The trail of fatty blood had gone rancid underneath the afternoon sun. Even so, The Tracker continued his hunt.
The Handler’s main body had gone through a series of Seer portals, far away from Papyrus’ house and Doctor Alphys’ Lab. Gateway after gateway, the bone wyrm traversed Ebott territory, sometimes hitting a double-backed path: a common tactic to confuse a pursuing predator.
But, in one final jump, the environment completely changed. No longer in the fresh verdant lands of Mount Ebott, Gaelic and Garamond instead found themselves far beneath the metropolis.
Moist. Musty. Rusty. They were in the forgotten underground tunnels of the nation’s capital. It was once a secret roadway for Magus Association Seers, although it had largely fallen into disuse once the former Supreme Judge had built updated facilities.
Gaelic took a little solace in the fact that Lady Lucidia would never need to use these rat dropping-ridden pathways. Her gracious feet deserved better than this.
Further down the tunnel, they found a trail of crumbled stone. Amalgamates, drained and killed while they were on the run. The remnants stretched deep into the darkness.
Flicking his tongue, Gaelic reported: “Ah taste ketchup. The work o’ the false angel lies about.”
Garamond further commented: “He’s been hunting down every single one of them.”
The closer they approached, the louder and louder a brisk, wheezy panting echoed through the darkness.
At the far end of the road, right before the hidden portal exit, they found Sans Serif sitting next to one last pile of remains. The fire from the short one’s Eye shifted colours as he utilised the Seraph System.
Gaelic stopped the wyrm’s slithering, wary of approaching any closer to that unpredictable sack of bones. He stayed still, keeping a close watch for any signs of danger.
“Dammit,” Sans muttered, “He’s not here. Not here at all…”
That skeleton popped open a canned drink and guzzled the contents down, panting and sweating from the strain of his own machine. His Fire of Humanity flared bright for a fleeting moment before reducing to a simmer.
“Hey,” said Sans, “How long are you two gonna stand there?”
Having been called out, Garamond dispelled his invisibility. Gaelic dismounted from the wyrm’s cockpit as well.
“Are you alright, Sans Serif?” asked Garamond.
“Pissed off, honestly. Busted every piece of that bastard and not a single one contains his SOUL. Psychia, I mean. Now, I’m trying to find out when he skedaddled.”
Gaelic felt his foot kick aside an empty can. It was too dark to read the label, so he sniffed the contents instead. “Caffeinated energy drinks? Bah! Toxins disguised as boosters. How many have ya downed yer hatch?”
“No clue,” Sans replied, “I just grabbed a box and went to work. I don’t think I paid for it either. Eh. Doesn’t matter. Time is gonna rewind anyway.”
A box of drinks should be half a dozen, Gaelic recalled. He started counting the similarly shaped cans around Sans.
“All six cans?! It not even been an hour! Cor blimey, M’lady dinnae work her bones off so ya dust yerself on caffeine overdose!”
Sans snapped, “Oh c’mon, that’s way overblown. I’m fine.”
“Fine me ass! Ah heard yer jittery breaths a mile away. That be how I found ya at all.”
“That loud, huh? Point taken. Just, give me a moment to wrap things up.”
Soon, after he powered down the Seraph System, the short Seer’s flames returned to their original cyan shade. He tried to stand up, but his knees weakened and he lost his balance.
Gaelic caught that smug Ebottian. A part of him wished that he had stood by to let Sans Serif eat dirt.
“…Okay, maybe you’re right after all. I overdid it. Got an antidote?”
But hearing Sans Serif’s admission made him feel a bit better. “Nothing fer caffeine in me systems, ‘m afraid. Would ya want Silvermane instead?”
“No. I need to stay awake. Look, The Handler isn’t here at all. Everything we’ve seen today -- including your shapeshifting clone -- is just another splinter. This dude is controlling every single one of them in a vast neural-network with his real SOUL somewhere on the damn planet.”
Gaelic objected, “Nay. Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay! That cannae be! Ah felt his wild eyes glare upon me like an evil omen. It had not a semblance o’ higher thought. Unstable. Simple-minded. Maddened. A consequence o’ his defeat. There be no chance he recovered his mind until he had his fill. This means the original be the one who feasted on The Grandmaster’s gift! He must! That be why the fake Latinoros reeked o’ blood and fat.”
“Sorry, not following your logic there. You have no real way of proving that. The splinters could carry the scent if they split after the meal. Go ahead, smell the rocks. Tell me what you find.”
Although reluctant, Gaelic went ahead to sniff the remains. He started from the one closest by. After a quick whiff, he moved on to the next pile. Then the next, and the next, and the next…
…They all had the same stench. It was consistent with the ambushers that attacked his Lord. ‘The smells be splitting’, that was what he reported.
