay. All he could do was to resist with a clenched fist.
Sans darkened his sockets. “…Got any excuses, kid?”
Frisk replied: “You didn’t solve anything.”
“Guess not. So, what are you gonna do?”
“Finish the job.”
“Determined as ever.”
Sans summoned his blaster.
Frisk in turn stretched out their arm, eyes glowing crimson.
Then, without warning, a screech rang between his ears.
W-what… what’s happening?!
Innumerable images of his defeats flashed by. Each at the hands of this bite-sized Supreme Judge.
His stomach churned. Sick. Its contents threatened to surge upwards.
Skull, heavy.
Knees, jelly.
Sans fell face first on the leaf-covered floor. Hacked and wheezed from the sheer onslaught of visions.
An overload?!
God! Why does this have to hurt like the real thing?!…
He flipped himself over to get a better look at the kid. Still as straight-faced as ever.
“…Heh. That silence of yours, it speaks volumes. How many times have you killed me?”
“At least a thousand in the span of a minute,” they replied. “Lady Lucidia estimated that’s the limit of your Perseverance. Called it a ‘Link Cascade’.”
Lucidia of House Berendin.
Truly, an outright frightening woman.
“This is… revenge. Isn’t it?”
“Not important,” Frisk replied. “Where are the Six?”
We still have them?
Sans snorted. “Too late, kid. We set them free a long time ago.”
After making the Seraph System, that’s for sure. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to get the DT I required. Not without targeting random live humans.
“Is that the truth?”
“What do I gain from lying? You’re gonna dust me anyway.”
They frowned. “Then someone else lied to you.”
Huh?
Hang on. The kid’s got a point. How exactly did the ‘other me’ let go of them?
In front of everyone in the form of a ceremony?
In private?
Alone?
The kid is super confident… Which means--
“Nevermind.”
They pulled out a gun. It’s the exact same model as the one Mezil used for the Crimson Hall.
“I’m determined to take you with me!”
Shot fired. A round plastic bullet hit his left arm, applying the Supreme Judge’s distinctive Mark over the point of impact.
And that’s when his eyelids grew heavy.
Off to sleep he went.
This too, is what he always does…
* * *
Sans felt a splash of cold water on his face.
Welp. That’s a rude awakening.
Looking down upon his own two feet, he saw that Frisk had wrapped him snug in Toriel’s hallway carpet. Fashioned a rope out of blankets and bedsheets so they could drag him along through the snow.
Gotta give props to the kid for resourcefulness.
The bobbing sway and the scent of water informed Sans that he’s on a boat. In other words, he’s on one of the riverways that connect Snowdin to the rest of the Underground.
“…‘sup?” He asked.
Frisk answered, “We’re gonna look for the Six in Hotland.”
“What make you think they’re there and not at the throne room?”
“Only the True Lab has the means for long-term storage. Plus, it’s on the way.”
“Point taken.”
They grabbed an oar. Tried to steer it, but their inexperience showed in their wobbliness.
Sans then said, “…I know how to row a boat, y’know.”
“No. You stay put.”
“Okay.”
A few silent minutes passed. Doesn’t look like the kid will talk unless spoken to.
“Why do you need the Six anyway?” questioned Sans.
“To become the Seven SOUL DEMON-GOD. That’s why I saved Mom. A monster is needed to stabilize the mix.”
His voice deepened a notch. “You killed her.”
“No,” Frisk replied. “She’s alive. Inside of me.” There was not much conviction in that sentence. They knew it won’t ever be the same.
“There’s no need to break The Barrier anymore.”
“It’s not for that,” said the Magus kid. “I need them in the fight against Persona.”
“That doesn’t make sense. On the power scale, you beat him by a mile. I’m certain you’re the one with the Keys of Fate. Your Pure Red’s not enough?”
“I have the Keys. But, he has the army. I cannot win without the Six. Or your expertise.”
“What kind of army are we talking about?”
Frisk fell silent.
“Welp,” Sans shrugged. “Take your time. I’ll be waiting.”
The transport continued to bob left and right. It’s making Sans feel uneasy. Not from the motion, but from the possible chances of a crash.
“…Kid, we won’t get anywhere this way. Except into a shipwreck.”
Frisk being Frisk, puffed their cheeks in determination.
