Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For as little as Mono cares for appearances, there exist a baseline understanding that there is rarely an instance were watching someone from a perch hidden in tall stalks of snowed over trees is appropriate behaviour. However, in this instance, exceptions should be made.

"YOU KNOW WHAT *SUP* BROTHER!" A voice, familiar to many yet distinctly unheard yawps loud enough to shake loose snow from their piles, flaking down to encapsulate the scene into a little snow globe. It's the volume of a monster that had never once used his indoor voice.

"YOU STILL HAVEN'T… RECALIBRATED. YOUR. PUZZLES!"

There he is- The unshakable act. The maestro of this endless song and dance. He delivers each line with vigour and enthusiasm, an adroit craftsman, he puts his all into each performance, day after day, Reset after Reset.

It really is any wonder how he does it. It was hardly Mono's place to know, though she remained encapsulated by each polished act. Mimicking brotherly disappointment, dread and social insecurities, boasting of a self-confidence that was all too authentic till it became tacky and sweet, gluing teeth together like thick paste.

"THEN, I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS…"

Her eyeless sight catches onto the form of the human, crouched behind the convenient lamp, tracing little circles in the snow with something like boredom stiffening their childish face. There is a lifelessness to their limbs and body that speaks of their current soullessness. They are a veteran of their own battles, the entity that puppeteers them offering them little respite. In any moment, someone could lose a dearly beloved, or the kingdom could fall into ruins. All because of the actions of this vessel, this human that is not human. This husk.

Mono resist leaning further on the trembling branch she is stationed on, less it so much as creak and break the routine.

After all, she nor anyone can interact with this world. Older than Protector and Destroyer, older than the Creators and Multiverse itself, this universe, the first and the original, sits in its sanctity, untainted and undisturbed by the entropy of the Multiverse. It has been here long before the beginning and it will live on even after the end. Eternal in its preciousness. Cradled in the warmth of a million loving hands.

The tallest skeleton fumes, stomping hard enough to shake the ground, posing dramatically just as a gust of wind flows his scarf-cape for added effect. He plays into his role so well, many shortsighted could be easily fooled that there really was nothing else going on behind those mismatched eyesockets beyond aspirations and pure HOPE.

Mono bathes in the novelty of watching someone use their freewill to live carefree and happy, never falling into the cynicism and cruelty that such knowledge befalls others.

He is structured and confident. Unshakable and uncaring in a way that never comes off as unkind or repugnant. No bitterness to the unfairness of the cycle. Simple acceptance and the will to make the most of what he is given. No wonder they call him 'The GREAT Papyrus.'

"SIGH. WHY DOES SOMEONE AS GREAT AS ME… HAVE TO DO SO MUCH JUST TO GET SOME RECOGNITION.."

Why indeed, dear Papyrus.

Why indeed.

Chapter Text

Of all the bittersweet, superfine sugar-powdered, checker floor cafes coated in a balmy film of months old caffeine and frosting-

"AND DON'T COME BACK YOU THIEVING LITTLE INGRATES!"

-this one certainly scores high on Mono's preference list. 

The evening is late. Muffy's shut down her bakery for the evening, setting up more adult beverages for the night crowds. She'll sell off the rest of the pastries in these later hours, probably to the drunk and hungry, without having to go back and bake any fresh ones till she reopens on Monday. Her neat little brass lanterns perch high along the walls, the webbing stain glass casting the whole café in shades of lavender while the low-lights set on the counters and tables emit a mulberry glow.  

Muffy's children run about the establishment, keeping many eyes out for pickpockets and spills. A set of spiders play jazz on tiny instruments on a high platform on the corner of the counter. They've even got little suits and hats. A little tin can begs for tips.   

Smoke and chatter linger in the air. The tables have been rearranged to give breadth for a small dancefloor near the rickety radio. A human couple, dressed for prom, cuddle and slow dance. A biker and some monster in a suit cluster on the furthest table, talking more into the brims of their pint-glasses then to each other. A flock of scandalously clad women, human and monster alike, sit in relative peace, drinking, smoking and laughing amongst themselves. 

Mono herself has seated her posterior on the narrow brim of one of the counter stools, her tail- a bulky, long collection of cartilage that looks like it was ripped directly from a human’s vertebrae- prods the ground like a bird beak pecking for crumbs. In the fair dim on the café, Mono's impressive stature practically disappears. Though for now, she cranes her helmet back, snout pointed towards the entrance like a dog on attendance, watching the aged spider monster toss the slobbering humans right into the gutter. 

Kept catcalling the poor gals, ruining their night out on top of trying to swipe off with Muffy's famed spider donuts. Mono doesn't have much of an opinion on it, but it is interesting. 

A creak of bone and low, gurgled groan pulls the old shadow's attention back to the now, where Honey bows over the counter like a flayed corpse, heavy as wet cement and higher than a meteorite.  

Honey is in a right state- was when she found him some months-years(?) back- like the brittle remains of a war-torn cadaver. Over the years, his bones have gone ashen and browned to a sickly shade of sewer grime, friable and easy to break. He's wheezier then an accordion and is always one rough inhale away from a coughing fit. Not an ounce of grace perforates his smog, he moves as if he's caught in a great flood of molasses. His hoodie goes unwashed for months at a time, acquiring more and more stains on each run. 

Right now, he nurses his third strawberry milkshake, his other hand clenching his bong. One of the fancier ones too, its shaped like a skull with the words 'Gaslight' engraved on its teeth. 

He's drifting between the lands of sleep and wakefulness, drooling into his arms, giggling and choking and Muffy keeps giving her favourite customer 'the Look' over the brim of her many spectacles. She then turns her scrutinizing over to Mono, who has done nothing for the past two hours but sit and watch the world go by. 

With her upper hands, Muffy makes a 'cut-off' gesture. With her middle pair, she points thornily between the shadow and the skeleton. And with the bottom pair, she waves towards the door. 

Nodding along, Mono shuffles up from her seat, angling her head so none of her antlers catch on any of the fairy lights and ruffles Honey from his haze with a firm hoof-hand to the shoulder. 

Groggily, Honey tucks his bong back into his inventory before setting his blown-out eyelights on his shady companion. A strand of peach-orange drool dribbles down the gap of his teeth to his mandible and he fixes her with a shaky smile that quivers under the weight of his exhaustion. Solemnly, Mono tilts her helmet so her antlers point to the front entrance and works to force as much delicacy into her limbs as possible, to guide the stumbling skeleton up and off of his stool and towards the end of the night. Honey is still a damn broomstick of a skeleton. Fortunate that Mono towers over most doorways so he can lean his lank entirely onto her, giggling and sputtering and rubbing his sweat into her cardigan.

Annoying to most but Mono's goal rests solely on the reaching the exit. Good thing for her, Mono's own regular shuffling gait perfectly aligns with Honey's and before long the two are trotting down the breezy streets of Honey's quaint little neighbourhood with one final wave goodbye from Honey. 

In the journey, Honey manages to cackle through a rendition of Killer Queen before choking halfway through Bohemian Rhapsody, doubling over like he had just been socked in the ribs and pouring the magically purified contents of his non-existent stomach into the shrubs of a random bush. Steadily, Mono clamps two hands around the width of his thin, shaky shoulders, so he doesn’t tip over into his own sick. 

Honey gags and spits and once he emerges from his little fit, he eyes the suburbia with beady incomprehension. Like for the first time in their walk, he realizes where he is. Gagging bodily, Honey inhales with a whistle through his nosehole. "hey- hey mono…? where the- where're we going?"

His cigarette-stained phalange grip like kitten claws to her sleeve as the elder shadow hauls Honey to his feet. "….I'm taking you home, hon…. Probably so you don't wind up sleeping on the counter again." Possessing the kinda voice that never raised its lilt above or below her namesake pitch, Mono had the misfortune of sounding more-or-less like a script being run through an audio software. 

Honey snickers, lacking true humour. "home, huh? big ol' empty house with a giant prick in the living room. real funny mono, you big, husky bitch." If he's looking to get a rise from her, he's off his marker by a landslide. Mono's midnight pelt and state of thought stay flat and even as she coaxes him back up into motion. 

The evening wanes into night and the biting chill encourages anyone with skin and common sense inside. Mono remains heavily unaffected, her own icy personage unperturbed by the drop in temperature. She suspects Honey is all the same, trembling more from his rough night then the assaulting breeze. They're trotting through a chain of overhead streetlamps, casting their golden spotlights over their heads like criminals caught under dense floodlights when a sudden idea strikes Mono's narrow train of thought. "….Why don't I just drop you off at Alphys' and Undyne's house…. They won't mind the intrusion…. Probably."

Honey snickers again, the glint in his eyelights turning dark. "wowzers, lady. ya' really gonna trudge all the way to monster city from here? pretty bold a' ya'."   

Mono tilts her helmet, the streetlights casting a grand forest of branches from her antlers across the sides of passing buildings. 

"remember? they moved out of the neighbourhood a while ago." Honey glared at the tips of his sneakers, looking as scuffed as his footwear. "'dyne's assault at that human convention spooked her bad. she couldn't stand to be around here anymore. so her 'n' al packed up the lot and moved into the heart o' the city. i…" He pauses, one spindly hand twirling around the string of his hoodie. "kinda lost contact with them after that. 'dyne's still healing and al wants to focus on her and her new employment right now." 

His brow-ridge furrowed, and he tried to aim a glare at the old beast with his faraway eyelights. "i told you that, i swore i did." Turning away, Honey grumbled under his breath. "i don't know why i keep expecting you to remember."

He's angry at her. Upset even. And Mono can't push herself to do a single sincere thing about it, to rectify his hurt. It's out of her jurisdiction. Nothing she could say now would mean anything. There would be no regret, no earnest words of sorry, no care beyond her icy hollow of apathy. Mono isn't sure of a lot, but she is sure that apologies ought to be true, from the core of a person's very being. A sincere way of voicing repentance and building a framework towards a greater path of growth. 

If a 'sorry' is spoken with none of these intentions, none of its backbone, then it doesn't mean anything. 

Mono says sorry a lot- like please and thank you- the simple formalities logical to her mind. But the old shadow cannot recall the last time she truly meant it. And if Honey is going to get an apology from anyone, Mono knows he needs them to mean it. Less it shatters his shaken SOUL any further from when that old unhappiness has festered, more potent than any fleshy infection.

So, when the time comes, Mono doesn't say anything. Besides making a mental note to bring more sticky notes for the next time she visits. 

Afterall, one cannot whisk the sour winters away just by praying for sunny skies.

Mono would prefer to let Honey live with the cold truth then bask in an old delusion. 

Angel knows he needs that frankness now more than ever.

"tch, figures." Honey grumps and Mono can't feel any way about it. 

The trek back to Honey's house is brief overall. They arrive just as the sun sinks it fat hind over the horizon, drowning the surface skies in inky night. Honey's home is a two-storey affair with a little triangle roof. It's painted banana yellow and the lawn overflows with untamed flora, wildflowers and vines weaving between the little picket fence posts out front. Mono trudges up the little pathway to the brick-red door, where she negotiates the keys from her bitter companion and shoulders through the front door, steamrolling for Honey's bedroom pronto.

She doesn't look at the soiled, broken-in couch in desperate need of replacement. She doesn't look at the patches of dirty smog painting up the peak of the walls. She doesn't look at the torn-up carpet, littered with little burn holes and dust and soot. She doesn't admire the dust built up on every single surface of the living room, from the coffee table to the unplugged TV to the ceiling light. She ignores the overflowing ash trays and tipped-over bottles, empty and drier than the Hotlands. The browning papers strewed about the floor, hiding how immensely unfurnished the house is. How the quiet of the house hangs like a heavy omen, unshakable in its designation over the living room, the kitchen and every crevice in this lonely old house. 

She ignores it all. Because it is not hers to acknowledge. She's just here to put Honey to bed, make sure he doesn't crack his skull open like an egg on a bad fall. 

This state of disrepair is beyond her versatility, too complex and rotted for her frozen SOUL to comprehend. To even begin puzzling together into something digestible.

She hauls him upstairs by the nape of his hoodie, the stairs creaking in anguish under her density. The wooden planks squeal like kicked piglets before the carpets muffles the clomp of her hooves. Not missing a beat, the elder beast tromps past the carefully hand-painted door that stands out closest to the stairs and beelines for the plain, dirt-orange door with a visible stain on its right bottom corner at the end of the upstairs hallway. Good news, it's unlocked. Which means Honey won't be taking a shot at shortcutting inside again and winding up halfway across town in some residual fountain… Again.

From then on, it's only a matter of dragging Honey inside and disposing his weak-kneed figure onto his lumpy futon. The skeleton crumples like a building in an earthquake, curled on his side while he toes off his sneakers and drools into his pillow like a toddler on a teething toy. 

Despite his height comparing Honey closer to a lamppost than anything else, curled up like this, like a ball of sand cupped in the hands of a mesmerized toddler, he looks strangely… broken. Lonely in his little bundle of coffin-nails and greasy bedsheets, like a little trinket crafted with love and wonder and hope one finds discarded atop a pile of other trash and lost treasures, deemed unworthy of maintaining, all sentiment lost so quickly to the throes of time. 

The piss-yellow of his tiny desk light rested near the head of his futon paints his bones an even sicklier shade. He looks like a rotting carcass. He looks beaten down and hurt, almost scared in a way Mono cannot piece together. She knows it’s because of something, something that happened a while ago that haunts the aching cavity of Honey's hollow ribs and blotted mind, but she just can't place a face to the name, an action to the consequence, a story to the tragedy. 

It's all just shapes and white noise amongst the weeping and broken bones and bad night and Mono just can't feel a damn thing about any of it. 

Someone should stop by, come check up on him, see how he's doing. Someone should come home and be here and help him through this hell, this quicksand of despair. He should come home to someone that loves him, cares about him, hold his hand and mean it when they say everything will get better. He needs somebody. But no one comes. 

Mono can't be the one to SAVE him. Honey needs someone who can feel and love and judge and guide. Someone who can mean it when they say 'sorry' or 'love you'. 

Not Mono, never Mono, who stares down at his quivering form, so wracked with grief and old desolation, and can think of nothing to say, nothing to do to quell the isolation eating away at the spark in his eyelights as the crumbling skeleton began to softly bawl into his pillow. 

So all-encompassing was his sadness, it clung to the rigid peaks of her fur, yet sounded so distant all the same. So desperate to be heard, yet so frightened to be seen. Honey's little bitter paradox. He blames himself, blames the world. The empty attic left behind in his SOUL overflows with his neglect, internalized or otherwise. He cries for what he has lost, a name Mono cannot hear from where it is wept into the pillow and would not remember regardless. His bones rattle and a sob catches in his faux throat before he chokes it back out and Mono just… stands there. Void of ridicule or concern. 

With a flick of her tail, Mono pivots and shuffles towards the door. It was probably best to offer him some privacy to air out his turmoil of rack and ruin.

She can offer him only that.

"mono?"

She's cracked open the door, just a peak. She could easily slip away into the self-same night and disappear from this moment until next time around, where Honey will either be sober and upset or high and pretending not to be upset. 

But he calls and she stops and slowly twists her neck back to peer at him over her shoulder. From where he's sat up sluggishly on his futon, he wobbles like a newborn, barely leveling his skull off his pillow and spittle soaks his mandible. 

He's blinking dazed and teary-eyed. "you're leaving?" 

With her back still to him, Mono nods. She has very little to no intentions of overstaying her welcome.

"hey, mono…" He sounds so torn up and distant, hesitant like an animal expecting to be swatted for spilling their food bowl. He knows not to expect anything from her, yet he tries anyway, so very desperate for every a fickle or parody of attention, of the illusion that someone was coming home, hadn't left him behind. He would cling to anything for that hope, even to this hopeless beast of long nights and prickled pelt. 

"i-uh- listen i know this doesn't mean anything to you but…" He swallows and Mono can hear his shoulders rattling. "are you- are you gonna come back?"

Turning her helmet back towards the door, Mono slowly peels it open and answers truthfully. "….Yes ….Yes, I will."

If he says anything in reply, Mono doesn't hear before she's trudged out and clicks the door back closed. 

The hallway is murky with the black of night but a thin beam of moonlight glints off a silver doorknob and catches Mono's frivolous attention.  

Trotting with a belated gait, Mono faced the little blue door, with its little white clouds that fade into sheets of precious stardust and itty-bitty astronauts and nudges it open with a basic level of curiosity fuelling her motions.   

She's greeted with a room that's perfectly matches the tone of the door. The walls are paint much the same, there's a bookcase where the book spines are arranged in shades of rainbow. A desk that looks picked clean, save for a handful of papers and eraser shavings. Posters displaying constellations, the aerodynamics of a space rocket, listing the minerals found in meteorites and diagrams of the solar system. A bed, carefully whittled into the shape of a spaceship sits desolate, blankets and pillows arranged neatly.

This room sits like a time capsule, every surface from the little crescent-moon shaped lamp to the mannequin adorned in some sort of homemade knight garb coated in a thick swathe of dust, years upon years of build-up. This place was left untouched, almost sacred but it's too dishevelled to be out of any sort of sentimental devotion. So what else could be keeping Honey from entering this quaint little sanctum? 

Mono can't scrounge up any particular thoughts towards this room. Though some part of her is sure it holds the answer to Honey's endless highs and lows. The missing piece, so to speak.

Next time, she'll make sure to keep notes, keep up with his spiral.

Clear up the confusion and then… then what? Back to square one? Back to Honey still being alone and lost and blitzed out of his mind? Incapable of saving himself, too scared to reach out.

What could Mono offer him? Empty promises, bland words of comfort? Words did not matter without intention, so Mono knows nothing she says can matter.

So what of her help? Her action? Does she act because she knows it will not matter, or does she stay stagnant as she always is? 

Backing up one hoof at a time, Mono exits that confusing little bedroom in this confusing little house with its confusing little owner and allows the enriched shadows of the hallway encompass the black of her fur as she slips away into the night. 

To another, hopefully less confusing little universe.

Chapter Text

Truly, Mono prefers it here. 

She prefers, as much as she possibly can, this quaint little house and her sugary-sweet company. For as little as she understands it, she gets it and she knows she'll keep coming back to it.

Sunlight kisses the parquet flooring in gentle strokes from where it spills past dainty lace curtains, hand-stitched with little flowers, stars and apricots. If one takes a gander around this modest little abode, they'll surely find a plethora of little etchings imbedded in this house's very foundation. Polished lavender vines running up the length of the stairway banister or curled around the entryways into separate rooms. Furniture, harvested from the very trees overshadowing the backside of the building, carved with little designs of bees and butterflies and blooming flowerpots (Back when leaving the house was still such a fright for poor Pumpkin, and even now it is such a chore to mingle with the sneers and mumbles). Speaking of, overflowing vases can be found plonked and arranged in neat segments on nearly every flat surface provided, with larger, hand-painted beakers plopped on the corners of doorways and the daintier urns taking residence on bookshelves and coffee tables. 

Wind chimes, wooden little flutes, predictably hand carved to resemble stalactites, whistle in harmony as a soft breeze blows past, rustling through the vines and shrubbery of Pumpkin's truly magnificent garden. It's a gluttonous amalgamation of vegetation and flora, swirls of wide roses curled up alongside fat, ripen pumpkins. All of which is hidden behind the bulk of the house. And what a beauty this little paradise is. 

Nearly everything in this house, besides maybe the house itself, is the byproduct of Pumpkin's gentle attention and creativity. From the rug in the living room with its little lily pads and froggits to the peach-orange table cloths to the heavy, well-loved blankets lining the couch and the guest bedroom upstairs, Mono can practically smell the love and care Pumpkin has infused into their little home, even if she misses out on feeling that warmth for herself. It's nice all the same, Mono can acknowledge that much.

It's warm and the air is always sweet and fresh and Mono gets it. This warmth, the gentle sun against her thickened pelt, the solid calmness weighing softly on the dip of her slouched back.

She gets it.

But beyond that, this comfort isn't for her. Pumpkin worked hard to carve out this little hollow of hope and recovery for themself, it'd be insanity not to indulge in this peace for just a moment. Mono should count herself lucky, being one of the very few Pumpkin ever welcomes in. 

After everything that happened, it's a miracle they ever open that front door. From where she's sitting, Mono is certain something like admiration is called for. 

Faint humming brews just under the clatter of pots and pans and cookery as her host flutters about the kitchen in their apron embroidered with little flowers and fruits. Mono, despite herself, will always indulge in the odd camaraderie of Pumpkin- a sweet childhood nickname by a face long lost to the Multiverse. This world's barrier has long been broken and monsterkind has adjusted to their new, sunny way of life outside their cold, starving prison. 

Cruelty, necessary to survive, devastated the natural Love that shaped Pumpkin's, and all of monsterkind for that matter, very beings. If the body was reflective of the SOUL, then Pumpkin's mutilation spoke volumes of the fall of the Underground greater than words could speak. Mono couldn't imagine it for herself, so she has taken to her old habit of sitting and observing. 

Pumpkin had adjusted as well. There is a healthier glow to their frail bones, their heavy slouch laced ramrod straight by a sturdy back brace. Their tombstone teeth fixed straight and even by sterile rings of braces. She finds they smile twice as wide nowadays. They're less skittish than she remembers them being from before and despite all the troubles life has thrown at them, from humans to Surface life to simply going outside without inciting scorn or hesitance, they're coping quite well for their situation. 

She watches them dry off their lower hands on a dish towel and return to kneading the dough. Chorizo and chicken pie tonight, it's bound to taste heavenly. To be fair, Mono wouldn't know. Her tastebuds are but a mirage at this point in her eld. The texture sits right though, even when she knows its burnt or undercooked, Mono never minds. Whoever Pumpkin's missing is really lucking out. 

Whoever they may be. 

Leaning back in the creaking wooden chair, Mono stares at a tiny smudge on the ceiling, tapping the counter as she hears the oven door snap shut. It's awfully sweet of Pumpkin to cook for her, even though Mono has reminded them several times that the bizzarro biology of her body nullifies the need for substance entirely, they still insist she join them for every meal they prepare. Years ago, wilfully going without wasn't an option in their world. To survive, one must have always been on the qui vive, watching carefully for the next meal, or threat. 

Those days are over now, thankfully. And Pumpkin has gotten better. They're eating more, and often. The density in their bones is returning, cracks smoothing out, a slow odyssey of healing, tinged with patience, the setbacks and the turnarounds. They've gotten some of their Papyrus-typical spark back, even if it’s a little different. They're starting to eat sugary hot porridge and milkshakes again. That SOUL-deep paranoia that encourages nightmares revolved around cramps and brittle bones and dust run sticky with blood were fading into relics of a life long forgotten. (Mono skilfully ignores the private food storage tucked in the pantry, stocked with canned goods that grow higher with her every visit). 

They work from home these days, commissioning outfits and dresses and alike. Hours spent in their little bedroom-turned-studio, painstakingly stitching the finishing touches to a blushing bride's wedding dress or pinching the cuffs on some snob's favourite suit that's fallen out of repair. Or sometimes, they're carving little wooden figurines, a ballerina or building blocks or chess pieces, gifting them back to smiling clients with their signature pastel orange ribbons. When they're feeling particularly social, they don their wide-brimmed sunhat and polka dotted neck scarf and crate their flower bundles and fresh fruits to the local markets, selling them off to vendors for cheap before racing back home.

Sure, they're not as brave and outgoing as they once were. Not brave enough to face bowls of pasta, or long knives or puzzles or fishes. Maybe they never will be. But if they're brave enough to wake up in the morning and be happy with their life, well then, what more could be asked of them, in Mono's opinion. 

Pumpkin, never one to stand still for too long (not without their bones rattling so violently, onlookers fear they'll crumble apart), they snatch up a wet cloth and sweep the counters of flour and loose paste crumbs. Their bones shift and clack like metal spoons, little cricket chirps interspersed among the mellow tune crackling from their beaten radio. 

Their four arms work in perfect sync with each other, maximizing efficiency in a way only a Papyrus could. The pie's not even cooked and the kitchen looks sparkling new. Mono can acknowledge their spirited work etiquette, Pumpkin would never accept a dirty kitchen for their guest. 

And they're not bad company either. Pumpkin isn't much for words, preferring to sign or cordial kinesics to communicate. And when they do talk, it's always short and quick to the point. Meek in their charmingly diffident nature. The sort of company Mono can come around to tolerating. The quiet is nice. They don't talk and Mono never has to. It's maybe the most favourable thing about her visits to Pumpkin's little home. 

