#request party!

Don't wallow. It doesn't matter. You won't learn anything fromthis, anyway.

It's no use.

He's sick. Literally, physically sick. If apathy kept him lethargicand sleepy, this anger is a fever.

A constant, burning pressure settles behind his eye socket, blurringboth vision and thought with migraine-static.

Magic simmers inside him, and despite his impeccable control he can'tquell it. It's not the sudden flare at an unexpected noise ormovement that leaves Papyrus dizzy and shaking. It's a steady drip.What strength he has boils slowly away, useless.

If the mysterious threat that his magic insists is around the nextcorner ever shows itself, he'll be too tired to do a damn thing aboutit.

It's no use. He's no use. Wasn't then, and isn't now.

He doesn't know what to do.

He hates that goddamn grinning, sadistic thing. It hurt hisbrother, for reasons he doesn't care about. There couldn't possiblybe an explanation that would satisfy him. Not for the torment it putPapyrus through. 

Papyrus, of all the monsters it could have chosen.

It's not enough that it's dead. It wasn't sorry before itdied.  

He hates himself for not figuring out what was going on until it wasalmost too late. For being too wrapped up in self-pity and his usualbullshit to use his brain. He wants to shove some of that loathingonto Undyne, and Alphys, and everyone else who stood by watchingPapyrus sink. He knows that's irrational, unfair. How could he expectany of them to succeed where he'd failed so utterly? If anyoneshould have been able to see through to the truth, it was him.

Not that Papyrus had made it easy. That really gets him twisted inknots-- knowing how much sooner it might have been over, how muchdamage and hurt might have been prevented if his brother had justtold him the truth. Hell, even a hint...

But no. Once Papyrus decides on something, that's it. 

And he'ddecided that he couldn't count on anyone to help him. That he had toendure that hell alone.

He would have died.

It's nauseating, the thought of how the whole nightmare had nearlyended. Nothing and no one was worth that, no matter what his brotherthought.

Why hadn't Papyrus trusted him?

Likeyou have a right to ask that question. When did you ever make himbelieve he could rely on you? You can't even step up now.

And maybe that's the worst thing. As wound-up and miserable as he is, he knows, deep down, that it won't last. It might take weeks,or even months, but he'll flatten out. He'll cool down, while hisbrother loses sleep and jumps at shadows.

Peaceful as a boat resting at the bottom of the river, he'll be backon an even keel.

Papyrus will never be the same again.

No.You have to try this time.

He is awake. Sick, but awake. He has to fight the urge to go back tosleepwalking, to let himself go numb and gray again. If he can'tdo it for his own sake (and obviously he can't), then he has to doit for Papyrus.

He has to get off his ass and do his job. Not the hot-cat stand orthe guard crap-- his real job.

His brother has struggled on his own for long enough. Not anymore.

What a lovely day. Toriel rolled out the pie crust, enjoying thewarmth of the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows. Thesounds of her child laughing and playing with their friends floatedin from the yard, and soft snoring from the living room. A home fullof family and friends, what could be nicer?

She even had a helping hand in the kitchen. While Sans made sure thecouch in the living room didn't get up and wander away, his brothervolunteered to assist with her baking.

For whatever reason, Sans had found this highly amusing. Well, itdidn't take much to tickle his funny bone, after all.

“Papyrus, would you be a dear and prepare the fruit, please?”

The skeleton snapped off a salute. “Leave it in my capable hands!”

While Toriel laid dough into two pie tins (one certainly wouldn't beenough, not with company over and Frisk in the middle of a growthspurt), Papyrus washed the strawberries that would serve as the piefilling. Lost in her own task, Toriel didn't notice him methodicallypiling up berries on the counter.

Catching movement from the corner of her eye, she turned just asPapyrus slammed his fists down in a hammer-blow.

SPLAT.

“Fruit status: prepared!” Papyrus announced, smiling brightly anddripping with berry juice.

Toriel blinked, taking in the ungodly mess. Laughter bubbled up likea pot boiling over, and she was wheezing by the time she got herselfunder control. Thankfully, Papyrus was not one to take offenseeasily, seeming merely to be pleased that she was in good spirits.

“I suppose...” Toriel said, wiping tears from here eyes. “Isuppose that's one way to go about it.” Goodness, but she was quitebreathless! She tried not to look directly at the mess (or Papyrus--and she would have to do something about his shirt before itstained) lest she set herself laughing all over again.

