10 PM. Eighteen hours before the Trial of the Crimson Hall.
Mezil placed a protected box down on his office desk and ran his fingers on the serial number.
The text looks generic, but the numbers were not. Those in the know will realise that his weapon did not come from any conventional sources. They’re made by Magi for Magi.
The office door swung open. Cenna didn’t bother to knock. No manners for the old family friend, as usual. She just strut in with a paper file in hand.
Trying to hide the box would earn him a sharp yell. Not that he had any reason to do so anymore.
“Got the approval from the Dreemurr couple. We recognize wax emblems, right?”
“Yes.”
Mezil opened the envelope and inspected the documents. Both Toriel and Asgore’s papers had a classic red beeswax seal in place of the usual pen signature. It’s about as official as ‘official’ could get.
He placed them back into the envelope and said: “I’ll submit these to the Grandmaster soon, thank you.”
However, the trenchcoat lady didn’t leave.
He wished she did.
“Anything on your mind, Miss Caraway?”
“Promise me you won't hurt Frisk, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
A hard slam slapped straight down on the table, right next to the box.
“Are you for fucking real, Mez?” so Cenna yelled. “After all of that shit, you can still say THAT to my face?!”
Truth be told, he could not: keeping her in view was not the same as looking at her.
Cenna knew. She had the hawk’s eye after all. Nothing escapes from her, at least when it comes to his own guilty self.
He looked up. Her head lowered, she too cannot meet him at the eye.
Cenna tried to keep her cool. She always does. It’s a 50-50 chance. Inaccurate. Perhaps she never quite succeeded.
“Listen,” she said. “Frisky is a good kid. Don’t… don’t punish them because of me.”
Mezil narrowed his eyes, glaring without direct contact. “It had nothing to do with you, Cenna. It all boils down to…”
Frisk?
Himself?
Both?
“…the outcome of the Trial,” he finished. “You should leave.”
It’s a little rude, but it’s the best for both sides.
Cenna said, “Yeah. I get ya. Sleep early tonight, ‘kay? Like seriously, your hours are so fucked up I don’t even.”
“I had set it in the afternoon for a reason. Gives me ample amount of time to prepare should I fail to readjust.”
A chuckle escaped her lips. “Heh. Figured you’d do that. I’m gonna call the goatparents and tell them you approved the docs.”
“Do so. And one more thing: inform no one in Ebott that Papyrus is awake.”
“Yeah, got that memo a long time ago.”
Cenna turned around and strutted her way out, eager to leave the office as soon as possible. Loud, tensed footsteps shook the air.
Then Mezil uttered something he shouldn't have.
“I’m sorry.”
A rare sign of weakness.
The Vanquisher stopped in her tracks.
“I lost sight of Frisk.” He said, “I should have watched them closer. If they didn’t fall, none of this would’ve happened.”
“ …What were you trying to do?” She asked back. “Do you even remember?”
Does he?
It’s so long ago.
What was he doing when Frisk fell into the Underground?
When the shamed foster home called him to report that the Magi’s special child went missing?
“I was looking for volunteers to become a Merged Entity. They would then walk past the Barrier and find the root of the problem. Pun not intended.”
“If there’s none?” she said, “Like, if Frisk didn’t drop into that damn hole and nobody gave two shits about it?”
“…I would’ve merged with Lucidia and entered together. A Red Minor would lose to Flowey. It takes a Living Victory to combat another Living Victory.”
Cenna huffed. “Sounds like you alright. Hey, that didn’t happen. So, enjoy your body for a little while longer. Provided you don’t fucking sabotage yourself with Jungle Curry or whatnot.”
She waved without looking back. “Ciao for now.”
There she goes, letting the door shut itself right behind her.
Mezil then opened the box. It contains a pneumatic handgun that uses pellets for ammunition: a modified model based on Lucidia’s design and his weapon of choice for the Trial.
To think he has to use this on a child…
The Judge’s thoughts wandered into a recent past that no longer existed. Over a game of chess, his father-in-law once questioned:
“Have you considered asking one of the Ebott monsters for help?”
As much as he respected his elder, Mezil rejected the suggestion.