Maybe because it's homey and soft and nostalgic in a way wholly unfamiliar. Maybe because despite the fear that rattles bones and vases, Pumpkin prevails and some part of this old shadow cannot imagine anyone ever being able to do that. Especially not on their own, like Pumpkin is. All the time, forever and ever. Maybe this old beast can still learn a thing or two about persistence and maybe that fascinates her in some way. After all, Mono can do very little besides wonder. And wonder. And wonder.

A steaming plate clinks down in front of her and interrupts the shadow from her pondering. The slices crust is crispy and flaky, a little burnt but even that brings its own little charm. The mixture of chicken, sausage and veggies spill over the slices edge and onto the plate, bubbling and popping like spilt organs. 

Pumpkin gifts her their widest, cheeriest grin, glowing in the radiance of their healing and new company.

Mono can't wait to dig in.

Chapter Text

Midnight 'gaming' sessions are always close to a delight in Coffee's company. 

Mono's found herself, for about the dozenth time now, seated on a half-deflated beanbag filled with enough dips and bumps to give any healthy person scoliosis, a spare controller pinched between her too-big hoof-hands, half-blinded by the bright, spangling light from the TV in the dim of Coffee's barren room. 

Coffee stuffs another mouthful of caramel popcorn into his soggy maw, indifferent to the state or cleanliness of his braces, before guiding the nozzle of a whipped-cream can to his teeth and suckling on it like a baby bottle. His gloved phalanges are bound to be sticky with spit and sugary syrups, such is his natural state of being. 

Coffee is a lonely kid, and that moniker embeds itself like a shot of concentrated Hatred into the very curve of his spine. Pasty against the blaring white screen good ol' Coffee sits slouched like a shrimp and virtually kicks her ass in this 1v1 2D fighting game he found in the dump a month ago. Mono's never possessed the sleight of hand required to do more than hold a mug or stack bricks, so it's any wonder the little 4-bit knight character on screen is being curb-stomped by a pixelated puppy-dog. Not that Coffee seems to mind. He probably values the company over competition anyway. He's not the competitive type. 

Every once in a while, he'll write down some tips for things called 'combo attacks' or try to teach her how to unlock a specific move on his little black book but all attempts always fall short, and Mono can simply not fathom a possible need for all these manoeuvres for a bunch of specks and pixels. Too complicated for an old lady like her. Every time it seems her inexperienced hooves are about to pull off something spectacular- something that would have Coffee clapping and clipping a 'good job!' note onto the branch of her antlers- her grip always freezes, bends and she loses track of which buttons are where and in no time her little character is brutally bursting into smoke.

Coffee never minds though. Never seems bothered. Going off old notes and whatever brief flashes of past interactions her aged mind can scramble together Mono is fairly certain cold apathy isn't the guide to this lacklustre reaction. So what else? A need for plain old-fashioned company? Curiosity? Total disregard for the laws and taboos of his reality? With the way Coffee keeps his curtains clamped shut like the jaws of a bear trap, seems unlikely. But Mono's never been one to doubt a 'Maybe' in the Multiverse and Creators knows Coffee can be chock-full of them. If anything, they have at least that in common. Maybe Coffee just needs someone, anyone really, to… play with? Maybe that's why the little social-phobic skeleton tolerates the shadowy beast. Mono is, admittedly, very different from the run-of-the-mill resident found in his Underground.

The neon green of Coffee's digital clock blinks 1:34, the little knight squealing as its mauling into a bloody puddle by the little dog. Coffee hums, crawling towards the console and switching over to a game he's been eating away at for months now. He'll get by fine by himself and Mono will only slow him down, but he doesn't care much. 

"….Your brother ought to be home soon, huh hon?" 

Coffee shrugs, eyesockets glazed and lizard blinking. He looks exhausted, but he always looks exhausted so it's nothing to worry about. No doubt the little homebody was waiting up for his beloved captain, soaking in the presence of a semi-new companion with uncharacteristic sociability. If one considers staying up late, playing video games and eating teeth-degrading foodstuffs with a strange shadow lady to be social. 

Still, it is progress. Just a year ago, Coffee would have hidden himself under his mattress and cried until his brother came home. Like he did the first time Mono slinked into his room through the shadows of his TV. She really gave him quite the fright. 

Despite her general off-putting demeanour, Mono capacity for situational awareness has not been totally eroded over these many years. Certainly, she lacks the capability to encourage a modicum of care through the chill of her SOUL but still, Mono is not blind. She's noticed the way Coffee sits with longing in front of his window, only to flinch away a moment later once vile bickering from faceless monsters draws near. How quickly he came to accepting her presence in his little four-by-one world despite how every instinct and lesson to of ever been drilled into his skull spoke otherwise, simply because Mono made brief inquires on his current game collection. 

He looked at her with such awe and wonderment, like this old beast was some great blessing of friendship upon his sad, colour-by-numbers life, and Mono cannot even feel bad for knowing how easily that fantasy can be crushed under the weight of her chilled core, the reality of what she is. 

Coffee wants to make new friends, meet folks outside his brother's inner circle and explore the Underground. Unfortunately, his particular Underground wasn't brimming with friendly faces and SOULs of love. And his brother's protective eagle eye over all of Coffee's comings and goings (which was nowhere because Coffee rarely braved the front yard, least of all the village) equated to Coffee's whole existence being on the QT. 

It's a lonely life but it's a life nonetheless and in a way everyone down here has to be lonely. It's difficult, Mono understands to a degree, to grow attached to monsters that could be giggling at your jokes and patting you on the back one day, then turning you into the Royal Guard for some nameless crime against Her Majesty the next. Such a life does not encourage any kind of intimate connection. No wonder Coffee clings like he does, to the very few that he has. 

Despite what the name suggested, Coffee was far from bitter company. He spoke only through writings in his notebook, a little cumbersome for high-stake scenarios but it also offered up a plethora of comedic potential. To be fair in that regard however, there is a blaring weakness to her assessment and this old shadow may not be the best choice when it comes to passing judgement. Mono cannot recall the last time she ever laughed and perhaps its best she does not attempt. A mimic at heart, Mono knows laughter and how it ought to sound. And she knows she cannot laugh without sounding like a warped admixture of what such joy really should sound like. Hollow and baseless, with nothing to lean on, nothing to emote. 

Coffee never judges her though. Even though he really should, for his own sake at least. Never does he try to force some emotional disharmony into their brief conversations, he simply enjoys that someone- even something like Mono- was here to listen and talk and watch him play. There is such a spark in his eyelights, such a burning HOPE that he directs at anyone he's brave enough to look at. Civilians, guards, even Mono. He looks upon this world of hellfire and deceit and wishes for the best and despite all logic Mono… will never tell him he's wrong.

Because there's always a 'Maybe' to be considered. 

Coffee is owed just a little bit of reprieve, whatever little Mono can allow. Either way, the old beast knows the young skeleton will never hate her for breaking his dreams. He'll just pick up what's left and move on. Like always.  

A short click downstairs grinds against the hollow of her mask, and Mono moves at a rough, steady pace to disconnect the controller. Coffee looks at her, dopey in the eyelights and hurt at her retreat. Like a child being forced to wave their new friend goodbye at the playground. He picks up his notebook, flipping to a page and turning it to her as the shadow moves to stand up. 'Why?' it reads plainly. 

"….He'll wanna come check up on you first, hon. ….Best I'm not here when that happens… Not too familiar with me, y'know." His dopey look is tinged with despondence. To sooth him, Mono scrounges up the effort to give his skull a few awkward pats. "….I'll be back, hon….. You know I will…"

Like most things, Mono isn't sure she means it. But the generous pile of notes on this world Mono has accumulated on this world should be enough to keep her coming back. To play and 'game' and have Coffee shove the nozzle of his whipped cream can into the sockets of her mask (again) but Mono is close to sure she'll be back. Because yes, Mono could drift forever in her apathy, disappear into her shadows and stew in the dark till her vision sputtered out but… While she's indifferent to the total affair and truly any and all activities she may indulge in account to nothing- not without care, not without knowing how it all ends- Mono thinks… Mono is sure wasting time playing video games is worth just the same as wasting time doing nothing at all.  

Not so much as why?- but why not? Being indifferent to it all, Mono has no grounds to be either for or against. So if she finds herself in the position to sit down on a truly horrid beanbag and eat grimy food that glues the ends of her fur together and the company is shy and lacking so much social etiquette Mono has never found a honest reason to walk away from it all.

Why? Why not.

So, Mono will be back. To this cruel, cynical little world that has yet to crush the spark in Coffee's eyelights and she’ll sit by and watch him play. Watch him grow just a little braver day-by-day. Because Mono finds no reason not to and Coffee is a logical delight to be around. With a brief trot behind the full light of the TV, Mono disappears from this lonely room with its buzz of hope into the black of the night just as the Coffee's bedroom door clicks open.

Chapter Text

Mono's always wondered what joint aches must feel like. According to other creatures of similar eld, it's quite commonplace around the back, shoulders and knees. But as always, her frosty numbness blockades such sensations from the aged beast's lumber personage, so kneeling down for hours at a time is never such a strain. Comes in handy for situations like this, dealing with little ones whose tiny frames rarely ever reach her bowed knees at a squat. Dew is being a very brave babybones indeed.

"….Weight's normal…. Bone density is average for his age group…." Realistically, it only takes one of her massive hoof-hands to totally wrap around Dew's torso, but with how fussy he's being today, Mono enlists the assistance of the other one just in case. "….You drink plenty of milk, don't you Dew?" The little babybones in turtle-printed pyjamas bobs his tiny skull, grinning as he suckles on the cuff of his nightshirt. "….Yeah, you love hot chocolate, don't you?" He nods again and this time grabs her nasal ridge, trying to force Mono's head into a nod. "….Warm milk every morning, afternoon and night, right?..... Yeah, I understand…. Cold plain milk sucks."

This is Dew, or Papyrus as the residents of this universe are bound to call him. Dew is more of a pseudonym, for future potential clarification on Mono's part. Can't be mixing up babybones, now can she? He's seven, has some of the highest grades in his class, socially challenged and incredibly clumsy, poor balance when he's excited, scared, in a hurry, etc. He wears kneepads everywhere now. He likes bubble baths and ponds and duckies and lava lamps. His goal for future-adult Dew is to create a jet that runs solely on soap. His favourite colour is mint green and little Dew prides himself of his self-sufficiency. 

He's a good kid.

And right now, he's dug his tiny, smooth-as-porcelain phalanges around the rim of her mask sockets, tapping on the callous ridge of her snout and grazing her sharp, exposed lower teeth. He's not fussing because of some great physical suffering but mostly because his playtime has been so rudely interrupted. At her back, Alphys shifts nervously, wringing her claws at the little puffs and squeaks the stripes is making. 

"I-i-is that- ahem- B-b-but what about his m-m-ma- dang it- what about hi-his magic?" 

Lowering Dew back onto the carpet with a gentleness unbecoming of her, Mono slowly pries his tiny hands from her mask, turning his palm face up to carefully prod at his carpal bones. Dew reacts with a stifled giggle. "….Interesting thing about skeletons…." Here, the shadow retrieved a penlight from her cardigan, flicking it on and shining it through the cavity of Dew's sockets. One firm hoof held his tiny skull steady, gently tilting it here and there to check for any possible internal damage. 

"….They're long living…. Much longer than the average fauna-class monsters…. They're only outlived by elemental types and Boss monsters…. But that's a different story…. Long living, yes…. Means skeletons mature at a much slower rate than the average monster…. However, babybones are born with an already naturally robust supply for themselves…. A biological necessity…." Tipping him off balance, little Dew lands ribcage first onto Mono's open palm while her free hoof scurries up the length of his spine, checking for abnormalities. Any small slips or pockets or loose bones. Dew erupts into a ball of giggles. "….They need that magic to maintain their physical structures…. An invisible pull that stops them from becoming a big pile of… well… bones…. It's why they're so good at gravity magic." In some extreme cases of magic depletion, limbs will start falling off. At that point it's too late to save them.   

Straightening the little kicker up, Mono returns her hoof to his skull, thumbing the underside of his eyesocket. Alphys leans over the old beast's shoulder as Mono gestures. "….Because so much magic is being directed towards keeping their bodies glued upright…. Some other areas take a little…. Or a lot…. Longer to develop and shape properly…." Two tiny eyelights, like smothered fireflies, blinked up at her and Mono poked the space between Dew's sockets. "….Such as sight…. Taste…. Hearing…. Even the magical structures needed for proper vocalization in skeletons…. All these things can take years to develop…. That's why babybones must be handled with a severe level of vigilance from caretakers… in youth." Finally, Mono relieves the poor kid of her manhandling. He plonks his sorry little tailbone on the carpet with a pout. 

"….He's a bit of a late bloomer, sure…. But hardly underdeveloped…. His grades and his attempts to replicate common font shows his intelligence…. Even now, listen." They pause and Alphys leans in even further. In the silence, a low, near-deaf rattle can be heard, muffled under cozy PJ's. Little Dew stares up at the women and giggles. "….Rattling, especially for younger skeletons… can be used as a form of communication between a stripes and their relative… while the magic needed to vocalize stabilizes…. Most likely Dew relies on rattling to convey what he can't yet vocalize…. Pretty smart but only useful on other skeletons…. Still, he's impressively adaptive for his age…. Tough as nails to… Right now he's content… Probably cause he trusts us." 

Reaching again into the void of her cardigan, Mono places down a wooden crate positively brimming with jars of mixed monster candy. Dew perks up in an instant, jutting up onto his tiny feet and moving to hover his hand over the crate like an overeager claw on a prize machine. He's positively beaming. "….Pick a jar, any jar."

Alphys clears her throat, drawing Mono's attention back onto the reptile and leaving Dew to swipe up a jar of marshmallows and crackers. A second later, he's padding his way towards the kitchen to leave the adults to talk. Smart kid. Probably not interested in all this jargon. Mono can't blame him.

Alphys unruffled her blouse, smoothing down the wrinkles on her lab coat sleeves. A nervous tick of hers, to pick and prod for imperfections. "So-so he's- Pa-Papyrus is perfectly h-healthy?" 

Shrugging, Mono stashes the candy crate back into her cardigan. Small wonders why Alphys isn't more confused by that but Mono believes Alphys is the type to look unreality in the face at least once and pull through fine. What's a dozen more times gonna do? "….Physically, sure…. Picture of health for his age and species."

Alphys audibly sighs, one heavy weight lifted from her shoulders almost causes her knees to buckle. But not a moment later, her brow hardens, damp with sweat like near the beginning of the evening upon summoning Mono from the cozy shadows of Dew's closet. So far, Mono has only relieved one burden from the poor monstress's overtaxed conscience but Alphys is far too astute to think this little look over to the end all be all of her investigation. Some things still aren't lining up. So she still worries. Mono can see the way her clever eyes flicker, rationality contorting with her passion. She's an amazing monster in that regard. Alphys wants the best for the monsters of the Underground and she never rests easy if even one monster is suffering.

Mono can't comprehend it, but it's no less admirable. Mono is apathetic, not blind afterall.

Taking into account the impressive eyebags the good doctor's sporting, plus the concerning discolouration of her normally shining scales, there's quite a bit of suffering happening in this universe. 

Chewing absentmindedly on one of her talons, Alphys fixes the far off wall with her hardened stare. "B-but if- But if i-i-it's not physical then… Some-something else m-m-must of happened… T-to of- ahem- caused those he-head-ach-aches a-an-a-and the n-n-nightmares… I-I-I can't imagine so-someone or something scaring h-him h-h-horribly enough to cause s-s-such distressing e-episodes."

Replacing her penlight back into her cardigan, Mono's voice did not so much a pitch in her questioning. "….Alphys, how long has Flowey been out of the lab?"

The dim yellow of the living room catches off Alphys' glasses when she snaps her head in Mono's direction. Mono can almost perfectly see the way the scientist's pupils shrink, and start to wobble. Already, the scales on the back of her neck spike like grass blades as her pale complexion grows ever paler. For a breath, she's totally frozen. And in the next, she's freezing, tremors wracking her shoulders and arms. She gulps down the nervous saliva gathering in her mouth as the shadowy beast stares and stares and doesn't move a muscle to her distress.

 Slanting forward, Mono does not raise or lower her voice when she repeats, "….Alphys, how long… has Flowey been out of the lab?"

The scientist clears her head in one, two, three blinks, finding her voice a moment later. "A-A- W-w-wait-! How d-d-did you? Mo-Mono- Well i-it's-" Stopping, Alphys takes a deep lungful of air, gulps again before brushing the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. "A-about si-si-six months now, I b-believe." 

Nodding along, Mono hears more than feels the icy crackle of her knees as she pulls herself back up onto her hooves. Maybe she is getting old. "….And how long has those six months been?"

"I-I-I do-don't know what you're t-t-talking-"

Slowly, Mono turns her head to stare down at the sweating reptile, a series of crackles and pops erupting from her thick, fuzzy neck. Alphys fiddles with the pen in her lab coat pocket, squinting at the coffee table. "Since h-his escape- ahem- well- b-breakout…. Roughly three hundred thousand RESETS have occurred, c-close to four h-hundred thousand now." 

"….More recently than before?.... Or are they becoming more sporadic…. violent and alike?" Floweies are nosy little buggers for the most part. They love knowing the when, where, how and why of their little torture dens. With recent events taken into account… 

Brows furrowed, Alphys was clearly near the end of her patience with the ominous beast. Throwing up her arms, the monstress implores quite loudly, "AND!? W-what does this have to d-do with young Papyrus?"   

"….Several things…. Including the fact that he's waiting right outside the backdoor of the house…. Trying to listen in, possibly." Mono sniffed him out the moment she came downstairs. Golden flower pollen is a scent embedded in the instinct of her senses.

Alphys pales to the point of concern, whipping around to stare down the length of the hallway leading to the house's back entrance. Her expression is positively stricken. "B-but what-?"

"….Good thing the house is reinforced with the appropriate wards… presumably the basement as well…. Perhaps even more abundantly then the house itself." Mono moves, her hoof-hand reaching out to tap at the brick-red plaster walls, feeling the protective enchantments thrum underneath. "….Logically speaking…. It'll be a heck of a lot harder to break into the bunker…. then it will be to break into the house…. Where he… Flowey, I mean…. probably reckons a key of some kind will be…. Then…. And only then…. Will he figure out where the missing piece has gone."

Alphys shivers on the spot, her hands moving to cup her stout snout, close to tears. "T-the timeline… lines up… al-almost perfectly…. Flowey w-was never this active before he… left for his new job."

Popping her back and swiping her tail across the ground, Mono goes on. "….Obviously the code isn't gone…. It's just absent from this current reality…. Can't fix what isn't broken…. Not that Flowey knows that, obviously….. But still, he is a kid…." Shaken eyes fix back onto Mono, her mouth parted though not a single breath escapes. Mono notes that Alphys' glasses have little clovers around the hinges. Neat. "….All-powerful God of Space and Time aside…. He's just a kid…. And when children get confused… like say, when their toys go missing… they can get angry…. Aggressive…. Especially with other kids their age…. When they're all alone." Making a slow circle with her hooves, Mono faces the kitchen entryway where Dew rifles about, probably preparing his nightly hot chocolate. "….Who's to say Flowey undid every act of cruelty he ever committed…. Who's to say there aren't some things he left behind…. Out of… Spite maybe?"

Alphys looks close to doubling over. Nausea tinges her snout a light green, giving depth to the looming grey of her eyebags. Pearls of sweat bead down into the tight collar of her home blouse while her claws ding into the flesh of her arms in a tight hug. Alphys wears guilt like a perfume while Mono stands stagnant. The poor scientist gasps, hands reaching under her glasses to cover her glossy eyes, already rimmed red and swollen. Mono, in the most literal sense, cannot understand the weight of guilt the poor monstress must be feeling. 

It must be SOUL crushing, Alphys looks totally despairing. The logic that Flowey's actions are hardly a direct result from Alphys' own questionable work is lost, the fact that even her most minutiae moment of neglect has caged her only home, and the home of thousands of other monsters, in a near endless loop of uncertainty leaves her spiralling. 

All that pain and nobody to share it with. All this unmentionable knowledge with no one to believe a word of it. Alphys' mind is her own barrier and Mono knows she's just as trapped inside her own head as the monsters are Underground, or in this loop. 

Hell hath no fury like a flower scorned, it would appear.

Mono dusts off her cardigan as Alphys pipes up, voice tight and watery. "What… what d-do you suggest I do?"

Picking a spot of lint from her shirt, Mono shrugs. This universe is fairly standard in terms of Classic variants, besides a few obvious changes. One of which is that Waterfall is tinged shamrock green instead of thin cyan, though Mono believes that gives the whole area a bit of personalized charm if anything. "….Post some more of your cameras around the village… Maybe around the back of the house too…. Have an escort for him waiting so he's not walking to school or around town alone anymore…. Beyond that…" Turning of her hooves again, Mono ascends the stairs at her usual sluggish pace, "….It's up to you." 

"W-Wait!" There's the scrapes of claws across the nice zigzag carpet as Alphys scrambles to catch up. "Y-You're just go-gonna leave?! Can't you d-do anything t-to fix this? O-or help me f-find a way to e-end this for g-good?" Something accusatory enters her tone as her volume picks up. By now they've reached the top of the stairs, the threshold to Dew's room stands like a bride at the alter right in front of them. Yet Alphys persist. 

"Do-Don't try and play in-innocent bystander now, M-Mono! You've al-a-a-a-already proven you-yourself to be WELLVERSED in the goings-on of m-my universe. I-I'm not so stupid a-as to not s-see it and neither are you! So-so," clammy hands with long, knife-like claws like an anteaters grip onto the crass cartilage on Mono's tail and tug, "just HELP ME, please! I can't keep doing this alone." 

She should just leave. This house call has trailed on for long enough now and the shallow dim of Dew's exposed closest calls forth at the murk composing Mono's entire being like a wanton scavenger tugs at flesh scraps. And yet…

And yet…

Mono doesn't see the point in not explaining. 

If Mono's tail wriggles in Alphys' hands, neither of them mention it. And if the tip flicks her snout like a swat, Mono certainly doesn't mention it. Instead, the old beast turns around and levels Alphys' pleading eyes with the hollows of her mask's sockets. "….I know you're not stupid Alphys…. Just like I know that you know exactly what gives Flowey the ability to RESET." 

Alphys' breathing stumbles. She's released Mono's tail and while her eyes betray her uncertainty, there's a firmness to her brow that spreads to the rest of her face. "Determination. T-The unshakable will to live on d-despite all odds." 

Hollowly, Mono nods. "….You would require a being of grandiose Determination levels in order to… overrule Flowey's control of the universe…. A human vessel, in this instance…. But judging by Dew's age…" Solemnly, lacking care or finite kindliness, Mono trudges past the monstress, manoeuvring her antlers past the doorway to get inside. Dew's room is an airy foxhole of pastels and flame-prints, he keeps his space clean and orderly. "….You all might have a few more years to go before that particular horror show kicks off." 

"I-Is t-the-there really nothing y-you can do?" Desperately, Alphys clasps her hands together, as if praying to Mono like a worshipper for the gods of myth would somehow undo finality. 

Without even halting in her efforts, Mono plods on, old and apathetic. "….Not without sparking off another anomaly…. And your universe is already on the radar as it is…. Logically speaking, it's not worth the risk."

As ludicrous as it sounds, even the Multiverse has rules. And even more ridiculously, Mono never finds any care to break them.

The room is quiet and Mono takes that moment to retreat. She just manages to jut her hoof into the closet's shadows when she catches Alphys miserable burble. "W-w-w-what… what do I do?" 

Everything in Mono's being, from her mind right down to her base instinct tell her to leave. That there's no point in sticking around now, that, realistically, she's done all she can to help and she can't risk tampering with a universe and the possible drama that follows. She simply can't be asked to deal with it. And yet…

And yet…

There's a lonely kid sitting at the kitchen table downstairs, making his own dinner all by himself. Smart and hardworking but can't even vocalize his joy. Can't even convey his terror or hunger or loneliness in a way that anyone will understand to its fullest because… it's just not fair.

But then again, nothing in the Multiverse is fair. And yet, some persist. 