The berries were utterly mangled, but they would make as good a piefilling as sliced strawberries.

Scraping the unconventional compote into a bowl, Papyrus started thenext pile.

An impulse tickled at the back of Toriel's mind, and she pushed upher sleeves. “May I give it a go?”

Papyrus nodded enthusiastically. “It would be an honor to watch anexperienced cook at work!”

“Oh!” The graceful lines Madoka traced through the steps of herdance faltered as she overbalanced.

Homura was halfway out of her chair, ready to catch her, but Madokaregained her footing easily and continued as though the misstep hadnever happened. With a small smile, Homura sat back, hands folded inher lap.

A blush colored Madoka's cheeks and ears. “Sorry,” she said,moving into a slow pirouette, “I'm out of practice.”

“I think you're amazing.” Catching the dreaminess in her tone,Homura clarified, “I've heard it's incredibly difficult to dance onyour toes like that.”

Indeed, the seemingly weightless grace with which Madoka moved wasdown to strength and disciplined control. She would have been lovelyto watch in any style, but to see her do ballet was impressive inevery aspect.

Madoka hummed agreement, back straight as a doll suspended on astring. “I was only allowed to start pointe training a couple yearsago, and I've been dancing since I was four.” She traced a delicatearc with one leg, balanced statue-still on the other. “It's easy tohurt yourself if your form isn't right.”

“Your form looks perfect to me.”

“You just can't see all the mistakes I'm making,” Madoka said,with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

They lapsed into silence as Madoka returned her full concentration toher dance. After a minute, Homura leaned forward in her seat, aquestion blotting all other concerns from her mind.

“Madoka, are you happy?”

Madoka paused, arms outstretched in the middle of a sweeping gesture.She blinked. “Well, sure,” she said, lowering herself onto herfeet. “Why, am I making a weird face?” Rubbing the back of herneck, she gave Homura an apologetic grin. “I guess my toes aregetting a little sore. It's been a while since I've done this muchpointe work.”

“Please don't push yourself too hard on my account,” Homura said,relief and contentment returning. “It was nice just to see youenjoying yourself.” She almost regretted her question, because ithad ended the dance. But she really didn't want Madoka hurtingherself, and if that was all she could handle for now it was morethan enough. There would be other dances.

She stood, offering the chair so that Madoka could comfortably removeher shoes. Madoka took a seat, her tutu deforming against the back ofthe chair.

“Thanks!” Unlacing the ribbons, Madoka slipped the pointe shoesoff with a grateful sigh. They hit the floor with muffled woodenthumps. Bent double, she rubbed her bandaged toes. “To be honest, Idon't really like dancing for an audience, unless I'm in a big group,at the back.” She looked up and smiled. “You're different,though. I don't feel anxious at all.”

Homura smiled in return. “I'm glad,” she said.

The Steelhaven was a large ship for the minimal crew on board. Theircurrent mission was taking them to an undocumented jungle planet halfa galaxy from the borders of the Commonwealth, on the far side of thegalactic disc. For many species, first contact with an alien worldwould include a full retinue. Scientists of every stripe mightcollect data on the planet's geology, weather patterns, biomes andmore. Diplomats might establish ties with the native sentientlifeforms. Journalists and perhaps even an artist or two could recordtheir impressions of a foreign sunset or the picturesque life of thelocals.

But these were Cybertronians, and the undocumented planet wasM-class, an organic world. Even if the nature of their mission hadn'tnecessitated a certain amount of discretion, every Cybertronian knewthat organic worlds harbored little but dangerous contaminants andequally dangerous lifeforms. Though Ultra Magnus himself was amongtheir number, only five members of the Elite Guard moved through thecorridors of the ship on its long journey.

And yet, somehow, Jazz couldn't get a megacycle to himself.

Snapping sharply out of his meditation for what felt like thethousandth time, he greeted the twins.

“How are you knowing it is us?” Jetstorm said, trotting up tostand level with Jazz.

Jazz couldn't help smiling at the honest amazement. “Know you byyour walk, young blood.” In any case, there were only four otherbots on the ship. Even a wild guess would have a decent chance ofbeing correct. Two bots walking together-- unconsciously falling instep with one another-- narrowed the choices down considerably.