“No. What can they do, Father? They’re like naive children in an adult’s body. Their royalty is no different. None of them would understand the stakes.”
“Well, I know that relationships aren’t your forte. Perhaps… you should approach someone who’d reach out to you instead.”
“Meaning?”
“They do have a spirited young man with a heart of gold amongst their midst. I believe Lucidia calls him ‘Papyrus’. Other than Frisk, he’ll be the most eager to befriend you.”
“Him? Are you serious? He’s the most childish of the lot.”
“Remember our tenets, Winston. Nobody jumps from point A to Z within a single bound. Give it a try. You’ve already exhausted all your options, including that year-long custody case.”
Another checkmate. Years of experience showed, both in actions and advice.
“A Living Victory needs to keep their mind open. If an opportunity rolls by, grab it no matter how absurd it seems. That may be our much-needed solution.”
“…Alright, Father.”
The moment arrived that fateful wake at the stadium. Far from his initial expectations, the hypothetical man-child bloomed into a courageous hero.
Mezil wondered if things would be different if he’d involved Papyrus’ sooner.
Alas, time took on a different course.
Mezil felt his sins crawl on his back.
Claws, digging deep into his flesh.
Weight, bearing down on his shoulders.
His plan almost ended existence itself.
Unforgivable.
Depending on where this Trial goes, who will be the one judged in the end? Frisk or himself? Tomorrow could become his long-overdue punishment.
The supplier added a spare magazine. Again, as requested. Mezil set it aside as he inspected the rest of the gun.
Nothing must go wrong. The risk of malfunction: zero. Everything must go as perfect as it can be.
Otherwise, there will be consequences.
Once the gun passed all his scrutiny, he reached for the magazine and channeled his magic before slotting it in.
“Mark: applied.” He said as the butterfly took flight.
* * *
MIDNIGHT. Sixteen hours before the Trial of the Crimson Hall.
Papyrus made himself a checklist.
A hero must be completely ready for anything that may come in his way, be it good or bad.
Mezil and Lucidia already had their hands full with Frisk’s upcoming exam. For their sake, he didn’t want to bother them anymore.
They provided an empty hall for him to stretch and train. That’s enough. Once he’s done, he’ll rest in the atelier.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Armour, checked. Extra polished. One must look his best even on short notice.
Magic, checked. Just a few months before, Papyrus was more than eager to show off his skills. Now… not quite. He hoped that the events will proceed without the need for his powers.
Melee stances, practiced. Whatever he developed now was the result of countless sparring: self-taught at its most practical.
How effective would his homegrown methods pit against a master?
He does not know.
One by one the checklist filled. At the very bottom, it said the following:
‘Blasters’.
Papyrus conjured the normal ones just fine. Fired those beams in multiple patterns as though they’re his second nature.
The ease felt foreign. Papyrus couldn’t believe that he was just learning the ropes a few weeks ago. Had one of those completely blow up in his face as well.
“Show me yer Orange one.”
Papyrus recognized the accent. When he turned around, he found the kooky Seer hobbling in with a crutch.
Concern, intensified. “GAELIC? WHY ARE YOU HERE? YOU SHOULD BE RESTING!”
One snicker and snort later, the other replied: “What about ya? We of Bravery be restless by nature. Sittin’ around ain’t our thing.”
“Besides, I dinnae walk all the way here on me own. Ah got a convenient aide by me side…”
Gaelic let himself lean backwards. Papyrus almost jumped in to catch him, but a strange magic materialized from the ground.
A giant bone snake caught its caster just in time. It then gently coiled itself into a convenient seat.
If Papyrus could disconnect his jaw, he would have let it drop dead on the ground. “WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?!?!”
“‘Tis be my Skull Cannon, lad. Yer nation call ‘em Blasters. Frankly, I like yer term better.”
“T-THAT… THAT’S SO COOL!!! AND CREEPY! CREEPY COOL.”
Gaelic licked his teeth with his forked tongue. “As it should! Ah can summon only one o’ these at a time. But hell, I make it the grandest o’ them all.”
“ONLY ONE? BUT WHY?”