Gaelic took a deep breath, pushing his displeasure aside. “They all be the same: the blood and fat o’ sheep.”
Then Garamond asked Sans: “Does that mean Papyrus had fought an empty double?”
“As far as I can tell, no. I doubt a fake splinter can use that many Seer’s Eyes.” The short one raised a finger. “Both our scenarios are in agreement up until a certain point: my brother faced the real deal, SOUL and all, and the great escape took place after the sheep attack. I was sifting through the timeline for that exact moment, to see what happened after he regained his sanity. But I keep getting hindered by anti-Seer measures.”
Gaelic relented once he analysed the logic. “I admit, ya could be right.”
“And so could you,” Sans winked back. “The Latinoros you faced may have been the original, or he may not have. Point is, we don’t know anything for certain yet. Sorry to be a bother but uh, could you help carry me back to town?”
“Aye. ‘Tis simple work. Ya weigh almost nothing.”
“By the way, we’re not going to Alphys’ place. Go to mine.”
“That decision ain’t fer ya to make. M’lady be needing the Seraph System at the lab.”
“Welp, just passing the boss’ orders. Ask him if you doubt them.”
Gaelic tapped a small communicator Gram planted right above his ear, commonly used by Observers such as Garamond when human-made systems could not be relied upon. He was lucky to have his cousin around to help, as technology was never Gaelic’s strong suit.
“M’lord, the hunt failed. However, ah found Sans Serif.”
Over the line, Mezil replied: “Bring him to me. I will be waiting at Sans Serif’s house.”
“What o’ Rosemary then? Yer niece, she be waiting too.”
“…It’s too late for her.”
“I see. Aye, then ah be on me way.”
Gaelic ended the transmission there. His heart stung from the chain of failures, but he was also confident that this current state would soon be overwritten upon the will of his master.
Meanwhile, he needed to secure the troubled troublemaker placed under his charge. The short skeleton’s breaths were still laboured and heavy. Was there a complication?
Gaelic wiped Sans Serrif’s skull with the back of his hand and gave it a good lick. Relieved, he commented: “Lucky ye. There be no sugar seeping out o’ yer pores.”
“What the hell? How can sweat become sweet? Sure you’re not trying to get a sip of the good stuff?”
“I be checking ya fer diabetes, ya false angel! Us skeletons inherit more than fire and shape from our human forefathers. With the rate ya guzzled all them bloody ketchup bottles from a wee babe, it not surprise me if yer metabolism failed years ago.”
“Uh… human-exclusive medical stuff ain’t my specialty. I’ll leave that to you.”
“Good.” Seconds later, Gaelic detected a familiar aftertaste. It belonged to his beloved's butterfly. When did the stout nuisance gain his master’s blessing? He wouldn’t pry yet. Such questions were best left to his lord to answer at his own pace.
Together with Sans in tow, the Blanc cousins began making their way back to Ebott Town. They stayed inside the wyrm Armament under Garamond’s cloak of invisibility. On the way there, Gaelic scouted for herbs that would help that bony urbanite.
He stopped by some wild valerian growing in the bushes. A far inferior specimen compared to Silvermane when it came to its sedative properties, but one which might fit Sans Serif’s demands. If anything, there was always the ‘placebo effect’.
“Stay put,” he instructed. Climbing out of the cockpit and into the bush, he searched for a root that was not too young to use.
Sans asked, “Found something? A clue about The Handler?”
“Nay, nay,” Gaelic shook his head, “‘Tis be valerian, a herb to help calm ya down without lulling ya to sleep.”
Watching the process, Sans asked: “You’re not gonna make me eat that straight off the ground, right?”
“Ya might just puke it out and waste it. Ah will consume it meself first, then make ya drink me replication.”
“I’m not eating your spit, dude. That’s just too deep into gross territory.”
“Rich words comin’ from Ebott’s greatest slob.”
“Just make herbal tea out of it or something. I need hydration, right? Starting to get reaaal thirsty from all this sweating. And I’m sure I’m gonna need a lot of water to flush out the jitters.”
Always the silver tongued annoyance, that one. Gaelic sighed. “Fine. Have it yer way. Don’t say ah dinnae warn ya.”
“It’s okay, I can take it.” Sans then changed the subject, “Hey Snakeface, looks like you really know your flora and fauna. That herb is just another random plant to me. My knowledge of nature is mostly limited to The Underground.”
“Me job requires me to know the lay o’ land from experienced observation, both the terrain and the wildlife. To be prepared fer anything.”
