What a ‘perfect’ weather for today.
Doctor Gaster gazed at the gloomy rain. He’s due for another round of interrogation, but Mezil hadn’t given a definite time. A tactic to increase the sense of unease, most likely.
His ever-temperamental right hand smacked Gaster on the cheek. It wasn’t painful, but she kept pushing.
You still won’t let up, Helvetica?
I know, I know. Lady Lucidia was just trying to do her job. But I had to play the antagonist for everyone’s sake.
The left hand joined his wife, sticking his palm on the other cheek. A wimpy strike at best, but it refused to slide off.
Roman. You must be in a terrible mood. Yes you’re right, my ploy has the potential to blow up in all our faces. What else is new?
But if we don’t try to defend ourselves, those humans will just get their way. I can’t let any of the others pay for my sins. Especially not Doctor Alphys. Good lord, her life hasn’t even started yet!
…Would you mind putting your arms down? We don’t want to be caught looking silly before our captors.
After a moment of reluctance, the friends conceded.
Thank you. Now, kindly listen. It’s vital.
As you know first hand, our next opponent is nowhere near soft. In the best case scenario, we could negotiate some form of agreement. But if things take a turn for the worst…
Doctor Gaster readjusted his collar.
Please give me full control of our magic.
The soldiers opened the door for the Magus Judge. The battle of words loomed ahead.
Doctor Gaster was taken to the same room as the day before. The hospital-installed door only served as a convenient concealment to the Living Victory’s personal world.
How strange. Considering the existence of Papyrus’ altered scarf, they have every means to restrain us. Yet they did not take that precaution.
Let us see what gives them the confidence… Only time will tell.
Judge Mezil Thyme of House Berendin sat on the opposite side of the table, with that ever-piercing glare of his locked square in view.
“Hmph,” the human huffed. “You tormented my wife for your own selfish gain. Why should I bow to your wishes?”
Here we go. There’s no turning back.
Doctor Gaster began: “I question your legitimacy of arresting us monster folk.”
“As I had mentioned to Lady Lucidia, we have yet to establish a proper diplomatic agreement between the Dreemurr Nation and the human world. It’s unfair that you hold us accountable to laws we are unfamiliar with. Laws that didn’t exist in the past.”
“Furthermore, though you claim to be a judge, I see only a vigilante. You sir, have no true legal standing. Am I right?”
“Why do you say so?” Mezil questioned. “The Vanquishers are part of the police force. In addition, The Magus Association has their own land, facilities, and headquarters. It requires government acknowledgement to be in the public eye.”
Gaster furrowed his brow. “That will fool only the ignorant. And I am anything but. Do not forget: I was the man scattered across space and time!”
He continued: “In my bouts of consciousness, I wandered through countless libraries. I read. I absorbed. I studied everything about the Surface. That includes the legal system.”
“But The Trial of the Crimson Hall takes place in a realm outside of the human sphere. Since you have no humans in your Jury, your ceremony is unverifiable. I daresay it’s outright illegal!”
“Illegal?”
Mezil’s body language concerned Gaster. He remained still. Unfazed. As though he had heard these arguments to death.
Did Determination make up for his lack of Bravery, or was he standing ground on the base of Patience?
Ugh. Such a stoic. If only I could better read the subtle hints.
“That’s right,” Gaster continued. “You Magi claim to have a deep history with the monarchy, thereby affirming your position. But my parents told me of how the Royal Court sought advice from the Red Sage, only for them to storm out of the door when the truth is not to their pleasing.”
“Still, I digress. Let us suppose those bonds are as tight as you say. Nowadays there is one major difference. Namely: democracy.”
“The monarchies of the modern world have become mere figureheads. True power lies in the hands of the publicly elected. The unknown commoners. They don’t trust you, and you don’t trust them.”
“Yet, despite scandal after scandal, you never once exploited the Keys of Fate to set things right. Why? Same reason they let you continue this harsh, bloody nonsense of a mock trial. It’s all about the status quo!”
Gaster expected a rebuttal. Refutation. Even the slightest withdrawal would be enough to further push his opponent into a dead end.
Instead, Mezil affirmed everything:
“You are correct.” It was a calm, cold, and frank statement.
Why am I the one feeling pressured?
Should I continue my attack as I had done to Lucidia?
Or should I prepare for a counter as Judge Thyme defends himself?
I can’t be too direct. He would shoot down an accusation without mercy.
Could we do a bit of both…?
Doctor Gaster said: “Then, by what authority do you wield judgement of my nation?”
To which Mezil responded…
“By what authority do you wield judgement of me?”