The other shrugged. “Life gave me this lot. Cannae question that, hmm? Anyways. Seems like ya got quite an arsenal there. But yer still not using your Orange signature.”
“SIGNATURE…?” This man’s accent made it difficult enough to understand. Throw in some foreign terminologies and Papyrus ended up as lost as a lamb.
“Have ya ever had a situation where ya tried to summon this huge sized skull and it gone totally outta whack? Trashin’ about and stuff?”
The details clicked. Papyrus replied, “OH MY GOD, HOW DID YOU KNOW?! I HAD THAT BEFORE. I DUBBED IT THE AIR RODEO SESSION!”
“Air rodeo it be! That’s exactly what happens when yer a greenhorn. But let me tell ya somethin’ good: it pays off. Get that Orange mode right and yer blessed with a sweet ride.”
Gaelic patted the segmented coils like a proud parent. “Like mine here.”
Squeal mode, on.
“Willing to show me yer Blaster now?” said the snake.
Papyrus wasted no time to conjure a large Gasterblaster of the Orange Aspect. In the past, it would fight back and trash around in all unruliness.
This time, nothing happened. It floated in one place. No rebellion.
The youngster was both elated and puzzled at the same time. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND? I DIDN’T PRACTICE AT ALL! WHAT CHANGED?”
Gaelic laughed at the response. “Says the lad who drove a flying car! Guess ya never tried summoning it since yer Ascension, aye? Ya got yer basics straightened out. That’s why yer steed obeys. Treat them with respect like you’d respect yerself. Now try fly a few laps ‘round me head.”
The youngster jumped right into action. Took off just like a rocket. It’s a different sensation compared to a car: the winds blew through him from head to toe. The pressure almost shoved him off the fun -- despite being all bones.
A while later, Papyrus floated back down to ground. Still sitting on the Gasterblaster, he asked: “DID I DO GOOD?”
Gaelic clapped his hands. “Aye, aye, ya did! But ya can do even better. First thing’s first, ditch that scallywag dog form. It ain’t aerodynamic at all: there be too much wind drag slowin’ ya down.”
“I COULD CHANGE MY BLASTER’S DESIGN?!?” Insert anime sparkles here.
“Yup. Nobody ever realised that down below? Shame. Lady Lucy modelled hers after a crane. Me? Snake. You? Well… I got a suggestion. Up to ya to take it.”
He dug into his pockets and tossed it to Papyrus. The youngster caught it in midair without any issues.
It’s a mini tablet. When he swiped away the lock screen, it revealed a paused video of a strange long… cat?
A sleek, lightweight, spot-furred cat with skinny legs. It’s somewhat… familiar. Where'd he see this before?
When he pressed play, the video explained its name. It’s a ‘cheetah’. Now he recognized it as one of the many Surface animals that made a permanent home in the region’s largest zoo. They’d walk around and play with the enclosure’s toys, but most of the time they just paraded themselves.
It’s a far cry from the wild. Out in the open savannah, cheetahs live fast and furious: dashing at speeds that put Alphys’ jetpack to utter shame.
How is this possible? The documentary further explained: it’s all in the skeletal structure. Every single inch on its body catered to its single hunting method, from the shape of the skull, to the claws, to the tailbone.
But, it all came with a price. The cheetah lacked the bite power of a lion and it’s prone to overheating. In other words, they’re the fragile speedster of the cat world.
“Wanna know the secret to survival, lad?” said Gaelic, “Exploit yer strengths, even in weakness. Compared to beasts, humans are pretty weak. More so in the modern era.”
“But they be smart. Cunning. Resourceful. Aye, give the right tools to the ruthlessly determined and they will come up top. That’s why they seem ‘strong’. Even if it’s us magic folk who have the firepower.”
Papyrus looked up to the eccentric man, blinking in puzzlement. “I APPRECIATE YOUR CONCERN, SIR. BUT… WHAT’S WITH THE OMINOUS STATEMENTS? I MAY NOT EVEN---”
He couldn’t finish his words. It’s impossible. The storm had long begun. It just hadn’t hit the shores yet.
