Hours before, right in the darkest of the night…
The elder brother sat in the shadows of his atelier, stripped of the power that once defined his being.
After handing over the living sunshine to the Magi, he retreated to his secret laboratory. Kept the lights shut to focus his thoughts.
Sans slumped over on the sofa. Hands, gripping together. Tight.
This is exactly what I tried to prevent.
I knew what those colours meant ever since I read Paps’ records.
I knew what he could become.
I knew ‘that man’ would attempt to push my brother to the limit under the ideal of unleashing his potential.
I knew it would end up this way.
It’s all within expectations. Within calculations.
Everything.
And yet I teamed up with Gaster to build the Chronoviewer.
All because I cannot cheat an investigation without my Eye.
Acidic chuckles echoed in the dead air.
“I am such a terrible brother.”
He got on his feet, walking past the flour-dusted cocoons of bottled Determination.
Sans pulled down the dusty sheets that hid the wreckage beneath. He tossed the fabric aside, letting it fall into a useless haphazard lump.
The mangled skeletal remains of the Chronograph continued to mock him to this day. For a long time, he wanted to fix this. Tune it to his own colours so he could use it to analyze the past, present, and future.
He wanted this fixed so much. So, so very much. Not because he wanted change fate or to bring back the lost Gaster, as many would assume.
It’s so that Papyrus would never, ever need to rise as a true hero.
Until now, the machine froze at a certain state of time. There’s no electrical input, but the broken side-screen continued to display an eternal string of nines. Red, from top to bottom.
Sans used telekinesis to move the machine aside. His grip had always been strong for as long as he could remember.
He had caused his parents much confusion. Whenever he spied on their nightly discussions, he’d hear assorted questions.
‘Isn’t that supposed to be Blue magic?’, they would ask.
‘Why does he have 1 HP?’
‘How could he be so weak yet so powerful?’
‘How could he be so sluggish yet so quick?’
His entire existence had been a cheating paradox.
Hidden behind the wreck was none other than a complex arcanagram, mounted on the wall. At its core, a small switch rested in the open maws of a human skull.
Sans conjured a bone with hand glyphs written all over. This mechanism was designed to recognize his magic alone, similar to the fingerprint or iris scanners of human society. The glyphs contain multiple passwords, just in case someone decided that stealing a piece of his magic was a valid choice of action.
He inserted the key into the keyhole; the jawbones snapped shut and pumped energy into the rest of the gram. It lit up, turning pieces in their places like gears on a clockwork.
The wall slid aside to reveal a hidden workshop: his personal ‘True Lab’.
On the left it’s the research corner: the place for thinking, drafting, and calculating. Whiteboards more or less replaced the walls in that section. Provided all the space he’d ever need.
He had more drawers here, though they all exist on regular time. It’s where he stored his prototype blueprints, stationery, and a host of other supplies.
On the right side, it’s the crafting zone: a forge, mechanical saws, electronics station, mould makers and casts, tool racks, an anvil, a workshop bench, even a power hammer that he stole from Gaster’s lab before Alphys moved in.
How else could he have made Papyrus’ ‘battle body’? It may look like a lightweight costume, but it’s pretty sturdy. It's why that DEMON brat aimed for the neck.
With his magic, Sans transported all 49 cocoons of bottled Determination into the chamber. Set them down on the far left corner for the next phase of his plan.
When he stepped into the workshop, the gears of the Arcanagram rolled back to their default position and became a wall once more. It sealed this place away from the rest of the world.
“Let’s get to work,” he said to himself.
He switched on the lights. Pulled out a voice recorder from the drawers and loaded it with some batteries. All audio comments were for his own references alone.
Sans fixed the microphone on his jacket and turned on the device. At least the batteries still work. Then, he took out a marker pen from the desk drawers. Made it float with telekinesis so he could reach places beyond his short stature.
“Entry number 1.”
“‘Determination is a battle of wills’,” he said. “As stated by Lucidia of House Berendin, the prime chronicler of the ‘War of the Red Victory’.”
“Red Majors whose Aspects had come to maturity are known as the ‘Living Victories’. Every Living Victory has the potential to own the ‘Keys of Fate’. In other words, the ability to manipulate time at a cosmic scale.”
“Each Living Victory bears a signature that defines their character. They’re called ‘Marks’. A person’s Mark determines the method of their SAVES and their possible skillsets.”