…This chilling aura. That must be what poor Frisk had felt. The two friends within huddled together in his mental space, cowering under the shadow of Judge Thyme.
Curses! A trick question. No matter what I answer, it will just fall back on my skull.
“Your frustration shows, Doctor Gaster,” added Mezil. “You may be used to the needlessly circular plays of semantics your protégé is so fond of, but perish the thought. I mean what I say, and I shall ask you again.”
“What authority do YOU have? Morality? Ethics? History? Pain? All of those?”
The Amalgamate steeled his resolve. If silence was synonymous to defeat, why not march forward instead?
“Why yes indeed!” Gaster lifted his finger. “Each and every one of them!”
Mezil stood up. “Then by that very same authority, I heap my judgement unto you!”
“Tell me, W. D. Gaster. Before your freedom, have you ever disclosed the truth of the ‘Legendary Hero’ to anyone other than Sans Serif?”
Gaster clenched his hands into a fist. “I… did not.”
This time, the judge slammed his hands down on the table. “Then why do you expect me to reveal such to humanity?”
“What do you think would happen if the world knows of the power to turn back the clock? Let alone it being the birthright of a single individual? I’ll tell you right here and now!”
“Nations will throw everything they have to possess that one poor soul. Indiscriminate infighting will flourish at unprecedented scale: a never-ending War of the Red Victory!”
“Yes, we maintain the status quo. That’s because nobody wants to live in fear of magic-imbued assassins prowling at every corner.”
“Do not talk as though you know better.”
The scientist had questioned: Mezil Thyme was known as the ‘Keeper of Peace’.
Peace? In a world full of wretched humans? What does that entail? Impossible without some Level of Violence.
“By your logic…” said Doctor Gaster, “Had we waged war, without Frisk’s timely intervention, elimination would have been your answer?”
“Depends.” Mezil replied, “However, there is one certain detail.”
The Judge’s brown eyes switched to a glaring crimson hue. A digital pistol spawned in his left hand, loaded and ready to fire.
“I will not hold back.”
It pains me to say this, my friends… but I had suspected this a long time ago.
We are here solely upon the mercy of mankind.
“Indeed,” said the Amalgamate. “You may commit genocide on us without a single repercussion. Perhaps that is what the Gungnir did in the previous timeline. DEMON or not… it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Gaster summoned his Blaster. What hope did he have against a seasoned Determinator? None. But he refused to back down without a fair fight.
That was the way of the Dreemurr Nation since the kingdom’s founding.
“Very well then. If that’s the case, I shall defy you lot till the very end. You will NOT pin my sins onto the people I love!”
How would the Supreme Judge react to this bold, futile, and pathetic front of desperate bravado? The same stern manner as with everything else: stoic with a hint of annoyance.
Mezil Thyme dispelled his gun, and the colour of his irises returned to their original shade.
He sighed. “The scenario you propose would only happen as the absolute last resort. Unlike that boastful bowel ache, I still have someone to answer to.”
“Who?” Gaster raised a brow.
“The Grandmaster. Even if you don’t believe in the divine, at least acknowledge my elder’s existence.”
The Supreme Judge pushed himself off the chair. He proceeded to leave the chamber without looking back.
“It’s all up to you now, Father,” so he said.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Father?
What kind of ‘Father’? Are we speaking of direct relations? No, wait. Judge Thyme came from an ordinary background.
A… priest? A Bishop? Organized religion still exists on the Surface. It wouldn’t surprise me if this ‘Grandmaster’ also served as a spiritual leader.
The flurry of pondering intensified when Gaster gazed upon the new, mysterious figure.
Minus the red gemmed staff, every other detail fit the historical illustrations of the ancient founding Sages: from the tailorwork to the mask.
Could it be a uniform?
Not surprising if they dress the part. It’s a sense of hereditary immortality, I suppose. That way, there will always be a ‘Grandmaster’.
The mystery man sat down. For a good ten seconds, no one said anything.
Gaster snapped himself out of the shock. He straightened his back and said: “Why, we meet at last. Mayhaps we monsterkind can finally get proper justice. Your Supreme Judge is quite a character!”
“My, oh my,” The Grandmaster chuckled. “I can see why poor Lucidia had so much trouble. Your inner fire burns more than both of your parents combined, young one.”
And so, he removed his mask.
Underneath the coverings was none other than true solid bone.
Above all…
…He had red, glowing eyes.
It was a figure that Gaster found controversial. Yet, his parents insisted that they pay this man utmost respect. It would be unbecoming for a son of the Seven Sages to protest.
No.