“NEVERMIND…” He stared down on the ground. “I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN. HE… HE TOO WILL USE HIS STRENGTHS TO COVER UP HIS WEAKNESSES. I CANNOT COUNT ON LETHARGY OR LAZINESS TO PLAY IN MY FAVOUR.”
“Good,” Gaelic nodded. “Ya get the stakes. Likewise, ya need to do the same. Ya sure ain’t a supercomputer. Maybe not even half as cunning. But lad, ya got things he doesn’t have. Never forget that. Act swift. Act bold.”
“THANK YOU,” Papyrus nodded.
With his grand speech over, he climbed on the snake’s head. Blessed the youngster with a salute while he still could do so. “Godspeed to ya.”
Off the odd man went, slithering away on his unconventional mode of transport.
There’s not much time left.
Papyrus had to figure out how to turn this ‘cheetah’ animal into an applicable mode of transport. With a skeletal structure this specialised, he can’t just slap on a saddle and a handlebar before calling it a day.
It had to be tailored to his needs.
* * *
0700. Nine hours before the Trial of the Crimson Hall.
“Whaaaaat?!” Flowey whined. “We got to stay in this stupid mansion?! No peeks? At all???”
Lucidia nodded.
“But why?!? This is a once in a LIFETIME event!”
Chara fumed along with their sibling. “Yeah! I seriously want to see Frisk kick the tsundere’s butt.”
“I promise to make a recording,” said Lucidia.
“No!” Flowey threw his leaves up in the air. “It’s not the same! Besides, YOU need protection, Lady Lucidia. Don’t underestimate us just because we’re kids!”
Lucidia frowned. “Negative. On the contrary, you and Chara will be second on his hitlist.”
Skeptical, Chara questioned: “Second? I thought even Papyrus would rank higher than us.”
“Your tangled battle history proves otherwise. Out of everyone, the both of you have the most experience against Sans Serif. He will expect your interference and remain on guard.”
“As for Papyrus,” she added, “He’s our final safety net. As long as Sans Serif is kept in the dark about his condition, we will not need to worry about countermeasures.”
“I’m going to prepare the Crimson Hall now. Please children, stay inside. You can play as many videogames as you want today.”
The flower children sighed, clearly unhappy. But what can they do? So both of them said: “We promise.”
She patted both of them on the head and left them alone.
They whipped out their consoles and played a bit. But they kept watching the inbuilt clock in their games.
Ten minutes passed. Now, they’re sure that Lucidia won’t pounce a surprise check-up on them. She’s not exactly Toriel.
“Coast is clear?” asked Chara.
“Yup,” Flowey answered.
“Okay. Now. Do you really think we’re just gonna be pretty houseplants?”
“No way. We’re determined flowers!”
“So,” Chara began, “What do you think we need to do to make the Smiley Trashbag stay a useless bag of trash?”
Flowey said, “We’re are gonna trap him! Good ol’ monster style.”
“And how are we gonna trap him? Gotta remember that he teleports.”
“Well Chara, do you know his secret? Like, did he ever disclose his powers to Frisk?”
More pondering. In the meantime, they harvested their plot of Honey Melons in their game world.
“I can’t quite remember, Azzie,” they admitted. “What about you? Spied anything special while Frisk was away?”
Flowey’s avatar continued digging down a cave to gather some ores. “Oh! I remember. Doctor Gaster got into a really big fight with the Trashbag once. He actually managed to push Mister Comedian into a hilarious pickle!”
“Ooooh? Tell me all about it, Azzie.” Melons, into the shipping box. A huge chunk of money rolled into their ingame bank account.
“He made lots and lots of orange beams. Orange magic hurts if you don’t keep moving, right? You’d think that Sans would teleport out, but he didn’t do so. Instead he kept moving in small circles like this.”
Flowey demonstrated the movements with his avatar. Chara understood it right away.
“Huh, so he’s forced to strafe around. Interesting. That means Sans had to actually stop to… what do you call it, ‘cross the portal’? Whatever Sci-Fi jargon they use in anime.”
“Something like that,” he confirmed. “It’s like this background door here. You gotta stop walking first before you get the prompt.”