The pen drew the shape of a lightning bolt facing a butterfly. Surrounded that with a large circle to represent the arena Mezil once fought in.
“Subject A: The Last Persona. Subject B: Mezil Thyme.”
“When Living Victories have competing levels of Determination, the ownership of time blurs. It is entirely possible for one Living Victory to force the other into his or her ‘game’. A scenario, a stage, a campaign that must be seen through the end.”
“Subject A did exactly that. Striking himself with a bolt of lightning is his method to SAVE. With that much Determination, he forced Subject B into an inescapable scenario.”
“Though Subject B holds the Keys of Fate, the location and timing of his SAVES are at the mercy of Subject A.”
Sans wanted to recreate all thirteen rounds of that time-looping battle. Wanted, was the word. Right now, he doesn’t trust his memory. He would have a much stronger recollection if he had his Eye.
More frustration welled up in his empty, tornado heart.
He commanded the pen to fill the tridecagram in the arena.
“Subject B’s wife, Lucidia Berendin, is an Arcanagram specialist. She provides all the support Subject B requires to fight against a physically superior opponent. One of her many grand works included the weaponization of the Seer’s Seal. From now on, I will refer it as ‘WESS’.”
“The standard Seer’s Seal does the following: Draws and channels all Seven Aspects for input. Reserves one point to burn Determination as a reagent. Reroutes the remaining six untouched Aspects back to the target. A WESS applies this same logic, except it’s expanded to cover an area as opposed to the targeted location of a standard Seal.”
“This affects everyone and anyone within that circle: both in the present and on any Seer who gazes into the past. This conceals Subject B’s final execution method against Subject A.”
“In other words, his finishing move would only be known to two people: his wife and himself.”
Sans crossed out the lightning mark.
“My observation indicates that this WESS paralyzed Subject A by stripping him of all Determination. A human body contains levels of Determination beyond monster capacity. However, it is possible to drain them.”
“When I was an assistant for Doctor Gaster, I noticed that SOULS become slow and sluggish when drained of their Determination. A Red SOUL is defined by this substance, and Living Victories have these pumping in their bloodstreams.”
“To have it all burned away in a second will in no doubt inflict intense physiological shock. The screams of agony from Subject A further cement this theory.”
“Despite that, Subject B could still act.”
“Why?”
Sans drew a question mark beside the butterfly.
He capped the pen and stared at the diagram for an entire minute. His mind racing at a mile a second, expanding to all possibilities based everything he had learned up to this point.
After one deep breath, he resumed his analysis.
“Determination is a battle of wills. Volume plays an integral role. But, it’s not the only factor.”
“Subject C: Frisk. Lucidia Berendin’s chronicles indicate that all stable Marks are red. The shape is a unique signature, but the colour is not. Subject C’s confession mails described their SAVES to be a yellow star. Stars… burn themselves to shine.”
“It is possible that they failed to make their Mark -- and therefore multiple SAVES -- due to their unstable output of Determination. Judging from the number of Marks Subject B makes, it indicates little effort for an expert. What if these Marks require a small, yet steady supply to maintain their existence?”
“This correlates with my attempts of draining Subject B’s Mark. They refill at a consistent rate from an inexhaustible source.”
“If this is the case, do Marks have an upper limit? Instead of draining the container, what if I push it beyond its intended capacity? End recording.”
With that, he shut off the microphone. He placed the marker pen aside. Searched the drawers for drafting tools: ball-point pens, paper, rulers, and assorted geometric aid. Anything to sketch a concept Gram.
Sans calculated without cease. He’s so close to a breakthrough. Too close.
Once he finished the sketch phase, he began arranging the 49 bottles of Determination into the widest circle his workshop could provide. It provided a literal outline of his available space.
His mind wrote down the necessary calculations bone per bone. Conjured the numbers together with the magical substrate. Left no surface blank in waste.
Beads of sweat trickled down the surface of his skull. What time is it now? Can he let fatigue get the better of him again?
Sans refused. Not now. Not with his brother at stake. He can’t afford to be lazy now.
What was the exact method to break Lucidia’s Seal again? In the midst of his ponderings, his hand touched a folded piece of paper in his pockets.
It’s Gaster’s notes.
Without hesitation, he integrated them into his current calculations.
After a ton of paradoxical effort, the Seer completed the most forbidden of all Arcanagrams: a 49-point star. A Quadraginta Nova. Otherwise known as the ‘Soul Stealer’.