It's a miracle he trusts Alphys so much to keep her as the household's emergency contact. It's a blessing he trusts Mono to handle him, inspect him, make him laugh. If anything, he's persistent. And, objectively speaking, Dew deserves so much better then what he's handed. 

With her back to the scientist, Mono allows her stony voice to crawl up the cavity of her throat. It's as cold and hollow as an ice cave. As always. "….Neglect doesn't automatically mark someone as cruel, Alphys…. But neglect can concur with cruelty…." Kneeling down, Mono is able to squeeze her shoulders and eventually the branches of her antlers past the closet entrance. She's left some gnarly scores in the doorframe. "….I am being candid here when I say…. That you are not cruel… Which is why I am assured that you will… eventually… know what to do…. I cannot interfere with your universe too directly…. But certainly you can…. And if you can make this cycle just a little easier… a little safer… on Papyrus…. Then that's something you ought to be proud of…. Whatever that means to you."

Sniffles and the rustling of fabric sound off behind her from where Alphys has slumped against Dew's bedroom door, worn down to her dust flakes. And yet… there's this tiny, oh so bitty little spark of something behind the fog on her glasses and Mono takes that as her true sign to leave.

"….He's a child, Alphys…. All he wants is to feel safe."

Whether Alphys replies or not is lost on Mono. She's already withdrawn into the closet's murk and slipped away from Alphys' reality. Now all Mono has to do is wait.

Chapter Text

Clank!

The sun is out, shining with a prideful sort of warmth that coats the greenery and banishes night from all but the most decrepit corners of this world. Morning dew from recent rains slicks windows and tiles, indoors smelling strongly of petrichor and wet wood from last night's light shower. This cozy little farmhouse is where Mono finds herself trudging out of as the sun scores the fields where her shadows made easier passage. 

The Surface of most universes are always, what they call, objet d’art. Truly, Mono is sure the Creators try their darndest to slather awe-incarnate across the skies for their delicate creations to enjoy once freed from their chilling prisons. 

No plume of cloud is the same, no hue of peach or gold or apricot a true copy of another. Never are the stars hung the exact same or the after-rain breeze the same smell. Never does the sun breach the sky and smother its little orbiter in its endless warmth in replicas. Each time Mono pops up in one of these little universes, where the monsters are free and the breeze is warm with sunlight and laughter, it is never the same. 

And Mono… doesn’t have much to say on that. It’s beautiful but beauty is so vapid and such a moot subject to the shadow that she rarely ever engages with it in its subjective form. But she also knows that many of her fellow denizens of infinite doom and gloom hold beauty to such a high esteem and she’s been around long enough to have an even-handed recognition of this thing they call ‘beauty’. It’s bit of multiversal charm, for the many universes to have a sun to bathe in. 

Clank!

Not to say paradise is wholly untroubled. Every cloud may have a silver lining but that doesn't mean the clouds still aren't there. Truth be told, it is rarely a snug transition from cave to open plains for monsterkind. Freedom can come at a hefty price. Lives lost, families torn apart, segregation and discrimination that work to smother monsters back into the shadows of society, like a butt of a cigarette crushed under the heel of a well-polished shoe. Unapologetic hatred, hardly ever warranted and never to the degree in which it is employed. 

But hatred is hatred, it cannot be reasoned with or persuaded or justified when wielded blindly. 

Mono was a stranger to hatred, like in manner with her unfamiliarity with love. To have one, you should know the other, even to most basic, juvenile degree. An old food you really used to hate or an old toy you cherished like a living thing. Love and Hatred. Both are confusing yet frequent encounters for the old beast but it is a constant nonetheless. Unavoidable in a plain of endless possibilities. 'Tis the whole point of this 'Balance' conundrum all the folks at the Administration are buzzing about. What a waste of time.

Nothing Mono can do about it; hatred is as common as the rising sun. It comes in all its blaze and fire and stuns the people and places and universes with its heat. Then it goes, and everyone sighs and moves on until next time around where this little Merry-Go-Round starts up all over again.

Clank! 

For the sake of maintaining some semblance of routine Mono had rifled around in this house's impressive pantry for a bit before brewing herself something close to a cup o' joe and spent a good half-hour standing on the veranda of somebody else's house, clay pots of flowers strung up by chain swaying in the micro gusts, the living toothpick out in the middle of the field before her catching Mono's attention roughly twenty minutes after her mandatory thirty minutes of observing has gone by.  

They’re tall, even standing all the way back in the field, they stick out like a scarecrow. In their overalls, dirty at the knees, and their skull overshadowed by their wide-brimmed straw hat, sharp as bristles and flyaway straws snapped in all sorts of directions. They bend low in a squat, all bones and smooth triangles, delivering some hardy thwacks to the thick hind of a watermelon. Straightening up, their silhouette is blackened out by the sun as they swipe the sweat from their nose bridge with their neckerchief. A mellow vine of pistachio green curls around the length of their body, like ivy climbing the bricks of a great tower. It flashes calmly, like the breathing of an sleepy infant. 

This is a plain, humble little universe, this one. So far separated from the rest of the discord that compounds the Multiverse. And normally, Mono would find no reason not to lay down for a bit, soak in the sun, steal some fruits that she can’t taste before scampering off to wherever else there was to go in endlessness. Though for once, Mono was not here to list aimlessly between bouts of chaos and spurs of laughter and bright screams like she did in almost every other universe. Unlike all the others, Mono was here for a reason.

That reason jangled on the pike of one of her lower antler branches. The little brown envelope swung and smacked against the side of her helmet with a sharp clank! of metal on bone, pulling the old beast back into the present and away from her ponderings. 

Now, what in the Creators was this?

Stiffly, Mono finds one of her hooves moving to uproot the tiny message from her antler among the many other stacks of sticky notes, papers and the occasional IOU. Moving gently, so the delicate paper didn't tear, and Mono was left even more lost than she already was. Mono was here for a reason; she ought not to forget. Nothing bad will happen if she does and Mono will not care either way but still. This is important. Not to Mono, never to Mono, but she knows it's important to somebody and that probably gives it meaning. 

So hopefully, Mono doesn't forget. 

It's just a plain little rectangle, sealed with yellow flower washi tape with a tiny cardboard wrapped around its middle with rainbow yarn. The envelope itself is lumpy, firm and clinks together when she shakes the envelope. Gold? Certainly bizarre. Mono has never used Multiversal currency. Or any currency really. Mono was not averse to the occasional bout of thrifting. Though she owned very little for herself. Usually, Mono just gave what she found away. Or what was given to her…

Curious enough, Mono pinches the tag between her hoof clamps and flips it around to read the type-print in glitter pen.

Apologies for the intrusion, Orchid. 

Hope your sun is shining bright on you.

We are low on melons. 

Warmest regards to your business. 

Supervisor A.

Oh yeah… The melons. Mono hears that they're very sweet, watermelons. She's watched people gut the fruity bowling balls and scoop out their innards directly into their mouths. She's seen monsters chew through the thick outer skin or young children carve them like jack-o-lanterns or spit the seeds out at each other. It's a very messy affair, from what Mono has observed. The 'water' congeals very quickly, leaving practically every surface it encounters tacky until cleaned. It must be a nightmare for any monster afflicted with heavy fur. Or creatures like Mono. 

But the watermelons of this world are a little different. Due to the sheer magical intent packed into them, these fruits were overripe with such sheer healing mana. Infused into its very juice. Even just a single, small cube could max out anybody's HP. Outcodes, Gods, deities and alike. Mono has heard that the taste was divine. Scarce as these little berries were, they were precious things. 

That also made them premium little irregularities. Thin on the ground, so much of the Multiverse wanted a slice. For healing, efficient medical supplies or simply as food. Popular little pepos. The Supervisor must need more for the Clinic. 

Her ability to seamlessly slip into any world, reality or building without leaving any noticeable tract made Mono quite the methodical carrier pigeon, in spite of her very less-then-stellar long term storage. Undoubtedly, the Supervisor was expecting her back soon. So she should probably… move and start on the delivery. 

Mono's hooves make a dull tap as she clunks down the porch stairs, broad antler smacking a wayward flowerpot and whirlpooling the poor thing. With less-then-dexterous hooves, Mono halts the pots spinning and continues down the lush hill, tipping the lip of the coffee cup into the void beneath her helmet. 

As Mono approaches, she notes the faint green stem patterns curling up the lanky skeletons exposed radius and ulna, pulsing softly with their natural healing intent. Their-who? Orchid, Orchard? Mono checked the tag again. No, definitely Orchid. Mono's time in this world was always sporadic, few and far between meetings. Mono only really remembers this world when the Supervisor has her make these deliveries. Mono never has time to make notes because if she stops thinking about what she's supposed to be doing here, even for a second-

'We are low on melons.'

- it just slips from her mind like rabbits fleeing from frothy-mouthed canines. Mono knows the moment she leaves, she'll of forgotten about this world entirely. She can't craft a body or image to this world, it slips so quickly from her mind, oily little serpent. If a tree falls and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Stringing together a little corkboard of mind fragments never does the old beast a world of good. Greens and golds and warm, digestible palettes, never too dreary, never too bright. Wheat and sweet potato and rainwater perforates the air. There's always dirt and plants and sunny skies and Mono just… can't remember anything else. Anyone else.

Speaking of. 

Orchid's back is turned from his little farmhouse, too invested in his current labour, and the dirt wanes the noise of her approaching hooves, so it's no shock that when Mono plants a firm hoof to his shoulder, Orchid nearly leaps out of his metaphorical skin.

He makes a visceral choked noise that throws him into a rib-rattling coughing fit. Mono stands, swirling her mug as Orchid smacks his sternum and kneecaps, hacking into his fist brutally for a handful of seconds. The coughing dissolves eventually and Orchid pulls himself back up, misty eyed and thoroughly rattled. 

"GOSH, MONO! I ALMOST BROUGHT UP MY BREAKFAST THERE! DON'T STARTL' ME LIKE THAT, YA' BIG DUPPY!" Orchid scolds, trying to sound fierce but his voice is too haggard to make it work. He squints at her, frown quirked, "WHAT ARE YOU DOIN' AROUND THE FARM ANYWAY? HOPE YOU DIDN'T SPEND ALL NIGHT SLEEPIN' UNDER THE DININ'ROOM TABLE AGAIN." Did she do that? Mono lays down just about anywhere, but here? Was she in this world for a reason beyond her usual deliveries on a previous occasion? She must of forgotten…

Orchid paused his mini tirade, eying the mug in her hooves. "MONO," he huffs, pinching his nose ridge, "THAT'S MY BROTHER'S MUG." 

Mono takes a moment to sip out of the empty mug, "…..Is it?....I didn't know, sorry hon."

"HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW!???" Orchid floundered, pointing an accusatory phalange at the mug, "IT HAS HIM NAME ON IT AND EVERYTHING!" 

Mono shrugs, her formidable height skewed over like a wilting flower, draping the skeleton before her in shadows. She had noted the little green font painted onto the ceramic but hadn't given it much of her meagre care to actually read it. Orchid crossed his arms and shakes his skull in exasperation, a habit picked up by many Papyri from years of living with a wisecracking loafer. Still, she can tell by the pulse of broiling green seeping through into his mana field that he's happy to see her. 

He's happy to see her. And Mono doesn't get it because he doesn't- shouldn't- really know Mono beyond these little deliveries but… He always has this look on his face, sad and happy and weird in the way that it rests in his eyelights with a sort of exhaustion whenever Orchard looks at her and it lays heavy on Mono's thick pelt. And it's so hard for her to even remember his face.  

He needs to stop having so much faith in Mono.

He needs to get some real friends, ones that actually care about whether or not they'll ever see him again. If a tree falls and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

'We are low on melons.'

These little transactions have to be orderly and precise, and if a byproduct of those results in Orchid's smiling visage, as jam-packed with as much Love and healthful energy as his produce, to be nothing beyond some blurry watercolour lost in the swirling vacancy of Mono's age-old mind, then so be it. 

Mono couldn't care less. And one day, she'll tell him.  

But not today. Today was about the melons.

Humming low and juddery, the crinkle of the envelope zeros Mono back to the swishing trees and Orchard's grinning skull and Mono finds herself lifting the parcel back to her helmet to check the tag again. 

Orchid tilts his skull and Mono stares at the thin green ribbon circling his hat. "OH, ANOTHER DELIVERY? PROBABLY SHOULD'VE GUESSED. FOLKS HAVE BEEN TURNIN' THE FARM INTO A BIG OL' TRUCK STOP THESE DAYS. SWEAR, CAN'T GO A DAY WITHOUT SOME NEW OR OLD FACE POPPIN' UP FROM THE DAMN WORDWORKS, SNIFFIN' AROUND LIKE BLOODHOUNDS FOR MY GOODS. NO OFFENSE TO YOURSELF, MONO." 

Sighing, Orchid's expression shows only the depths of his subtle fondness and good-natured chagrin. It looks soupy and strange, even though Mono dips her long, fuzzy neck low for better eye contact. Like printed paper ran through a washing machine, incorporeal and airy, his grin and the tepid, friendly glow of his magic cannot bore through the haunted mist resting just behind her sockets. There's nothing to hold onto. 

Orchid snags the envelope from Mono's hand, where her arm has frozen in motion, and waggles the parcel close to his earhole. "HMM, SUPERVISOR SURE IS GENEROUS. YOU HERE FOR THE MELONS, MONO?" Under the gentle scrutiny of Orchid's eyelights, Mono can sense her hooves sinking into the mud.

'We are low on melons.'

The mug in her hoof-hand is very small, she realizes. Smaller then her palm. It rests a little awkwardly against the coarse fur. "….I believe so, yes."

Orchid huffs, the chime of a laugh laced in the heavy exhale. "WELL THEN, WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO? HOW MANY DO YOU NEED, FRIEND?" 

Sometimes, Mono wonders what it must be like to be a jack-o-lantern. To have all your insides gored out and left vacant, only to be thrown away once they began to rot. She wonders what the inside of a jack-o-lantern must sound like. The delicate hum of a stifled breeze, or the roaring whistle, like the inside of a cavern. Like the inside of Mono's own helmet, which covers everything that she is and nothing at all. Just as well to Mono.

"….I….." Orchard, ever so patient, takes the passing seconds to stuff the envelope deep into his overalls pocket. "…..Believe…… we need about…. Three?" 

"GREAT!" When he's happy, Orchid looks a bit radioactive, "I'LL GET RIGHT ONTO THAT. JUST WAIT HERE A SECOND." 

He's gone and back, crate in hand, before Mono can get too lost in the way the sky starts to bleed blue, and Orchid immediately gets to work. Uprooting the mighty berries of swirling greens with a trusty spade and stacks each into the crate with the care a surgeon affords towards their scalpels. When he's done that, he flashes the old shadow a wide, toothy grin and a thumbs up, which Mono takes as her hint to kneel down in the dirt. She knows this bit. Not from this world but this part is familiar. Retrieving a bundle of twine from his inventory, Orchard stacks the crate so it balances on a middle clump of her antlers and begins to thread loops and knots around the crate to secure it tightly to the midnight-black branches. 

So close to the earth, everything smells so healthy, moist in a way that clings to the rims of her sockets and condenses on the bridge of her snout. Like sticky frost. Or watermelon juice. The air is so sickly sweet. "I THINK HE'S AVOIDING ME."

'We are low on melons.'

"….Who?"

Orchid sighs, a troubled sound that smells like wheat and pie crust. "MY BROTHER. HE'S BEEN GOIN' OFF MORE FINICKY-LIKE AND STAYIN' OVER AT THE HOUSE LESS AND LESS. I GET HE'S GOT OTHER THINGS GOIN' ON AND IT AIN'T NONE OF BY BUSINESS AND ALL THAT BUT… I DON'T KNOW." Mono doesn't know either. She's never met Orchard's brother. Or bothered remembering him if she did.

'We are low on melons.'

There's little orchids in his eyelights. She never noticed that before. Kneeled in the dirt like this, Mono's snout is closer to the crown of his skull. Even from under the brim of his well-loved straw hat, she can just make out the little leaves and flowers given shape by the lights in his sockets.

"I GET HE MAY NOT LIKE THE FARM LIFE NO MORE BUT WHY CAN'T HE JUST SAY THAT? HE KNOWS IF HE'S GOT SOMETHIN' GOIN' ON HE CAN ALWAYS TALK TO ME ABOUT IT BUT HE JUST… NEVER DOES!" 

The air smells so, so, so sweet, so alive and wet and overwhelming and Mono knows she doesn't belong in a world like this. So saccharine that it threatened to fog up the cavity of her helmet, passing featherlight through the clumps of her fur. Mono does not breathe, does not see the need to even replicate such an action. Mono cannot understand how Orchid can breathe in this world. Maybe he can't, and just doesn't have a choice?  

Mono can't think of anything, the dirt is too wet and her helmet too hollow. There is no new weight pressing down on her neck and shoulders and so many new smells. So strange how the sun seemed to be setting, even though it had just rose not so many minutes ago. Orchard moves back into view, tugging on a loose string of twine. He looks so new.

Orchid's breath hitches and watery numbness flows up the length of Mono's back. "WHAT IF- What If He Leaves And It's The Last Time? What Do I Do? What Would I Tell His Friends? Our Friends? I… I Can't Keep Handling The Farm All By Myself Anymore. I Don't Know What To Do. 'Cause What If I Bring It Up To Him And It Stresses Him Out And Then He Wants To Be Here Even Less? What If He Really Does Just Disappear?

He's stares at her, pleading and just a little frightened. "DO YOU THINK HE'LL FORGET ABOUT ME, MONO?" He has no idea how truly frightened he should be. Because Mono has heard this all before, a thousand times over and it never gets any better. Because he's gonna wind up alone. Alone and scared and wondering what he did wrong. And of course he’d blame himself, because he has nothing left to blame. 

His story starts and ends here, in this little melon field.

Mono couldn't ever care.

If a tree falls and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound? And in a world of constant creation, destruction, broken dreams and triumphs over despair, did anyone care if one or two people get left behind in this big churning story of woes and whims?

Somebody should care, but it can't be Mono.

Off in the distance, the echo of a front door swinging open and the brotherly call of Orchid's name disrupts their peace. 

"GUESS WE'LL HAVE TO CUT THIS MEET UP SHORT, HUH?" Orchid says, smile effete and tender. He blinks soft green eyelights as the shadowy beast pulls herself up with a sharp crack and backs further into the field, locating the tall silhouette of an apple tree and slips away, leaving the mug to bake in the sun. 

And leaving Orchid to whatever fate reality had in store for. Much the same, Mono supposed.

Chapter Text

"HONESTLY, OUT OF ALL THE BEASTIAL, REPULSIVE VISAGES I COULD HAVE HAD THE DISPLEASURE OF STUMBLING UPON," Chief serenades in a pitch that could crack glass, "YOURS WAS… CERTAINLY THE MOST UNEXPECTED."

It the closest thing to a compliment Chief would gift her, and Mono finds herself content with the rarely employed effort. After all, Chief, and his whole universe for that matter, was not in the habit of handing out niceties. 

Unwisely, Mono had lumbered through Snowdin's forest through the dead of night, only to become quite incapacitated via bear trap. Truthfully, sliding out of such a predicament would have been a breeze. However, instead of doing just that, Mono had spent a good while of her plentiful time staring up at the cave ceiling. Staring at all the little lights. Later on, when the small gaggle of wayward children found her, laid out on her back, belly up and star fished, they used her dense structure as a mini fort during their game of midnight snowball. And Mono hadn't the effort nor the care to deny them such. So there she stayed, unburdened by whatever pain or discomfort the teeth of the trap should of inflicted and relented to this brief moment of childish wonder. 

Only for Chief to come storming in like a fiery hurricane, melting the joy of the children into stark fear and frightening them back into the village. Which left him with her and well….

That's how Mono found herself being dragged through the streets of Snowdin by the chain on her bear trap. 

Honestly? Mono couldn't ask for anything better. It's actually quite considerate of Chief to think she may want to keep the trap. He knows she's made a bit of a habit of plucking up knick-knacks from his little world.

There is a hollow breeze in the air. Hollow like the village itself. The Snowdin of this universe was never bustling in the sense, but there was always a handful of characters buzzing about. Teenagers looking for a fight, adults going about their lives, snarling and cross and mad at the world. Now, thick curtains bunched the windows of passing houses. Cracks have been boarded up shut. Lights dimmed. Voices hushed. Blankets were stuffed under windowsills or door cracks. Heavy locks shined, freshly oiled and enchanted with silencer spells, on the doorways of homes and shops and even the humble Grillby's had not been spared, the glass fogged to the point could not of been able to see in even if pressed up against the glass itself, the building's heavy door crosshatched with wards of violent intent.

Not a sound is to be heard through this vacant little pocket of Underground, not the charge of an attack or the scream of a grieved citizen. Not even those young children, who seemed so elated to simply play. There is nothing.

Mono cannot say it is a bad thing, nor a good thing. It is just what it is. Nothing this old beast can do to change it. Funnily (whatever that's meant to mean in this context and with this intent) Mono was the only thing that didn't change about this world.

From her position as a conscious sled, Mono is given a perfect view of the many stalactites littering the cave ceiling. They're sharp things, like hewed ore and dangle over the various vulnerable wooden structures of Snowdin with menace. Just a single one breaking free could craft a horrific end to any number of poor monsters unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now imagine what would happen in an earthquake…

Mono doesn't need to imagine that for a change. She's seen that particular natural massacre more times then she had antlers to count on. So much screaming and crying and mucking about, its easy to get lost in all the cloud of snow and dust.

A glint from an overhead stalactite catches the old beast's attention, just as she's dragged over a particularly unforgiving patch of rocks. Crystals, long imbued with their own natural mana, have become the main light source for many Underground's throughout the Multiverse. A way to efficiently light up this otherwise bleak pits of Hades. 

However, Mono knows that the glint did not originate from any light-bearing little rock. Actually, there has not been many crystals grown from the natural sedimentary of the Underground in quite some time.

If one squints and tilts their head at just the right angle, you can make out the tiny red light, flashing in even intervals, right beside the tiny glass glints.

Security cameras. 

Those little techno spy-sprouts are damn near everywhere these days. Mono had spent an egregious amount of time- with the assistance of Monster Tyke- marking down every section of the Underground those little droids grew from. All around Snowdin and the surrounding villages. Almost everywhere dry in Waterfall, hidden between bundles of harmless echo flowers or the towering water sausages. Not as many in Hotland, though. Apparently they kept melting, if the gruesome remnants of molten motherboards and alloy was anything to go by. 

Not that Hotland needed much security nowadays, what with Mettaton dismantled. 

It's fascinating, if nothing else. How quickly things can change once power switches hands. Or not change, Mono supposes. The hands are different, not the power. 

"AND NOW, HERE WE FIND OURSELVES AGAIN. HONESTLY, I AM STARTING TO THINK YOU SHOW UP HERE JUST TO DISTRACT ME FROM MY NIGHT PATROL. NOW DOGGO OF ALL THOSE FURRY, SMOOTH-BRAINED RUFFIANS IS MONITORING THE NORTH TO EAST PERIMETER. DOGGO! BASTARD BARKS AT FALLING SNOW CLUMPS!!" Chief halts his military stride, glaring down at the beast over his broad shoulder guard, "DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT CUR CAN PERFORM AT EVEN HALF THE VIGILANCE AND PRECISION OF THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS!"

Mono lets the silence hang as she slowly raised her heavy, snow-swamped helmet up to stare at him proper. She finds him sweating minutely at the temporal bone. "….Probably not."

Chief scoffs venomously, kicking in the cellar door with one firm stomp before continuing to drag her down the stairs. Her antlers make a comical thump sound every time they smack the wooden boards. It reminds of her a kid dragging a stuffie along the carpet. 

Chief flips a switch as they finally hit the smooth cold concrete of the cellar basement, where a collection of torture devices and an old wooden closet sit against the walls. Its dark and dank, random wet patches sprinkled about. A single lightbulb swings from the ceiling by a shredded cord. The room smells of old dust and water, probably fungus too. The shadow senses a stray nail dig into the side of her long, bushy neck. She tips her helmet to watch Chief bend down and snatch up two semi-familiar bulky metal handcuffs, half-rusted chains leading back into the wall. Only to huff and cuss under his breath and drop them carelessly with a frightening clang!

