Papyrus made a mental note to himself: ‘Tridents pierced at the wrong angle will turn scarves into deadly weapons.’
The DEMON in all their twisted cunning had turned his favourite article of clothing into a noose.
Skeletons don’t breathe, but the cause of death by hanging doesn’t always come from lack of air: it’s the detachment of the spine. With enough weight and force, the effects might as well match decapitation.
Chara forced Papyrus down on the loop of doom with their entire body weight.
As Papyrus struggled in his last moments, he heard the voices of a time long past.
“Father! What are you doing with Mother’s dust?!”
The cries came from Uncle Gaster, but he sounded… younger. About Papyrus’ current age.
“Father, what are you talking about? The Barrier isn’t broken! Get away from there! No! I’m not seeing the sun or sky or trees or anything of that sort! That’s the Barrier, Father. Nothing but the Barrier!”
“Father?”
“Father listen to me! If you try to cross, you’ll die! Please don’t die! Mother is gone and you’re all I have left! Please stop no please why?”
“Am I not good enough for you?”
“Don’t you love me???”
“Father please!”
“NO!!!”
At the height of emotion, Papyrus heard his own neck snap.
The vision began. This time, he found himself in darkness. Unlike the other visions, he’s missing most of the surroundings… as if he stood inside The Void itself.
How strange.
Before his sight was none other than Uncle Gaster. He was of solid bones and he had legs. Some nicely polished shoes too.
The man stood before an altar. Four portraits lined up on top of a carved stone table, and they were all skeletons.
‘Mother’, ‘Father, ‘Times Roman’, ‘Helvetica’.
Papyrus pulled himself closer to observe the pictures.
Helvetica was a tall beauty who wore a bright red scarf. Papyrus noticed that it was the exact same fabric as the one he owned. Except, newer and less tattered.
Roman was the spitting image of his youngest son. The calmer temperament showed on his default expression, but the features almost matched one to one.
The other two portraits belonged to Gaster’s parents. They were dressed in clothes that he had never seen before. They wore flowing black robes accentuated by elaborated embroidery. Very wizard-like.
The one labelled ‘Mother’ used orange threads, while the one labelled ‘Father’ used cyan threads.
As for Gaster himself, Papyrus noticed the strange eye-socket cracks had never changed place. Before, he thought it was the result of being a goopy merged entity.
No, those were scars.
Gaster poured some red tea into the offering cups and lit the candles. He then served the remainder for himself.
Sombre darkness hung overhead. The light may shine, but the isolation remained.
“Good news,” said Gaster. “Sans Serif completed his studies and graduated in full. Just as he promised on his parents’ dust. I let him celebrate with his friends until the day began anew. Took one million photos, I’d surmise. Honestly, watching him so joyful lifted my spirits as well.”
He took one sip of his bitter tea and sighed. “…Then he handed in a letter of resignation to King Asgore. Wanted to revive your hotdog business, Roman. So he said. And of course, our beloved soft-hearted King accepted it.”
One more sip. “Well, he did say that he’ll graduate. And only graduate. He didn’t swear that he’d continue his career path. Oh no, not at all. I got conned by my own protégé on the play of semantics. How shameful.”
Papyrus had no commentary. His uncle was so lonely that he’s monologuing to the dead. The younger knew how that felt: during his sentry days he’d often do the same to rocks and mirrors.
“Helvetica. Roman. I’m sorry, but this is the truth about your son. He turned his back against the nation and chose a quiet life of mediocrity. As he’s said to me, ‘there’s a thin line between a fort and a prison’.”
“Such was the conclusion of his extensive analysis. I suppose that is valid. If a Tactician saw no chances of victory, he has the right to cancel a war before it began. Even… even if the citizens would despair from the decision.”
“But no, Sans didn’t do that. Instead he withdrew himself from the equation. Passed all the duties back to the King. To me.”
Gaster finished his cup. He tried to pour more tea, but the teapot ran dry. The man set it down and sighed.
“I know Sans hates me. Our relationship was a failure from the very beginning. You’re the only reason he ever tolerated me, Roman. Don’t think I didn’t notice it. I’m not a fool. And when you’re gone… Let’s just say he’d rather seal his baby brother than to seek my help.”
Gaster walked over to the foot of the altar and sat down there. Leaned his back against it. He struggled to blink away the coloured tears that began to gather at his sockets.
“I don’t know what to do anymore. I wish you’re here now. All of you. Mother, Father, my friends. I’m so lost. So alone.”
Deep breaths. Take in deep breaths. With resolve, this broken man kept himself from falling apart.
“I cannot surrender,” he said, “If I give up now, King Asgore’s sacrifices will all be in vain. His Majesty had suffered enough.”
“There’s… one experiment left. If I don’t try this, burden will overcome me.”
Strengthened by conviction, the man stood up. He moved the portraits of Roman and Helvetica. Behind them lay a box, and inside it contained two vials of dust.
One for the husband, one for the wife.
Gaster took the vials and turned away from the altar. The objects faded as he walked alone to a different place.