“…Heh,” he smirked. “Funny coincidence. It wouldn’t take this shape if I didn’t give Muffet that other bottle of DT.”
Turning the recording device back on, Sans said: “Entry number 2. I had modified the Soul Stealer in a similar manner to WESS. At the same time, I had layered an extra code on top of this. It’s Doctor Gaster’s solution to Lucidia Berendin’s Seer’s Seal.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“First, the Gram will attempt to break the Seer’s Seal on my Eye. Subject B’s Mark will activate upon shattering, and thus exposing itself in full view. I speculate this is when the Mark will be at its most vulnerable state.”
“This is where the Soul Stealer comes in: instead of consolidating SOULS, the code will now merge and condense Determination. They will be prepared ahead of time.”
He used a little Blue magic to jump over the bottles. Landed in the middle of a small square. There’s a concentrated circle of glyphs between his feet: an activation point.
“Now, inserting DT straight into my bonely self will inflict a state worse than death. But, I programmed the Gram to redirect all 49 canisters of Determination into a ‘human entity’. The only human entity on my being is Subject B’s Mark: the butterfly.”
“Although if we were to take his nickname as ‘The Vampire of Time’ at face value, Mezil Thyme had discarded his humanity a long time ago. Only a sense of conscience separates a Living Victory from a Determination Monster.”
“What does it mean to be human? I wouldn’t know. End recording.”
Microphone, off. The activation will be too noisy to record.
Sans wrote down the final piece of his equation on a single, long femur. He raised it high above his head and pierced it straight into the gap of his Arcanagram.
The workshop shone bright in the light of magic.
The Gram ripped away the silk cocoons and shattered the canister glass. Determination spilled on the floor, yet they did not spread. They formed a tight circle of crimson at the perimeters, primed for the final phase.
Lucidia’s Seal pulsed shockwaves of force into the room. Any lightweight objects were blown off their surface and shoved into the corners of the wall.
Almost there.
Almost.
I can hear it crack.
The Seer’s Seal shattered. Flakes floated away, and soon after they turned red. As he had expected, the butterfly attempted to revert them to their pristine state.
Now!
All in one go, forty-nine streams of condensed Determination pierced the butterfly. It reminded Sans of Undyne’s spears shooting down a creature in mid-flight.
There’s a certain sense of irony in this picture. It’s from this Mark that Sans had drained so much DT…
Now, that very same quantity became a weapon for his goals.
How appropriate.
The plan worked: the Mark combusted, cannibalizing itself like Frisk’s unstable star.
Red gave way to the tricolour flames. Sans’ Seer’s Eye ignited upon the first opportunity of freedom.
He clutched the socket. It’s going out of control from the sudden release, flashing as the roaring flames leaked between his finger bones.
Sans landed on his knees and let out a loud cry.
* * *
It’s a timeline that had ceased to exist.
Papyrus’ sobbing could be heard all around.
Dense trees got in the way. The translucent canopy of fresh leaves blocked out the sky in their ever-sprawling confusion.
“Papyrus!”
The Sans of that time yelled for his brother’s name.
He searched and searched. The crying grew louder, meaning that he’s getting warmer.
Suddenly, it stopped.
“Papyrus? Papyrus! Bro, where are you?”
Did the humans get him?
Please.
Please don’t die.
Not on the Surface.
He heard the voice of a stern man. Recognized it right away.
Sans teleported towards that direction. He found his brother curled up under a tree, covered in leaves, twigs, and streaks of mud.
Fear rattled his bones. He had his mother’s scarf wrapped around his skull, trying to hide from the world.
But, he’s not alone. There were two other people. Sans observed from the covers of the foliage.
Mezil Thyme knelt before Papyrus. Standing right beside the old human was a woman in a sapphire dress. She had long, curly hair and wore a white mask to conceal her face.
They both had a butterfly brooch with the exact same design. Except, one in red and the other in blue.
“I’M SCARED, MISTER MAGUS!” Papyrus whimpered. “THERE’S SO MUCH VIOLENCE AND HATRED AND NEGATIVITY EVERYWHERE! T-THE ASGORE CLONE, I-I MEAN QUEEN TORIEL SHE’S…! SHE’S…!”
Papyrus broke down crying again.
Mezil reached out for the young skeleton’s shoulder. “Listen well, Papyrus. This timeline is beyond salvaging. I need your courage now more than ever.”