Jetfire fidgeted at Jazz's other side, restless warmth radiating fromhis frame. “The observation deck is being strange place for nap,sir.”

“Not napping, brother,” Jazz said. “Meditating.”

A stereo cough of disgust sounded from either side. Jazz had triedguiding the twins in meditation exactly once. He'd hoped the practicecould bring a little serenity to the brothers' frenetic processors,but they didn't jive with the whole 'sitting still' and 'being calm'business.

“So,” Jazz went on, “what brings you up to the observationdeck?” He knew the hint wouldn't stick. He'd have to find a newhiding place and try again. It had been solar cycles since he'd lastmade it through an entire meditation session, and he was feeling thestrain.

The twins shuffled awkwardly before simultaneously sitting on thefloor next to him.

Jetstorm scraped his heels against the deck plating. “We are havinggame of...” He thought for a klik, his language codecs strugglingthrough the morass of provincial dialect, severe processor trauma,and foreign coding for the proper Neocybex word. “Game of chase?”

Were they really playing tag in the corridors? Jazz smiled tohimself. Well, they were very young, after all. Still had that newprotoform smell.

“Don't let Sentinel Prime catch you goofing around like that,”Jazz said, though he couldn't put much iron in his voice. “You know how he gets.”

“Jazz, sir,” Jetfire grumbled, going so far as to actually leanagainst the saboteur's side. “It is so long since we are flying. Isfine for you,” he said, poking at Jazz's pauldron. “But ship ismaking us crazy as stir, always walking and being careful aspetrorabbits in den of turbofox.”

Jazz sagged a bit under the young jet's weight, but he didn't mindit. Whatever the upper echelons of Iacon society preferred, Autobotsweren't meant to live at arm's length from each other all the time.These two jumped-up laborers from a backwater colony were the bestcompany he'd had in the Elite Guard in a long time.

“If you two are catching space madness,” he teased, “I'll haveto throw you in the brig 'til you cool off.”

Jetstorm leaned against his other side, propping him back upstraight. “Madness is being more interesting, at least.”

Jazz considered the view through the observation deck's thick windowsfor a moment.

“We're in an uninhabited zone right now,” he said. “I could seeabout giving you some time outside. Burn some of the space barnaclesoff the hull, transform and cruise alongside the ship for a fewmegacycles. Could even combine for a while, if you wanted.”

The twins perked up. “Really?” Jetfire said, with his brotherechoing the sentiment a fraction of a klik out of sync.

A brief space walk shouldn't have been so exciting, but Jazz wasaware of how little attention was paid to the twins' needs. The vastmajority of Cybertronians found being confined to root mode for toolong stressful and depressing, and fliers were no different. Whyshould they be?

And if the sight of a flier made Autobots deeply, instinctivelyuncomfortable... Well, in Jazz's humble opinion, they should havethought of that before reformatting two of their own into fliers. The sight of them swooping around through the air gave him the surges, too, if he was honest-- but that was his problem.Itwasn't like the twins had asked for any of their so-calledenhancements.  

Not that they were bitter at all. Even with a bevy of compatibilityissues, side-effects, and being treated more as curiosities and testsubjects than fellow Autobots, both brothers faced it all with asmile. Their simple gratitude at simply being alive and having asecond chance to be useful to the Commonwealth sent guilt chewingthrough Jazz's spark like a worm. It hadn't been his call, and itwasn't like there was a thing he could have done to stop it, but onthe list of incidents he wasn't proud of, his involvement with thisparticular project rated at the very top.

They'd been so young at the time of the accident that they hadn'teven received their designations yet, still going by their serialnumbers. They'd been named by the Iacon scientists who'd rewrittenlarge swathes of their operating systems and rebuilt their shells.And then they'd been ushered into the Elite Guard to be used for thegreater good of all, and no one gave a byte of a damn about either ofthem save for the twins themselves.

Jazz felt responsible for them in some way. If he could find littleways to make them happy, to let them know someone cared about themand accepted them as they were, then it was the least he could do.

...The promise of transformation and exercise must have calmed them,because Jazz had rarely witnessed the twins sitting still for thislong. They all but draped over him, staring out at the nebulae theship was passing, silent but for the hum of their internal systems.

Wander woke with his hands still loosely clutching his banjo. Hedidn't recall falling asleep, and he sure as shooting didn't feelrested. He seldom did anymore.