Spinning on his sharp heels, the knife-like skeleton pins her under thin, scrutinizing eyelights. "NO REAL POINTS IN CUFFS, IS THERE? YOU'LL JUST SLIP OUT OF THEM AND SNEAK INTO THE HOUSE ANYWAY, YOU OVERGROWN GARGOYLE." Dropping the chain to Mono's bear trap, Chief stomps towards a stool positioned not far from his current burden and sits sulkily. 

He knows by now regular torture methods do not work on Mono. Fire, spikes, the occasional fancy chainsaw, it all just kinda… bounces off. Nor can she starve or dehydrate or even be retrained in the traditional sense. Nonetheless, he kept at it during almost every instance she visited this particular world, simply because of his mandate as captain and resident punisher of the wicked or trespassing. Which includes this strange, antlered critter that breaks out of his cellar and into his house, eats his food and stands in his living room, ominously.

Mono watched a droplet fall from the ceiling and plink into steadily growing puddle. The silence too, grows with the puddle. Mono would describe the silence as okay-ish. Silence is always heavy with Chief. Heavy like lead, like sin or something unspoken. He's such an angry creature and Mono cannot comprehend how anyone could have that kind of energy. 

The willpower necessary to just be angry, all the time. How exhausting it sounds. It really is impressive. Mono just… can't imagine. It must hurt, to be so angry. Mono isn't sure what 'hurt' is meant to mean but… it just looks like it hurts.

Who knows, maybe it's just Mono. 

Chief grunts, voiced ribboned through razors and kicks at the temple of her mask with the tip of his stiletto-knife boot heels. "WELL? YOU'VE DRAGGED ME FROM MY POST TO DEAL WITH YOUR LAYABOUT LOITERING NONSENSE YET AGAIN, MONO. I, FOR ONE, WOULD QUITE LIKE AN EXPLANATION AS TO WHY." For all the years they've known each other, Mono has made a hobby of omitting her purpose from Chief. Plainly speaking, Mono herself never knows why she keeps coming back. She just does, and that is that. He peers down at the beast splayed on his basement floor, scarred sockets thin and watered down. "YOU CAN'T EVEN SAY?" 

He's quite eloquently spoken, Mono noticed. Down here, where trust is as fantastical of a concept as sunlight or security, well-to-do education is few and far between. Words are just as useful as weapons, and if one can be armed with both, well, all the better for them and their survival. 

Chief must of taught himself that, probably snuck into the library late at night. Knowing him, he probably spent days on end expanding his minimal vocabulary until he could spit visceral acid his adult-self is so infamous for. He's such a hard worker. She just can't imagine.

"….The rocks are full of cameras."

Scoffing, Chief folds his bony arms and turns his sockets back up to the ceiling. His magic flavour, a sparking net of barbed wire and ill will, expanded from its tight coil against his leather-and-steel body to hum around the cellars perimeter. Checking for any peeping Tom's, no doubt. "THE QUEEN'S NEW REGIME, O' FOUL BEAST." Now that he was safe enough, Chief allowed for honest distain to enter his voice. "BEEN WORKING THE OLD LIZARD DOWN TO HER DUST GRAINS INSTALLING THEM IN EVERY CORNER THE UNDERGROUND HAS TO OFFER. AN UTTER WASTE, THE FOOLISH, AMNESIAC BOVINE." 

Fidgeting in his seat, Chief refused to peel his sockets away from the ceiling, no matter how weighty his frown becomes. "SHE BELIEVES STRICT PARANOIA IS THE CORRECT WAY TO CONTROL OUR PEOPLE. SAYS THAT GUARDS ARE 'TOO RECKLESS' AND 'TOO UNRELIABLE' TO BE TRUSTED WITH THE SAFETY OF THE KINGDOM. SHE THINKS WE'RE A BUNCH OF MINDLESS, DRIBBLING TROGLODYTES WHOSE ONLY INTEREST IS IN THE DUST WE SPILL." Shooting up from his chair, Chief spins on his heel and fires a burning red femur right onto the bullseye of a crumpled target across the cellar. "OF COURSE WE ARE!! WE ARE THE ROYAL GUARD! FEARLESS PILLARS OF THIS CRUMBLING EMPIRE! WE ARE THE AUTHORITY OF THIS WORLD! IT'S GRAND PROTECTORS AND-" Chief's nose ridge scrunches, fangs twisted, "HER ESTEEMED MAJESTY WANTS US WIPED OUT. REDUCED US TO MERE LOOKOUTS, IF THAT. AND THE WORST PART…"   

Huffing, ribs audibly rattling under the cloth of his high-collar jacket, Chief swivels around slowly and turns his bleak eyelights onto the puddle. "I… Can't Really Say Anything Against It."

Mono pulls her helmet from the chilly floor to gaze up at the dilapidated ceiling. Despite previous attempts, this world was still struggling to trudge itself free from its hard-packed roots of cruelty and paranoia. The monsters are still trapped, still hateful and violent. And even as they boast of becoming more 'civilized' after their tyrannical king's untimely death and the restoration of the queen, the tyranny the Underground suffers has hardly ended, just transformed. Power doesn't change, just hands.

Chief would know. 

Drip, drip.

Oh, right. The leak. The house must be in pretty poor state to be leaking.

Chief grumbles, razor fangs grinding together, a hiss flowing from his ribs and rattling up his cervical spine to echo around the cell. She's clearly soured his evening. 

Tilting her helmet, she watches Chief cross his gauntlets and scraggly legs. He's glaring scathingly into his lap. "You Know What She Says? She Says I'm Weak. Says I Wasn't Worth Killing. That I Didn't Have The LV To Be Worth Killing." He grumbled, raking his claws through the little tears in his leggings. "So Fucking Hypocritical Of Her. To Preach Her Silly Little Notions Of Peace And Virtue, Yet Cut Us Down For The Crime Of… What Doing Our Jobs? This Was OUR World. OUR Rules. We Had A Way Of Going About Our Business And She Really Just Expects Us To Just… CHANGE ON A DIME! THIS WAS OUR LIFE! MY LIFE! ALL I'VE EVER KNOW IS KILL OR BE KILLED! WHAT THE HELL DOES SHE… Expect From Me…" Chief curses and crosses his legs, his greaves look slightly rusted and dented. "Who The Hell Gave Her The Right."

Drumming her hoof-hand atop her chest, Mono can hear the little vacuous thump they make against her fur. She sounds like a watermelon. "….Being….the Queen….might of given her the right."

Snapping his skull up, Chief's eyelights flare bright and harsh, yet it still fails to satisfy the burn Mono knows them capable of. He gazes at her likes she's some detestable slime. "NEVER GET INTO COMEDY, MONO. YOU MAKE A VERY POOR JOKER."

 "….Wasn't a joke, hon."

"BAH! THERE IT IS AGAIN! YOU ARE TURNING THIS INTO A GREAT BIG SKIT, AREN'T YOU?" 

Sighing, Mono shrugs and turns her helmet back snout up to the ceiling. "….I believe your standards for comedy are slipping."

Boggling, Chief takes a second to blink, then scowl and kick out his heel, catching her antler. "MY STANDARDS?! SLIPPING!!?? NEXT YOU'LL HAVE ME IN A FUR-LINED RAG!"

Hmm, they'd need to bend that posture a bit, and fill that cracked scar with some gold… But he's not far off now. For that matter…

The vacant streets. The security cameras. The disbanded guard. The reinstatement of Her Great Tyranny. The collapse of the more brass, violent status quo into a dip of societal paranoia and offhandedness. Closed windows and chain-link fences. Whispers into beer cans and eyes scanning the walls for little metal intruders. Minds begging, pleading, crying out to just be left alone.

Mono could see the writing on the walls. 

And it does not spell out good omens for poor Chief. 

He's getting that 'FUR-LINED RAG' whether he likes it or not. Quite the Cur he'll become, ain't he?

Mono adjusted her trapped leg, tugging it up and against her other leg. Fiddling with the chain stuck to the trap and wholly unworried. Chief is clever, he'll come to his own conclusions. No need for her apathetic intervention.

"…"

Drip, drip.

"I Know I Was Bad." He breathed into the cellar, the most precious of secrets. "I Can Think Of A Thousand Things I Did Wrong. As A Monster And As A Brother. But…" he studied the wet patches like ink splotches, boggling his mind to study through the lens of the cellars personalized Rorschach test. "I Don't Know What To Do. To… Change."

He knocks his kneecaps together, uncharacteristically awkward. "Can I Change? Would It Be Better To Stay The Same? Now That I'm," he swallowed thickly, "My Only Real Company Now." He must still be sore over the queen's ruling to execute Undyne. Was it any wonder? Every right hand needs a hand to serve. 

"I Don't Know What To Do, Mono. What Am I Meant To Become With All This Evil I Have Now? I Feel- Angel Damnit, I Feel- All… Wrong. Like Everything I've Done, Everyone I've Hurt Or Killed Or Ruined… Was Any Of It Worth It Now? She Said I Wasn't Even Worth Killing…" Chief looks brittle when he's sad, like he's one bad brush away from cracking. 

"How Do I-" He flinches at his own words, as though physically struck, "Fix This? Fix… Everything? It's All Gone Wrong. Asgore Was Always… Asgore. But I Knew Asgore." Rotten to his core as he was, Asgore was familiar to Chief. Mono could understand finding composure in routine. "But Her Majesty… She's So… It's Just The Way She Looks At Me. Like She Knows Something I Don't." 

Mono decides she'll keep the trap. She can mount it on the wall along with the sledgehammer and the saw blades. Her little memorial of this spikes and woodchips world. It's easy to remember this world cause she always leaves with at least one knife lodged in her antlers. "….Sounds like you… just need a bit of an…. Adjustment period?" Yes, that was the right word. "….Adjustment period…. You'll grow used to the new norm…. Believe you me."

Chief couldn't of looked more insulted if he tried. The pointed fright resting just behind it though was curious. "AND FOR ME? YOU EXPECT ME TO BOW AND HEEL AND SIT AT THE ARM OF HER THRONE LIKE SOME LITTLE LAP DOG?" He can crack his knuckles all he wants, but fate has already looped it binding chains into the slump of his posture and the slack of his jaw. Mono may be at the mercy of the bear trap but Chief is the one who cannot escape.

"….You'd be shocked."

"THAT DOESN'T MEAN MUCH COMING FROM-" He eyes the shadow up and down, "-WHATEVER YOU ARE."

Mono shrugs again, the insult akin to the knives. It bounces right off. "….I am nothing beyond what I am…. I cannot change…. I will not change…. I can only live as myself…. And do as I will…. But you are not me…. So you can certainly change."

Anything's possible. 

Over and over the cycle repeats.

And who knows, maybe this time, it'll be different. 

It's always the same song and dance. 

And Chief is steely-spined, ivory broken till it healed into something shatterproof.

The bitter creature crawls through hell on its belly, flayed open as its marrow bubbles.

He's made it so far in life as it is. 

Nobody will come to save him. 

He's so stubborn and he's got such a spark in him. 

It'll be smothered to embers. 

He'll get through this. 

But he won't recognize himself by the end. 

He always pulls through, even the impossible won't stop him.

This will break him. After everything that has hurt him, this will break him. Not the torture or the mayhem. This gentle plucking at nerves.

He has too.

 He has nothing left. 

He's the Great and Terrible Lieutenant of the Royal Guard!

He'll be the Loyal Hound of Her Great Majesty…

Chief's sudden vulnerability omits the chill and isolation of the cellar. With Mono's icy SOUL dangling in stasis, her apathy exists as a solid wall colder and crueler then this concrete ground. If Chief is looking for some Rosetta Stone or callous eyes, he will not find them here in this cellar, not with Mono of all creatures. He will have to look for them himself. In the meantime, Mono snaps the jaws of the bear trap wide open, the rusted metal laying limp and broken as it skirts across the ground. 

Drip, drip…

"BAH, No Point In Changing! I Am As Cruel And As Clever As I Was Always Meant To Be. Born To Be. Trained To Be." He stands up, mimicking his pasts self-carriage, completed with a dramatic flurry of his red cape, donned with new scars and holes that ages him decades. " I Can Be Nothing But What I Am! The One, The Only-"

"…Papyrus?" Mono fills in from her spot on the ground, imagining a spotlight beaming down on the scarred relic. 

Chief deflates and sinks boneless into the stool like a corpse, skull hung heavy with a thousand thoughts clogged away like lumps of coal. Accursed things trickle down from his eyesockets into the safe confines of his sturdy studded gauntlets. As if no one was watching, as world-weary as a beaten rabbit, Chief allows himself this silent weep.

Drip, drip….

"Is this it?" Said more confirming then wistful pondering. A sinner locked in a confessional booth. Mono thinks about how'd he react if she reached out and collected his sadness in a vial for safekeeping. Precious as it was. "Is this the end of the story? I-I don't want it to be. It can't be. I'm supposed to be cruel and wicked and I'm supposed to win. That was always the way of this world," he inhales sharply and Mono stares at the scratches on his shiny red boots. "I Hate This. I Just Can't Fucking Do It Anymore. It's So Hard To Just Be Angry Now. All The Hate Is Still There But Now It's Just… WRONG. Now It's Just- scared- Or Confused Or… Wrong. I Fucking Hate Feeling Wrong All The Time."

He drops his gauntlets and lets his sadness flood his lap and invade their small confine, as messy as an open wound. In this world, had she been anyone else, a trusted ally, a mother, a withered down old critter with nothing to lose, he would be as good as dust.

"Maybe… I was always wrong."

Mono watches the stoic guard huff and croak, rock back and forth and weep for something that will never come back. To allow himself this brief catharsis, in front of anyone, least of all herself, speaks volumes of something Mono wouldn't dare name or mention. Too hesitant of its fragility, like handling a newborn lamb. Mono hardly possesses the dexterity to handle it. This. Him. 

"... Chief.... Just cause you're sad now doesn't make you a bad person.... You're still a person.... You're just a little sad now.... Nothing's wrong with that…. You are upset over a fairly reasonable prospect… You are the byproduct of your world…. And that is truly the most unfair thing about any of this…. Nobody gets to be who they want in the Multiverse." Not when they have a purpose to serve.

God, friend, villain, brother. Hound, guard, queen, king. Shadow.

They're all the same. The trick is, do you let that break you, or bring you together?

Mono still doesn't know.

Not that Chief appears to be listening anyway. He's busy feeling for the first time in damn near decades. It must be tough. 

Then he irons down his choking into even breaths and rises to his full height, thanking her briskly before making himself scarce, not even bothering to lock the cellar door. 

He knows she will just slip through the expansive shadows of his old, lonely house and spend the rest of her night seated in front of his door should he awake. He can't bring himself to care.

He could do with the company. With what little control he has left, Chief wouldn't have it any other way. 

And who knows. Maybe when Mono comes back around- however long that'll take for her to remember- he'll be sporting that mulled, fur-lined jacket hanging up in his closet.

Chapter Text

Sweet Creators Beyond, this world is pretty. 

As vacuous and dormant as the hallows of the void but undeniably pretty.

As dried out of her good subjective habit of thought as she may be, Mono isn't entirely blind to objective truth. And this world- many worlds come to think of it- are objectively beautiful.

Mono thinks... Well, there's nothing wrong with that.

After taking a headlong tumble into this little pocket of watercolour stars and nebulas, Mono found herself a silent observer of the collapsing stars and meteor showers that pour streaks of endless vibrant gradients past her pondering vision, fizzling and exploding with colour with pops of noise that leaves her mind reeling, only to disappear as though sucked down a drain. She can feel her thick fur sway in this world's weak gravity. 

An asteroid belt swirls freely around the circumference of this moon, twirling playful little dances and bumping into each other in puckish displays. Mono watches vacantly as two collide, flinging miniature boulders around that get caught up in the flow of the dance before they can escape the belt. Adding more danseurs to the streaming stage. 

The old shadow was too far away from any nearby settlements or cities to hear the people- or any wondering questions- and so far no one has passed her by. She can smell them though. Fresh baked foods, steaming and hot fumes like a leash of sweet-and-savoury goodness from a village far from here. Something sweet like joy, something mellow like hope and content. Something crisp like friendliness, support, gratitude for what little they have. 

It's sights like this that remind Mono of infinity, better than any white void or black, cavernous unreality. Mono could not remember many of her early years of travel, unique experiences had switched hands into base instinct that made present motions flow like sweetened river water down a glossy creek, even if Mono moved more like molasses even on her best days. 

She knows how to dodge, how to flee, and in worse case scenarios, fight. Confrontation was not embedded in her shadows, Mono possessed no desire to do much beyond exist and go with what came her way peacefully, preferring non-combative communication with her fellows of the Multiverse.  

There was a time before though, wasn't there? Back when this stage was still new, even to Mono. A time where everywhere and nowhere were so alike. Back when the voids were monochrome and the air cold and curious like her. Before the planes of non-reality split into blacks and whites and the rest followed suit. Who was that funny little man she used to play cards with? In that funny little pocket where nothing happened, yet the darkness congealed around the slope of her back and nested itself there, persistent like a cantankerous child. Riffling inside her cardigan void, Mono's hoof-hands graze the old paper card deck, if only to remind herself that it really still existed. That, at some point, she played cards. But that time was lost now. 

Faces smudges. Names more like urns. They all blended together, in those earlier days. When it seemed all the Multiverse couldn't decide if it valued peace over its own potential for chaos. Where everything that could be done, even the most ludicrous, most horrendous, most wonderful, well it would all be done, then recycled, and done again with a new set of playthings. Or, just a rebrand of the old. All for… well, no reason at all, beyond simply the wilful act of creating and watching what unfolded from there on. 

Mono cannot, hand-on-SOUL, say she has anything of substance to add on to the subject of 'creation', 'destruction' and this whole cycle the Multiverse was tearing itself apart over. Her memories of the earliest days are few and far between. Back when the Creators were still so fresh-faced and barbarous, heinous, delightful newborns, wet with the a vernix film of imagination. Long before she had officially implemented her notes system and whatever little she had written down was now so yellowed and brittle the paper crumbled like dry sand. Not to mention her questionable dexterity when it came to… practically everything. Mono's early-day handwriting was shocking. 

But Mono can… remember. Even if just a little.

She remembers the dark place, with its pale faces and hollow eyes and cacophonous breeze. She remembers the silent weeping and the confused murmurs from voices that sounded all too similar yet distinct in pitch and franticness. The same game of cards that Mono would always lose but keep playing, unfailingly. 

She remembers the bright place, and all the figures that writhed on its non-existent floor. Its string of white noise and static. The creature of sketched lines, tracing little nonsense with its long, bent phalange. The other one of flaxen threads who screamed till their voice burned hoarse, but such emotion was not made to be contained, so their chest split open and spilled their hatred across the nothingness till the nothing melded into them.

That was usually the part Mono left at. Sometimes even before.

Mono never stuck around, not in those early days when everything was so new it was a challenge to dip her hooves into the periphery of any of these strange sights and places without something popping up and interrupting. She just kept getting lost, forgetting, going in circles. She could never trust herself to be in the right place, the wrong place or any place at all. Most of her early career was spent walking away. From… everything. 

It had taken years-decades-centuries to get even this far. Far enough to bother sticking around, to talk and to experience. Mono supposes… it didn’t quite matter what she did, so maybe it didn’t matter if she went out and did something. Anything. 

But right now, isn't about that. Right now, is about the stars. The stars, that burn with endless vigour, so enthused to simply be alive and bright and burning.

Sweet Angel, its beautiful. 

"WOWIE✧!! YOU FOUND MY BEST SPOT *✧･ﾟ!!!" A voice, familiar as ever, burst over the hill behind her. 

Twisting her long, beastly neck, Mono peers up at her sudden visitor. As expected, Papyrus grins at her, proud and confident and all things great about himself. 

Scarf hand knitted with endless asterisms, trimmed gold and navy blue and twinkling under the universe endless palette. A salmon tinted comet passes behind him, like the galaxy itself offers itself to dramatize his entrance and already Mono has mentally nicknamed the shooting star: Comet.

Comet leaps off the hill and lands with a puff of moon-dust, arms akimbo like the corners of his smile. Hanging from his arm was a quaint picnic basket, smelling altogether sweet and savory.

"THIS ⋆*･ﾟIS MY FAVOURITE SPOT TO STARGAZE *ੈ✩‧₊˚!! MOST OTHERS DON'T KNOW OF THIS PLACE⋆˚. NOT EVEN MY BROTHER‧₊˚✧!! A LITTLE PRIVATE TIME NEVER HURTS ANYBODY. BUT SINCE YOU'RE ALREADY HERE," he rips off the picnic blanket from the basket with flourish, pointing towards the vacancy in front of them with his occupied hand.

"WOULD YOU CARE TO JOIN ME✭? I DON'T BELIEVE WE'VE MET AND WHAT BETTER INTRODUCTION TO SOMEONE THEN SOME OF MY MASTERFUL FOOD✧.*?" 

His eyelights are like eager little stars, more vibrant and lively then any supernova out there. Mono nods her helmet numbly and helps him set up their hang-out. They're unfurling his horologium-stamped picnic blanket when Comet pipes up again. "YOU'RE HARD TO PUT A NAME TO. USUALLY, A GREAT AND INGENIOUS *ੈTROOPER✩‧₊˚ SUCH AS MYSELF WOULD EASILY REMEMBER A FACE AS DISTINCT AND YET TOTALLY INDISTINCT AS YOURS. ARE YOU NEW༉‧₊˚??

"….I'm…." Unloading the piles of tupperware positively brimming with creamy lemon pastina, Mono finds herself turning to stare at the minuscule rock of greens and blues floating so, so far away, "….no, hon… I'm not from this world… Not really."

"☄OOOOOOH*ੈ!!༉‧" Clipping open his little plastic bowl, Comet's sparkling eyelights are briefly obscured by a gust of condensed steam pouring up from his bubbling meal. "OH⋆｡˚!! OH⋆｡!! AN ALIEN☄?! YOU'RE AN ALIEN☄*??"

"….Eh." Close enough, probably.

Comet shrieks, all aflutter with glee and genuine interest as he grins with his smooth, bumpy teeth up at the shadow through the veil of Italian mist. He's got little star-shaped freckles and they glow a soft coral red under the intensity of his excitement. Comet physically beams while the surrounding stardust fits to stifle the warmth with its biting chill. Mono knows that skeletons do not truly 'feel' temperatures, much like herself. Just an unfortunate secondary effect of missing every other layer other than base ivory. Unlike herself. 

"WHICH ◆:*STAR◇:* DID YOU COME FROM?" Hmm, oh yes, of course. Comet was talking. Mono had gotten lost in the way the lunar regolith curled to form little Starry Nights across the moon's surface.

He's pointing his spoon like a conductor wields their baton, orchestrating a long sweep of the midnight gouache that makes up his universe's main view, doting at random constellations or particularly bright sparks. He might be listing their names but he's talking through a mouthful of twinkling cinnabuns, having pushed his pasta in Mono's direction. Predictably.

"….Not from any star, hon…. Just….popped up…. In a way." 

Comet chews through her reply, jaw twisting as his curiosity turns into some shade of concern. "YEW DON' HAFF ANY'ER' TO GO°•*⁀?" He chokes on his sweet treat and bangs his chest plate to dislodge the chunk from the narrow between his skull and his vertebra. 

To make this as straightforward as possible, Mono shakes her helmet before returning it back to its rightful place; staring up at infinity, basking in its beauty. Even if she doesn't understand, doesn't grasp, can't hold it near and dear like others can, it's Mono's. This quiet contentment with the unthinkable, the beautiful, the horrifying. It's all Mono can really do, be content.

She answers the skeleton trooper plainly, "….Never had a home…. Never really needed one…. Don't really want one." Mono can't want for anything. It's just what she is.

"HOW PECULIAR," Comet squints, grinding his teeth slightly in thought. He looks at Mono like she's a new puzzle in need of solving, "EVERYONE SHOULD HAVE A HOME TO COME BACK TOˊˎ˗˚✧. DON'T YOU HAVE A BED THAT'LL MISS BEING DREAMED☆IN? A SHELF THAT'LL MISS BEING SCRUBBED?" 

Mono has laid down in many beds before. Only some of which were unoccupied. She had a vivid something of a memory of having a flower vase smashed over her helmet once. Curious week, that one. She was digging rose petals out of her sockets for days.