It has to be a different Red Lich. The chances of survival on the turbulent Surface for a thousand years are so low… it’s impossible.
Except, he announced the undeniable: “I am Lord Mezil of Berendin, Grandmaster and Founder of the Magus Association. You should know me by an older moniker: The Red Sage.”
That statement smashed all theories Gaster had crafted in his head. His liquid being quivered. Rippled.
“You…” he muttered. “You’re still alive? You. Outlived all your students?”
“That is indeed the case,” so replied the Lich. “Are you surprised?”
“Surprised? Of course! You’re a walking target! And… and what is with--”
Gaster shut his mouth before he said too much. He could rant to King Asgore, only because they weren’t strangers… But at the teacher of his father and mother? The legend himself?
Thus the man suppressed his heart. “Apologies. Where are my manners? I’m Wendell Dominic Gaster. Son of Shirai and Visigoth. The Orange and Cyan Sages respectively.”
Egads, why is this so difficult?
The Grandmaster nodded. “Ah… those are all names I haven’t heard in a long, long while. Did your parents explain the origin of what you bear?”
Look at him. Acting in such a gentle, familiar manner.
“T-they did. It’s to honour the memory of their first students. My father taught Wendell, and my mother taught Dominic. Both of them, human.”
“Did that displease you?”
“No. Why should it? Such a trivial detail. They were good to their teachers. I-I am fully capable of separating their species from their personhood!”
The Grandmaster commented otherwise: “Your Armament certainly doesn’t seem to think so.”
“Excuse me?” Gaster blurted.
“The Skull. It’s been there since you threatened Judge Thyme.”
Gaster turned around. The summon had started to change colour. Its cool cyan threatened to turn orange. And when that happens, it’s going to rampage.
He jumped out of his seat and proceeded to restrain the Blaster. “Stop! Yield! Go away!” He commanded, but it refused to listen and struggled under his grip.
“Egads, I can’t have you cause trouble now.”
The Lich had slipped up close for a personal inspection. How silent and near-invisible he was, despite his lofty position. With a tap of the tip of his staff, the elder tested the Blaster’s wild disposition.
The skull reacted. Nervous, It snapped open its jaws with the threat to fire.
“Just as I thought,” said the Grandmaster. “You have the magical mastery, but you never quite accepted your Orange side. Human descent or not, those of dust express their emotions through magic.”
Looking at Gaster, the ancient one thus asked: “Does your heart inflame with anger? Hatred?”
“I…”
Oh goodness gracious. Roman. Helvi. Help me. What should I do?
Be honest? Have I not dishonoured my parents enough?!
What do you mean The Grandmaster saw through me already???
Yet, his friends within were right. The Red one knew that the moment he showed his presence, old wounds would be opened.
“Son of the Sages,” said Lord Berendin. “Tell me. Which path will you embrace? Of humanity, of monsterkind, or neither? The choice is in your hands. Don’t bottle up your feelings.”
“…Very well.” Said Gaster. “Very, very well then. I choose my OWN way!”
All pretense of a negotiation ended there. He let his heart free, and it demanded blood. Or whatever the Liches spill when their bodies break.
Gaster grabbed his Gasterblaster by the mandible. With all the liquidy might he could muster, he swung the weapon towards the Grandmaster whole.
The ancient one raised his staff in a defensive position. Good. All according to plan.
With his holed hands, Gaster signed the command:
[SELF-DESTRUCT]
The gigantic skull construct thus charged itself up into a devastating bomb.
The blast destroyed the interrogation chamber. Tables, chairs, walls, floors, gone. Virtual reality frayed at its seams. Glitched squares of corrupted data lay about in the aftermath of the explosion.
As for Gaster, his splashed remains just crept back together. Only disruption of Determination could pose any danger to Amalgamates. The makeshift bomb was made of magic and therefore did nothing to his being.
I’m going too far?
Close your eyes then. Roman. This is between me and the Red Sage. Nothing to do with either of you.
The glitches subsided. The Red Lich leaned against his staff, winded from the impact. Empty sockets now replaced its once gemmed tip.
I knew it! Those crystals are no mere decoration. They’re filled with Determination: amplifiers for his magic. I see he’s come prepared for battle after all.
I must part him from his weapon at this instant!
Gaster rushed forward. His body coiled, stretched and squeezed towards the Lich, repositioning himself to capitalize on that small window of weakness.
There, he summoned three floating pairs of hands. Sent one pair to grab the elder by the neck.
The Grandmaster didn’t struggle. He remained still. Calm. A bit too much like Sans.
Another pair of arms locked down his arms and legs. Marks work best with an active touch, and Gaster won’t let any last minute limb-flailing get the better of him.
