‘For a time, the young hero thought the phrase ‘there’s no turning back’ applied only to his general life. The idyllic days of fantasy were long past: he’s living the dream along with all its responsibilities.’
‘He didn’t think it had… deeper implications.’
Blackened trees loomed across the distance. Smoke and heavy clouds blotted out the beautiful stars of Ebott night.
His red boots sank into the layer of warm ash. It should have crushed a charred beetle beneath, yet the soles phased through it like any other image.
How much true time had passed? Papyrus does not know. In a dead world like this, even ten minutes felt too long.
“SANS?”
His booming voice echoed into nothingness.
“SANS?” Papyrus furrowed his brows, “SANS, IF THIS IS YOUR IDEA OF A JAPE IT’S OFFICIALLY UN-FUNNY!”
Still nothing.
He wanted to believe that it was a joke: an off-shoot of his brother’s famous treadmill-dark-room prank.
Sans can be so immature and his ideas totally classless. It’s irritating and grating and annoying and plain old terrible.
Yet, it’s harmless. Nothing more than a few irritated minutes of ‘NYEH!’.
“UNCLE GASTER? MOM? DAD?”
That no-nonsense scientist and his parents will have better taste, won’t they? Papyrus imagined his mom and Doctor Gaster giving Sans a smack on the bottom before answering the call.
Nothing.
“FRISK? YOUR MAJESTY? UNDYNE? ALPHYS? MISS AUNT?”
What about his friends? They’re not so cruel, right?
“ANYONE?”
If only this was a tasteless jape.
Lost. Alone. Papyrus uttered a tearful whimper. It’s tempting to give up and cry.
But he didn’t.
“…I CAN’T JUST STAND HERE…”
So he continued walking down the ashen fields. Wiped away any tears with the back of his hand and pressed on…
Winds howled past, cold. It’s not Snowdin. Yet, it had a deep, lonesome chill that seeped straight into the marrow.
Papyrus clutched his mother’s scarf for comfort of the soul and warmth of the mind.
The world skipped and flickered: as if it switched channels on his old TV.
Nature had reclaimed the dead remnants. Leaves coated the canopy of newborn trees. Grasses swayed beneath the sunny blue sky.
Just the sights themselves made Papyrus forget that he’s lost. It had become more of a wondrous stroll than anything else.
In the middle of the field, stood two humans: a young lady and a caramel-haired boy. He had copper eyes that shone with a sense of charismatic confidence.
Maybe he’s seeing things, but Papyrus thought they’re almost… red.
The adult said to the child: “This is where our village used to be.”
The child replied, “It looks like any other countryside.”
“Well, it is now. But when I was a little girl, we had these beautiful golden flowers that stretched as far as the eyes could see.”
The child scraped the grassy dirt with the tip of his shoe. “We learned in science class that mass fires can change ecosystems. Is that why there are no more golden flowers?”
“Yes. But, I’m here to tell you what your schoolteachers don’t know.”
“You see, those flowers are divine. They’re vessels of the gods: housing the people who lived and died here before us. They’re powerful and should be respected.”
“Alas, a foolish child of ours took up sorcery. That act angered our ancestors to the point where they wanted to eradicate their own descendants. In order to protect those who’re living, the previous Persona thus burned the vessels.”
“The land became barren and tainted. Those spirits who survived were eventually picked off by the Magi. That’s how this land had lost its blessing.”
The boy let out a confident laugh. “Hah! Weaklings, all of ‘em. When I grow up, I’ll build a new legacy, free of superstition!”
“I’ll make everyone wanna join Gungnir. Adopt our ways, and reclaim our former status! Just like our founder: mark my words!”
This boy was the child Chara failed to be. Swift, strong, clever, and popular. Always knowing how to play his cards without resorting to RESETS or SAVES.
He was a true social genius.
At the age of twelve, the Gungnir crowned him as the new Persona. His parents changed his name so he could blend into normal school society.