"….No," is Mono's surprisingly stoic reply. "….I have places to go…. If that's what you mean…. But….. Home is different." Home had no taste, but the texture didn't sit right. Non preferred. 

Cheesy cream and harsh bacon enter Mono's field of senses and Mono forces her helmet back down to her picnic companion. Comet is grinning from one non-existent ear to the other, the previously empty spoon now overflowed with his pastina creation and pointed directly under her snout. "✧ ೃWELL THEN," he begins, voice far too chipper and daring to be anything less than intimidating, "BEFORE YOU HEAD OFF AGAIN ON WHATEVER ∘₊✧WONDROUS SPACE ADVENTURES✧₊∘ THE COSMOS HAS WAITING FOR YOU, YOU CAN AT LEAST STAY HERE AND FILL UP ON MY DELICIOUS CULINARY ACHIEVEMENTS! YOU'LL NEED YOUR STRENGTH FOR THE JOURNEY AHEAD.•*!" 

The spoons head disappears into the vacancy of the underside of Mono's maxilla, where it stays until Comet begins to sweat then hastily tug it out, needing to kick off with his legs to gain any leverage. Mono's vision is powdered with millions of Starry Nights throughout the commotion.

The texture is as it always is. Soft and a decent amount of chewy, moist like sweaty flesh, with a solid crush in the middle that makes her fur spike up. Mono gives Comet a offhanded thumbs up while the lanky monster rearranges his limbs in the proper order to sit up. 

He's huffing, expression mixed between open bewilderment and lambent joy at Mono's positive-esque review on his cooking. The spoon is disturbingly bone-dry but Comet brushes that off with a chuckle, stabbing the spoon back into the pasta dish before leaving it there.

His other hand fiddles around the heavy-looking satchel hanging on the back of his pants. Comet scrunches his skull before lighting up again in victory, retrieving a long strip of star-dusted paper from his pocket. There's a little star-shaped ornament hanging from its end. Lurching to his boots, Comet approaches the looming beast with a pep in his step, cheerfully looping the string of the paper around one of the shadow's lower antler branches. 

Before Mono can even think to ask, Comet explains, "SO YOU'LL HAVE A PIECE OF US WHEREVER YOU GO NOW.·:*¨! MAYBE YOU DON'T HAVE A HOME OUT THERE, AND MAYBE YOU DON'T HAVE A HOME HERE.｡:+*. BUT YOU SHOULD ALWAYS KNOW YOU'VE GOT SOMEWHERE TO GO BACK TO." 

It's rare that Mono is given things willingly, most of the time she has to swipe them herself. It's… weird. Not prefers, not non preferred. Just weird. The little paper swings like a pendulum, the magic infused in it mocking the chime of bells and the cheer of the local village. It’s a noisy little thing, colourful too in the way the dashing blues turn into vibrant sunset pinks then mellow into turquoise and azure. It's such a thoughtful little gift and though Mono is a thoughtless creature, she nods at Comet's expecting gaze, nonetheless. This world may be empty, but maybe there's still something worth remembering in it. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. 

And Comet, well, Comet is completely unbothered. He grins and jumps and whoops before flopping down across the picnic blanket, pointing up to the endless night and prattling off all the constellation he can think of. 

He speaks with gusto and pep, a sparkling celestial body, guiding like a astrolabe, twinkling dignitary, bold and happy. He lives with a sort of bliss and faith in his world that any other being could only pray to replicate. Comet is happy Mono didn’t care for his food, but Mono knows even if she somehow possessed the cruelty to cull him down, Comet would've just sprung back up. 

To possess that conviction in a world as uncertain as she knows it to be, in a world so empty and meaningless- 

Dear Stars, these comets are beautiful.

Chapter Text

"wow, you're shocking at cards, ya' know that, lass?"

Fair enough, Mono hadn't played any sort of game more complicated then checkers as far back as she could remember. Which wasn't very far. (Had she played cards?).

Not that she was really aiming to win. Tapping her hooves against the table, Mono reaches into the limitless void of her inner cardigan and produces another roll of filthy lucre as numbed compensation for her poor competition and leaned back into her jerry-built chair with a frog-like creak.

Mint swipes the roll and tucks it safely into one of the many pockets lining the inside of his begrimed, mauve jacket. The poor piece of fabric was drenched in the industrial smut of this realm, dirtied so horribly its bulk hung on Mint's lithe frame more like a cloud of pollution then fashionwear. Probably never seen the inside of a washing machine. At least it gives Mint a clear signature. 

In one smooth motion, scum-stained phalanges flick open a shiny dented lighter, a shy purple flame briefly illuminating sharp teeth stained septic-yellow. He grins at her with his garish vampire fangs, flashing his permanent wink with one lazy eyesocket. 

"honestly," he drawls, puffing out powdery greys and purples, his reptilian nature evocative greater to that of a dragon's then a skeletons, "i'm startin' to think ya' doin' it on purpose. neva' seen someone fail at gin rummy so… ruthlessly." Throat clogged with slaver, Mint speaks with a slow, hypnotic drawl, low like the bar lighting and hoary like a worn dirt path. 

It's one of the things that draws his fellow monsters in. His misty, almost playful wisp crosscurrent with the hiss of decay and warm unfeeling. The temptation of just being able to shut off.

It ropes people in, then Mint pins them behind a staggering paywall, forcing all sorts of monsters to bend over backwards to untie themselves from the web of fallacies and tall-tales Mint has spun around every aspect of his own existence. Though, not to give Mint too much credit. There are numerous… dampers on his charm. 

In spite of his given nickname, Mint emits a smell more akin with bone-deep nicotine and bad cologne then anything resembling freshness. Barbeque and blood and old laundry. Sweat and grime and stickiness. Sleaziness oozes from his very bone matrix. Bar-hopping, disloyal scunge he was.

Mono hums as Mint pours himself another glass of whatever passes for cheap moonshine around here. She stares down at the hand she's got, cards and suits she doesn't recognize and can't be bothered to remember. 

(She knows them, of course she does. The paper troops rest in the space of her cardigan, weightless and crinkled and older then dirt. But no matter how important it should be, it never really is.)

Mint had explained the basic rules to her hours ago, something about melds and deadwood, all runs and knocking, for some reason. But unsurprisingly she lacks any fortune and Mint seems content with bleeding her dry as he swigs down liquor and empty packs of his favourite ciggies with rapt cupidity. 

They were huddled in some variation of Muffet's, although most of the café is obscured by a condensed brume of smoke that veiled the ceiling of the establishment in a dense smog of greys and violets, like a fermented bouquet sagging over the lip of its vase, its petals curled dejectedly.

Distantly, Mono could make out the lumpy outlines of the canine unit clustered around their table, dog treats alight and adding thin trickles to the smoky clouds above. The equivalent of shovelling more coal into a choking furnace This place is seedy, sticky to the touch, unwashed and uncared for, more of a rough casted dive bar then anything resembling 'café'. Mono found herself distracted by a tiny puffball spider scuttling past her hooves.

"no dice, mono." Mint's scaly voice draws the beast back to the scene, where multiple cards lay in neat rows. Mint was mixing a packet of sweetened BBQ sauce in with his liquor, stirring the brown liquid with one, bent-nail phalange, "just not your night, huh babes." He smirks and winks his good eyesocket, before guzzling down his sauce-liquor blend. 

Mono rolls her slumped shoulders, scooting forward in her seat slightly and catching a splinter in the guard hairs of her coarse pelt. The puny lightbulb swinging over their heads flickers brazenly, a spittle of sparks raining down and setting her hand of cards alight. Then smoulder into gritty ash piles against the table wood. 

Mint burst into phlegmatic cackles, smothering his cigarette bud into an overflowing ashtray before reaching inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a new, crumpled deck of cards.

Before he sets them down though, he crocks his phalanges at her expectantly and Mono forks up another boodle of cash from her cardigan void. Swiping out cash with card, Mint lights a new cig, adding a thin, slithering of smoke to the haze before divvying up the new deck. 

"woof, terrible, terrible night for you, huh? dame fortune ain't lookin' out for you much. that must suck." He winked again, cheapjack and flirty, tilting his skull to flash her his collared cervical spine.

Not to be fooled by his skanky, open nature and the grime stains on his jacket, Mint is plenty charismatic enough to get away with point-blank murder. Just not with Mono.

Maybe that's why he's here tonight. To poke and prod to see what will stick. Either she'll concede or lash out. Either is a reaction Mint would appreciate. 

He loves the thrill, loves watching monsters of the higher echelon tie themselves in knots with his tricks and traps and verbal jousting. Using his wit to wind sensible minds into unruly tangles, thirst and fury are all the same to Mint. He cares nothing for the splintered bones or beatings or violations that may follow. Anything for a laugh. 

No matter how errant or uncouth or degenerate he has to become. Mint would sell damn near anything, from his skills to his body, anything beyond his kin or his SOUL for the bit. For the G. For that little spark of glee the social wilderness of his world ignites in him.

He's quite the character. But Mono could've sworn his jacket was supposed to be a lighter hue. What happened to the sunset? Why was it now a sharp twilight? Or had it never been. Was misremembering the culprit of tonight? When does a copy stop being a copy? Perhaps when it starts growing its own head and limbs and walks off from madness on its own two feet. 

No, not the same. Mint was similar, but not the same. Though, that also means Mono's a bit off route. 

Grinning with poised lechery, Mint leaned forward in his seat, "ya' know, i'm a skeleton of many virtues," he cooed with a shimmy, peeking his white ivory shoulders under the fabric of his jacket. Mono could barely hear him, her attention diverted to the little doodles penned on the paper cards. Juvenile things.

"i'm feeling particularly generous tonight, so i won't hold it against you or nothin'. gave me a good laugh if anything." The tatterdemalion skeleton winked and grinned wider, his high keeping him tucked up in a small self-contained penthouse that smokes out any sort of rationality from his mind. Cleverness keeps him whipped on his feet, while the smoke sags him at the knees and leaves him buckled inwards.

It's just the way of his world, the sacrifice one has to make to keep a level head. Mint would destroy himself over and over again for this buzz and Mono knows behind the smog lays a brilliance rotting away, and she knows she'll never spur herself on to help him.

It's not what Mint would want.

"and with all this cash you've got to burn," he hummed with a sway, "might as well let ya' take a peek at some of my other… top quality services."

Had lifetimes worth of cold pins and needles not settled her fur into jagged spikes, Mono thinks it might've puffed up at such a suggestion. Not to ruin his joie de vivre but Mono knows better then to interpret Mint's modus operandi as anything more substantial then the paper balls she keeps dealing to the miserly bag-of-bones.

Knowing him (and Mono really doesn't, or maybe she does?) he's never really into it. Mint blurs masquerade into base instinct. He likes her as much as Mono likes him. Both goals unattainable due to their very natures. A shallow 'appreciation' for what the other can offer. Nothing more, nothing less. Mint will never open up and Mono can never. And if Mono wanders his world for one minute too long, he pops up like a wonky grease bubble and drags her here. His mucid phalanges staining her cardigan sleeves. Compensation for aloneness. Mint has always been a puerile character to Mono.

Fortunately for Mono, a voice as wispy as the surrounding plumes called out far into the fog just as Mint's socked toes start nudging at her calf's. 

"Papyrus! Order's ready!"

Small thanks for Muffets. Any further exposure to this level of self demoralization had Mono close to sinking into the grimey floor.

Perking up from his opaque state, Mono watched Mint unpeel himself from his seat and wander in the vague direction of the smoke-choked voice, like a spirit disappearing into the mist of the afterlife as he vanished from her view. Only to return a minute later, holding up a large paper back, dripping with condensation and tacky to the touch. He approaches the table, expression just a tad bit more sober from their minute-ago interaction. 

"sorry to leave ya' hangin' like this big gal but," he held up the bag, a few sugary pearls raining onto the table, worsening its stick, "lil' brat at home 'ill have my skull if i don't show up soon with the grub."

Mono stared at him, voice deaf to the world. Just not feeling chatty tonight. Maybe that's why she visited. Or maybe not. Maybe she was just compelled to hang out in a contamination zone. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Mint grinned again, the slimy Cheshire, diving his hand into the bag and nabbing a limp, glazed éclair from the probable dozens of sweets stashed inside. "here, my treat." When Mono didn't reach up to accept the offer, Mint resorted to spearing the pastry on one of the low rungs of her antlers. He then nicked the half-full bottle from the table and emptied it in three large glugs.

Slamming it down, Mint turned his back to her and strolled off, the sound of his sandals slapping the floorboards echoing through the haze. "thanks for paying the tab, mono. till next time." And with one last lazy wave, he was gone. Like the shattering of a bulb, or maybe like a gust carrying away old ash. And Mono can't feel anything towards it. Nor think, for that matter. The nicotine is starting to yellow around her mask sockets. 

The elder beast takes a second to collect her minimal bearings, produce another wad of cash, sweep up the cards, then rise from her seat and vanish into the shadows of the dive bar. Unheard and unseen by its numerous residents. Just a bulb or a gust or a pile of ash. As though she never existed to begin with. Mono thinks she prefers it like that.

Maybe that's how Mint prefers it to.

Or maybe Mint just doesn’t care. 

Pretty par for the course with them.

Chapter Text

"WOWZERS, LADY! YOU'VE REALLY NEVER SHOT A BISCUIT BEFORE!?"

"….Biscuits…. Like ginger snaps?.... Crunchy buggers."

A forbearing sigh was followed shortly by a grunt, Pellet leaning back in his seat as a bullet- real actual bullets, infamous little suckers- whizzed past and exploded their side-view mirror. Identical to many of the other bullet holes smouldering in the vehicles metal frame. And the plush seats. And the windows. Not the back window though, that was completely shattered in. 

Interspatial fickleness has raised its non-committal head once again, along with Mono's cut-rate powers of retention and left Mono thrown in the deep end of some level of jazzy conflict. Not for the first time- and definitely not for the last- Mono was more lost than a toddler in a medieval marketplace. The former half of the night was utterly lost to her. All that could be scrounged up from the dregs of her creator-forsaken memory were flashes of rain and doom jazz, ominous and plangent, pouring out of vacant back alleys and how it always seemed to be raining in this world, yet nothing was wet. 

Now that the latter half was vying so violently for her full attention. Quickfire dashing like baby chicks from under steel-toed boots from some black-box automobiles on what Pellet deemed 'THE BAD SIDE OF TOWN!' wasn't the worst direction tonight could've wound up taking. There is a certain draw to a world made entirely of noir greys and cigarette smoke. As if looking to disrupt the flow of vintage film, bright orange smatters the striped torso of her getaway driver. As though someone's messily jabbed a pair of scissors through this layer of reality to reveal a flashier world. 

It was such a sweet shade of orange too, like spilled marmalade. One of the shots had struck the poor juvenile, shattering a few brittle ribs in one clean swipe. Spongy marrow, syrupy and sticky like tree sap now seeped fresh from the young mobster, staining the plush of the seat and his overall slacks. 

It's distracting the old beast from her target.

To be fair though, even if Mono weaponized her total concentration, there is a great hesitance to say any success could be extracted from her effort. Plainly speaking, Mono has terrible aim. Mono has never, by her own admission, held a gun before, or even the standard kitchen knife that half the whole Multiverse seemed so fixated on. The weight and responsibility of the metal mechanism sits hot and flimsy in her hands, never to be wielded by a beast of her calibre. Mono was a mass of obstructions, dark as the ashes of hellfire. Her base form moved at a cumbersome lumber under thick, rug-like fur denser than a bears' and practically impenetrable to even the most violent of intent. She did not require weaponry for self-defence. Or as a means of mauling an opponent.

Not that Mono ever had much motivation to do something as onerous as FIGHT. What an affair that sounded, and to what ends? Rarely has Mono ever found any true need to raise her hooves or antlers to anyone.

She just didn't have it in her.

Back to the topic at hand, her mangled, awkward hoof-hands fumbled with the trigger of the too-tiny handgun. Almost dropping the fuming contraption in the heat of the fray as another bullet ricocheted off her antler and flew into the streets that swept by so quick it seemed more as though they were soaring over endless black currents of some midnight-bathed ocean then unforgiving pavement. Raindrops of lead Swiss-cheesed road signs and the unfortunate windows of stores and salons and parked cars and some springy saxophones were losing their minds far off in the distance. Just louder than the scream of the burning car engine. 

Pellet jolted, reeling back from his seat as another shot cut clean through the shattered back window, scraping the head of his chair before piercing the front window. The impact left a clean little hole, smoking like a fresh cig butt left behind in its wake. 

Mono flubbed with the handgun with all the deftness of a toddler handling a cheap disposable spork, tapped the trigger and missing with almost impressive laxity, as the bullet dinged off a nearby car and disappeared into a bush. 

There was a wet huff and a demanding tug against her cardigan. 

"SWITCH." Pellet dropped the wheel, trying (and struggling) to tow the beast hung halfway out the window. Doing as instructed, Mono slipped into the abundant black contour of this world, like spilt oil in a creek, and took shape in the driver's seat. Indenting the plush underneath her bulk and clasping the wheel in her hooves. She had to slump down low in her seat just to even attempt to fit, exaggerating her already atrocious posture and still her long antlers scrapped little divots in the ceiling. 

She also noted that Pellet's still-warm and exceptionally flashy blood was bedaubing the black fur on her legs and posterior à la Hallows Eve tincture. It must be uncomfortable. 

She's thoroughly spooked her new passenger. Pellet gawked like he had been slapped before shaking his skull and snatching the handgun from her inexperienced grip, aiming half-hanging out the window. There was a bang, a whistle and the screech of rubber on asphalt, the white-hot blaze of headlights lifting minutely from the rearview mirror. 

Flawless. Clean deadeye. Mono never struck this kid as a bersagliere. Although most Papyri are skilled in combat in one form or another.

One gloved hand dove back into the car, shuffling through the duffle bag and retrieving a new magazine, clicks and shifts of metal drowned by the piercing squeal of tires. Mono tapped the wheel, eyeing the gritty Roundhay Garden Scene of shops and beaten down apartments flying by. 

With a taunt pull of muscle memory, the old shadow slung one heavy arm out, catching the band of Pellet's overalls before pivoting the car with an skull-cracking wail from the tires as she tapped what she believed to be the accelerator and blitzed down an alleyway. 

Orange marrow dripped in thick spurts as Pellet ducked back into the car, panting and clutching his ribs. The broken bars of ivory shook so violently they sounded like battered xylophone keys smashing against each other. "QUICK THINKING, OLD LADY. THAT OUGHTA GIVE US A MINUTE TO BREATHE." With a quick swipe to rid the sweat from his brow, Pellet slumped down like the very air in the car was suddenly composed of travertine. 

Patting his pocket, Pellet whipping out a switchblade and began to julienne his soaking school jacket. "HOPE THIS DOESN'T END UP HITTING THE MATTRESSES. THAT'LL BE A WHOLE FUNK." The skeleton mobster grumbled, wrapping the strips corset-tight around his rib fragments in a makeshift tourniquet. "WE'VE GOT PLENTY OF MEAT EATERS IN THE AREA, SO WE CAN PROBABLY AVOID GETTING PINCHED BY THE LOCAL PIG DEN. THIS THOUGH…" Pellet eyed the bullet holes smoking scattered like chicken feed around the car's interior (not to say anything of the exterior), "MIGHT BE A LITTLE MORE DIFFICULT TO CLEAN." 

Suddenly, Pellet froze, peaking Mono's interest enough to side-eye the still cadaver. The silent beast watched his expression shift from startled to horrified, to regretful then to weary acceptance before the skeleton smacked back into his seat, limp like a ragdoll with its stuffing spilling out. "MY BROTHER'S GONNA BE SO PISSED AT ME." He moaned, massaging his eyesockets. 

Mono kept her silence for a time as they exited the alley, where Pellet motioned for her to turn right. "….Why does it matter that he's….upset with you?.... Wasn't like you were out…looking for trouble."

Pellet peered at the beast from the corner of his sockets, bleary eyed, a little jittery with leftover nerves.The tension in his shoulders is tight like piano wire as he meticulously taps the trigger of his gun, offering the elder some impressive side-eye. Like how a fox may eye a wolf, wondering when the greater threat will pounce.

Whether it was Mono's non reaction or something else entirely, Pellet finally delivers his verdict. Sighing with such emotion as he wrestled with the burn in his centre.

"IT MATTERS BECAUSE… Because…" Swallowing, Pellet turned his attention out his window. "Because He's Always Upset… These Days. Work's Been Getting Rougher For Him And He Doesn't Really Talk To Me About It And I Can Tell Whatever It Is Is Freaking Him Out And-" Here, he stopped, breathed without necessity, then- "I DON'T Like Stressing Him Out. And I Feel Like I Do All The Time Now. And I Just Don't Know How To Fix It." Balancing his polished shoes atop the dashboard, Pellet attempted to curl up into a snail of shame, hugging his waist and aching ribs. "It Feels Like Every Time We Start Making Progress, Something Happens And Then He Freaks Out Again. He Doesn't Like To Show It A Lot, Y'know. But I Can Always Tell. It's In His Eyelights."

Raising one soaked hand to his face, Pellet mesmerizingly watched the strings of thick mana and oily marrow stretch and snap in strands between his phalanges. His voice sad and distracted and directed towards neither his driver nor himself as he spoke. "I Just Wish… I Could Stop Making Things So Difficult For Him. I'm Supposed To Be Better, And I Know He'd Always Be Happy With Who I Am But… Sometimes He Just Gives Me This Look And It Feels Like I Don't Know Who He Is Anymore And… I Just Don't Know How To Help Him."

Mono watched the smooth midnight road while she thought. As the foul smell of sulphuric discharge and burning rubber began making itself home inside the car's interior and the springy chase music present throughout their run died down, it offered Mono a second of breathing room to leaf through her mental checklist. Pellet was a people-pleaser, as were many Papyri. A trait they shared with Alphys' and made the pairs surprisingly compatible on one-to-one interaction from what Mono has seen. Mono herself was sometimes referred to as a people-pleaser by folks. Not to specifically say they are wrong, but Mono knows it's difficult for many people to distinguish genuine empathy from lack of agency. 

Fifty percent of the time, if you ask, Mono will deliver. If you're insistent, Mono probably wouldn't see a point in turning you down. 

But that's Mono. Mono has lived with herself long enough to know what she's like. And long enough to know that lots of other people don't have to be like that. Don't want to be like that. They have a choice. Pellet has a choice. 

"….Y'know…. You're not in charge of how your brother feels…. About anything…. If he's upset then that's his responsibility…. Not yours." Mono found that this was always something a number of folks forgot about for reasons unknown to her. "….At the end of the day…. You're different monsters…. You live your life differently to him…. And it's his job… not yours…. To get himself figured out…. And… I suppose… approach you on… an equal…….. What's the word?.... Playing field(?)…. If we're being logical about all this…. Waiting until the powder keg bursts isn't very productive…. For the both of you." Had Mono already had this conversation before? The ring to it was familiar. 

Speaking from experience, the elder shadow has been on the business end of some very nasty verbal sparring on many an occasion throughout her long lifetime but Mono cannot pinpoint a genuine action she may of taken to warrant such vigorous reactions. She understood her own lame memory could stir tempers in times of stress but it is not as though Mono can (or will) simply whisk up a cure-all for something that is as natural to her as breathing is to humans or Bullet Patterns are to monsters. So far all the beast has is her sticky notes and memorabilia and that's about as good as its gonna get for anyone else. 

Mono has never, not once, believed herself to be responsible for another's feelings. Hell, she wasn't even responsible for her own. Can't take into account something that doesn't exist. Or maybe you can? Conspiracy theorists do exist after all. 

Though Mono understands many probably don't share this sentiment. Especially characters like Pellet, who appear to make it their life mission to contort themselves into hollow pretzels just for the scraps of approval thrown their way, just to simmer the unsteadiness of everyday life. And maybe everything Mono is saying is hot air and it's not going to go anywhere, and life goes on and all that. Wouldn't be the first time. But Mono… just doesn't see a reason to not say it. To just get it out there and let Pellet hear it for himself and come to his own conclusions.

He's his own person after all.

And well, if it makes his life just that little bit easier, then that's just fine too. 