A single tap on the chest brought the monster’s white SOUL to the surface. It had Mezil’s Mark, still as bright as the day he planted it.
“Remember our promise? We can prevent this bad future from happening. Together.”
“B-BUT, HOW?” Papyrus asked.
“I will protect your community. This time, for certain. I had recorded all of the enemy’s moves and I will ensure their interception.”
“You will bear the vital role of convincing Frisk -- and consequently the local monsterkind -- to trust the Magus Association. This timeline crumbled because we failed to cooperate.”
Papyrus shrank deeper into himself. Sans knew the signs of a true breakdown and he’s seeing all the red flags right now.
“I… I CAN’T. I CAN’T DO THIS!” He said, “I-I’M A NOBODY, MISTER MAGUS! ALL MY CLAIMS ABOUT BEING SUPER POPULAR AND AWESOME AND GREAT ARE JUST WHAT I WANTED TO BELIEVE. THEY’RE NOT TRUE!”
“I TRIED SO SO SO VERY HARD TO TELL EVERYONE THAT YOU’RE GOOD, BUT THEY REFUSE TO BELIEVE! NOT EVEN FRISK WOULD LISTEN TO ME!”
Sans rather be slashed in half than to watch his brother’s optimism shattered.
The sapphire woman lowered herself down to his level. Yet, she never quite touched the ground.
Magic?
Mask. Gloves. Covered clothing. Floating magic.
Could she be… a Seer?
The past Sans couldn’t believe he’d ever see another member of his kind.
The woman said with a gentle voice, “You’re not nothing, Papyrus. My husband and I consider you the best candidate for a reason. They didn’t listen to you in this timeline. But in the next, you will have much better chances. Look at my eyes.”
Papyrus wiped the tears away with the back of his gloves and obeyed the instruction.
The woman’s eyes lit up in colour. Right green, left blue. Both bore an underlying shade of purple.
Both?
Sans froze. He thought his Eye had fooled him, but he’s born with Truesight. He sees nothing but the truth.
The data he read was this:
Right: Green / Purple
Left: Blue / Purple
No Seer or human can have more than three functioning Aspects at a time. Hence, the general rule was that a Dichromatic Seer would either have two Pures, or one Mixed and one Pure.
Yet, this woman had two Mixed Eyes that conform to the three-trait rule. She’s a rare spawn of an already rare spawn. Her true colours were literally hidden from plain sight.
Papyrus gasped. “OH MY GOD! YOU HAVE MAGIC EYES TOO??! D-DOES THAT MEAN YOU’RE A SKELLY LIKE ME? AND YOU’RE MISTER MAGUS’ SPECIAL SOMEONE?!?!?!?”
She nodded. “Yes, I am. And I’m also a Chronographer. I’ll train you in our ways, Papyrus. From the basics and beyond.”
He cheered up almost in an instant. Instead of crying tears of fear, he shed them out of joy. “WE’RE PRACTICALLY FAMILY! I’M SO SO SO SO HAPPY TO MEET YOU MISS SEER!”
The woman giggled. “It’s Lady Lucidia, dear.”
“My wife will be your mentor,” said Mezil. “When I LOAD my SAVE, gather your closest ones and explain to them what you’ve seen. My wife would then show you the shortcuts to the Magus Association and train you in any way she sees fit. Do you understand?”
Papyrus took a deep breath to calm himself down. Filled with newfound courage, he answered in the most enthusiastic yells: “YES!!!”
Sans then teleported out from his hiding spot and objected to the plan. With darkened sockets, he said: “I won’t let you.”
“SANS?” his brother blurted. “BUT, WHY? I’M MISTER MAGUS’ PROXY. IT’S MY JOB!”
“Papyrus, I won’t. I can’t. I can’t let you be a hero.”
Mezil stood up tall and faced square against the most dangerous skeleton in Ebott. His wife floated behind her husband, ready to defend him if required.
“May I enquire why do you insist so?” he asked.
“I don’t want him to remember any of this,” Sans argued. “It’s too much. You saw him break down, Magus. He just went through horrors that traumatize humans for life, let alone monsters! Do you think it’s a good idea for him to bear those scars forever?”
The younger brother spoke up. “SANS, MISTER MAGUS IS TRYING HIS UBER BEST TO HELP US! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT?”
“I don’t want you to end up broken like me!”
His brother stared back in shocked silence. Sans had never snapped at his brother before. Never. Never ever. The afterthought alone screamed ‘trash’ in his mind.