“Makes sense. Say, that tree next to you,” Sans pointed. “That’s a chestnut tree, right? The serrated leaves look the part. I had some of their nuts back on Halloween.”
Gaelic lifted his head to look at the tree’s canopy. Just a glance of the foliage alone was enough for him. “Yer a true city slicker to think all chestnut trees be good eating. This here be a horse chestnut! Ya eat the fruit o’ this one, ya invite agony if not death. Look at their leaves, they be many oval leaflets growing into a single big one.”
Pointing further down into the woods, he continued: “Those o’er there be the sweet chestnut ya seek. Long, straight, and lonely true leaves. Not oval or made up o’ leaflets.”
“Huh. You’re right. Fascinating…”
At last, Sans Serif had shut his trap. Then again, that was a sign of the false angel’s mental gears churning.
When Gaelic found the herbs of the right age, he started digging them out with his conjured bones and the strength of his hands. He cut a section and took a small bite out of the herb to test for any surprise pollution that might have been absorbed.
The herb passed the test. Then, Gaelic began his harvest, taking just enough root and rhizome to make a cup of tea with later. Once he was done, he replanted the remnants and gave the soil a gentle pat. It was all up to luck for this colony from there onwards.
Gaelic tossed an occasional glance at the short Ebottian. His expression remained serious the whole time, a far cry from the jokester persona that he wanted others to see. That apparent disconnect from his usual character heightened Gaelic’s own sense of anxiety.
Good thing he took a bite out of the valerian root earlier. Although any possible soothing effects would be fleeting at best, it was better than nothing.
They arrived at Sans Serif’s backyard. Gaelic’s nose immediately picked up a distinct tingle of magic in the air. It smelled of brimstone with a hint of dried peaches: a scent associated only with Lord Hua.
But, that Eastern man was nowhere to be found. Odder still, the remnants of The Handler’s assault were all cleaned up. Not a single pebble or blob remained.
Out of caution, Gaelic chose to keep the bone wyrm active instead of dispelling it, and made it tuck into a coil around the building. Its sheer size alone should form a defensive wall strong enough to deter any threats.
Sir Grillenn – who stood guard before the entrance of the workshop – seemed startled when the massive wyrm decloaked. Though he quickly regained his composure as Gaelic stepped out of its open mouth, carrying the sack-shaped Sans Serif under one arm.
The knight greeted: “…Welcome back… Judge Thyme is downstairs… He’s expecting you…” Turning towards Garamond, he continued, “…Investigator Blanc… I’m also summoned for the meeting… Could you switch guard duty with me?… And… maybe… hide this giant snake?… I don’t want it to scare the townspeople…”
Always agreeable, Garamond nodded. “For certain. I’ll keep it invisible and keep watch from inside. That will also give me the opportunity to check in with the coordinator in the meantime.”
“…Much appreciated… Oh?…” His attention shifted to the roots in Gaelic’s hands. “…You seem to have brought some herbs…”
“Aye,” said Gaelic, “Tho unwashed plants in a workshop may not be wise. Is there a tap nearby? Cross-contamination be me biggest worry.”
Sans snickered while dangling. “It’s fine. Frisk and I used to eat burgers down there all the time. Put me down and pass me the roots. I’ll get everything prepared.”
How that human child didn’t die from accidental poisoning was a mystery in itself. Nevertheless, Gaelic did as requested. The short one vanished as soon as his feet hit the ground, followed by the distant sounds of rushing tap water and the clinks of glass.
He came back with the roots cut up and swimming in a teapot. Sans handed it over to Sir Grillenn, asking ever so casually, “Can you help me warm this up? The water heater broke.”
Gaelic smelled bullshit. The electricity had already been restored, and the new house was just constructed a few months ago. Nothing should be breaking from wear and tear just yet. Was exploiting the goodwill of a Fire Eater really more convenient than flipping a switch?
Sir Grillenn must have noticed it too, but he complied for his own private reasons. “……How hot?…”
“I’m guessing about 90 degrees celsius, like other herbal teas.”
And so Sir Grillenn held the base of the pot with both hands to warm it up. A strong scent of earthy roots filled the air once the temperature neared boiling.
Though Sans Serif tried to hide the fact, the act of teleporting back and forth while time-skewing the kitchen work took a heavy toll. It was clear as day that he shouldn’t be hopping around in his current condition. His breaths heaved, his shoulders hunched, and his skull glimmered from beads of fresh sweat.
At first, the Lemurian had a lot to say about the Ebottian’s utter disregard for his health, but Gaelic then relented. His own conscience nagged at him. Rest was what Sans Serif needed. Yet, rest itself was a rarity for everyone these days.
Sans, like him, just did what needed to be done given the circumstances.