Nor did he know how long he'd slept for. This planet had atwo-hundred-hour day, and they'd stopped to make camp only threetimes since sunrise. The sky was bright as ever.

Stretching leaden limbs, Wander contemplated getting up to startbreakfast. Not so long ago he'd be on his feet nearly before his eyeswere properly open. These days he had to plan, budget his energy. Hefussed with the tuning pegs on the banjo and picked out slowarpeggios while he gathered the wherewithal to stand.

Slow. That's mostly how he felt. He wasn't sick, and nothing hurt--not yet, at any rate. He was just...slowing down. He wasn't exactlyyoung despite being young at heart, though he wasn't old for hisspecies, either. Well, young or old or somewhere in between, hesupposed no one was made any guarantees or owed any more time thanthey were given. His own self included.

No one could kick around the universe forever. That was just nature,true as gravity and nuclear fusion and all the rest of it. Even starsdied.

When he'd first noticed himself winding down and cottoned on to whatthat meant, he'd been awfully sad. Heck, he wasn't thrilled about thenotion of dying still. Wasn't looking forward to it, or anything. Buthe'd had time to think it over and get his silly old brain around theidea.

When he looked back over his life (which took a fair bit of time andeffort, with it being so long and eventful) he could say with allhonesty there wasn't much he'd change, and even what little he wouldchange had probably been for the best. After meditating on this andthat and the other thing for a while, he was riding easier down thislast handful of trails before he started on the last and greatest ofall adventures.

He'd witnessed wondrous things and met beautiful, interesting peopleamong the stars. He'd spread what light and love he could in histravels, and he'd received a thousandfold more in return. He knew howrare that good fortune was, and he was grateful for it.

Sylvia sighed in her sleep, her side heaving like a bellows atWander's back. Yep, he had a lot to be grateful for. He had morefriends than he could ever say goodbye to, and some, like good oldSyl, who'd become his family.

Strumming a calm, unhurried little ditty, Wander let himself relaxagainst the warm solidity of his friend. He still had that heavyfeeling clinging to him, and Sylvia tended to sleep in. No senseletting breakfast get cold waiting on her.

If the zbornak noticed him spending more time astride her back whenhe might normally walk, or that his banjo sang more mellow than itused to, she kept her thoughts to herself. Wander supposed he had tolet her in on the situation soon. She'd only be offended at beingsheltered from the truth. By grop, though, he wanted as manyuncomplicated, happy days as they could both get. Time enough to besad, by and by. No sense rushing for it.

The pattern of Sylvia's breathing changed, and one eyelid cracked topeer up at him as he played. Her voice was scratchy with sleep.“What's up, buddy?”

Wander shrugged, smiling broadly. “Thought I'd get up to watch thesunrise,” he said, not pausing in his strumming, “but I'm threedays late.”

“Or thirteen days early.” Sylvia eye twinkled with her grin.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, don't worry. It's bright, is all.” Sylvia yawned. “Gonnaget up once I'm done snoozing,” she said as Wander obliginglysettled his hat on her head to shade her eyes. Truth be told, hewasn't ready to be up and about just yet, either.

She was quiet for a few minutes while he played. He assumed she'ddozed off again, but her ears twitched, and she said, “I like thattune.”

“Thank you kindly, Syl,” Wander said, putting a fancy roll on thenext measure just for the fun of it.

“One of yours?”

Wander shook his head, then recalled that she couldn't see him pastthe brim of the hat. “Nope. Older than me.”

Sylvia chuckled. “Must be old, then.”

“Yep.” Wander let his eyes drift closed to better focus on themusic. Well, and because he was feeling a touch dozy himself.

A shadow fell across his face.

“Wander.”

Wander opened his eyes to find Sylvia looking down her long snoot athim. Her face was stern even if the addition of his hat undercut hernatural zbornak toughness.

“Yeah, Syl?”

Sylvia's nostrils quivered as though testing the air. “Are youokay?”

Without missing a beat in song or conversation, Wander answered,“Sure am. I'm just right as rain with you and me and the warmsunshine.”

Tension easing from the arch of her neck, Sylvia breathed deep,making Wander briefly sit up straight on the inhale. “You'd let meknow if you weren't, right?”