Again, no walls. Only the most relevant objects exist. Was this a reflection of this man’s psyche?
A bed, a cabinet, and a mirror emerged from the dark nothingness. Papyrus watched Gaster switch into his best formal coat. Made sure everything was perfect and in place.
He strung the vials of dust to a golden chain: the original pendant removed to make way for its new purpose. Then, Gaster wore the remnants of his friends around his neck.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
It doesn’t look like he’s retiring for bed. It’s not very comfortable to sleep in those fancy clothes. Pajamas were loose and simple for a reason.
Once he finished, Gaster searched the pockets of his hung-up lab coat.
He pulled out a syringe filled with glowing red liquid. Full capacity.
“…This may be fatal,” said Gaster. “I am well aware about the risks of untested experiments, Roman. But what else do I have to lose? I have no other living friends or family. I’m alone and in solitude. Might as well put that to good use.”
“The King, you say? Well… since Sans resigned, there’s nothing I can do. Live or die, Asgore’s mired in grief and depression. They consumed him as they had consumed my dear departed father.”
“And the Queen? None of us know if she’s still amongst us.”
Gaster chuckled at himself. “Hah. Oh Helvetica, I can imagine your flurry of slaps now. ‘Don’t be such a sad sack of bones’, you’d say. But the thing is… you’re not here anymore.”
The scientist showed the red liquid to the mirror, pretending that he had an audience.
“Do you see this? ‘Determination’, as I dubbed it. The will to keep on living. The will to change fate. The substance that made human SOULS far superior compared to us monsters.”
“What is extracted can also be injected. We monsters cannot generate even a fraction of this volume. And yet, I’m going to force all of these into my SOUL.”
“What will happen, you ask? Well. I don’t know. Other than a potential existential failure through overdose. I could ask for volunteers and cause a major medical controversy but… why do I have to do that? Let’s keep things simple. Keep it personal.”
The man lay down on his bed. He pushed his SOUL up to the surface of his chest. The glowing inverted heart pulsated gently .
“Roman. Helvetica. I think I finally understand. When Mother fell ill. Why Father lost his mind. How he threw himself into the Barrier. All of it.”
He removed the cap of the needle and placed it on the desk. Then, he pointed the sharpened tip over the center of his own SOUL.
“…If I turn to dust from this, I want nothing more than to be one with the two of you again.”
Doctor W. D. Gaster then stabbed the syringe straight into his being.
* * *
As strange as it sounds, skeletons can vomit. Though, the contents won’t be acid or bile.
Monsters are made of magic. Extreme stress can cause their energy to gather in the wrong location and flow out in the wrong direction. Thus the extras would then be forcefully ejected to re-balance the equilibrium.
At first, Gaster and the skeleparents tried to help. But their presence made the illness worse.
In the end, Mezil stepped in. He was the only other person around anyway.
Papyrus hunched over the kitchen sink and spewed out the masses of magic. The old human patted his back to comfort the youngster.
“There, there. Let it all out,” said Mezil.
There goes another round.
When it finally ended, the two settled down on the dining table with a glass of plain water. Meals won’t be on their mind anytime soon.
Papyrus planted his skull front-first on the table. Other than one gulp, the drink was left untouched.
“You’ve experienced quite a bit of horrors,” Mezil said, “Yet this is the first time I’ve seen such an extreme reaction.”
“REALLY?” Papyrus groaned.
“You don’t remember?”
“MY NOGGIN IS ALL FUZZY NOW. I CAN’T RECALL MUCH OF ANYTHING. OTHER THAN CHARA KICKING MY BUTT. AND A GUTTING SESSION WITH THE SINK.”
Mezil raised a brow. “You were crushed by this ‘DT-Extraction Machine’. You don’t recall that?”
“NOPE.” A single, simple answer.
“I see. To be honest, I thought you’d throw up much sooner. Like the time when you witnessed the doctor’s attempted suicide.”
“I WAS OKAY?”
“You took it well enough. Sad, yes. But you resolved to continue your task.”
“WOWIE. OF COURSE, I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS. BEING COOL IS MY JOB. IN BOTH GOOD AND BAD TIMES. NYEH HEH HEH.” Somehow, Papyrus still managed to be a glory hog even at his lowest point.
The youngster wondered if he still remembered the layout of his own house. He also had a feeling he would need to reset all his passwords because he could no longer recall them. Home life was a distant past by now.
“WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?” He asked.
Mezil answered in the gentlest tone: “You were ‘Blinded’. Intense emotional trauma can cause a Seer to reject details. I believe you had a vision that’s so terrible, your entire existence forced you to forget. This happens to humans too.”
“OH. SORRY. I GUESS IT MUST BE AN IMPORTANT VISION TOO.”
“You can brute force through the shutdown. Should you decide so, I will aid you in both mind and matter.”
Then, he warned: “But do you still want to pursue the truth? We’re talking about an event that caused you to empty your non-existent gut down the sink.”
“It’s a point of no return. You cannot forget what you insist on knowing.”
Papyrus couldn’t give an answer at that moment. Nor did the Magus expect one.