They entered the hidden basement and closed the door behind them. Down the stairs they went. Mezil waited on the other end, sitting on the well-worn couch in deep contemplation. The old puffy cushions failed to match his graceful poise.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Gentlemen, make yourself comfortable.” The master said, “This will be a long one.”
Sans Serif had taken that instruction to heart, settling down right next to Mezil.
The burning flames of jealousy ignited within Gaelic’s heart. That filthy sack of bones, who once almost killed The Supreme Judge in his mad schemes, dared to sit shoulder to shoulder with his lord?
Outrageous!
Inconceivable!
Preposterous!
Egads-able!
So Gaelic wedged himself between his most hated and his most beloved, nudging Sans to the other end of the sofa without moving Mezil so much as an inch.
“Wow,” said Sans, deadpan as usual. “Offended much?”
Gaelic crossed his arms and bared his fangs at the short one. “Offense fully taken, aye! Ya acting too chummy around M’lord. Hisss, mighty suspicious, as if ya struck a deal with him behind me back!”
“I didn’t.”
“Liar!”
“No, seriously. I didn’t.”
“It was me who did,” confessed Mezil. “I was the one who offered him his new job. However unofficial it was.”
“M’lord?” Gaelic asked. “Is that be why ah tasted yer symbol in his sweat?”
Mezil replied: “Yes. I formed a mindlink with Sans Serif to save him from being held hostage by Prince Ralsei. The Twin Princes commanded their Mark to ban all forms of communication. I believe you understand what that means.”
Hearing that shocked Gaelic. “Cor Blimey, I do! He cannae barter, cannae buy, cannae sell. Such a command be a slow dwindle to starvation. And once he falls from hunger, the royal nurse would swoop him up.”
It was a bigger shock for the kind knight. “……How incredibly cruel……” Lost in thought, he seemed to recall the events of yesterday. “…Sans… you were unusually silent when Assistant Commissioner Eccleston confronted Judge Thyme…”
“That’s right,” Sans winked in Sir Grillenn’s direction. “Thymer helped me, and I helped Thymer. One thing led to another, Hua Hua-chan broke Kris’ Mark, and here we are today. We’re best buds now. Water under the bridge.”
Mezil cleared his throat. “We’re not best friends. ‘Associates’ is as far as I’m willing to go.”
“Whatever you say, tsunder-bestie.”
Gaelic’s heart stirred with mixed emotions. He would have preferred if Sans Serif hadn’t stumbled into the picture. That short sack of bones was the source of an incredible amount of insecurity and self-doubt. But at the same time, his master Mezil rescued a person in great need. Was that not why he loved him so much?
“If M’lord grants ya mercy, then ah shall follow his wishes. But… ah don’t trust ya yet.”
“Fine by me. Smart, really.” Sans raised his cup for a toast, before realising it was still empty. “Hey Grillby, is my tea done yet?”
“…Yes…”
Sir Grillenn poured Sans Serif his tea, set the pot aside, then stood guard near the stairs. From his posture, Gaelic could tell that his peer was ready to take any action necessary to quell sudden flares of violence. It brought him much ease.
“Thanks.” One sip, and the short skeleton’s brows twitched. “Am I drinking… mud?”
It was another reaction Gaelic had long anticipated. His lord Mezil hated the taste, and his guts even more so. “‘Tis how the herb be. Not for the unacquainted. Ah offered me services fer a reason. Could have made it go down sweet and smooth.”
“Uh, yeah, I’d rather drink this than to eat your pharmaceutical loogie. Gimme a moment.”
Through sheer stubborn force of will, the false angel drank the near-boiling earthy tea in one go. A human would have burned their throat doing so. Fortunately, skeletons had higher tolerance to extreme temperatures.
“I’m done.” Sans used his telekinesis to send the cup to the top of the drawers, far away from the sofa. “Wassup, Thymer? Go on, spill the beans.”
Staring sideways towards the inner workshop, Mezil began: “I’ve been thinking… Why did The Handler break into Sans’ workshop? For what purpose? With his vast collection of Seer’s Eyes, Fake Aspects and augmented Chronography should hold little value. Which means that he’s after an ability that no monster or human could ever dream of replicating on their own.”
“Under normal circumstances, Seers cannot cast Marks, and humans cannot comprehend visions. To achieve both at once allows one to bypass all mortal limitations. Ergo, the Machine of the Gods…”
“That said… I worry that The Handler has played me for a fool. The best time to tackle him may have been in the morning, before he restored his sanity and acquired the Seraph System. Instead, I had told Frisk that I would not hastily rewind without knowing our enemy’s full plan. I now believe this to be a mistake. For that lapse of judgement, I profusely apologise.”