Now his fingers coasted to a halt on the strings. Wander looked herin the eyes, and felt a wormy squiggle of guilt shimmying through hisguttyworks. “I will, Sylvia.” And just like that, he knew thetimer was swiftly ticking down on what was left of thoseuncomplicated days.

Satisfied with his answer, Sylvia laid her head back down, coveringher nose with the tufted end of her tail. “Good,” she said, voicedrowsy-fuzzed. “I'm always here for you, buddy.”

Wander resumed his playing, though his fingers weren't as nimble asthey'd been previous. “Let me know when you're getting hungry,”he said, but she was already fast asleep again, snoring in a passablecounterpoint rhythm with the twang of the banjo.

Today. Grop, he'd have to tell her today. Well, maybe it was best tohave it done and over with.

Papyrus wasn't sure how many universes there were, but he vastlypreferred the last alternate Sans he'd dealt with to this new one. Sofar, he'd been shoved down the stairs (and had been one quickshort-cut away from cracking his skull wide open), threatened with aknife, been called every vile epithet in the book and some that wereentirely new to him-- and it was scarcely ten in the morning.

The really infuriating thing was that this Sans didn't seem to beupset or even particularly angry. Vaguely homicidal hijinks wereapparently his normal modus operandi. He was fishing for a specificreaction, too, judging by the way his antagonism was escalating.Papyrus couldn't begin to guess what the 'correct' response was, butit wasn't long before he needed a break.

Papyrus glared down into his coffee. He was certain he'd locked thedoor to the house from the outside, but the doppel-Sans slouched onthe barstool next to him like he had every right in the world to bethere. Obviously trying to get away for a few minutes to figure out acourse of action had been wishful thinking.

“What?” Papyrus growled.

The other Sans sneered. “Now that's closer to the tone I'm used to.Good job, sad sack. I knew you had it in you.”

“Don't start anything in here.”

“I would never!” the Sans huffed in mock offense. He noticedMuffet, and eyed her across the bar. “Heh. Oh, tell me Grillbz isholed up in some dark hovel in Hotland,” he chortled, mostly tohimself, “surrounded by thousands of-” He sat up straighter asMuffet walked over, grinning. “Hey, sweet thing.”

Muffet squinted a few eyes while she poured another cup of coffee.“Relation of yours, dearie?” she said, frowning at Papyrus.

The thought was enough to give him an ulcer, if such a thing wereanatomically feasible. “Guess you could say that,” Papyrus said.“Unfortunately.”

Reaching a hand over to give Papyrus a sympathetic pat on the arm,Muffet set the cup and saucer down in front of the Sans. “AnythingI can get you?”

No 'dearie.' Muffet was big on manners. 'Sweet thing' wouldn't fly.

The other Sans, who either wasn't picking up on Muffet's chillinessor (more likely) didn't care, leaned his elbows on the bar and restedhis chin on one hand. “How 'bout some sugar for this coffee,sugar?”

Venom dripped from Muffet's “Of course.” But she was aprofessional, and left to fetch the sugar.

“I think I get it,” the Sans said as he watched the barista go.“Everyone's backwards here. That's why the antisocial psycho isrunning a cafe, and you smell like an ashtray and look like a totalslob, like...” He trailed off, frowning. “Huh. Well, that'sunflattering,” he said, making a point of straightening his coat.

Papyrus shrugged.

“So, your 'me' must be the overbearing blowhard who's barkingorders at you day and night.” The Sans grinned. “Man, I'd love tosee how that goes down.”

That was a worrying thought, now that it had been brought up. Thisincident wasn't like the last one, where two universes' worth ofpeople had been thrown together on some kind of neutral territory.Sans was the only monster missing, as far as Papyrus could see.Logically, he must have taken this other Sans' place. If everyoneelse in that universe were as much of a prick as this Sans was, hispoor bro was probably having a rotten day.

Muffet returned, sugar packets in hand. She held them up high whenthe Sans reached for them. “Ten gold,” she said, smiling sweetly.Her fangs poked out over her lower lip.

The Sans blinked. “Heh, real cute,” he said. “Ten gold forsugar-- that's a riot, sweetheart.”

Muffet's smile widened. “Ten gold per packet,” she said,and reached out a hand to pick up the cup and saucer as well. “Andthirty for the coffee, of course. Cash.”