The vision skipped ahead to the time when the boy became a man. He lived in a nice condominium with a good view: a place for working professionals with a sizable income.
His caramel hair now had streaks of bright red highlights. This guy loves his colours, it seems.
Those strong muscles reminded Papyrus of Aaron from Waterfall. A little less bulky, but much more powerful. Just looking at them gave the vibe that this person could smash bone with his bare fist.
On the stroke of ten at night, he heard the beeping calls from the Persona’s PC.
He answered it.
“Greetings, Persona.” The person masked their true voice behind a voice-distorting program.
The man raised a brow. “Who are you?”
“A name is of no importance. You should know this the best.”
Persona laughed, amused by the reaction. “Well said, well said. So, what do ‘you’ want from me?”
“I formally invite you to the War of the Red Victory. It’s a battle royale for the grand prize: the Keys of Fate. And a little something extra. It starts twenty-six hours from now. That should give you ample time to prepare.”
“Where will this take place?”
“The city where the Magi first planted their roots.”
Smug as ever, the Persona leaned back in his chair. “I decline.”
“Oh? Are you sure about that? The Gungnir had vied for the Keys of Fate ever since they lost it to the Magi in ages past. This is the perfect opportunity.”
“I’ll be frank: this reeks of a trap. Home territory advantage and whatnot. Besides, it’s not worth the trouble.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know who you are, but I’m certain you’re a Magus. A crazy one too. Who else would so blatantly invite the number one of Gungnir?”
The person on the other end of the line went silent for a moment. Then, they started cackling.
“As expected from you!” The caller said, “But think about it. If I win the war, you too will become a plaything in my hands. When the Gungnir die like flies in my wake, all your attempts to counter me shall be for naught.”
“Heh,” the Persona smirked. “Zip your fucking lips right now, Mister Mastermind. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”
“How about this? I will duel the champion. If you truly are the top dog, then I will taste defeat by your hands. Fail and I’ll pluck the Keys straight out of your cold, dead corpse. Simple. Clean. Effective.”
Papyrus gulped. He understood their desire to be popular, but does it have to be so violent? It’s as though insanity defined the Surface.
“Fine, Persona. Have it your way.”
When the call ended, so did the scene.
There were two things that Papyrus learned in this solo dive.
One, control was not his forte. He thought he could do it, but it turned out that it’s all due to Mezil’s aid.
Two, the visions won’t stop until they reached their proper conclusion.
I DON’T UNDERSTAND.
WHY DO I WANT TO SEE THIS THROUGH?
THIS PERSONA IS A STRANGE STRANGER. WHY IS HE RELEVANT TO THE CHAOS SURROUNDING EBOTT? HOW WILL THIS HELP FRISK?
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Questions, questions everywhere.
Yet, he cannot escape.
Ignorance was not an option.
MISTER MAGUS TOLD ME TO KEEP GOING, EVEN IF IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. HE’S VERY SMART. AND EXPERIENCED. I SHOULD LISTEN TO HIM.
Papyrus returned to the same apartment. Dawn cracked over the horizon. The Persona was in the middle of some morning exercise when his phone rang.
“Any updates?” he asked. After the other side explained, the Persona rose his brows in interest. “Oh really? Took them long enough. Hmph, as I had expected. That mastermind was full of hot air.”
He sat down at his computer to receive the full report. Switched his communication lines there too.
Papyrus snuck up from behind to try peek on the screen. The screen was pixelated from distortions caused by his own imperfect rendering.
“Hmm… What’s this? Mezil Winston?”
“You know this person, sir?” the informant said.
“We were in the same class for five years. Except, he avoided everyone like the plague. Not the most sociable. He willingly shoved himself to the farthest corner of the canteen just to eat in his lonesome. Average grades, nothing to speak off in PE classes. Always writing stuff in his secret diary.”
“A recluse that not even the local bullies bothered to mess with. He’s literally a walking target and yet somehow they stayed the fuck away. He might as well not exist.”
“I see. That is indeed very unusual. Also, our intel suggests that he’s getting married soon after the skirmish. In about a week.”