“W-wha? How be?!” Gaelic exclaimed. “Dinnae we agree that if we rewound The Handler would leave no clue and no trace? What if he gorged upon human flesh to substitute the sheep? The demise o’ the lambs be the best case scenario.”
Sir Grillenn asked: “…Why is that so?… Other than suffering human casualties…”
“Lifeforce pulses through flesh, and Determination courses through blood. Eating a living human means the consumption o’ both. Ah be talking double, nay triple the strength!”
Rubbing his chin, Sans pondered out loud, “Any curse from high LV would be spread out between his Amalgamate clones. His army grows stronger as a whole without him losing any control. It’s almost all the upsides and none of the downsides. But, I don’t get why Thymer couldn’t keep retrying until he has the perfect run.”
Mezil shook his head. “That moment is locked out now. Doing so will undo all of the election efforts. Two of the candidates would retain complete memory, and the other is strong enough to have some recollection. Everyone gains some kind of advantage at the expense of the voters. Such an event is nothing short of a sham. Without at least an appearance of fairness, human society won’t recognise the new monster government as legitimate.”
The false angel just had to let his tongue loose. “So, that means you’re trapped by your own schemes.”
For that blunt, thoughtless accusation, Gaelic punished Sans with a good jab in the ribs.
“ARGH! I swear I lost 0.2HP there!”
“Ya loathsome lout! Ya dare mock M’lord?!”
“I was just telling the truth!”
Both wanted to knock their skulls together. Their innermost childish impulses demanded so. But then, the gravity of the situation demanded they stay on track. They ceased their quarrel simultaneously, each glancing to a side.
Sans broke the awkward silence with a question. “Snakeface, when did Handlerface ambush you as Latinface?”
“‘Twas right after lunch,” answered Gaelic.
“That’s a bit too vague.”
Mezil took out his mobile and showed the call logs to both Seers. It read ‘12:46 PM’. “Back then, The Handler phoned me to solidify his false identity. I told Times Roman to make sure that the Gaelic he followed doesn’t use his Eye, hoping that this would prevent The Handler from spying on our movements. It’s also to ensure that his hostages would not realise the truth before they’re rescued.”
Sans clenched his mechanical arm, squeezing his hand tight to control his emotions. “I think you bought my parents valuable time. If they had tried to escape at any point, that bastard would’ve just absorbed them right that instant. Thanks for looking out for them.”
“You’re welcome. However, The Handler might have already taken that into account. After all, the Gaelic that you hunted down was yet another fragment. It proved to me that he was always one step ahead of us. If so, he would have already installed his special brand of surveillance cameras all over town by splitting himself. Our every move had been exposed from the very beginning.”
Tensing up, Sir Grillenn added: “…That makes the whole town his hostages… Not just the skeleton couple… One wrong move… And he might consume civilians… children even… Does that mean we have to destroy all of him at once?…”
“…There is one option,” said Mezil. “We’ll rewind to the moment the fake Latinoros appears in the hallway. At that point in time, Times Roman, Helvetica, and Malaya had yet to be kidnapped. Gaelic will also be in range to pin him down until I arrive. The element of surprise is already lost, therefore I’m confident that Gaelic won’t fall for the poison strike on the second run. The Handler in the hallway is also the most certain version of his existence. I don’t need the original. Any fragment will do. Just get me within striking range, and--”
“NAY!!!”
The sudden outburst startled everyone into silence. Gaelic’s ribs heaved, and he could feel his bones rattle underneath his clothes.
“Ye!… Ye wish to destroy The Handler’s mind through his fragments! M’lord, forgive me impudence, yet that be one thing ah cannae allow!”
“Gaelic,” Mezil said, “The Grandmaster may have rejected my resignation, but I know what I’ve done. My name is still not cleared. If my life is already forfeit, I shall lay it down on my own terms.”
“Nay, nay, nay! NAY!!! M’lord, a DEMON ye be NOT! ‘Tis nothing more but twisted rationalisation o’ guilt and pity. Cold hard logic dressed up in fancy words! A farce!”
“It’s our best course of action. I won’t allow any objections.”
“Lies! If ye be truly determined to commit such damnation, ya would have forced yer aura o’ Determination upon me. Ah would be on the floor curlin’ and whimperin’ like a beaten dog. And yet ye let me refuse at every corner. There be not a single drop o’ willpower in ye! Ah know ye won’t be able to finish the deed.”
The response was met with more silence. The tension was palpable. Gaelic held both of his master’s hands dearly, displaying a sincere yet tender stubbornness.