In the realm outside of time, the skeleton decided to ruminate on his choices.
Gaster had holed himself up in one of the guest rooms. Papyrus figured out that the vision involved him, or rather the worst points of his life.
The youngster took his time. Played some pinball in the arcade. Walked in the garden. Listened to the water streams. Sat for what seemed like eternity on the swing.
Staring at the fireflies, he wondered about Frisk.
A child so small literally fell into these complicated adult realities.
What went through their mind as they repeated the Underground?
What went through their mind as they travelled on the Surface?
What went through their mind as they survived trials and tribulations?
The deaths.
The attacks on their SOUL.
The DEMON that haunted them.
Seeing their friends’ true colours?
How did they cope?
Maybe they didn’t, and hence everything went wrong.
They tried everything. From the best to the worst. From the healthiest to the sickest.
Yet, against all odds… Frisk recovered. They still choose to be good.
‘You cannot forget what you insist on knowing.’
To Papyrus, that sounded like a question about ‘Determination’. Is he determined enough to face the discomfort? Or will he turn a blind ‘eye’?
The prospect of permanent personal change frightened him. He won’t lie.
Papyrus went back inside and knocked on Uncle Gaster’s door. He needed someone to talk to for a final consultation.
“Yes?” The uncle answered. He kept his room locked.
“MISTER MAGUS TOLD ME WHAT HAPPENED,” said Papyrus. “AND HE GAVE ME A CHOICE, TO FORGET AND MOVE ON. OR FORCE MYSELF TO REMEMBER.”
“I see.”
“DO YOU THINK THIS EVENT COULD HELP ME SAVE FRISK?”
Gaster answered, “No. No, it won’t. Not in their current situation.”
Here Papyrus thought he could give himself an urgent, heroic reason to walk through the fire.
“WILL IT HELP ANYONE?” He asked again.
“I wouldn’t know. Just think of it this way: you now have the one in a billion chance to witness the true past. Free of bias, free of sugarcoating, free of doubt. Truth doesn’t get any more raw than this. Will you seize the opportunity? Or will you rather let dust remain dust?”
Lies.
Secrecy.
Everyone around Papyrus had resorted to this tactic in one form or the other.
Frisk. Alphys. Cenna. Mezil. Gaster.
Above all, Sans.
Their intentions were good, but in the end they’re all alone.
He remembered Alphys’ statement. Something about the stress of keeping secrets. How she was trapped in it, unable to move on and forever frightened.
Papyrus had made his decision. “SECRETS AND LIES HURT PEOPLE IN THE LONG RUN. I REFUSE TO LIVE LIKE THAT. I -- THE GREAT PAPYRUS -- WILL SEE THIS THROUGH!”
“You have my blessings, dear boy. Go. The truth awaits.”
* * *
The Magus lead Papyrus out into The Void: a free canvas in the hands of those with the right abilities.
As the ‘Living Victory’ walked, stone tiles floated up to his feet. They kept going forward until the Hub faded into the dark horizons.
They will need the nothingness for their task.
When Mezil was satisfied with the distance, he stepped aside for Papyrus. “Stand at the edge.”
He nodded and did so.
Endless ceiling, endless horizon, endless bottom. Make one false step and one will be lost.
Mezil began what may be his final lesson in this time loop. “Focus on the central point of the memory you wish to reconstruct: the DT-Extraction Machine. Then, pulsate your SOUL far and wide into The Void. Relevency is the key.”
Papyrus brought his butterfly-marked SOUL to the front. Each beat of life sent out a wave of white, rolling over the floating flakes of time’s memories.
“Bravery, the root of ‘Courage’. Courage is not the absence of fear, but a mastery over it. Go out and search for the those lost in dust and sands. Do not stop for anything or any reason. You will be afraid, but you will not succumb.”
The relevant bits resonated with his thoughts. They turned orange and ignited into wisps of orange flames.
“Integrity, the root of ‘Righteousness’. The stabilizer, the anchor, the quality that prevents drifting and deters corruption. Gravitate the memories to a single point. Call out. Draw them in. No matter how far they are.”
Blue paths connected the wisps. They floated towards the Seer like rivers to the sea.
“Kindness, the root of ‘Altruism’. To give without expecting anything in return. From such charity, you make way for healing. Some will take advantage. But so be it: the lives saved far outweigh the lives scorned. Heal the lost, Seer. Even if it means wounding yourself.”
The flames solidified into green squares, piecing themselves back together into a frame of their original forms.
“Reach. Reinforce. Restore. That is your true power. Still your mind. Focus your heart. And you will see that fateful day.”
The past came to life upon the final pulse of magic. The two now stood in a one-to-one scale digital mockup of the visions that had caused so much ill.
“SANS?” Papyrus muttered.
The teenage version of the elder brother stood before the liquid skeleton named Doctor Gaster. He had two of his Gasterblasters out, both aimed at his mentor.
On that day many years ago, Sans wore a red scarf over his blue iconic hoodie: his mother’s memento.
This marked the beginning of tragedy.
‘The Core Incident’.