“Married…?”
Persona broke into a bellowing laughter. A holler so hard, he could hardly keep himself on the chair.
“Sir?”
“Ha ha ha! I can’t BELIEVE it! Wallflower Winston tying the knot?! Is this a romance movie?!”
It took a while for him to calm down. But, when the Persona did, he asked: “So, what’s his Mark?”
“A butterfly, sir.”
The young skeleton gasped. He had heard that humans change their ‘family names’ after they get married. This means the tsundere principal’s original name was ‘Mezil Winston’.
“Is that so? Well then, interesting. Begin preparations. I want to meet his lovely spouse in person.”
The end is just the beginning of a new chapter.
For a moment, Papyrus thought the materialization of his vision froze midway.
No. It completed: it's just that he’s looking at an intricate stained glass ceiling.
The myriad of shapes, patterns, and colours took his non-existent breath away. He had heard about the intricacy of the Surface’s ‘glass art’ from his brother, but he had never seen it up-close and personal before.
It’s like the stars of celestial night, except a thousand times more vibrant.
The patterns led his eyes to the center. Red bolts of lightning formed a ring against strips of white and gold, radiating outwards into a great sun.
“So you’ve come, monster.”
Attention shifted from the ceiling straight toward the ground.
It’s the Persona.
He stood under the light of day, within this room of pristine white.
Their eyes met.
“ARE YOU… TALKING TO ME?”
Papyrus had a hard time believing that this was the same hot-shot. If it weren’t for the Persona’s distinctive caramel hair and streaks of crimson, he wouldn’t have recognized him.
“I’m surprised the sun didn’t burn you to ash.”
He looked… rugged. Muscular. The military-camo style gear cemented the impression further. Though he's no longer in his prime, those eyes still exuded the valour of youth.
Papyrus sensed a dangerous, oppressive aura emanating from his very being. Just the gaze alone threatened to strangle the life out of him. Not even Chara at their worst made him feel this way.
What were his deeds to muster up so much killing intent? How many fell at his hand?
Papyrus couldn’t see the exact LOVE and EXP residing within. Still, every bone in his body warned him to maintain distance. He’s on guard, just in case the visions start to inflict real harm.
There’s a promise to be kept: Frisk counted on him for it.
“I-I DO NOT WANT TO FIGHT,” so said the skeleton. “BUT IF YOU INSIST ON VIOLENCE, I WILL CAPTURE YOU.”
The Persona reached to the back and drew out a strange dagger. It had a hook at the end, unlike the familiar kitchen knife.
Papyrus in turn conjured a femur to serve as a baton. He didn’t think about why he could use magic in a vision to begin with. All he thought was this:
I NEED TO DEFLECT THAT WEIRD BLADE.
He put all his reinforcement magic into it. Tried to make his weapon stronger than steel.
But, was that possible?
“That face. Ah, no matter how hard I try, you just come back with the exact same expression. Sometimes I wonder if you were ever even human.”
Papyrus took another step back. “SORRY IF MY APPEARANCES DECEIVE YOU, BUT I’VE ALWAYS BEEN A MONSTER. I-IF YOU STEP FORWARD, W-WE’LL HAVE A VERY BAD TIME!”
A great crimson lightning struck the Persona, empowering his being. Its sheer crackling boom tattered reality at its seams.
Papyrus couldn’t act. He’s too stunned to jump back, even though he knew he should have done so.
“You know how this goes. Kill or be killed. Let’s end this right here and now, Vampire of Time.”
“WAIT, WHO?”
Another person whizzed past. It’s a man with well-combed wavy-hair, dressed in a tailcoat darker than The Void. There’s only one person who’d charge into battle in such formal clothes.
“MISTER MAGUS…?”
The two began their duel. Only then, Papyrus truly confirmed the identity of Persona’s adversary.
Supreme Judge Mezil Thyme.
Gungnir’s final Persona preferred the swift slices of a knife.
The Magi’s grimmest Judge favoured the accuracy of a gun.