“M’lord, please. Perish that thought. ‘Tis too soon to surrender to death. Though many a time ye told me to care fer M’lady in yer stead, deep down ah know that be the ultimate tragedy. Ah cannae be the head o’ House Berendin. Ah cannae protect her in the wiles o’ politics. Ah cannae I replace ye in her heart.” Tears filled his eyes. “M’lady needs ye. I… I need ye.”
Surrendering at last, Mezil averted his gaze and admitted: “It’s just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“Did we not promise a hunt together? Trust yer knight, M’lord. Ah will help not just with me eyes and nose, but also with me noggin.”
Sans’ brows rose in interest. “IMO, burning the whole neural network sounds awesome. I’ll do it if Thymer won’t.”
Gaelic immediately switched his attention to Sans Serif and yelled in his face. “Ya absolute foolishly foolish FOOL! Did ya miss the memo??? That be an HVM: The Curse o’ Death! The most forbidden o’ commands!”
“Right. Silly Magus laws.” One quick thought later, Sans shrugged. “Eh, I’m still willing to take the fall.”
That blatant nonchalant disregard infuriated Gaelic beyond measure. He let go of his master’s hands to grab Sans by the collar of his hoodie. It was the sort of rough treatment the trashbag so desperately needed.
“NAY!!! NAY!!! NAY!!!” he yelled again. “Think o’ yer brother! Think o’ yer parents! Yer family dinnae come together clawing tooth and nail just to attend yer execution!!!”
“Wait.” The false angel scrunched his brows. “Are you saying… you want me to live?”
“AYE! Not only live, ah want ya to be HALE AND HEARTY! First, EAT AND DRINK BETTER! Second, STOP STRAINING YER BODY WILLY-NILLY!! Third, FER THE LOVE OF THE ALMIGHTY, RESPECT YERSELF!!!”
“…I, uhm, why?”
“‘Tis because yer parents pleaded and parlayed fer ya! That be why! Have a beer together, they said. Work it out, they said. Let bygones be bygones. Befriend ya. Ah wanna at least honour them fer the fine folk they are!”
There was a hint of guilt and embarrassment from Sans, however tiny a sliver it might have been. “…Oh. I. Um. Didn’t realise they did that for me. Honest. Sorry.”
Gaelic let him go with a slight snarl. “Good. If ya can’t respect yerself yet, at least respect yer family.”
“I get it. I get it. Capiché.” Sans then commented: “Y’know what, Thymer? Your hunting dog here’s got a point. We shouldn’t be hasty. That hallway moment is one of our earliest possible save states, no? Go back too far and we would erase all of our later options. That’s a time-traveller’s trap in itself.”
Mezil pondered about it for a moment. “True. Perhaps that timeframe is not the most ideal. Any alternatives?”
“…If I may interject…” said Sir Grillenn, “…Do we have any clues as to where the real body is?…”
Sans sighed. “That’s the problem. We don’t. I exterminated every single bad guy in sight and all of them were duds.”
“…The force that attacked us… I saw them self-terminate… And Keeper Fennel reported the same for the Lab… The Handler must have felt that his mission had been accomplished …What then about the ones you couldn’t find?… Did any make their escape?…”
“Dunno.” The false angel shrugged. “Hey Thymer, what other sightings were there?”
“Let me ask around for intel.”
While Judge Thyme was busy, Sans nudged Gaelic for his attention.
“Aye?”
“You’re welcome, by the way,” the short skeleton whispered. “No thanks needed.”
Although initially confused, Gaelic soon realised that Sans had helped prevent his lord from making a grave error out of desperation. The least he could do was to make a discrete bow of gratitude.
Then, when Mezil finished gathering updates, it was back to business. “Two sightings were reported. One was from Papyrus. In his visions, he saw a slug escape into The Lab’s vents. Another was via Captain Undyne’s camera feed deep in Mount Ebott. A Purple Eyed one was last seen perching on Malaya’s shoulder.”
“A slug on me lass, hmm?” Gaelic squinted. “It not be there when The Handler whisked her away.”
“She also obtained a new rifle and the old version of the Seraph System.”
“If that be the case, then The Handler must have taken her to a hidden cache.”
“Did Latinfake already have Version 2 equipped before he became Snakefake?” Sans asked.
“That… Ah cannae confirm. He poisoned me too soon.”
“Welp. All the more reason why we don’t want to go to that hallway. What if he already had V2 operating by then? He’ll pull out all the stops if we rewind to that moment.”
More roadblocks, more annoyance. A bright idea dawned on Gaelic. “Why not ask M’lady to use the Chronograph to find his whereabouts? She be the best when it comes to tracing steps backwards.”