“Papyrus,” he said, “I… I want you to remain pure. Untarnished. Pristine. You throw around dark humour like I make puns. You have no idea how horrible the world really is and that makes me happy.”
“I wish… I wish I could live that way. I wish I could take war and violence as fantasy and fiction, like Alphys’ anime collection. I wish I could honestly believe that getting an electric shock would just result in frizzly clothes and a little soot.”
“But I can’t. I had never been able to! I see the truth and death in everything, Papyrus. Everything. Everyone. Including you.”
His stocky ribs rose and fell. What is this sensation? Shame? Hurt?
“…I don’t take eight-hour naps because I want to,” he said. “I get lost in dreams. Nightmares. Every now and then, I see you die. Most of the time it’s by decapitation, but I’ve dreamt of worse. Much, much worse.”
There’s never a sleep cycle where he didn’t dream these nightmares.
But after his parents’ death, they grew longer and frequent. They became real, and he had control. Which made things even more frustrating as his efforts always were for naught.
He’s struggling to wake up when he sleeps.
And he’s struggling to stay awake when he doesn’t sleep.
It had become extra noticeable after Flowey started his ‘game’. The usually oblivious Papyrus started chiding him on his ‘laziness’.
He didn’t want to be lazy.
But each RESET made it more difficult to ACT.
Why bother when The End draws nigh?
Why bother when it all amounts to nothing?
“What alternative do you propose?”
Mezil’s question grabbed his attention.
That’s right. There’s still a brother to save.
Stretching his arms wide, Sans offered himself. “Make me your proxy. Remove your butterfly mark on Papyrus and plant that on me.”
That statement earned him a narrowed glare. Mezil replied: “Why should I trust a man who trusts no one?”
An offer of self alone was not good enough. If that’s the case, it’s time to raise the stakes.
“Seal me,” said Sans. “If your intel is as good as you say, you’ll notice that I depend on my Seer’s Eye way too much. Sealing it will be your only guarantee that I won’t fall back to old habits. It’ll also cut down my combat potential to a tenth.”
“My actions will thus ‘butterfly’ out into the great unknown. Perhaps it’s a terrible idea. But maybe it’s the breakthrough we need to avoid another damn time loop. What do you think?”
He hoped to anyone out there that Mezil will take up his offer. Anything to spare Papyrus from the burden. Anything.
Husband and wife whispered to each other, discussing the validity of the offer.
“We have come to a decision,” said Mezil. “My wife will seal you. But, under the condition that you will not remember what happened in this timeline either.”
“My Mark will instead be on the Seal. As long it remains there, our contract is valid.”
Sans furrowed his brows. “Are you sure? If I don’t remember my own deal, I’ll do everything in my power to free myself.”
“When or if you do, you will remember this moment of time. It will be up to you to honour your intentions. Fits the chaos theory of my Mark, does it not?”
The skeleton could feel the edges of his mouth curl up into a grin.
“Heh. I like that. It’s a deal. And one more thing: tell no one that it’s my own idea.”
“Your wish is my command,” said Mezil. Sarcasm dripped from every word. “Sometimes I wonder who your ‘god’ is, seraphim.”
Lucidia began to speak in the language of hands. Her conjured bones formed the thirteen-point star of the Seer’s Seal, which she then imbued into his vision.
That’s all he remembered from this timeline.
Whatever happened after his blindness didn’t matter. A RESET would soon follow. The next timeline will begin by the mechanisms of his making.
* * *
Sans Serif was unsure which shocked him more.
His self-inflicted suffering.
Or the desperation of his gambit.
In a stupor, he reached for the microphone and switched it on.
“…Entry number 3,” he said. Cold, stoic, monotone. “The experiment was a success. My hypothesis true, and my theories sound.”
“The past timeline indicates a societal fallout at its worst possible. It’s likely fuelled by the discovery of the Fallen Children’s graves in the Underground.”
“Monsterkind’s inability to handle this situation reignited the xenophobia of ancient days. Humans are further empowered by the science of firearms and explosives. This gives them the kind of ranged attack once exclusive to magic.”
“All within calculations. Within expectations.”
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
There should be new emotions now. A tornado of them. He had felt this once before: when he found out that he had murdered Frisk’s parents.
Should. Should. Should is the word. He should feel lots of things.
Rage.
Hatred.
Vengeance.
Fear.
Worry.
Despair.