Body reformed -- chest forward -- back straight -- Gaster proclaimed the following with all his pride: “I am an Amalgamate, cursed with immortality: I will get up again and again until you kneel before ME!”
The Grandmaster asked back: “Will surrender satisfy your anger?”
Gaster held his breath. After a while, his lips turned up in a bitter snicker.
“Of course not. Surrender is far too easy.”
He tightened his grip. What a shame that a Lich was stripped of flesh, otherwise he would have the satisfaction of strangulation.
However, there were more ways to inflict pain. He commanded the last two floating hands to twist and pull the skeletal joints. Even better if he could tear them off.
After all that effort, all he was awarded was some meagre grunting.
These joints… they’re putting up more resistance than I thought. Well beyond human limits. It’s like they’re… refusing to break.
So this is what it means to be a Red Lich.
All anger, all resentment, all hatred, burst the dams of his civil front.
“You…” Gaster wheezed. “You’re the reason why my father went insane. You’re the reason why he committed suicide. He took my mother’s dust and threw himself into YOUR BARRIER!”
“He should NEVER have revived you!”
“Show me! Show me how you betrayed my people, the ones who rescued you from the grips of death!”
“Fight!”
Yet despite everything, the provocation for mutual violence was denied. The Grandmaster stayed determined to remain meek.
The language of peace only added more fuel to the fire. His attempts, intensified.
Gaster sensed a shift in The Void. Crimson butterflies fluttered overhead. Squares of data appeared on the spot, and concrete formed in place.
That’s right. We have company. To be exact, he never did leave us.
Mezil Thyme.
A high-walled colosseum emerged: the ancient human’s arena of bloody battle. Proof of their cruel history.
Standing on the podium was none other than the Supreme Judge. Or rather, the Supreme Judge of bygone days. Gone were the wrinkles on his skin and the grey in his hair.
This was the Vampire of Time in his prime. Armed with a rifle.
“Father, cease the operation. He’s beyond reason.”
“Not yet, Winston.” The elder said, “This. Is just the beginning.”
“If it’s the beginning of pointless torture, I shall put an end to that.”
Red lines coursed through the arena. They revealed a tridecagram: Lady Lucidia’s ultimate weapon against all things Determination.
Mezil declared: “This is my final warning, W. D. Gaster. Stand down.”
“Here I thought I’m the insane one.” Gaster scoffed. “You do know that your beloved ‘father’ is a Red, yes? And yet you choose the WESS? It will never kill on its own, but it’s the aftermath that should have you worry.”
“A Red Lich’s primary binding force is Determination. If you drain them, I’d wager that his bones will become weak and brittle. I daresay just the weight of his own body would snap his neck!”
“Lay a single scratch on him, and you will pay dearly.” The Magus’s aim remained steady.
“Winston,” said the Lich. His tone was firmer than before. “We agreed that this is the time for reconciliation. Not judgement.”
The hesitation was clear, but Mezil relented. Gaster found that the most amusing sight.
“Son of the Sages. What do you think I should have done?” A question for Gaster.
In an ideal world, what should the Red Sage have done to save the Dreemurr Nation?
So he answered: “You should have helped us monsters win the war. Continued your council with the King and Queen. Remained loyal to us. Anything but that fancy terrarium of a tomb!”
He expected some kind of a defense. An explanation of the circumstances. A struggle.
Instead… the Red Sage confessed the following:
“Indeed, I could have done so. And yet I didn’t. I apologize, son of Shirai and Visigoth. I had failed you from the very beginning.”
“That’s it?” Emotion choked his throat. “You STILL refuse to defend yourself? Even with words? No speeches? No smart semantics?”
I’m supposed to be elated. Happy. Satisfied.
But… but why am I so frustrated?
Words, shaking. Tempers, rising.
“I wish you were dead, Red Sage.” Gaster blurted, tears streaming down his face. “If you were a mere name in history, I could distance you as a relic of your era. Reason that my parents upheld an ignorant fool based on personal biases.”
“If you were dead, I could deny my disgusting, boiling hatred against humanity. I could continue playing teacher, telling interesting tales for the next generation. As I had already done for Frisk and Papyrus.”
“If you live, I must accept you as a real person. With real feelings. With real remorses. Not a caricature.”
Gaster tightened his grip, ready to snap the Grandmaster’s neck.
“So please. Die for me.”
The Supreme Judge fired his rifle. The bullet didn’t strike Gaster. Rather, it struck the Grandmaster. The light of the red butterfly glowed so bright that it was blinding.
Then, the flames of the WESS were set alight.