Pellet pulls a face like he's just taken a shot of some bitter medicine. Then he frowns and his eyelights search the dashboard, clicking his flat teeth together in thought. "Yeah… I Guess. But I'm Still Gonna Get Into Trouble. Wasn't Allowed To Be On That Side Of Town… The Capo's Gonna Be Fuming. All This Hullabaloo Over A Button. They're Only Targeting Me Cause My Brother's The Consigliere. Undyne's Gonna Be So Disappointed."

Mono tilted her skull, the rueful skeleton's state reflected cleanly in the rearview mirror. "…. A button?" Maybe that would be a better nickname then 'Pellet'. 

"YA' KNOW, BUTTON BOY." Pellet or Button huffed, refreshed and at full volume again, "MADE MAN, MAN OF HONOR? LOW-RANKING, NEPO SCUM. THEY ONLY LET ME JOIN BECAUSE OF MY BROTHER." There was a lack of bitterness in the words, more defeatist than anything. "HE NEVER WANTED ME TO GET INTO THIS WORK. SPENT HALF HIS WHOLE LIFE HIDING IT FROM ME. HE'S SO GRUMBLY ABOUT THIS JOB. SPENDS MORE TIME FRETTING OVER ME THEN DOING ANY ACTUAL WORK, THE LAZYBONES. I'M FOURTEEN! I DON'T NEED A BABYSITTER!"

Mono could sense the marrow beginning to clot in clumps in her fur. She'll have to peel it off later. ".... No friends?... Classmates?" 

Pellet whistles through his nose and for the first time tonight he speaks with true resentment. "I HAVEN'T BEEN ALLOWED TO GO TO SCHOOL IN MONTHS NOW. I'M BEING HOMESCHOOLED BY MY BROTHER- WHICH IS ONLY STRESSING HIM OUT MORE BY THE WAY!!! BUT ACCORDING TO HIM KEEPING ME IN SCHOOL IS 'TOO RISKY'." 

The young skeleton adjusted in his seat, straightening his bent spine with a small crack that made Mono think of cornflakes. "… I DON'T REALLY HATE THIS WORK. AT LEAST, THE PARTS OF IT I'VE SEEN. I'VE EVEN MADE FRIENDS! LIKE UNDYNE AND THE DOGS!"

"… What's Undyne do?" Mono asked, noticing the sparkle returning to Pellet's (Button seemed a bit meanspirited now) eyelights. 

"DUNNO? SHE WON'T TELL ME ANYTHING SPECIFIC. BUT THE DOGS CALL HER 'THE ENFORCER' AND MANAGES THE DOCKS, SO MAYBE SHE'S A FISHERWOMAN?" 

To the untrained ear, he sounds completely genuine, but Mono recognized the larking tittering in his pitch. Never excuse naiveite for what could be unfiltered satire. Papyri are always such interesting company like that. It near impossible for most to tell whether or not they're joking. The perfect set-up. 

"…. You wanna be an enforcer like her?" 

"YEAH!" Pellet cheered, ignoring or ignorant to the marrow staining his shirt sleeves, "SHE EVEN OFFERED TO TAKE ME UNDER HER WING. BUT THE CAPO RECKONS I'LL WORK BETTER AS AN EARNER." 

Mono couldn't make heads or tails on half of the junk spewing out of this kid's mouth but if he's happy, well Mono finds no reason to complain with that. The whole brother thing is a bit of a hiccup, but Pellet will probably pull through. Probably. His business is his business. She's hardly overly familiar with this world anyway. 

Cheesing at her, Pellet switches up the topic. "YOU'RE A PRETTY SMOOTH DRIVER, MA'AM. ARE YOU A PROFESSIONAL CHAUFFEUR? OR A BANK ROBBER?" 

Actually, Mono has never driven before. Or she has no memory of driving until now. Though the weight of the wheel and placement of her hooves around the pedals was familiar enough to guide the car with a sort of faux confidence usually unbeknownst to her. Maybe she has driven before. But to where? And why? And why did it encourage mental images of reds and blues to the forefront of her dreary mind? Had Mono really robbed a bank before? 

…She wasn't sure.

"…. Not in recent memory," she mumbled, never finding reason to lie, "… Not sure how I'm doing this, actually…. I might be new." 

"YEAH, I COULD KINDA TELL." 

"…. How so?"

"Ma'am, You're On The Wrong Side Of The Road." 

Oh, that's why the road looked a little off. But Mono barely got the chance to turn the wheel before gunfire burst like fireworks, bursting the taillight in a splay of smoke and glass. Unlike her copilot, Mono felt no surge of urgency enter her iced over nervous system. However, experience- and the bullet now firmly lodged in the front window- ruffled her limbs into motion. 

Slamming a good deal of her weight against the acceleration, Pellet was struck with whiplash that pinned like a mouse in a trap him to his seat. Rousted from his temporary tranquillity, Pellet clutched his handgun close and tipped out the window to fire back at their assailants. 

And just like that, they had picked up where they left off.

Within minutes they were back to being attacked by angry swarms of lead hornets. Mono could scarcely hear the screech of the tires over the blazing jazz picking up again as she cut close corners. Mingled with Pellet's instructing shouts over the absolute hail. 

Whoever these bunch are, they're relentless. Fresh bullet holes smoke over the vehicles frame, glass filled the old beast's lap from the shattered windows. At some point, one of the back tires was shot out. Mono had heard Pellet cuss, lean out through the shattered remains of his window and take a blind shot in the dark. Literally, their afternoon drive had bled into an evening caper.

A ear-splitting POP! followed, along with the vicious squeal of rubber. Mono couldn't risk catching a glimpse of the ensuing carnage behind her, as metal warps and shreds and flames spark, indistinguishable to an electric mixer being thrown into a washing machine. White hot flames paint the scenery, disrupting the continuous reel of blacks and greys. Presumably, one of the cars flipped.

"BOOM!!" Pellet yips, pumping his fist. Then gags as the action jostles his fracture. 

The young skeleton was still bleeding out pretty bad, dust and marrow collecting in grainy puddle over the car seats, sticking to his shirt and around the boarders of the window. A chicken snatched in barb wire. It's almost concerning. But one thing is clear. Pellet won't make it far, not in this state. The stains envelopes too much of his torso for reasonable comfort, a blanket of gore spread warm and lulling over his trousers and button-up. 

And there is no point in letting him die, now is there? 

Accelerating full bore, the world around the car became completely obscured into streaks of midnight black zipping past the broken in windows. Good. Mono thrives best in the night, where the shadows are thickest and the maelstrom of the Multiverse is dialled down long enough to let her fur smooth down. She can bask in the endless darkness the way a flower absorbs sunlight. 

Ahead, a tunnel of longitudinal darkness awaits, like a gaping maul directly into the void. Perfect. 

Flinching, Pellet retreats back into the car only to be greeted with the sight of the tunnel's arch. In a blink, and not a second later, Pellet finds his whole world drowned in a sea of murky, unforgiving shade. So totally obscuring was the swathe of endless nothing that it seemed to hold its own weight. Even as it drained the mass from Pellet's very SOUL and left him sick around the knees. For a moment, the young skeleton couldn't tell if the tunnel was just that dark, or if somehow, his eyelights had burst like lightbulbs and extinguished. Trying to look around didn't do him any favours. He couldn't even see his own hands, even though he felt the cold metal of his gun rested loosely in his hand. 

But what was really strange was the noise. Or lack thereof. 

In a trice, it was as though the whole world had gone deaf. The roar of the engine run to the brink of noisome, the rattling of glass shard over the car's interior. The sharp ring of gunfire, or the potent reek of burnt rubber and gun powder. All gone. As though he had been submerged in the deepest end of a chilled lake. Where sound and light couldn’t reach. 

Even more bizarre, he felt light as air, almost weightless. A deep airy alcove dug through the sponge and matrix of his very bones and sucked the breath from his ribs, as useless as it was to begin with. It reminded him strongly of his brother's Blue Attack. 

If Pellet listened hard enough, he could hear the faint whistle of wind, cool and flowing like a creek stream. Sweeping over his clothes and enfolding his sweaty bones, a cool balm over a hot burn. It was almost calming, in a way. As alien as it all was. 

"Ma'am…?" he called out, coy in the face of such overwhelming, all-encompassing non-existence. He felt like a baby bird trapped under a snowdrift. 

Like a switch being flipped, the light of the world assaulted his neglected vision. Pellet clamped his eyesockets shut as spots danced around his skull. Streams of moonlight and lamppost trickled through tall apartments and bush, white and friendly. They emerged in the middle of a empty street, moving as a snail's pace as smoke snaked up from under the car's hood. 

On top of the already incredibly abnormal happenings, Pellet was startled by the familiarity of this street. He knew exactly where they were

"Ma'am, How-?"

There was no way. Pellet knew that tunnel, and he knew it didn't lead anywhere near his turf, least of all this deep into it. Had he spaced out? Had Mono somehow evaded their attackers? But no, that couldn't be. They were in the middle of a gunfight, Pellet wouldn't have passed out, even with the break in his ribs. And where had their perusers gone? Had they turned around when they realized they were heading right for enemy territory? But they seemed so dead set on gunning them down into metal and dust. Besides, how did Mono know where to go-

"….We're here." Mono's bland lilt halted Pellet's spiral. The car had slowed to a complete stop. He spun around as much as he was capable, boggling at the laxed state of the beast. She sat slouched with as the casualness of a stoned taxi driver. Angel Above, who the hell-

"papyrus!" 

Jarred once again, Pellet swung his skull around and caught sight of his brother, breathless and jittery with tension, throwing himself down the steps of Grillby's.

Admittedly taken aback by his brother's uncharacteristic speed, Pellet fumbled for the door handle and stepped out into the cool night air. His brother redoubled his sprint seeing the wound on his side, hot air puffing through his clamped teeth.

Smiling a little timidly- because Pellet knew he was going to be in trouble for this- the young skeleton allowed his brother to barrel into his legs, hugging him and fretting over his fracture. 

Mentally however, Pellet couldn't help but start a small checklist of all the things he wanted to talk about with his brother. Maybe that was the blood loss speaking. Either way, he should really get back to Mono on that. 

But when the young skeleton spun around to introduce his brother to his strange new acquaintance, the seat was empty. Choking on his marrow and his words, Pellet swung his skull every which way in search, even as his brother's cracked phalanges reached up to gently cup his skull. Where in the world-? She was right here! At her (roughly estimated) age, there was no way Mono should've been able to sneak off so quickly. Despite his brother's coaxing, Pellet doesn't stop searching. Not until he spots something. 

Far, far in the distance, he could scope a pair of graven, sable antlers glinting under moonlight as a Cervidae skull peered back with empty sockets, before disappearing into the thick shade of a far-off alleyway. 

And for some reason, Pellet felt like it wasn't the last time he'd see her.

And for a reason that may spell more trouble for him later on, Pellet didn't mind that one bit.

Chapter Text

Mono cannot unequivocally say, without a shadow (or with a shadow) of a doubt that there is any one way anyone can enjoy snow. Snow is such a pliant thing. Winter as a whole is interesting. Some folks adore it, because it welcomes in carols and bright lights and a near endless stream of delectable, season-exclusive games and lollygagging. In equal measures, some folks despise. They hate the shovelling and merryman and the ruckus and the dry nostrils that follow leaving windows cracked open for two minutes too long. 

It's said that the residents of Snowdin have some of the best immune systems in all the Underground. That, or they simply cannot catch any sniffles. Monsters move to the climate they are best adapted to, like how certain flowers can only bloom at night, or on mountain sides or what have you. That is why Snowdin, and many of the surrounding villages for that matter, are cheerful little ghost towns in some instances. Most monsters just don't have the bodies for the ever-present crispy drafts. Doesn't stop most of the residents from being mirthful little critters, which is admirable to some degree. Not to say that many don't catch a metaphorical cold-shoulder towards their fellows and lives in general. Just the perks of eternal entrapment.   

Mono's build made her slip into Snowdin's persistent climate smooth and breezy. Not poisonous chill could hope to penetrate her fur, not to mention the wide wreath of snow-sunk pines encouraged plentiful hiding spots for the equally towering beast. Antlers could blend into tree branches, the bulk of her shadowy form hidden behind a dense overlay of shrub and cloaks of darkness. So easily could Mono simply stand in one spot for hours on end, watching the monsters passing by without a single glance in her direction. And even when they did spot her, usually startled out of their wits, a double take would be in order. That gave Mono plenty of time to truly merge with her home away from home and the poor monster would be left mildly spirally but otherwise unaffected. 

Couldn't risk too many hiccups in one timeline, right? What a silly thing to destroy an entire universe over. Just a bit of unauthorized peeping. The Council would be fuming.

If Mono was being honest here however, Snowdin and her warm residents were never what truly drew the old lady in. Its weather on the other hand, much more fascinating. Charming in a way most can't really describe without listing off all the things they like to do around winter, never winter itself. Most can't stand the cold nipping at their hands or the dryness caking over their eyes but Mono can experience neither. Maybe that welcomes in some perspective? Doubtful, but Mono still finds the three-month term of whites and black deaths to be the most malleable of the seasons.

Winter is temperamental, yet docile. The same snow you could be watching your little ones bounding around it could cave in your windows and wring out your lungs of moisture. Some folks love it, some folks hate it, but it's inevitable in most worlds, most Undergrounds. If you can't avoid it, you'll just have to live through it. 

And yes, Mono could sit here all day, waxing on poetically about the perplexing fluidity of her preferred season forever. Under the chandelier canopy of icicles and frosted snow weighing down the limbs of the mighty lumber giant, Mono is treated to the view of undecided snowflakes sweeping down supinely to land on the snout of her mask, crystalizing against an equal biting chill. They make their rest on her shoulders too, and her thickly furred neck, the tufts of her digitigrade legs. She must look like a child buried on the beach. 

Come to think of it, snowflakes are not too dissimilar to universes, no? Dearest winter may be the mother, but her creations are far beyond her reach. Each little speck just a little different from the last, never really able to replicate itself to the fullest. Similar but never the same. How many worlds could Mono paint with that same moniker? Or perhaps this is a bit dramatic. 

She could go on and on with each little description or prose that would maybe make her out to be just a little less creepy, but at the end of the day Mono is a creature that lives in the moment, despite her often wandering mind. 

Centring back on the here and now, Mono takes her time to list off all the little things she could remember about this particular world. Its empty, for one. Not in the sense that there was no one left to occupy it. Just that precious freedom has been granted to its prisoners and if Mono sits up just a bit, she can see the waning sunlight from the Capital even from all the way over here. 

Still, even after years, there is bound to be a few stragglers adrift in the Underground's now generous caverns. Monsters that are content with their lives in the dark, or frightened by the light, overwhelmed by its heat and its promises of something grander then themselves. So how curious is it, that the old shadow finds herself utterly alone, even as the glow of homey Snowdin is but a glance away. There should be at least one wanderer about. One face to hide from. 

Yet…

There is nothing here. The wind howls hollow, the ground pulsed with deep-rooted magic after monsters stay down here for centuries on end left stagnant with no one to accommodate for it. The unbidden air is old and stale, something sterile and vivid laced through every puff of breath. It's familiar to Mono, yet it really shouldn't belong here. Not in a world so ripe with hope. And yet, here it was to stay. No one ever talks about it, but when Hatred clashes with raw magic, it leaves the air all tangy and strange. Staticky in a way that prods the roof of Mono's snout and confirms a handful of things to the beast. 

This world is cold. Cold and hiding its decay. 

Or is it?

Mono wasn't convinced. Maybe she's just too old for tricks but Mono can just tell there's a little more to this vacancy. Just out the corner of her vision, the weight of eyes laid upon the hunch of her shoulders. She smells them before she sees them. They smell of rot and weepiness, of bad days and rainy summers. They smell of something unfixable and helpless and it's such a zippy scent Mono simply can't ignore it at this point. 

Maybe it’s a human from above ground. Post-Pacifist runs may end in freedom but rarely is that ever the full story. Quite a few humans become cross at the prospect of having to share their space. Some seek revenge above ground, and some come down here to do their dirty work unobstructed. Horrific as that sounds. 

When she turns, she's expecting a blade, the heel of an axe, even the swing of a fist. So there is a level of bewilderment to be acknowledged (not by Mono herself) when the first thing that pops out at Mono are a pair of gore-drenched boots. 

Pausing, the old creature trails her sights up, up skinny legbones to hips clad with white ripped shorts, up a ghostly, translucent spine, starch white battle jacket, the patterns and stitching faded and blurry. The body is cloudy and pellucid like a thin spritz of water from a spray bottle, lucent enough Mono was almost certain her hoof-hand would pass right through them. Dust sprinkles from their exposed bones, like a grey sandstorm pouring behind them in a cloudy train. 

They stare at her with eyesockets wide as dinner plates, struck dumb with aborted terror, bubbly tears fall and float mid-air as they gaze down at her blankly. There is an unnaturalness to their attention. Something in their sockets, as though someone had taken an ice cream scoop and hollowed out everything that made them alive. All their joy, compassion, hope. All gone. Leaving nothing of much in its place beyond frank stupefaction. 

Close to as empty as Mono's own sockets. Oh dear, how interesting. 

They seem just as shocked to see her as she probably should be him. Oddly, some trick of the light makes it look like their skull is floating over the bloodied threads twisted above their shoulders, dripping thin strings of red down their shoulders and flapping in a breeze much stronger than the one currently present. 

They glowed with an almost ethereal charm, luminescent and white, a burning ghostly phantasm akin to flame swathed in kozo paper. Faintly, the light pulses like a living organ, pumping whatever Soulful necromancy is keeping this SOUL stable. The brutal burn of Determination joins the zing of LV, identifying the possible batteries powering little Mx. Sleep Paralysis over here. 

Horrifying for anyone that wasn't Mono. 

Tottering on their feet, the spirit wring their red-soaked gloves with something like shyness that did not mar their face. Obliging the silent plea, Mono tilted her helmet, interested because their code is foreign to this world, and the spectre creature jumped. Rapidly, they looked around as if trying to find some other presence that Mono could be reacting to. But there was nothing else. Just them and the beast. 

Who was who again?

Mono watched the spectre blink in bemusement. "…. Yes, I can see you, hon." she assured, tone flat and even and unlikely to bring about any fright.

They startled again despite Mono (non-) effort, hollow eyesockets widening further before tension seeped from their shoulders. They stared, small and neutral and shuffled again. Mono noted the lack of audible crunch underfoot. Still the… wraith(?) possessed all the nerve of an rodent plucked by its tail and shaken till it turned green. Perhaps this meeting has given them a hint of stage fright. 

"…. Don't worry, hon." Mono tried again, rightening her back and staring the lucid skeleton eye-to-eye. "…. I don't have any qualms with you…. Not much of a fighter anyhow." 

Not that Mono was low enough to fight a spirit. Or could. Spectre's were infamous for being untouchable. Although, they sacrificed the ability to interact with the physical plane in any meaningful way without a vessel. 

Despite her reassurance, the phantom continued to doddle, flakes of dust scattering like bad dandruff before disappearing right before it brushed the ground. Their empty eyesockets scanned the ground searchingly and Mono strung her endless patience along. They seemed to be searching for words. Although as the minutes went by, none came. 

Maybe they had troubles communicating? Mono could imagine it was hard to hear a ghost. Proper ghost, not monster ghost. She noted as the time passed the skeleton grew more and more apprehensive, visibly shaking despite the snow passing through them. Their vacant, dripping eyesockets scanned the trees and the snow plains helplessly. The wind howled mournfully, reflecting the monster's current predicament on the verge of melodrama.

Taking mercy on the poor thing, Mono pulled herself up from her restful slouch. "….You need help with something, hon?"  

The spectre froze, although their body kept shaking. Rapidly, they nodded their skull and Mono was given confirmation that yes, it was detached from their body. 

Shaking stray snowflakes from her cardigan, Mono dug through some cobwebs lining her memory before holding out her hooves. 'Do you sign?' 

The spirit's jaw dropped, stunned and not stunned all at the same time. They stood their gawking for a minute more before holding the gore coated gloves up and signing back, 'YES. I DIDN'T THINK YOU DID. SORRY.'

"….I'm a little rusty is all…. Better at reading it then the hand motions." she explained, aware she was mixing a lot of the signs up anyway. She wasn't speedy or efficient enough for quick signing. "….What do you need help with?" 

Their empty expression shifted, the outline of emotion almost creeping back onto their soft features, then a moment later it fell, with all the infrastructural resilience of wet tissue paper. 'BROTHER.' they signed, blinking again.

Ah, that would explain… close to everything. Oh well, if that is how the evening is planning on going, might as well see it through. 

Huffing because she's old, Mono rubbed her sleeves and stalked towards the spirit. "…. Your brother's in trouble, huh?.... You know where he is, hon?" 

They nodded again before pointing over their shoulder in the direction their dripping cape was flapping. In an interesting note, one Mono hadn't made before, a thin thread tugged far past the tattered scarf and shot out directly into the woods. Like a guide of sorts. Or a string.

With a roll of her shoulders, Mono lumbered down that general path, accompanied by a jumpy but relieved spectre. 

A minute of walking through frozen tundra went by, before the niggling of curiosity came back to Mono, along with the smell of burnt lemons. "….What's your name?" 

The spirit jolted at the break in silence, twisting their floating skull up to boggle at the shadow. As if they were still in shock anyone was addressing them, or bothering to begin with. Like a pageant dog shocked to be treated with belly rubs instead of glitter and nose swipes. Behind them, bloodied boot prints trailed beside large hoof-prints. Neither of them really noticed. 

'PHANTOM.' They signed, 'AT LEAST, THAT'S WHAT THE OTHERS CALL ME. IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE THEY CAN'T SEE ME.' 

Others? She half-wondered who. 

"….They call me Mono."

'MONO IS A NICE NAME.' If they could smile, Mono was sure they would. But death slackens their face into a limp, blank stare, a tomb of affection with no one to mourn at. It's uncanny on a skull as emotive as Papyrus's. Mono wondered if anyone has ever actually seen it- them before. 

"….You live with your brother and his friends?" Phantom nodded, resembling a bobblehead. 

'OF COURSE. WHERE ELSE WOULD I GO?'

"….You like living with them?" A bobbing headshake answered her, and Phantom's soaked gloves began to gesture frantically. 

'IT'S AWFUL. THEY'RE ALL SLOBS! NONE OF THEM DO ANY OF THEIR LAUNDRY TILL LAST MINUTE SO THEIR ROOMS ARE ALWAYS COVERED IN DIRTY CLOTHES.' Phantom complained with an extravagant flap of their hands, though their face did not so much as twitch. 'AND THEY'RE ALWAYS FIGHTING! AND WHEN THEY'RE NOT DOING THAT THEY'RE NAPPING EVERYWHERE. HONESTLY, IT'S LIKE BEING SURROUNDED BY A BUNCH OF COMATOSE CATS IN GREASY HOODIES. IT'S INFURIATING!' 

Ah, you have to admire the affectation theatrics of a Papyrus. Even one that can't talk. 

"….You don't like them…… I'm assuming." 

Phantom's hands fell limp, a contemplative silence filling the void of their conversation. 'NO. NO, THEY'RE ALRIGHT, I SUPPOSE. THEY CAN'T SEE ME THOUGH. NOT THE WAY HE CAN. HALF THE TIME THEY THINK I'M JUST A PIPE DREAM. BUT THEY TAKE CARE OF HIM FOR ME, SO THEY'RE NOT SO BAD.' Their movements were spreading little ghost dust particles everywhere. Blood droplets were splattering the air. It contrasted with the low calm on their face. 

There was something rapturous about their movements. Their glowing disposition. Their outline blurs for a moment, leaving a thin hollow of burning light in their place. 

'I STILL WORRY ABOUT HIM. I TRY TO TELL HIM BUT… HE NEVER LISTENS TO ME. HE'S ALWAYS PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH.' The spirit wrung their hands again, squeezing gore all over the snow. 'HE KNOWS I WOULD NEVER SAY THAT SORT OF STUFF TO HIM, DOESN'T HE? BUT EVERYTIME I TRY AND SPEAK UP IT'S LIKE… SOMETHING HAPPENS AND MY VOICE STOPS BEING MINE AND BECOMES SOMEONE ELSES. AND THEN I FREAK OUT AND THEN HE FREAKS OUT, WHICH FREAKS ME OUT EVEN MORE BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT HE DOES WHEN HE'S PANICKED AND-" A noise interrupts their spiral. They seem to choke on the sound of crunching neck bones and their hands spasm. Mono pats her cardigan pocket dimly, ignoring the lapse. Ruffling the crackles out of their deteriorating projection, Phantom begins again. 'I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE. I CAN'T STAND WATCHING HIM HURT SO MANY PEOPLE. VERSIONS OF HIMSELF, VERSIONS OF UNDYNE, OF ALPHYS OR FRISK OR ANYBODY. BUT HE JUST… KEEPS GOING. I CAN'T GET THROUGH TO HIM AND SOMETIMES… I WONDER IF HE EVEN WANTS TO BE HELPED ANYMORE.' 