At this point in time he still had his jet-black strands, but Mezil’s face had all the battle-weary marks of the middle-aged veteran.
Papyrus was sure that Judge Thyme had nut-brown eyes. Then, why did they now match the gems of his distinctive brooch?
When in history was this?
Mezil fired his shot.
It missed.
The Persona punched Mezil’s gut. When he did so, his fist flashed red and planted a bolt of lightning at the impact point.
It sent the Magus flying across the chamber, slamming him into the wall with a loud snap.
Such strength. There’s something abnormal about it. Papyrus expected it for Undyne, but for a human?
Anime? Live action fantasy? A show of entertainment for kids? How wrong that was. This was the secret battle of false gods and magic: titans clashing head to head.
No cuts.
No censorship.
It’s terrifying.
Mezil coughed out blood as he writhed on the ground.
The Persona dashed forward. He raised his hooked knife in the air with the intent of plunging it down for the killing blow.
“MISTER MAGUS!!!”
Papyrus rushed forward. It’s a vision, and Mezil surely survived the horrible times. Except, he couldn’t just idly sit by.
Both men then vanished. Reality again frizzled at the edges.
“HUH? WHERE DID THEY GO?”
He turned around and witnessed the beginning of the battle. Persona stood at the center of the chamber, right under the jagged sun.
In other words, Mezil loaded a SAVE.
From this new angle, Papyrus noticed a clear entrance. Mezil stood there, right behind the Seer’s previous position.
The Persona didn’t address Papyrus at all. Never before was the youngster so grateful for being ignored.
But something’s wrong.
Mezil hunched forward. He struggled to stand straight. Brows, furrowed. Breathing, heavy.
And above all, the lightning-mark remained.
“So,” said the Persona, “Only a bruise carried over? I was sure I broke a few bones. Seems like you’ve trained your abs well. Or are you trying to hide something? The gut has always been your weak point.”
The Magus grunted. He refused to answer, instead opting to initiate a quickdraw.
Again, the Persona dodged the bullet with a swiftness that betrayed his physique. He attempted to close his distance with a…
…TELEPORT?
Papyrus thought it’s a magic exclusive to his brother. But, it’s different. Whenever Sans made his jump, he’d leave no trace. But the Persona seemed to ‘fill’ in a shadow of the past.
Maybe his brother could see it better? Sans always had the more analytical eye, literally or otherwise.
Mezil avoided the strike by teleporting close to the center of the room. He tried to fire, but the enemy was not called Gungnir’s best for nothing.
The Persona charged up his blade with a strange power before throwing it by the handle. It stabbed the Magus’ left thigh, embedding its symbol deep into the cut.
Mezil cried out in pain.
Papyrus covered his mouth. Getting nicked by Undyne’s spears was painful enough, what more a knife stabbed so far in?
LOAD.
The men returned to their original position once more. The Persona remained in tip-top shape, while the damp patch around Mezil’s wound grew larger and larger…
“Trying to aim for the perfect kill, huh?” said the Persona. “It’s been almost fifteen years and yet you never learn.”
White circuit lines encased Mezil’s entire left leg. In addition to that, a small pentagram grew over the cut. It stitched the gaping wound shut to prevent excessive blood loss.
“Resorting to witchcraft so soon,” scoffed the strongman.
Mezil replied, “What else do you expect from a vampire?”
The dance of death continued. The same pattern repeated: Mezil would try to land a hit, only to be punished by Persona.
Beaten.
Sliced.
Smashed.
Papyrus backed himself against the wall, frightened by the fierce brutality before him. Watching Sans tear Chara apart was bad enough. At least his brother didn’t find enjoyment in the battle.
But here? The Persona seemed to relish every sadistic, savage moment.
Was this what his tsundere principal friend had to endure as the ‘Keeper of Peace’?
Hints and implications flashed by. They never stayed too long to make sense. Nonetheless, the Seer felt that they’re filled with twisted negativity.