“Teach me,” they insisted.
Well, that’s one possible solution. “Sure. Follow my instructions.”
After a few hints, Frisk gained the skill to properly steer the rowboat. They’re happy in a relieved way. It’s as though they had went through considerable frustration somewhere….
I think they may have reloaded their SAVE a few times to get things right.
Dang. I’m not reading a dejavu counter anywhere. My Eye got busted bad…
“We’re almost there,” said Frisk. “But. I can’t shake this ‘feeling’, you know.”
“Let me guess: something genre savvy is gonna swoop in soon, right?”
A mysterious object fell from the ceiling. More water to the face.
Tightening their grip on the oar, Frisk confirmed: “Yeah.”
A strange mass smashed through the middle of the boat, snapping it in half.
Down the tumble Sans went.
Strong currents washed him away like a log in the rapids.
The rug and cloth bindings absorbed blow after blow before they unfurled and set him free.
At the very end…
He fell into the underground’s largest collection of rubbish, landing on top of a soft bed of Ebott Goldenflowers to boot. The Cheaters of Death somehow managed to thrive at these depths, removed from the sun.
It took him a few seconds to register that he’s not dust.
“Can’t believe I survived that with my measly 1HP,” he said out loud.
Trash will be trash.
He sat upright. Rubbed his noggin a bit.
“It’s raining… Better get moving.”
It's a long wade through the murky waters of The Dump. Walked past literal mountains of human-made refuse, the contents of which had completely changed compared to the past timeline.
Persona’s influence… It’s everywhere.
A surprise splotch then fell on his clothes.
Huh?
It’s not water. Not this time. It’s made up of this strange, white, sticky mucus… It didn’t soak into the fabric nor did it roll off. Clung to him instead.
He tried to pick it off.
Except, it moved.
It groaned.
It cried.
A scrawny half-melted arm reached out for his face.
An… an Amalgamate…?!
Sans swatted the piece away. Looked around for any others who might want to latch onto his clothes... only to discover that a literal ‘downpour’ of merged monsters had drenched the trash from top to bottom.
Before long, distorted features warped the zone.
Faces.
Mouths.
Eyes.
They floated to the surface of the water as misshapen limbs flailed all around.
The muddled mutterings murmured the words of millions. Sans managed to pick out some of the more prominent:
‘Save us.’
‘Free us.’
‘Join us.’
‘Go away.’
‘I hate you.’
‘It hurts.’
Thus he ran. Water or no water, he must get out of this deadly land of goo.
Into the caverns, he stumbled. Without his Eye, he couldn’t see any shortcuts either.
Where… where’s the exit again?
Left? Right?
I’m lost.
Was he disorientated from the migraine?
Was he thrown off by this misadventure?
Or did he depend on the myriad of shortcuts way too much?
Maybe it’s all three combined.
His pink slippers were gone.
Maybe they got washed away.
Maybe they got stuck in the mud somewhere.
Maybe an Amalgamate ate it.
Don’t care. Can do without them, more so with a looming threat hot on his heels.
He arrived at a clearing. It’s the overlooking view where one can see both the Royal Castle and New Home.
Sans slowed to a stop when he heard the deep, echoing groans.
There, in the distance, he witnessed the ultimate culmination of his errors.
“What the hell…?”
White goo covered every building. Filled every crevice. Overflowed from the windows. And dripped off the highest peak of the castle.
Not even the cavern walls were spared. The mega-Amalgamate had claimed almost all of New Home’s upper ceiling.
In other words, it consumed the city whole.
Damn. I can’t run anymore.
Sans faced the growing ocean. Primed his Seraph System to drain Determination.
A great red lightning then struck the top of the castle spire. The colossal viscous goop fell down in one go. It’s a waterfall as white as snow. The rumbles of their agony reminded him of the bellows of a hot forge.
They rose.
They leaned.
And they crashed towards Sans in the form of a great tidal wave.
Fortunately for him, he had the mind of a supercomputer. Knew where to stand. When to strike. Above all, this alternate self still had the skills to pull it off.
The blade plunged deep into the colossus.
Bullseye. The Seraph’s Mark formed on contact.
In an instant, the river of Determination began to flow: filling up the inbuilt Trap Harvester.