'SOMETIMES,' they turned their skull, staring off into a the distant forest. Mono was half tempted to grasp at their scarf. She wondered if the blood would stain. 'IT FEELS LIKE HE HATES HIMSELF MORE THEN HE'S EVER BOTHERED CARING ABOUT ANYTHING.' 

"….Even you." She meant to amuse contemplativeness, though the certainty in the statement was unshakable. 

Phantom stops, and it's only as Mono goes on and the light grows dimmer behind her does she bother turning around to face them head-on. They're not looking at her. Not really. Phantom has centralized their focus entirely on the uneven clumps of snow that litter the ground. There was something- something, something, something- just a tiny bit different about their face now. A hardening of the brow. A twitch of the socket. They, like Mono, lacked a lower mandible, but Mono could easily picture them trying to chew on their words, swirling them around until they fit right. But no words would ever flee their maw, no words that were their own anyway. 

Yet, Mono still almost perked up when their hands twitched and they began to sign again.

'I'VE KNOWN HIM MY WHOLE LIFE, YOU KNOW. IT'S HARD TO IMAGINE A WORLD WITHOUT HIM.' Trailing their gaze up, Phantom's skull spun in one long, slow circle, taking in the sights of slumped pines and withering snowflakes. The act reminded Mono of one of those portable earth globes. 'AND IT'S HARD KNOWING HE PROBABLY DOESN'T FEEL THAT WAY ANYMORE. KNOWING THAT HE'S WORKING HARD ON MOVING ON WITH HIS LIFE. A LIFE THAT I REALLY DON'T HAVE ANY ROOM IN ANYMORE.'

For a second, they stopped and Mono watched as the scarf around their neck seemed to constrict, blood weeping down the pristine white of their battle body. Believing that to be the end, Mono almost piped up with… whatever first came to mind, realistically. But she abruptly lost that train of thought when Phantom rattled and raised their hands again. 

'HE'S ALWAYS BEEN A HARD WORKER, MY BROTHER. I KNOW ALWAYS HARP ON HIM FOR SLACKING OFF BUT I ALWAYS DID REALLY ADMIRE HIM FOR BEING- STRONG, I GUESS.' Phantom turned their sockets down to the puddle of ethereal viscera congealing at their feet. 'HE RAISED ME. HE LOVED ME. SUPPORTED ME. HE DIDN'T NEED TO BUT HE DID ANYWAY. EVEN WITH ALL THE OTHER BATTLES HE HAD TO FIGHT, HE ALWAYS MADE TIME FOR ME.'

'AND I THOUGHT,' In a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, Phantom's outline hardens into something tangible. Mono was half-tempted to stick her arm out and test their solidity with a tap to the skull. The effect wore off quickly though and Mono was snapped back to the present. 'IF I WORKED HARD LIKE HE DID. GAVE BACK THAT LOVE AND SUPPORT THEN MAYBE-' they fluttered their hands, looking almost frustrated, 'HE WOULD GET BETTER. HE WOULD START SMILING AGAIN. PROPER SMILING. AND NOW-'. 

Rejecting both ground and beast for their audience, Phantom tilts their skull up, up, up to stare unblinkingly at the shimmering cave ceiling, the pearly sediments winking above them. Had Phantom ever seen real stars, or was the darkness all they ever knew? 

'I ALWAYS THOUGHT… THAT WITH A LITTLE BIT OF HARD WORK AND PERSEVERANCE WE'D BOTH PULL THROUGH THIS LITTLE FUNK. THAT WITH A JUST ENOUGH EFFORT, HE'D PULL THROUGH EVENTUALLY. BUT… IF HE IS HAPPIER OUT THERE, WITH HIS NEW FRIENDS, DOING… WHAT HE DOES. THEN MAYBE I WASN'T DOING ENOUGH FOR HIM.'

When they look back at their new acquaintance, Phantom's sockets are as same as they ever were, but Mono swore on the stars and the Creators Beyond that something about their temperament sat different. Colder or warmer, Mono could not say. 

'I WANT TO GO HOME,' Phantom admits hastily, as though wanting such a thing was some great sin to be locked up in their ribs and held eternally. 'I DON'T LIKE IT THERE ANYMORE. BUT THERE ISN'T ANYWHERE FOR ME TO GO AND IT WOULD BE CRUEL OF ME TO JUST LEAVE HIM BEHIND, WOULDN'T IT? I DON'T WANT TO BE CRUEL.'   

They look back down at their boot tips pointily, and even though their expression still does not change, Mono doesn't need it too. Not to understand Phantom. 

'I'M SO SICK OF BEING CRUEL.'

Aren't they all?  

Doesn't everyone get just a little tired of it all? Waking up rotten, living dirty and sleeping dejected. A world where freshly cut flowers smell like dry urine and sunlight stabs with sharp vengeance. Where everyone looks ugly and everyone sounds off and nothing sparks or pulses or swings. Isn't there something so much better out there? 

Mono knows there is. And she knows not everyone has the want or strength to reach for it. Ever the wonder how strong Phantom has had to be for who knows how long now. Mono doesn't believe thinking about it will do her a world of good. 

So, silently, she turns and waits for Phantom to take note and walk back up to her side, where they start up this trot all over again. Following the little red thread to who-knows-where. None of Mono's concern. 

They do not exchange, thankfully and leave the other be for now. 

It's just a dip of silence where conflict and turmoil existed once again out of Mono's full grasp. Phantom's confession hung in the air between them, but Mono knew she could not ever feel the full weight of it, and how much it meant to Phantom, how much they probably simply needed to tell someone about… all this. 

To have some maybe… understand.

Unfortunately for them, they had stumbled into Mono.  

The snow scape they arrived at appeared crisp and newly disturbed, crushed trees sprouting from the hill sporadically, as though a spoiled toddler had torn them up and thrown them about in the midst of a tantrum. Must have been an avalanche from the looks of it. With her guide remaining uncommunicative, Mono took what little initiative she could grant herself and began hauling large clumps of snowdrift away. Her thick fur and dense frame complimented with her hooves made the toil of this icy labour a light cross to bear. She could dig and gather large boulders of snow pressed to her chest and pile them away as her olfactory insight worked to sniff out SOUL signatures or magic residue. Any clue that she was gaining on her target. 

Eventually, the sterile stench of KARMA, mingled with the tangy rot of LV, perforated through the thick cage of frosty powder. 

With a few more overfilled handfuls of snow, slushy mush pouring through her hooves, a flash of grey was uncovered. Another handful revealed a hooded torso and limp skull, obscured from Snowdin's dim light by the dense shadow of their upturned hood. A skeletal hand clawed out like dead tree roots, still in the air. 

Like a dog in a river, Mono plucked them up by the scruff of their hood, giving the limp body a good shake to test for hostile consciousness. Nothing, the being didn't even stir. She took a second to CHECK the monster. Nothing serious, their HP has taken a blow, but hardly lethal. The shadow plops the hooded monster back into the crunch of the ice as a second skull popped up near her hip. Phantom's socket twitched, another flicker of the unreachable sensation crossed their face, then disappearing. 

But Mono wasn't focused on that. She was busy staring at the red thread connected the ghost's leaking scarf to the hooded figure's own scarf. Its brilliant has red faded, dust-speckled and tucked deep under their mangy hoodie like a child clings to their safety blanket. 

Taking a step back, Mono contemplated the string with rapt focus till the fabric shred dissolved into lines of red hot code, buzzing and flickering where the two threads connected in a harmless bow. 

Code. Connected code. Intertwining the figure's mutated code to Phantom's in a symbiotic bind, where Phantom depended on this being's very essence to exist as even this flappable incorporeal form. The breathing, pulsing sear of magic originating from the hooded monster's side of the link suggested this was an effort taken on their own behalf willingly, an unconscious clinging to something too familiar to be real. 

Mono was far from an expert on such matters, but it appeared that Phantom's very form was stabilized solely by their brother's shatterproof bond to their image, right down to their very code. To live like that, the monster could craft Phantom's image however their LV-addled mind saw fit, without any input from the SOUL they were linked to. Projection mingled with reality. Thought-form fused with spirit. 

But if that was the case, what had become of their world? 

Despite popular belief, most timelines- after destruction- didn't stay dead. Over time, slowly, they would naturally RESET, replacing or discarding remnant codes not present or that it was unable to replicate. Building itself back up, piece by piece, code by code. It's why universes containing mass genocides have become a novelty. Before long, all damage inflicted will be smoothed out with time and patience. 

Naturally, this monster would be a part of the discarded coding, as they clearly aren’t present in their own reality and the damage they inflicted would be too great for the universe to try and recover them and fashion them into something else. 

But what of Phantom? Their physical body (i.e. their dust) would still be in their old reality. However, their SOUL's coding was trapped here, clung to their brother like a suckerfish to the belly of a shark. Their coding would be stretched between their own world and here, unable to discard or replace data still active and present in every way but physical. Suspending them- and in turn their whole universe- in a temporary stasis. 

The only way to undo that would be to-

A scrambled motion from Phantom goes ignored by Mono as the old beast reaches forward and promptly plucks the thread between the clamps of her hoof-hands. They're signing something that Mono doesn't catch until the fourth repeat. 'ARE YOU GOING TO BREAK IT?' They sign, looking not nearly as frantic as their flailing implied a moment ago. 

Instead of answering, Mono turns a question right back onto Phantom. "….What do you want me to do?"

Wind howled through the fissures of her helmet, an ancient lied of breeze that screamed in her foggy mind, demanding, insistent, cold as Hell's belly. No flame or blaze could thaw this freeze. Mono had long made peace with that. Her fur turns rime and sharp, puncturing needles through her cardigan layers. Phantom stands right in front of her, no clear expression of judgement or expectation, no gleam of realization or grit in their resolve. (She doesn't know why they would, it's not like they've got anything to lose.)

Only simple understanding as they stare at the thread handled in the impassive hooves of this strange force that answered their call for help. 

'I WANT TO GO HOME. I KNOW IT'S SELFISH BUT- I JUST WANT TO GO HOME. AND HE DOESN'T NEED ME ANYMORE.' 

"….You want to go home?" They nod feverishly and Mono shrugs, "….I can get you home…. It's for the best either way," flicking a single glance at the hooded figure, Mono looped the thread around the clamp of her hoof. "…..I think you've both done plenty enough for each other…." At Phantom's hyperfocus on her hands, Mono finished the final loop.

"….Sometimes…." Sometimes you're glad when winters over, so you don't have to deal with the bite of the cold any more. Something you're sad, because all you ever think about was the fun that winter brought. But at the end of the day, winter still has to end. For the better, in Mono's opinion. "....You've just gotta know when to let go."

There was a thin snap that seemed to ring its cry over the caverns of Snowdin and the bisected threads fell limp to the snow. 

Phantom's form flickered, a white outline of mingled shards moulded into the shape of an upside down heart pulsed in front of their ribs for a blink before dissipating. They almost seemed to melt with an emotion Mono couldn't put words to, eyesockets lidding and socket-bags darkening. Their glow diminished into something grey and chalky, no longer having the magic energy their brother's code was unconsciously siphoning to them to keep them brimming and stuck. 

They looked weathered and withered, beyond the threshold of exhaustion into something deeper, darker and decades in the making. And yet, gathering all their effort, they lifted their skull and smiled at the shadow. Not with their mouth of course. But with their eyes. Their shining, light-filled eyelights. Tired and weary but happy. So, so happy. 

Mono knew she could never even pretend to regret this moment. Not that she ever would to begin with.

She observes as the tulpa kneels to tenderly pat the hooded figure's head, soothing with an aching gentleness. Then they stand, blood-soaked cape flapping freely and looking just a touch lighter than before. Mono catches the end of the parted string of code, giving it a loose tug. 

'HE'S GOING TO BE VERY UPSET WHEN HE WAKES UP.' Phantom warns, casting their bright eyelights back with a hint of concern. 

"….Didn't do it for him, hon." She tugs the string again, pinpointing their barren reality amongst an infinity of darkness as she trudges towards a patch of shadows casted by weeping pines. 

"….Now let's get you back home."

Chapter Text

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Hunt. 

Verb. Definition: To hunt down a prey and (assumedly) kill it.

Noun. Definition: The act of hunting something.

In this world, the winds of Snowdin do not howl. They wail. The trees do not weep downwards, they wilt as death eats at their might, the way age eats at muscle and youthful beauty. The snow crunches like broken porcelain shards and all remnants of former life have been buried like Pompeii under lifetimes worth of winters. 

A winter that clouds the air eternally, a carnal chill the ebbs away at any of this world's former strength and energy. It is the sort of world that drains the life from its occupants. Misery and old decay can be found in almost every upturned pebble or house that's wood had rotted down to its foundation. Those that do not have blaster burn on them that is. 

Silence sits where the noisome of the Underground once rested. The trills of Waterfall or the mechanical whirring of Hotland's industry are absent where they would normally echo and fill this chamber. Not even the rush of the lake or the mindless chatter of townsfolks nearby could be heard behind the backdrop of near nothingness. 

There is nothing but an endless walkway of whites and greys, snow so old and unbeaten it feels more akin to slandering sanctuary ground then forestry to tread upon it so carelessly. The pines reach high, even as slumped as they are, blackening the walls and blending in with the charcoal painting of the ceiling. Coupled with the boundless tempest that encourages the stalactites to whimper and the trees to fall right, any monster, man or entity in-between would hazard a second guess before plunging themselves into such ghostly whereabouts. 

Across the vast seas of crystalized whites and blacks, a speck of red clammers over boulders, cliff-sides and zigzags of pines, teeth chattering while their long legs grow numb and stiff with exertion. Yet even as their SOUL aches and their vision swims, they cannot risk a moment of pause. Less the callous figment latent among the shadows grows bored of this game and adds the young SOUL's dust to the swirling winds that tide through the crumpled pine leaves.

Osiria swipes at his face with one gloved hand, the other tightly bound around the strap of their backpack as they lunge over a cliff face and land with a dull crunch upon their chipped knees. 

Silently, they pull themself back up, fighting against the pain to put one foot in front of the other and start running all over again. 

Tears bleeding down their cheekbones, Osiria focuses on the trail ahead and quietly begged for a way out of this new hell.

⛈⛈⛈

Shower. 

Noun. Definition: A brief fall of precipitation. 

Brief, his coccyx! It's been raining all damn day! 

Totally flooded the sports field, so everyone was crowded inside for the better chunk of all day. All sports practice was cancelled as a result, including the track team, which meant the young (soon to be graduating) skeleton was stuck inside alongside all his human classmates. Which was normally fine for Papyrus, inside activities were just as fun as outside activities in his opinion! A kink in this assessment, however, arose when the moment they began to actually search for these new activities.

Despite having been on the Surface for roughly three years now, this was actually the first time Papyrus had ever been to a human high school. Same for any of his monster colleagues for that matter. The legislation to allow monsters to integrate into human education facilities had only just passed and many monster families wanted their stripes to learn by the side of their new human companions. 

Before now, Papyrus had been attending Miss Toriel's elementary school and quietly performing his assigned task between dodging the grubby hands of the much younger monster children and assisting the former queen in her day-to-day activities around the school.

Suffice it to say, they've been a little high strung. 

And today was just… one of those days. Bogged under the rain. Phone flat. He kept glancing at his track team, circling around a column away from the rain, laughing and skimming their social medias. A tug of enthusiasm almost sprung Papyrus to their feet, eager to join in on the giggling and scrolling. Eager for just a bit of socializing.

Only… well, they never really talked to him outside of track meetups. They were always friendly, don't get him wrong. They just never… talked all that much. It seemed like whenever Papyrus tried to put his best boot forward, some new, inexplicable drama was occurring that he had never heard of before. Then they'd start chatting amongst themselves again and Papyrus would… stand around and listen. 

It reminded him a lot of how Snowdin used to be. Or the few weeks after the Barrier was shattered and monsters were free. Or the moments were Toriel would be talking to a student or another teacher, and Papyrus would just disappear from her mind for a few minutes. It was fine. She was a busy woman. Everyone was busy when the Barrier broke. And with how hopeless everything always felt Underground, it was selfish to think anyone else wanted to amuse their antics the way his brother would. 

The track team was no exception. They've all got their own lives to live. Maybe one day he'll finally catch them when the waters are calm, and they can just talk. About anything. 

Speaking of, they must have caught them peaking because they suddenly stopped and gave the skeleton this look, and Papyrus quickly went back to eating his snail and pulled-pork pie slice in silence. With no yucky eye contact.

The sliminess sucked as a texture, but Papyrus knew it took forever for Toriel to bake these pies for him, so they never complained. She has been allowing him to live in her house for almost three years now, ever since their brothers left for that new job or whatever it was. Neither of the hooded shorties would talk about it to their younger sibling, on the off chance they even swung around back home anyhow. Frustrating, but that was more on the outskirts of Papyrus's daily struggles. 

So today hasn't been awful. Not really, and realistically, they're probably just being dramatic at this point by still having an attitude about it. But today has just… left a bad taste in his mouth. Slimy like a snail.

With a sigh a bit more put upon then he intended it to be, Papyrus concentrated on squeezing the life out of the umbrella handle and tugging the hood of their raincoat way over his skull so none of the rain would infiltrate it and soak the gaps of their neck. Or worse, their scarf. 

"GOD, I NEED A SHOWER," he grumbled, feeling the rain cake the back of his leg bones. 

Shiny red and the growling hum of a well-loved motor caught Papyrus's attention, and a second later the young skeleton was gawking at the single most beautiful sports car to of ever graced his eyelights. Sleek and sharp and absolutely sexy when the rain polished its impeccable finish. Even if the greying evening didn't illuminate its allure to its full potential, Papyrus felt that itch in his mind as he scrambled to pick out where he had seen this diva before. Gasping, Papyrus felt a grin begin to climb up their cheekbones. He recognized those headlights! They curve like cat eyes to match the Cheshire grin of the car's bumper. They had seen that car in the school parking lot, usually surrounded by all those extra sweaty humans. 

The car nears at a breakneck speed, speakers thrumming full blast to the point where the raindrops on Papyrus's umbrella start to wobble. Grinning, excited by the flashiness and bravado on display by his fellow students (speeding in the rain is very dangerous), the young skeleton leans on his tippytoes to wave them by. Maybe if they see him, they'll give them a lift home in their kickass car! Maybe they'll even talk to him! If only they could just get their attention-

A blanket of rainwater kicked up by the gutter meets Papyrus's outstretched hand, drenching the front of their legs, gloves and yellow-spotted raincoat. No more than a blink later, the humming motor is gone, along with the music and the sheen of deep velvet. 

Papyrus fights to keep their grin in place. It falls after a few seconds of twitching. His face was all wet now, and they couldn't even wipe it down with their hands because both have been totally soaked too. The water was starting to drip down their chin, down on their neck, down their scarf.

This was… fine. Really, it was fine. They probably just didn't see him was all. They were going pretty fast and it was pretty late and none of the streetlamps were on yet and really, he shouldn't be standing so close to the street anyway so it's their own fault and-

When did the air get so stuffy? A fresh draft passes by and chills the water against their bones but Papyrus still finds himself sweating at the temples anyway. How ridiculous! They're being ridiculous, it's just a bit of water. Nothing lethal. He just needs to toughen up is all. Whatever, this was fine. He just… needed to wait for Toriel to come pick them up. How long did parent-teacher conferences go again? 

The evening slugs on, the sky wanes from lead greys into a richer cobalt and still young Papyrus finds himself waiting. And waiting. And waiting. 

The rain spritzes in intervals, growing harsh enough to flood their feet to the ankle before calming back down to a drizzle. There is a rock in their nice rainboots that prevents Papyrus from stomping his foot, and taking said boot off in this weather was about as wise as moving the queen first in a game of chess. Gosh, chess. They missed chess. And snap and scrabble and late nights watching the MTT-TV program and guessing all the predictable lottery questions. 

But MTT-TV is usually on past Papyrus's allocated 'bedtime' and Miss Toriel has proven on numerous occasions that she will not tolerate his zealous sleeping patterns under her roof. Even the weekends rarely went untouched by her sharp observation. The moment the younger monster so much as yawned or wiped at their sockets, there she was in all her bovine glory to usher him neatly to bed. 

It wasn't bad, per se. Toriel really was a lovely monster and temporary caretaker. It was just… she was so different from everything Papyrus had grown up with. 

And admittedly, that kind of made the young skeleton feel a little green. Bad green. Slimy green. 

An ache climbs up the bridge of his nose and Papyrus wrestles with the urge to wipe his face. It was still damp from the earlier accident, along with their gloves. The monotonous drip, drip of rain was becoming maddening, and their knees were growing numb from standing still for so long. 

Sure, they could always just move to another spot, but Toriel instructed him to always stand directly next to the bus stop, so she always knew where they were when she picked him up. What if he wandered off and she couldn't find him? She would have to drive around the whole neighbourhood and waste so much time and fuel!

So instead of sitting or moving or doing much of anything besides standing here endlessly, Papyrus closed his sockets and tried to focus on the sweet smell of rain. Past the drumming beat climbing their temporal bone and the clamminess of their weather-drenched clothes. The rain is subtle and cold and consistent, a syrupy ozone that agrees well with his empty stomach. 

Just for a moment, it feels like this afternoon may feel alright.

It all goes down the drain went the musk of a wet mammal invades the stripe's delicate senses, as malicious as a declaration of war. 

Faux insides churning and feeling just a little too close to the brink of their patience, Papyrus doesn't fight the brief flare of their eyelights or the frown that slopes down his chin. When they twist their skull downwards, he fully expects to find that yippy little puffball waiting for them, with its stupid pink tongue lolling out and trying to bully Papyrus into offering it shelter from the rain. 

What he's met with was a wall of black. Pure, unfiltered black. It was as though reality had been torn back like tissue paper and Papyrus was being given a front row view directly into non-existence itself. It was only after boggling and choking for a good minute or so that the stripes was able to pick out the streaks of fur interrupting the pillar of darkness. Trailing his eyelights down, a pair of hooves jutted out from the obelisk to plant firmly on the concrete sidewalk and it was only then that Papyrus registered that the what of what they were looking at were legs. 

Gulping, Papyrus dared to tilt the umbrella back an inch, eyelights scanning upwards. Bright, hirsute fabric spotted with tiny pastel polka dots answered their curiosity, the ends of a large hoof-hand jutting out of a worn sleeve-like teeth jut out of the gums of a babe. An off-white, slightly stained t-shirt rest underneath a torso around the same length of Papyrus's whole body. Another clump of black rested atop this assortment, with a head- or something akin to a head- rested on top, a long, yellowed snout pointed downwards. Sockets hollow and lifeless. 

Spirals climb way, way, way above, clawing the air like dead tree branches and extending wider than the creature's shoulders. Antlers, Papyrus notes, even as their hands quiver. Water droplets race down the curls of the appendages, turning them into a miniature waterslide. 

After the initial shock wore off, Papyrus turned his full attention back on the street and squirmed. This- individual- was positively drenched. It could not be comfortable, was the first real thought that came to mind. 

Their fur must be pretty dense to look so all-consuming. The rain would just be making it heavier. Where was their raincoat? Their umbrella? And why were they just standing there instead of looking for cover? They looked too big to fit under the tiny bus stop area but surely there was a building nearby they could hang around in. Were they nervous they were going to miss their bus? 

Seems like someone was having a lousier day then even Papyrus was. Something about the idea made his SOUL hurt more than his skull. 

They're just STANDING there. Not moving. Getting totally bombarded. That cardigan is about three shades darker than it ought to be and a near constant stream of water was pouring down its hemline to puddle the ground. It was hard to watch, in all honesty. 

Papyrus couldn't stand being showered on in his very fashionable and very waterproof raingear and they were all bald! Imagine being all hairy. 