LOAD number 4. Mezil had used all his body-supporting magic to keep him in fighting condition.
By LOAD number 11. That same magic started to flicker and fade. Too much lost blood. Too little strength to maintain.
The Persona felt confident enough to talk down to his opponent.
He said: “I hear the Vanquishers undergo a cleansing ritual before they embark on their so-called exorcism. You, on the other hand, never did so. Hilarious. Do you think you could defeat me drenched in blood? Your stains feed me power, Magus. That’s the law since ancient days.”
Mezil coughed up blood. The ruby glow in his eyes intensified in response to the taunt. Determination coursed through his veins, pushing his body beyond sanity.
“Yours too,” said the Magus, “I shall consume every drop, be it on me or on you. Ever since I won the War of the Red Victory, I know I’m no longer human. We are both DEMONS. The worst of heretics.”
He began teleporting around the chamber to mask his tracks. He may not be able to run, but he could flutter about in displaced time.
Fire.
Miss.
The Persona countered by teleporting up close. Drove the hook deep into Mezil’s left arm, and yanked it out at an odd angle for maximum destruction.
LOAD number 12. Mezil’s damaged arm limped by the side, paralyzed. More blood flowed down.
“STOP…” Papyrus whimpered. Cried. “MISTER MAGUS, RUN AWAY. STOP. PLEASE. YOU’RE HURT. NO MORE VIOLENCE. PLEASE RUN AWAY. PLEASE!”
It’s useless. The past had happened. This is nothing more than a replay.
One more gunshot.
One more injury.
LOAD number 13.
Mezil could no longer stand. He’s on his knees. Pallid. Shaking. He’s running dry. Yet despite so, the red glow in his eyes still refused to fade.
Persona scoffed at the sight, juggling his knife to show how confident and relaxed he is.
“Here I thought the infamous Vampire of Time will come up with a final gambit. Maybe you really are nothing more than the reclusive nerd of our schooldays. Disappointing.”
“Well, as they say in the retro stuff you like so much: ‘Game Over’.”
Mezil paid zero attention to the words of his nemesis. He can’t afford to channel what remaining focus he had on petty insults.
“Iron. Gold.” The Judge muttered, “Mercury and silver. My blood… Determination… in liquid form. Heed my call.”
Thirteen butterflies flashed all around the chamber. Papyrus noticed one shining beside him. Upon a closer look, he realised that it came from a bullet embedded in the wall.
Mezil never missed his shots. On the contrary: his aim held true. Each bullet, across different timelines, struck every single one of their true targets.
Multiple intricate grams shone through the Magus’ clothes. Through, not on. This man had magic code tattooed into his entire being.
The most prominent one of all was a thirteen-pointed star on the chest.
The Persona realised it’s a trap. In a final desperate move, the Gungnir raised his arm with the intent to sink the knife deep into Mezil’s skull.
Too slow.
A magnified thirteen-point Gram spread across the floor. What followed after was a scream unlike anything Papyrus had heard before: twisted, broken, ripped and torn.
And the loudest source… was from himself.
Papyrus didn’t understand what’s going on. Neither he did he notice that he’s affected to begin with.
What is this sensation?
Hot?
Burning?
There’s no time or sense or logic or conscious thought to form together a description.
Orange flames tinted with blue and green erupted from every hollow bone it could escape from: from his sockets, to the nose, to his mouth. It blotted out his very view.
Though he could no longer see, Papyrus could still hear the howl of the Persona. Whatever magic Mezil had used, it inflicted unspeakable agony against him.
He yelled: “Argh! I- I can’t. Move! My power, gone!”
There was a metallic click of a loaded gun.
“How…? You should be the one to suffer most!”
Mezil answered the question with a single statement: “Die ignorant, Persona.”
Two fatal gunshots later, the last of Gungnir’s false gods ceased to be.
The headache and flames intensified. Papyrus could see nothing but the myriad of shades. His hands grabbed the air in a desperate attempt to escape.
Alas, he instead fell straight into a mass of static.