“We can’t.” Mezil shut his eyes with a heavy furrow on his brows. “Lucidia is critically injured from a failed assassination attempt. She’s not able to operate the Chronograph in her current state.”
Lucidia, dearest Lucidia.
Injured.
Hurt.
Critical.
Wrath bubbled. Roiled. Overflowed. So much so that Gaelic’s sight blurred. Seething, he muttered: “That. Filthy. Blighted. Conniving. Cur…!”
His breath quickened.
Louder. Faster.
Louder. Faster.
His senses, melting.
Logic, ceased.
What remained was a single primal desire, stuck on repeat.
Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
Tremors shook the basement. Ceiling lights flickered. The wyrm outside writhed from the owner’s inner pain, grinding against the earth, the walls, the fences, its own bones, anything in the way.
“Gaelic. Stop.”
That was his master’s voice. He felt those warm human hands grip his with a calm, resolute firmness.
“We shall turn back time,” Mezil guaranteed, “Lucidia will be safe.”
Safe…
The calming voice of his master rung between his ears.
Safe… Safe… Safe…
That's right; his master will figure something out. He always does. After all, that was the whole point of the meeting: to right what was wrong.
Gaelic stopped hyperventilating. When he did, the wyrm ceased its rumbling as well.
It was then that Mezil’s phone rang, and he took a moment to answer. “Report, Garamond. …The situation here is under control. Are you hurt? …I’m relieved. You may resume guard duty unhindered. I apologise for the trouble.”
Realising what he had done, Gaelic felt deeply ashamed, so much so that he wanted to hide under the sofa’s cushions forever. He could have gravely injured his cousin in the middle of that meltdown…
Sans commented, “Boy, I’m so glad we’re not keeping this timeline. I’m very sure you’ve ground down the corners of my house. Did you know that Thymer tried calling you many times? You responded only once though.”
“Sorry…” That was all Gaelic could say.
“It’s fine. I was seeing red too when I heard that the bastard gooped my parents.”
Now that everything was back to normal, Mezil continued the meeting. “There is an alternative within reach, which is why I called for both Sans Serif and Sir Grillenn to join us. Using The Seraph System, it should be possible to process the residual Seer Determination locked behind Sir Grillenn’s seal. It might contain valuable information about The Handler’s whereabouts, and his true identity.”
Sans raised his mechanical arm high. “I’ll do the dive, but… If I try to push any further by my lonesome, I’m gonna turn into a pile of dust. No question about that. I need Snakeface to help me run this sweet baby, offloading the physical strain.”
Lightly scratching his cheek, Gaelic said, “If stamina support be what ya need then, ah guess it be fine…? Ah still have energy despite the wild goose chase.”
“It’s more than that. I’ll guide the vision while you identify the stuff we see. Plants. Animals. People. Environment. Anything. Before your tips, I couldn’t tell the difference between a chestnut tree and a horse chestnut tree. Truesight or no Truesight, I just don’t have the knowledge.”
“You on the other hand…” The short one tapped Gaelic’s cranium twice. “There’s an entire encyclopaedia of The Surface in there. You’ll spot details at a much broader scope at a quicker rate. That’s why I need you. To perceive what I cannot perceive.”
“B-b-b-but ah never used a Chronograph before! Me experience be too lacking.”
“Leave all the fine tuning to me. No experience needed. Besides, should anything go haywire, we have Grillby here to act as our safety rope. He’ll shut our Eyes off in an instant.”
“That be… doable,” Gaelic fidgeted in his confusion. “Um, how be it done? Do ah wear that bracer? It be a part o’ ya body, is it not?” He leaned over for a sniff. “This DT… it does not smell o’ me master. ‘Tis not the wee bean either. Nor the Coordinator. Nor the Gungnir boy. Nor The Grandmaster. Not even the private detective. ‘Tis another Red, unfamiliar. Unnerving. Who?”
“Eh, source doesn’t matter. Also, you won’t be wearing the Seraph System. The plan is actually much simpler than that. Just overlay our Eyes.”
Gaelic widened his sockets and jumped out of the sofa, shocked by the proposal. His entire neck and skull began to blush in bright purple.
Sans asked: “Snakeface? You alright? That… was not the reaction I expected. Wait. Why does it feel like I just proposed to you or something?”
“It might as well be a proposal! Ya be asking fer the most intimate o’ intimates! The union o’ flames be a bond reserved to the closest: yer brother, yer parents, yer lovers! Anyone but me!”
“Definitely not what I was implying. You take it that way, huh? I can see why. Okay. That’s a bit of a problem.”
“Gaelic,” said Mezil. “You don’t have to force yourself to team up with Sans Serif.”