Petrification spread from the point of impact. Alarmed, the abomination tried to withdraw, except the curse of stone spread faster than ever before.
‘Who is he?’
‘What is he?’
‘How did he?’
‘Is he really a monster?’
‘Impossible.’
Wow. Is this the capacity of a full-version?
It’s… it’s amazing. Scarily so.
Sans asked: “Anyone else?”
Just when he thought that he’d have a slight breather…
The voice of a DEMON answered Sans’ cocky inquiry. Curse his smart-alec ways.
“I accept your challenge.”
Disturbance rang in the air. Static grew heavier. Almost muggy. It reminded him of the times when he demonstrated the properties of static electricity to Papyrus.
Spark after spark strained the winged symbol. The cracks grew bigger upon each zap.
On the final strike, a great burst of red shattered the whole structure into burning smithereens.
Sense of dread, rising.
A human emerged from the Amalgamate’s main body. Male. Walked out without a single struggle, as though he passed through but a simple door.
His adversary was a muscle-bound warrior in military camo-style gear. Strong. Scarlet highlights decorated the front of his grey hair. Though his face wrinkled from age, the aura of youthful valour cemented his identity.
It’s none other than The Persona. And his eyes… they shone in the DEMON’s shade.
“You…” said Sans. “The God of Gungnir himself, huh?”
“So, I wasn’t dreaming after all. You’re that Lichborn who meddled with divinity.”
“Not bad for an underground cretin. I’m not sure to call you unfortunate or fortunate to have come this far. Probably the former.”
After a brief inspection, the Persona laughed.
“What’s with your fashion choice? Are you a street hoodlum?”
“Heh. What about you? Is the Surface not enough?” Shrug. Wink. “I mean, I’m just a skeleton.”
“You champions are precisely why I will never rest. Your kind has been a long-standing thorn in my side.”
The Persona unsheathed his trademark weapon. It’s a hooked knife.
“Interesting mechanism you have there. A device that allows Seers to play the victor’s role… I’ll take that. It's wasted on a bag of bones.”
Sans raised a brow.
“Oh, rob the creator and claim it as your own? Typical. As if I’d let you.”
“Then I’ll pluck it right out from your lifeless pile of dust.”
The god of Gungnir touched the abomination, planting a brilliant red bolt of lightning. It resonated with the other smaller pieces.
They fell into a trance. Hypnotized. Like a mental haze.
“Your god commands you… devour that sorry runt!”
And thus, they mobilized. Marched towards Sans with the synchronized order of a battalion.
Since Frisk frizzled out his Eye, he couldn’t zip his way out of there. His Gasterblasters: also disabled. Neither could he use any of the colour-switching magic that half the Seraph System depended on.
So it boiled down to his physical abilities, and a DT-draining knife.
The skeleton attempted to fight his way through the horde. Mark, drain, stab, slice, anything to keep them at bay.
But it’s useless. There’s just far too many. Any that succumbed to stone were swiftly replaced.
Mucky tendrils tied his legs.
Muddy limbs secured his arms.
Marsh fluids filled his ribs.
They whispered: ‘One, we all become.’
“No!!!” Sans coughed the muck out. Struggled. Continued to channel power into the Seraph System even though he’s bound.
He refused to get assimilated.
Refuse.
Refuse.
REFUSE.
Through sheer force of will, the fire in his Eye sputtered.
The decaying poison of Karma flowed out of his being. It consumed the ever-changing flesh of the Amalgamate, bringing the taste of death to the deathless.
They screamed in pain. Terrified. But they feared their cruel god more.
“Surprisingly feisty for a calm talker,” commented Persona. “This won’t do.”
“Your god commands you… prepare for execution!”
Bony hands -- the remnants of his people -- smothered his face. Bent him backwards and spread his arms wide to expose his being to their master.
The dripping fingers forced his left socket to stay open.
Persona’s mighty steps vibrated throughout the zombified army... until at last, he stood right above the skeleton, his blade charged with lighting.
“By the way,” said the human. “Thanks for this second chance at life. I suppose you could say that a swift death is your just reward.”
“Your god commands you to die.”
The final blow pierced straight through the back of his skull. Both the Eye and that measly 1HP, gone in a snap.
That last merciless act ‘Marked’ the end of Sans Serif.