The Sans gaped at her. Papyrus nudged him with an elbow. “Take myadvice,” he said, some of his good humor returning now that theirritating doppelganger had been put in his place. “Don't eventhink about asking for credit. It offends her.”

Something about the way Muffet smiled or the soft 'fu fu fu' of herchuckle seemed to transcend multiversal divides, and the Sans pulledfifty gold from one grubby pocket and placed it in one of Muffet'sfree hands.

Muffet set down the cup and saucer and two sugar packets. “Enjoy,dearie,” Muffet said. With a wink to Papyrus, she pocketed the goldand left to attend her other customers.

“Stupid backwards world. Try to be nice,” the Sans grumbled,tearing a sugar packet open with his (weirdly sharp) teeth. “Try topay someone a damn compliment...”

Papyrus' amusement was tempered by concern. If Asshole Sans wereunhappy here in 'backwards world' where he was surrounded by normal,nice monsters, the real one must be miserable over there in AssholeLand where everyone was, presumably, a huge asshole.

At the very least, Asshole Papyrus better be keeping him safe...

Papyrus' nerves were frazzled from end to end. It had been a tryingmorning, and he still couldn't get his head around what exactly hewas dealing with. Sans would have had it figured out by now, much ashe hated to admit it to himself-- but that was a large part of theproblem, wasn't it? Just where in the hell was the real Sans, andwhere had this maniacal imposter come from?

For that matter, what were 'junior jumbles' and 'crosswords,' and whyhad it been so important to denounce the former in favor of thelatter, and who would waste ink on putting trivial puzzles in thenewspaper?

He caught himself absently picking at the bandage the false Sans hadstuck on the crack above his eye socket. It had cartoon mice andducks on it, and Papyrus couldn't for the life of him understand howit was supposed to help the wound heal or where the false Sans hadfound it.

The false Sans was disproportionately upset over the minor injury, infact. And so, somehow, Papyrus found himself in Grillby's loathsomebar, staring down a vanilla milkshake while the maniacal false Sanshummed to himself on spun in circles on the barstool next to him.

He hadn't even known Grillby served milkshakes. Though, judging fromGrillby's baffled expression, he hadn't known, either. Thefalse Sans had simply ordered one as though it were the most normalthing in the world, and Grillby had made one.

“You never mention your, ah, other relatives,” Grillby hissed,flinching when the false Sans gave him a friendly wave.

“Surprise visit.” Papyrus judged that it was wiser not to let onwhat he thought had actually happened. Not that he was at all sureabout any of it. The morning had been a maelstrom of confusion anddistress, and it had been all he could do to keep up with the livingdervish of activity that had supplanted his brother.

The real Sans, wherever the bastard was, was probably having the timeof his life. Papyrus' only comfort, meanwhile, was watching everyoneelse in the bar shift from shock to puzzlement to abject terror.

The bar's patrons were giving the two of them a wide berth, and noone said a word about the idiotic bandage. As much as Papyrus (andhis ego) wanted to attribute that to his own fearsome reputation, hewas well aware that all eyes were trained on the false Sans. No onemade that much unwavering eye contact or smiled like that unless theywere dangerous and powerful enough to get away with it-- orcompletely, totally, off-the-wall insane.

Or both.

“Gee whiz,” the false Sans said, voice ringing through the heavyhush of the bar. Glass shattered somewhere as someone dropped theirdrink. “You haven't even tried your shake yet!” He sat up on hisknees, reaching out to shove the glass closer to Papyrus. “Go on,you need the calcium. I gotta say, your brother's not taking verygood care of you. It's a lucky thing I'm here now!”

No one laughed, or jeered, or approached the bar. Every last monsterpresent simply watched, slack-jawed. Papyrus squirmed under thepalpable weight of the crowd's attention.

“I'm not...” Papyrus started, floundering under the false Sans'wide-eyed gaze. He tried again, glaring and digging deep for whatlittle machismo had survived the morning. “There's no wayI'm...”

That damned smile. What was this maniac smiling about?

And why was Papyrus bothering to protest when he knew very well thathe was going to drink the damned milkshake? He'd been resisting thismadman for hours to no avail. There was no point in humiliatinghimself in front of witnesses.

Meekly, Papyrus took a sip of the milkshake. It was...pretty good,actually.

The false Sans' smile grew wider, and Papyrus heard the door slam assomeone finally broke down and fled for their lives.