“Yup. No problem. Really. If need be, I’ll do it alone once I feel a little bit better. You think about it some more first. I gotta get to prepping the data.”
Sans beckoned Grillby to sit on the ground and open up his neckpiece. Contained within Lady Lucidia’s seal were the restless, violent wills of The Handler’s Seer victims, shaped into distorted eyes. The tip of the Seraph System’s blade touched the centre of the Gram and started its draining process.
Agony ripped through the fire knight’s body. He forced himself to muffle his screams, lest they ring a false alarm to anyone above.
By the end of the gruelling process, the mighty champion could no longer stand back up. He leaned against the wall to regain his strength.
Carefully backing off, Sans said, “Damn. Apologies, Grillby. I didn’t know it would hurt that much.”
“…Lady Lucidia did warn me about it… She placed me under sedation… when she extracted Malaya’s data…”
“Note to self, anaesthesia is preferred: shit hurts. Okay, let’s see what we have here…” After a quick check, he blurted out: “What the hell? Persona’s personal data?! How is it with you? Usually the DT dies together with the owner.”
“…Ah… I once burned Persona’s Determination and absorbed it… I didn’t realise I had kept a piece of him alive…”
“This is one heck of a lucky break. I’m definitely cataloguing this. Hey Thymer, you're connected to the Chronograph 24/7, right? I’ll need access to your Psychia to get the girl’s data. She’s pivotal when it comes to The Handler.”
The Supreme Judge let out a drawn out sigh, as if to say: ‘I expected as much’. He touched his chest to push out his Psychia. Although the man kept a stoic face, his body language exuded reluctance from every pore.
“Get on with it, Sans Serif.”
“Much appreciated, Thymer.”
Just watching the thin blade sink into the Psychia made Gaelic tense. This was exactly what the false angel did to hijack his master’s power just a few weeks ago. Yet today, it was what needed to be done to save everyone.
Looking at how others pushed past their pain and discomfort stirred a guilty self-consciousness. Gaelic thought to himself: he sounded like a whiny baby, objecting to Sans Serif’s idea. What right did he have to complain about the union of flames being too intimate? Was he not the one people whispered about as a warning? The beast with the reputation to bed any willing adult, be it for trade or for company…
So why should he shy away now, especially when such high stakes are involved? He just declared that he’d do anything for his lord. Mustering every bit of courage in his being, Gaelic said: “Forget what ah said. Let’s… Let’s perform the union. It need to be done, nay? These bones not be a virgin’s--”
“Whoa there,” Sans stopped him. “Snakeface, I’m trying to protect both of us here. You and I. There are some boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed, and we’re gonna keep it that way.”
“…Ya sure? Knowing the type of man ya be, ya would turn yerself into merchandise to keep yer brother fed and clothed.”
“That’s exactly why I’m taking the extra effort. You told me to live better, right? Not taking care of ourselves would make our loved ones sad. I don’t want that.”
To have his own advice thrown back at him… Once again, dealing with the false angel was a mirror reflected darkly. It was one of the reasons why they were always at odds.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Sans. “Lady Lucy’s Chronograph has some unfinished experimental programming for remote access. If I can take some of the ideas and make them compatible with The Seraph System, we might have a solution to our privacy problem.”
“How long?” asked Mezil.
“Gimme an hour tops,” Sans answered.
“Make it half.”
“Jeez, I thought you had Patience as your trait.”
“It’s the weakest of the three.”
So, Sans Serif got to work, tinkering, and tinkering, and tinkering. Thirty minutes was both very long and a very short time. Gaelic couldn’t help but wonder if the enemy would take advantage of this lull.
Time ticked away ever so anxiously, until…
“I think I got a working prototype,” said Sans, “Hopefully it doesn’t have too many bugs. Sit down tight, Snakeface. This ride might get wild.”
Gaelic sat down on the sofa, preparing himself. The short one then reached out over Gaelic’s right eye socket, planting an Arcanagram about the size of a monocle.
The words ‘STANDBY’ followed Gaelic wherever he looked. He read the other bits and pieces of the interface. The choice of words definitely belonged to dearest Lucidia.
Sans then walked to the opposite end of the room -- the farthest he could be from the sofa -- to prove his concept of sharing visions at a distance, without merging their Eyes.
“Welcome to the Missus’ cyber world,” he winked. “So, how is it? Feeling comfortable?”
Although a little embarrassing, Gaelic had to admit that he was immensely grateful for the compromise. Maybe a friendship with the false angel was not impossible. “A-aye. ‘Tis fine. Thank ye.”
“No problem. Welp. I think we’re all set and ready to go.”
It was time for the vision dive. With everything prepared, the machine powered up, and their Seer’s Eyes burned in sync.