Yet, his heart remained silent. Numb. Hollow. The tornado was not made of wind: it’s a wall of bones. Rotating forevermore.
Where is the line between genuine feelings and emulation?
Sans asked himself a question: “…Will legal rights protect us?”
A moment later, he answered it himself: “No, it will not. Humans can break laws all on their own. And there’s no guarantee the government will honour such legality. It can be undermined either by corruption, or overturned by the future ruling heads themselves.”
“Will ideals about the sanctity of life protect us? No. Nothing is sacred. Humankind had enacted policies to oppress or purge the minority too many times to count, either through marginalization or literal genocide. If they can’t get along with folks of similar biology or even the same colour, what hope do we monsters have?”
“Let’s narrow it down. Can the Magus Association protect us as they had protected the other survivors? No. If the past timeline is of any indication, enemies can outsmart them despite their best efforts.”
“…It would not surprise me that betrayal destroyed some of the protected nations. Rulers can be upright people, but the same cannot be said for others under their command. If anyone with reasonable power conspired to cover up their bad deeds, time may naturally flow past the point of no return. The damage is done and no SAVES to prevent the tragedy exist.”
“Can Subject B, the current holder of the Keys of Fate, protect us then? Perhaps. He’s sharp, and he had the additional support of a Chronographer for a spouse. But, he’s growing old. He could fight tooth and nail to secure Ebott… but what can a man do when age claims him? If he’s in his fifties now. He might have two more decades at best.”
“What of his presumed successor, Subject C?”
The words stopped flowing. Sans pondered over that person for a long time.
It’s the face of a friend.
It’s the face of an enemy.
It’s the face of his best student.
It’s the face of his worst traitor.
Many would ask, ‘Which is the real Frisk?’
But Sans would not consider that question.
Those are all potential faces of Frisk. They could be anyone they so desire.
Anyone.
“The potential of this entity are too great to consider for long term security. End recording.”
Sorry kid. That’s an objective observation.
Despite all the trust you’ve placed in me…
I still can’t return the favour.
I just… can’t.
Sans stood up. Dragged himself across the floor as if he’s the shambling undead of myth.
He faced a fresh, blank whiteboard. Uncapped the marker pen. Made it float with magic.
Sans began writing down the basis for his next experiment. Data filled the space at the rate of a computer.
“Entry number 4. Supreme Judge James Pashowar was murdered by a lesser Living Victory named Kisei Yuzukitsui. Subject D and Subject E respectively.”
“Subject E contacted Subject A with an invitation to an all-out time-traveller’s war. This tells me that Subject E believed he had a method to kill Gungnir’s faux-god, different from the WESS Subject B relied on. I’m inclined there’s more to this than overconfidence.”
“After all, Subject E had already eliminated Subject D… the strongest of all Living Victories ever to have lived. Subject A does not compare.”
“History repeats itself through ignorance or active recreation. In my case, it won’t be a mere repetition. It will instead be inspiration. End recording.”
Sans paused his writing for a moment to think.
“I need a sample…”
He turned around to look at the center of the Gram. Tiny glowing shards lay scattered within the radius of where he once stood, smoldering in the aftermath.
“Huh. That’s a clear sign of a master’s handicraft. Determined to survive, literally.”
Sans prepared a test tube and a pair of tweezers. As he knelt down to pick up the pieces, he spotted a flat, rectangular object lying at the foot of the forge. White.
It’s Lucidia’s letter. Still in the envelope, unopened. Addressed to ‘Sans Serif.’
Sans stared at the beautiful calligraphic handwriting. He knew right away it’s not her default style. The lady in sapphire put deliberate care and effort into this item.
Care. Effort. On such a small thing to a relative stranger? It’s an idealistic, dreamy concept, foreign to this nihilistic cynic.
That’s right. That hot-shot Magus delivered this to me. It feels like a long time ago.
I guess it fell out of my coat while I was busy.
“Entry number 5. Lucidia Berendin,” said Sans. “I know what she’s trying to tell me. Insists that I’m not trash. That I’m important. That my talents aren’t useless. That I matter in this meaningless universe.”
Instead of opening it to confirm his thoughts, a charged bone skewered the envelope square down the centre.
Purple flakes ate through the message like embers. Words of kindness disintegrated, ashes flowing between the gaps of his loose grip.
“Sorry lady, you’re wrong.”
“…I’m the worst kind of trash.”
“End recording.”