“So, how much do we owe you?” the false Sans said, reaching intohis pocket.

Grillby nearly ducked under the bar. As it was, he shivered with aweak crackle of flames, pinned by those bright, twinkling eyes. “Ah,n-no charge,” he stammered, hands raised in surrender. “On thehouse.”

Alphys had had her doubts, but interpretive dance really had been theperfect medium to get everything out into the open. She felt like shehad a much better understanding of what had happened. Undyne had donea fantastic job on the piano, too, for all she insisted experimentaljazz wasn't her forte.

The local moldsmals were an inspired choice of backup dancers, thoughby Papyrus' own cryptic admission they may have had their own baggageto process. Alphys was by no means an expert on moldsmal psychology,if they had a psychology, but she'd take his word for it.

“Wowie,” Papyrus said, having changed out of his black leotard(the moldsmals were still wearing theirs-- they'd mostly absorbed thefabric). “I'm glad to have all that off my chest. I feel muchbetter now.”

Alphys dabbed at her eyes, jostling Sans, who was snoring and leavinga growing spot of drool on her shoulder. He'd dozed off a few minutesin, lulled by the dulcet strains of jazz and the fact that he wassitting still.

“G-good,” Alphys said. “That w-was brave of you to...to share.”

Undyne tapped her chin. “I still say it's not too late to add insome pyrotechnics. Fire is therapeutic.”

Chara fidgeted, reorganizing the stock under the counter of theirchocolate stand yet again. Work wasn't busy enough to distract themfrom the many preoccupations the new human's arrival had introduced.

Lucky number seven.

As Chara should have been, and almost was. If Mom had shown up just aminute later, it would have been all over.

On the one hand, the monsters would have been free. A little twist ofguilt started in Chara's stomach to think they were part of thereason the barrier was still in place. On the other, Chara washappier as a part of Captain Toriel and Dr. Asgore's family thanthey'd ever been, or could have ever hoped to be. Life was good, andthey'd like to keep theirs.

Still, that left the new kid in a pretty rotten predicament. So far,they'd been nothing but chill, and Chara knew the look of someone whowas dealing with some heavy stuff. Were they a magician, too? Charadoubted it, but had never found a natural time to ask. Either way,the kid hadn't hurt anyone, and took Chara's admonishments to becareful around the monsters to heart. Most importantly, they werenice to Asriel.

Their hand found its way to the pendant around their neck.

Sighing, Chara locked up the stand. Maybe a walk would settle theirnerves.

With a few muttered syllables, they appeared in the Snowdin forest.The bracing chill woke them up after the heat of Hotland. Theyshivered once, hard, teeth chattering. Once the shudder passed, theywere left feeling a little more clear-headed, as if they'd shaken offsome of their anxiety. Savoring the crunch of snow underfoot, Charawalked, thinking of nothing in particular. After a while, theyrealized which direction they were heading in. Sighing, they spun ontheir heel.

That guy seemed pretty glum, lately. Chara didn't want to add tothat, which they would if they stopped to talk today. They muttered afew words, and reappeared in Waterfall. The old stomping grounds.

Maybe Mom was home. And if Mom was home, maybe Asriel was with her.

...Nah. Chara didn't want to worry them with this weird mood, either.For a moment, they considered texting Dad, but decided against it onthe same grounds. Chara wasn't sure what their vague unease was,precisely. All they were sure about was that it wasn't something toburden their family with. They'd untangle it on their own.

A few more words, and they appeared in a hall of cool marble. Theyweren't sure what impulse brought them here on these rareexplorations. Some latent death wish, maybe. Or a kind offellow-feeling with the monster that haunted this place. Chara hadnever run into the king during their clandestine walks through thepalace, which was undoubtedly a good thing. They couldn't expect Momto ride to the rescue a second time.

As if all that built up karma were cashing itself in at once, KingSans stepped into view around a massive pillar, moving silently.

Chara bit down a startled gasp, but the king was facing away fromthem and didn't seem to notice their presence. The skeleton walked,and Chara found themself trailing behind, far enough back to gounheard.

The king passed into a courtyard dominated by an intricate gauntletof puzzles, all deactivated and dilapidated. A simple, homey entrywaystood at the far side of the space. Chara lingered in the shadows ofthe archway. The courtyard was open, with no cover save for therusted spikes and rotted timbers rising from the floor. It had thefeel of an arena, and it would be beyond foolish to follow anyfarther.