“Makes sense, makes sense,” Chara nodded. They started planting a new crop of rare magical vegetables. “So, it’s possible to physically stop the Comedian from ‘crossing’ the border.”
The rosy-cheeked child started to grin. “You know what I’m thinking?”
They expected their fellow sibling to grin along with their schemes… but Flowey responded with a worried, nervous look.
“I… know.” Flowey replied, “And I had thought of it too back in the Underground. But. I NEVER wanted to go near him alone.”
“Why didn’t you try that on Papyrus? I mean, back in the Underground of course. You two were so close and he’s such an easy target.”
“If that could work, our hotshot Magi wouldn’t be walking on eggshells now. You really think I’d be safe if I tried to use the golden brother as a shield?”
“…Okay, I get it. We are dealing with a cold-boned killer after all.”
The two continued their gaming in silence, trying to figure out their next step at the same time.
“Azzie, there’s two of us now,” said Chara. “Back then, you’re alone. Now you’re not. I think it’s worth to give it a shot. We’ll rig ourselves with alert beacons just in case it backfires.”
“I dunno…” Flowey muttered. He’s afraid.
The other flower was afraid too. So much so, they started to chuckle. “C’mon, we’re not normal ol’ flowers! You’re the Prince of Monsters, I am a trained Gungnir elite! Theoretically. T-the point being we’re not weaklings.”
“Everyone’s life is on the line now. Mom, Dad, the tsundere, his wife, and above all, Frisk. We need to do something about it.”
Flowey pumped himself up. He’s so determined, he almost tossed the game over his head. “You’re right. If Frisk can survive his worst, we can do it too!”
Chara wriggled their brows. “Ready to save the world for real?”
“Yeah!”
* * *
Sunday morning. Six and a half hours before the Trial of the Crimson Hall.
Asgore blinked his bleary eyes towards the empty side of his double bed.
He was sure that Toriel accompanied him that night. Their relationship had yet to reach the point where they did anything physical, but just being here was a huge step forward.
The empty side was still warm. She just woke up too.
First, he removed the woolen caps off his horn. The citizens knitted him some so that he don’t keep destroying the bedpost and pillows when he slept. It’s a sweet, thoughtful gesture.
Still in his nightclothes, he began to look for his wife.
He found her brewing some coffee in the kitchen. Like red wine, it’s one of the new beverages that Toriel had gained a taste for.
Against the backdrop of glowing morning windows, the Queen rested her chin on her hand. She stared absentminded into the far yonder as her drink slowly grew cold.
“Toriel?” asked Asgore.
Without turning her head, she replied: “Did we make a mistake?”
“Is this about Frisk’s trial?”
Toriel breathed a long, drawn out sigh.
“It’ll go well,” the husband tried to reassure. “I’m sure of it. Frisk… Frisk knows what they’re doing.”
A tear rolled down the sides, dampening the fur around the edges of Toriel’s eyes.
Watching her this vulnerable pricked Asgore’s heart. He pulled the chair and sat down by her side. He’s not too sure if it’s okay for him to hold her arm. At least, not yet.
“I can’t help but to think about what happened to our children,” she admitted. “We took our eyes off them for a moment. And then… they…”
They thought Asriel and Chara were safe together, ignorant of what went behind their backs.
“This isn’t the same, Tori,” said Asgore. “We’ll be watching Frisk together. That’s what we insisted on before planting our wax seals.”
“And what if we’re helpless to help?” she asked back. “What if, Frisk dies right in front of us while we can’t do anything about it? Just like Chara did.”
It’s every parent’s worst nightmare.
“…May I admit something, Tori? I… I’m just as scared as you are. If I’m alone, I don’t think I could let them go either. But, we can’t quite let our fears put the town at risk.”
Toriel didn’t reply. What’s going on in her mind? Did she accept his reasoning? Or was she simmering in resentful anger?
She lifted her head off her chin and reached out for her husband. He grabbed her hand without hesitation.
“Can you promise me something, Asgore?”
“Yes?” he kept his sights on her, watching for any changes of expression.
“Whatever happens… we stay together. No more running away for us.”
From the bottom of his heart, he made a solemn oath of love: “I promise.”