The man once scattered across space and time had experienced many agonies. He thought he had survived them all, but they don’t compare to this private slice of hell.
In the end, Gaster was ‘baked’ into a piece of solid stone. Still conscious. Face frozen from the screaming pain.
T-this is what I had inflicted upon you, Papyrus? The statue wondered.
What a terrible, terrible scar. And now, I’ve dragged your parents through the same horrors.
Maybe it’s truly better if you hadn’t saved me.
The aftermath unfolded. Mezil teleported to his elder’s side and smashed the prisoner free with the butt of his rifle.
“Are you hurt?” asked The Supreme Judge.
With a slight grunt the Grandmaster replied, “Somewhat. Your trump card stings more than his assault.”
“Apologies. He… forced my hand.”
“I understand. Shame we couldn’t resolve this without some roughhousing.”
Mezil huffed. “Everyone talks about peace, but they themselves are not peaceful. I wouldn’t need to be a ‘Keeper of Peace’ if everyone walked the talk.”
“Is that a jab at yourself?” asked the elder.
“Call it… self-acknowledgement.”
“Your sense of humour is as grim as usual, dear Winston. Now, let us revert. We can’t leave this man in torment.”
“Are you serious?”
“Please.”
The following sigh was one fit to be in a family.
“Affirmative, Father.”
Mezil snapped his fingers before Gaster’s face. The world went grey, and all movement stopped. Then, it’s back to the interrogation room. Alone with the Grandmaster.
The sudden shift from stone to liquid caused Gaster to splatter on the table. Too drastic to hold form.
The Grandmaster helped remould the goop. It’s like piecing together lumps of wet, sloppy clay, one careful handful after another.
“…How…?” Gaster muttered. “I thought Frisk had the Keys of Fate…”
“So it is true. Your memories remain. Just like us Living Victories.”
“As for the Keys,” said the one of bone, “The Crimson Keeper gave it back to my son-in-law for the time being.”
I… I can’t muster any more determination to defy.
Barging back into the room was none other than the human Magus. His intense glare showed the thinness of his patience. He… had stepped on a goopy bit. With a growl of agitation, the Supreme Judge plucked the mess off his sole.
“What was that childish prattling for?!” Mezil fumed. “Your proposal will only prolong conflict! Do you even know the definition of war? Or are you so sheltered in your mental ‘Underground’ that you glorify genocide?”
“There, there, Winston.” The Grandmaster coaxed. “I’m sure he studied plenty about the conflicts of the Surface. We wouldn’t have Sans Serif otherwise.”
“Yet he became so blinded by idealism that he tried to murder you, Father. Out of everyone, HE should know that there was no ‘good’ option!”
Mezil shoved the piece in his hand at the half-formed mass. The action telegraphed his irritation well enough.
“Listen here, W. D. Gaster. War. Is. Hell. It’s a realm of damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Need I remind you about your people’s condition a thousand years ago?”
“The Dreemurr Nation was surrounded and outnumbered. The humans had a DEMON with the Keys of Fate. And not a single soul with flesh and blood had ANY interest for a diplomatic solution. They wanted you GONE. Exterminated.”
“Sure. You may have had some semblance of victory should the Grandmaster stay by your side. But at what cost? More wars? More adventurers raiding your territory? More ‘heroes’ hungry to gain fame and power? More of your warriors turning into dust at the tip of their blades?”
“And if your kind stole a human, what would that prove to the world? That monsters live up to their name?”
“How do I know this? Because for the past thousand years, many of the Surface survivors volunteered themselves to become war machines. They had their beings twisted beyond saving so that their children could see the light of dawn.”
“Do you want your citizens to suffer the same fate?!?”
Gaster remained silent.
So in the end… they too had made many of their own ‘Sans Serifs’.
War is an ugly thing after all.
Lowering his head, the Seer admitted his defeat. “You’ve made your point. Fine. Do what you must.”
Except, The Grandmaster shook his skull. “Son of Shirai and Visigoth, I hold no personal grievances against you.”
“The Grandmaster wishes to parley,” said Mezil.
“Yes. The offer of negotiation still stands regardless of your actions here today. We merely ask for your cooperation going forward.”
“And in exchange?” Gaster didn’t know if he should be relieved or insulted. Perhaps both. “No. Wrong question. I can see that I’m on the losing side. I’ve already done so much to make myself the enemy. What’s there left to negotiate?”
“The terms of our survival,” replied the Grandmaster, “For humans, monsters, and the whole of Planet Earth. Ebott Town included.”
“Until then, a proper atonement of our past mistakes will have to wait.”