Sans halted in the courtyard's center. Without turning, he said, “Wasthis wise?”

Words leapt to Chara's lips too late. Their soul was grabbed, pullingtheir body along like a toy on a string as Sans reeled it in closer.

“Mom will know what you did!” Chara yelped, fumbling for a spellto defend themself with.

This had been a real dumb move. The realization that the new kidwould be safe after all was cold comfort.

“Heh.” With a flick of his wrist, Sans let Chara go. “Kid,you've given me plenty of chances to take that soul of yours. I'vehonored my agreement with the captain more times than you know.”

Chara shuffled, ready to flee. Despite the king's words, they knewbetter than to assume they were safe.

“And what brings you to my humble home, human?” Sans asked, stillfacing away as though Chara were no threat despite their species.Well, between a boss monster and a kid, even a magician, Charasupposed it wasn't much of a contest. “If not to tempt fate and mypatience?”

The answer to that question still eluded Chara. There was nothinggood inside the palace. Just the king, and the clutter and mess oflong, lonely years. “Mom's right, you know,” they said, even astheir better judgment urged them to be quiet. “There's got to besome other way to bring down the barrier.”

If any statement could be better calculated to piss off the king,Chara couldn't think of one. They waited, mouth dry, as Sans finallyturned to face them.

The king's face was the same bland mask Chara still saw in theoccasional nightmare. The same easy smile that didn't reach his eyes,that held no warmth. Not for Chara, anyway, or any other human. Sansshook his head, an abortive chuckle breaking the silence.

“So, where is it, then? This other way?” He gestured at thethousands of tons of rock far above. “If there were another option,brighter minds than yours or your mother's, for that matter, wouldhave found it before now. I didn't start that collection for myhealth, buddy. It ain't fun.”

“I know,” Chara said. They found themself gripping Rei's pendent.Feeling stupid even as they said it, they added, “Thanks for notkilling me.”

For an instant, the king's left eye flashed, a bi-color swirl ofmagic. Half-remembered cautions against the eye of Balor, the evileye, rose in Chara's mind. “Sure, human,” Sans said, mild asever. “No sweat.”

Chara sighed in unexpected relief, but the king went on.

“These last couple years have been unbearable with you living downhere, you know that? With you just swanning around the Undergroundlike you think you're a monster yourself.” The light guttered,leaving the king's face as empty as dead bone. “Letting my peoplelove you like you have a right to it. And yet, every day you stayalive is another day of freedom you've kept from them. If you reallycared about that cozy little family of yours, you'd know what to doabout it. You'd bite the bullet.”

The words plucked at a deep, forgotten wound. Chara edged back astep, dropping their gaze. “They don't want that.” The facetedglass of the pendent cut into their hand as they squeezed it.

“Oh, of course they don't,” Sans said, the light rekindling inhis eyes. “They're good folks. They'd rather have it both ways.Freedom at no cost.” He shrugged. “But that's not how it works,is it? Sometimes you gotta deal with reality even when it's lousy.”Bitterness laced his words, and then faded away again.

“Lucky for you,” the king continued, “you may just get to haveit both ways, after all. The way I hear it, you're not the only gamein town anymore.”

Chara stiffened. “You don't have to.” They wondered briefly howfar off the new kid was from New Home, if there was still time tochange their mind.

“Heh.” Sans smirked, the expression hanging oddly melancholy onhis features. “That's where you're dead wrong, kid.”

“They're not hurting anybody. They just want to go back home.”Chara could see their words having no effect, adding, “They have afamily,” with no idea whether that were even true. At the veryleast, the new kid had friends down here now. Asriel would be socrushed-- how would Chara even begin to explain it to him?

Sans scoffed, weary but unmoved. “So do I,” he said. “A familyand a kingdom, both of which I'm betraying every day I let you keepthis.” He gave Chara's soul a cursory tug, and let it go again. Heturned and resumed his path to the door at the far side of thecourtyard. “This will play out soon, one way or the other. It's toolate for anything else. Go home, kid.”

A sudden flare of anger seized Chara at the king's dismissal. “You'redoing this for your family, then?”

The king paused. He stood for a moment, as though considering hisanswer. At last, he simply said, “Yes. I am.”

“Then why are you here all alone?”

The king cringed.