They're picturing it. Not fun. But they do look very snazzy with an afro. 

Shaking their skull to rid themself of any stray thoughts, Papyrus adjusts his raincoat so hopefully the hood protects his face from the majority of the wet and wild in the air and sets his expression into a determined frown. 

Generously ignoring the aroma of damp dog fur and electric zinc, Papyrus rose themself to their tippytoes, arm at full extension to lift the umbrella high up and hopefully cover the unfortunately barren creature. 

One problem though. He couldn't reach. It only took a second for the young monster to realize that, at full length, they couldn't even reach the beings sloped shoulders. Least of all the impractical forest growing out of their mask-thing. Grinding his jaws, annoyed because the angle they were coming from was allowing the breeze and complimentary water to douse their exposed skull. But if it was annoying for him, it must have been a million times worse for this monster. 

Gritting his teeth to the point of pain, Papyrus raised themself all the way up onto the very tips of his boots, stretching their arm out so far it felt like it might pop out of its socket. 

The umbrella's finial jabbed the monolith on the underside of their socket. 

It was only then that the creature- monster- whoever they were seemed to finally catch up with their surroundings. The being moved as though time itself was irrelevant, so slowly did they tilt their strange helmet-mask to stare- or not stare- down at the lanky skeleton. 

Papyrus gulped, taken aback by the monster's total aloofness. It was impossible to reach their unmoving mask, and it seemed that no light could penetrate the vacancy of those sightless pits that made Papyrus feel both completely overlooked and equally overexposed. 

"S-SORRY." They couldn't think of anything else to say. 

Fur swamped, droplets plinking down the curve of their antlers and snout and sharp, square canines, the creature moved. Lifting their arm at a pace that would make a tortoise jealous, Papyrus found himself freezing from something that wasn't the freezer burned wind for once that afternoon as a three-fingered hoof-hand bigger than their head rose and pinched the handle of the umbrella. Papyrus easily relinquished the item, squeezing their sockets shut. 

Were they angry? Confused? Curious? Why weren't they saying anything? They were almost impossible to read expression-wise and for some Angel Forsaken reason, Papyrus couldn't pick up on their magic signature like he knew he should be able to. It was giving them the jitters. Well… at least they had an umbrella now. That was… good. That goodness didn't do much of anything for the unease settling in their ribs as the silence carried on. The wind continued to whistle, and the rain kept falling. Thankfully, Papyrus felt remarkably dry despite having just lost-

Wait a minute.

Brow ridge furrowed, Papyrus cracked open a socket and looked up. What they found was a polka dotted sleeve holding out their umbrella just a few feet above his head. 

Swiping their eyelights from the arm to the body, the creature has gone back to facing straight forward, away from Papyrus's direction. As if nothing had even happened. 

Gobsmacked, and just maybe a tad indignant over the unexpected scare earlier, Papyrus worked their jaw open once, twice before finding their voice again. "YOU'RE GETTING WET!"

Not a particularly mind-blowing statement but Papyrus blames that on his throbbing SOUL. 

For a second time that afternoon, the antlered monster turns their head downwards in a slow, stiff arch. Weirdly, the lack of depth to their eyes wasn't as intimidating as before. 

They look down at the much smaller monster, then to the umbrella, up towards the rain-gorged clouds, back to the road, then back at Papyrus. "……It would appear so." They spoke. 

Their voice was low and aged, husky and mechanical. Lacking inflections or cadence that could characterize it as anything beyond dead. Sexless with only a slight leaning towards something almost feminine. 

Papyrus ignored all that in favour of stomping his boot, heedless of the water they were kicking up on the both of them or the stab of the pebble against their metacarpals. "THE UMBRELLA IS FOR YOU! NOT ME!" 

Shrugging their- her?- shoulders, the creature didn't appear to see it fit to lower the umbrella from where she held it so. "….It's your umbrella."

"I GAVE IT TO YOU! SO YOU WEREN'T GETTING WET!!!" Was she trying to get a rise out of them? Well, it was certainly working! The dreary vapidness of the day had clearly worn-down Papyrus's usual tolerance for buffoonery. 

"….I don't really care…. About getting wet."

Sputtering, Papyrus stared up and down at the beast's waterlogged visage and almost caved into a fit. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU 'DON'T CARE'?!!" 

Curiously, and infuriatingly, she just shrugged again. "….I just don't care…. But you clearly do…. Cause you're wearing all that raingear…. You probably want this more than I do." 

"YOU CAN'T JUST STAND HERE!! GETTING SOAKED TO THE BONE!!!" Papyrus squawked, voice cracking. "YOU DON'T WANT TO GO BACK HOME ALL WET! IMAGINE THE CARPET!!"  

Seconds ticked by, punctuated by the tiny plop, plop of the water trinkling to the concrete. The beast did not reply, and Papyrus felt his anger ebb away in way of a sudden thought. "ARE YOU WAITING FOR THE BUS? IT'S PRETTY LATE, YOU MIGHT BE HERE FOR A WHILE." 

"…….I am…." A car drove by and for a moment, both the beast and the skeleton were drenched in shades of bleached lemon. Papyrus shook their skull and blinked, swearing upon everything that the creature had disappeared for moment. "……unsure." 

Blinking, Papyrus asks, "WELL, WHERE ARE YOU HEADED?" 

And again, the being shrugged. "….Not sure." 

Skull throbbing but too invested to back out now, Papyrus pressed further. "IS THERE SOMETHING YOU NEED TO DO?" 

She fell silent again and while nothing about her- expression, mannerisms, etc- changed, Papyrus decided to take a shot in the dark. "IF IT'S SOMETHING IMPORTANT, IT'S BEST YOU GET IT OVER WITH NOW. PROCRASTINATION ONLY SERVES TO DELAY THE INEVITABLE." Dreams don't just create themselves, after all.

Not if you just sit on them all day. Or wait out in the rain.

"…..I believe…. Maybe I was doing something."

Crossing their arms, Papyrus raised his brow ridge. "AND THAT WAS?"

"….Can't remember." 

Was he losing his mind? "WELL, WHAT DO YOU ACTUALLY REMEMBER ABOUT IT?"

The beast shrugged.

"WAS IT IMPORTANT?"

"…..Maybe."

"WELL, YOU SHOULD TRY TO REMEMBER IT, SHOULDN'T YOU?" You shouldn't just leave things behind if they need you. 

"….Maybe…. Or maybe it wasn't important at all."

Well, that couldn't be it! "BUT WHAT IF IT IS IMPORTANT?! WHAT IF THERE'S SOMEWHERE YOU NEED TO BE RIGHT NOW AND YOU'RE NOT THERE?!!" Was the air getting stuffy again? "WHAT IF SOMEONE REALLY NEEDS YOU?!" 

"….I don't think that quite matters right now." 

Scoffing and close to hysterical, Papyrus could almost feel the achiness overriding his senses, a new sort of nausea swirling in their non-existent stomach. How could this person be so casual about all this? Did she really just not care that much?   

"WHY ARE YOU EVEN GOING ANYWHERE TO BEGIN WITH?!! WHAT'S THE POINT OF A JOURNEY WITHOUT A DESTINATION??!" 

"…..No idea."

"SO WHAT?! YOU'RE JUST GOING NOWHERE!?"

"….Maybe that's where I was always going to begin with." 

"WHAT DOES THAT EVEN-" 

BEEEEEEEEEEP!!

Bright peach yellow spills against Papyrus's back, the car horn pitched high enough to make their skull ring. Flailing, he spun around and was met with the boxy silhouette of Toriel's family van breaching the fresh haze of rain assaulting the poor pavement. Blinking mist from their sockets, Papyrus could faintly make out the outline of his caretaker waving through the front window and beckoning him inside. Despite their better judgement however, the young skeleton turned back around to face the beast, ready to… who knows to be honest. Rebuttal? Snag their umbrella back? 

Papyrus would never know. Because when they did turn around, what faced him was nothing more than the vacant bus stop benches and obligatory signpost. 

No whiff nor scrap nor semblance of the strange encounter or their umbrella could be found through the rain or even beyond. As if she never existed to begin with.

God, he really was losing his mind, wasn't he? 

This was fricking miserable.

Another sharp beep shakes the skeleton out of their stumped bewilderment and Papyrus must force themself back around, ribs shaking and cervical clotted, and race back to Miss Toriel's warm van. 

Slamming the door open then shut, the young monster plants himself firmly on the provided towel draped across the car seat, not even bothering to shrug off the backpack hidden under their raincoat. 

Instead, they found their eyelights guided towards the empty bus stop, even as Toriel chuckled at their antics light-heartedly. She smells like playdough and baked pie crust and she's wearing one of her cushier lavender sweaters she likes to hand-knit sometimes. Papyrus had customized some lettering on it to spell 'COOL MOM' a few years ago. "My, my, young Papyrus. Y'know you wouldn't be so wet right now if you had brought your umbrella. Where is it anyhow? Didn't you have one in your locker?" 

She looks at them with sweetened curiosity, soft pink eyes wrinkled and watching him tentatively over the rim of her old lady glasses. 

Two old ladies in one day are two old ladies too many and Papyrus smacks the back of their skull to the headrest with a bemoaned sigh. "I… LENDED IT TO A FRIEND." 

"Friend?" she parrots, a gentle smile climbing her muzzle. "You've made a friend? Oh Papyrus, I am so proud of you!" 

With two paws firmly on the wheel, the boss monster turns out and begins to drive them back home. Papyrus can't explain why that doesn't feel like as much of a relief as it should. They just feel… they weren't sure. 

"I know how hard it's been for you to start socializing properly with your peers. This is a big step forward."

Tired in a way he couldn't explain.

"Besides we've got plenty of spares at home. You can just bring one back to school if it's still raining tomorrow."

Or maybe they just forgot.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

Garden

Noun. Definition: An outdoor area containing various types of plant life grown for either recreational, ornamental or to supply food. 

Toriel always tries to garden. She buys all the appropriate gear, equipment, plants and garden care. But it would appear all the horticulturist traits in the Dreemurr family have been congested solely into her ex-husband. Whenever the poor old monstress tries to grow just about anything, even the most unchallenged daisy, it always ends up brown and rotten by the end of the process. 

Papyrus tries to offer their help, all polite grins and enthusiasm to learn. But Toriel always gets funny whenever the topic of plants come up (different funny from the way his brothers would go when flowers came up in conversation) and Papyrus wisely dropped the matter every time he tried to bring it up. 

It was fine. If Toriel wasn't good at gardening, Papyrus probably wouldn't be much better either. He's pretty sure Miss Toriel is better than him at everything. Must be cause she's so old. She's had time to do everything at least once. 

Except successfully garden. That remains a blotchy stain on her résumé. 

The ex-queen's many trials and errors have left the front of her quaint home looking drab, curls of wilting wildflowers funnelling around the porch piers and post, the vines like the desperate hands of lost SOULs clawing up the baluster railing, poking through the wooden platform beams from where they invade the underbelly of the house. 

You don't even want to know what the back of the house looks like. 

A collection of huge clay pots Toriel had allowed Papyrus to work their artistic genius on sat empty near the front door, totally void besides a fickle full of dirt near their bottoms. Really, the flame-embroidered awesomeness was the poor pots only redeeming quality. The only use they had nowadays was catching rainwater. It made Papyrus a little upset to see all that effort go to waste. At some point he had suggested sending the pots to Asgore, for the new flower business the ex-king was running, but Toriel had swiftly shut the idea down.

She didn't want anything to do with her ex-husband. Especially now that Frisk wasn't around the buffer the tension between the two former monarchs. 

It was the one thing the young skeleton's temporary caretaker would get quite snippy about, so Papyrus was always careful now to toe around the subject.

It was fine. Toriel had things she never wanted to talk about, in the same way Papyrus had people they didn't want to think about. 

Speaking of the old goat couple. Toriel was going to be out all day today and tomorrow to the peace settlements and negotiating on new land settlements for monsterkind. She had spent all afternoon ironing out the creases in her business suit with a sour scrunch on her snout. 

The plus side to this was that Toriel would be out for the majority of the night, possibly bleeding into the hours of the early morning if the humans are feeling particularly stiff on the matter. Offering plenty of time for the young skeleton to fine-tune a plethora of their home-made contraptions, and of course, catch up on all the new episodes Metta-Novela. 

The downside to this was that Papyrus was now stuck on babysitting duty. A very petally-shaped baby, who also happened to be a child, who was also an ancient deity of rainbows and destruction. Who was also a total jerk and their very best friend. 

"Papyrus! Plant me in the garden, Papyrus! It'll just be for a minute."

Papyrus, to their credit, simply sighed at this merry-go-round he had been trapped in for the past hour with their flowery friend. 

"NO, FLOWEY. YOU'LL RUN AWAY AND UPSET MISS TORIEL."

"Just call her 'Mom' man! Seriously, nobody cares! And how can I possibly run away anyway? Do you see any legs popping out of this stupid pot? If they did, I would've been gone a long time ago."

"EXACTLY MY POINT, THANK YOU FLOWEY." 

"Screw you! You- you-"

Papyrus raised a brow ridge. 

"You asshole!" 

With a roll of their eyelights, Papyrus lifted the twig up from the mud (where they were tracing little diagrams of motorcycles and catapults) and poked the muddied tip directly between Flowey's beady little eyes. The flower shrieked in response. 

"COME ON, YOU CAN DO A LITTLE BETTER THAN THAT I THINK." Hiding his own menacing little grin in the palm of their hand, Papyrus watched the tiny flower seethe. "EVIL TIME-TRAVELLING SPACE GOD CAN'T EVEN COME UP WITH A CREATIVE INSULT? WHAT WAS THE POINT OF ALL THAT WICKEDNESS IF YOU CAN'T WRANGLE UP SOMETHING COOLER TO SAY. EVEN ONE OF MY BROTHER'S COULD MANAGE TO INSULT SOMEONE WITH A LITTLE MORE EFFORT THAN THAT."

"Shut up, bone-face," Papyrus lidded their eyesockets at that, "don't tell me how to make fun of people. 'Asshole' is a great insult." 

"IT'S CHILDISH AT BEST," Papyrus counters, returning to his sketches before the sprinkles of rain could wash them away for good. "AND TOTALLY UNIMAGINATIVE. EVERYONE CAN BE AN ASSHOLE BUT IT TAKES A SPECIAL KIND OF PERSON TO BE A-" twirling the twig as though he were orchestrating a choir, Papyrus lets the words tumble out from their grinning jaws, "MULCH-MUNCHING, MUD-CRAWLING, CROCODILE WEEPING, PERFORMATIVE LITTLE PARASITE. WITH A SPLASH OF OBNOXIOUS, CRUDE PUERILITY TOWARDS EVERYTHING THAT DOESN'T FIT YOUR TINY LITTLE SANDBOX PERCEPTION OF THE WORLD." They end this little crescendo with a sly grin and a tap of the twig against the banister of the soggy porch. 

That'll shut him up for a bit. Flowey always takes a few minutes to pick his jaw off the floor. Perfectly fine by Papyrus. The game of ring-around-the-insults is always fun but it definitely bogs the mood down after a bit. When they both start hitting a little too close to home.

Beyond that, it's just plain boring after a while. 

Boredom had been the recommended item on the menu all week. The rain hadn't let up ever since Papyrus's strange encounter at the bus stop. It had rained all next day, and the day before that, all week, and even now it rained, slower and lighter than it had all week before, but still pushing strong. Toriel had strictly instructed Papyrus to stay inside all day so they wouldn't get sick, despite how much Papyrus had pleaded to be allowed to hike down the length of the driveway all the way down to the tiny monster village below. 

But Toriel's house, Toriel's law. So, all Papyrus could do for the next two days of nothing but rain, rain, rain was sit on the porch and imagine walking down the steep gravel path. Or imagine someone driving up. 

He heard from his classmates that a lot of students invited their friends over for long sleepovers during the weekends. Papyrus didn't know any of their classmates well enough to attempt something like that (directly, in person of course, because Papyrus didn't have anybody's social media) but the image of their fishy ex-boss popped into their skull. Despite how tempting it was to reach into their inventory and give the old captain a call, the idea was quickly fanned away when Papyrus remembered that Undyne wasn't even in the country. 

She and Alphys were still on their honeymoon (yes, Papyrus had been the best man and ringbearer at the wedding. Yes, it was the best day of his life to be so swaddled in white) on some island called 'Hawaii' and wouldn't be available for another few months. 

So, it was just Papyrus and the rain. 

"Jerk-faced bonehead."

 And Flowey. 

And as great as Flowey was on most days, even Papyrus stringent jubilation towards everything in life could be hampered under the anomaly's cynicism. It reminded him too greatly of the worst of their brothers' depression episodes.

…He didn't want to think about them right now. 

Right now, they just had to wait out the rain on the porch, since Miss Toriel said she was expecting a package to be delivered later today and she didn't want Papyrus missing it. So, here they were, with Flowey, drawing in the mud, waiting. Waiting and waiting. As always. 

The steep hill of the gravel-paved driveway when unmoving, totally soaked from the days of rain prior, tiny cracks of puddles bleeding between the sharp pebbles. The driveway itself was bookended by military lines of autumn-orange trees, so different from the half-dead pines whose thick brushes were replaced with compact snow tiers in Snowdin. Everything, from the browned grass chunks to the peaks of baby-blue flashing briefly through the clouded sky felt so different from Snowdin. Even the way the wood rested against their palms or the house creaked felt different. 

Because it was different. That was good. They were on the Surface now; things were meant to be different. Papyrus just… wasn't sure.

He wasn't prepared to be doing it all on his own. 

Sucking air through their clenched teeth, Papyrus adjusted himself on the drenched porch step, only now feeling itching and uncomfortable at the amount of water bleeding in through their jean shorts. Fiddling with the twig, Papyrus halted on his final diagram of a flame-aquarium and started on a new sketch. Mindlessly, their arm moved, tracing out jagged rows of fur, a blank, bestial mask sat firmly in the middle, with long, twirling rows of branches and-

"What the hell is that?!"

Lifting his skull from his palm, Papyrus made a 'HUH' noise as they swung their head around to peer quizzically at the flower. Flowey, however, was looking beyond the skeleton, his wet little eyes bulging comically out of his bud-face, leaves and petals raised like the fur on a frightened animal. Even more confused, Papyrus began to follow his friend's bewildered path of sight down the driveway, scolding all the while.

"FLOWEY! THAT'S HARDLY A NICE WAY TO ADDRESS AN ONCOMING STRANGER! IT'S JUST THE MAILMAN- OH, NEVERMIND ACTUALLY. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT???" 

In the dim afternoon light, so far away, it looked like a tree- or a powerline pole- grew legs and was scaling up the gravel path in slow, lumbering steps. Never swaying or staggering, just a continuous, sluggish slump forward. Right up the driveway, to where Papyrus and Flowey sat in tandem, confused and maybe a little intimidated. 

Well, Papyrus could only speak for himself in that regard. Flowey certainly looked shaken, but Papyrus felt maybe just a little… buzzy at the sight of the new presence. They couldn't stop smiling and shaking and tapping their boots. Mind spinning with all the many ways this encounter could go.

Admittedly, the thrill of something finally happening was kind of getting to them. They couldn't help the way their magic excitably sparked at their phalanges-tips at the possibility of creating an explosive entrance (or a confrontation, a dormant sliver of himself rattled at the thought). 

Something new was coming up the driveway! Something unfamiliar and strange and different. Hostile or not, that was reason enough to get excited. Sue him! 

Containing themself to keep his butt planted on the porch step, Papyrus could feel the way his magic flickered sharply in their palm, itching to form a bone, for either ornamental purposes or defensive, didn't matter. Just… anything, anything new. 

The mass got closer, its outline becoming more defined and soon the heavy, mud-dampened clomp of hooves entered Papyrus's listening range. 

And with it, Papyrus own excitement was exceedingly dampened as well. 

The tall, twining stalks of antler and cardigan didn't even have to enter the equation before Papyrus found himself thoroughly disappointed.

"YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME." he grumbled. 

"You know this freak?!" Flowey screeched from his pot, dew dotting his petals like sweat. The beast was all the way up the driveway now, practically dragging their hooves towards the front porch and Papyrus folded their arms. 

"YOU KNOW THAT STRANGE OLD SOUL I MET AT THE BUS STOP I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT? THAT'S HER." Oh, if only it was anybody else. 

Flowey pulled a face. "What the hell, man? How the hell does she know where you live?"

Papyrus shrugged, slashing the latest drawing he had been making with the twig. Lots of people knew Toriel, or came over, or just knew because it was a small town and Papyrus was really the only skeleton out and about anymore. She probably just asked some of the locals for the nearest resident skeleton or was a local herself. 

Right on the precipice of the house, where the gravel turns into pure mud that circles the porch's circumference, the old lady halts. She's just the same as when Papyrus first met her. Taller than required, bulky and slumped over, with a pelt so dark it looked more like they were staring down a winding hallway in the middle of the night then actual animal fur. Curiously, against all better urges, Papyrus leans forward to sniff the air. Soaked dog fur enters the facility and Papyrus's sockets scrunch. 

He blinks at her, she stares at him with her hollow, hollow sockets and Flowey looks ready to combust with some flurry of either swearing or a villainous monologue. 

"HI." Papyrus greets first.

"….Morning." The creature's lukewarm timbre hushes out from the underside of her helmet. 

Papyrus prods the ground, "IT'S THE AFTERNOON." 

She looked at him, looked up, the off to the side, then back to Papyrus. "….Oh yeah…. I didn't realize…. All day's looked like this…. I thought it was still morning."

If they had lips, Papyrus probably would have thinned them. They really couldn't tell if she was joking. "I THINK IT'S BEEN AFTERNOON ALL AFTERNOON. UNLESS IT'S ALSO BEEN TWILIGHT? BUT IT COULD ALSO EASILY BE MID-DAY."

"….Or morning." 

"What the hell are you two going on about?" 

The twitch of his smile returned allowed Papyrus to ignore Flowey's more incredulous confusion. Tip-tapping the wood with the twig, he finally asked the one question that had been sort of eating at them for the past few days. "OH, BY THE WAY. WHO THE HECK ARE YOU?" 

In a room-temperature voice, both in tonal range and in volume, the lady replies. "….They call me Mono."

"MONO." Papyrus repeats, the name neither fitting nor unfitting to the creature, "MY NAME IS PAPYRUS. IT USED TO BE 'THE GREAT PAPYRUS' BUT I HAVE HAD TO TEMPORARILY RETIRE THAT TITLE UNTIL I GRADUATE." 

Mono slanted her helmet to one side, "….Why can't you be the Great Papyrus now?" 

Sighing, Papyrus couldn't help but think back to his old battle-body, currently collecting dust near the very back of their closet. He had stationed it there as its final resting ground once Toriel pointed out that the dismantling of the Royal Guard negated the need for such an outfit. Besides, Papyrus could probably whip together something much nicer anyway. 

One dream shot down just gave more space for others to grow, after all. Papyrus just… needed to figure out what that new dream was. Even though he felt like he was running out of time.

"I'M WAITING TO EARN IT BACK MYSELF. I'VE JUST GOT TO WAIT FOR THE RIGHT TIME." For now, they needed to be Papyrus, the A+ Enthusiast. No matter how hard the work became or how much time they felt slipping away into schoolwork while their knickknacks and projects grew old and wilted or how the boredom seeped into the marrow of their bones and made him feel aged and tempered. 

No matter how badly he wanted to ask for help. Things would work out, hopefully, and he'll be back to being Great once again.

Maybe then they'll come back. 

 Maybe then he'll stop feeling so empty.

Mono hums, her hoof toeing the gravel and splashing up the loose water underneath. Papyrus takes note of the dampness already drawing the furs on her neck down. From what little Papyrus actually knows about her, Mono probably doesn't mind. Doesn't make it look any less uncomfortable. 

"WHY ARE YOU HERE MONO?"

Mono, clearly lost in her own head, takes a moment to turn her helmet back in his direction. "….Huh?"

"I ASKED WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

For the first time that evening, Mono perked up. Or something like perk up. It lacked any of the energy necessary to establish such a movement. Her long, spine-like tail thwacked the gravel. "….Oh….. I was going to give you your umbrella back…. I believe you gave it to me…. I was wondering where it had come from." 

Startled, the young skeleton had to choke back a laugh. The umbrella hadn't even been a concept anymore in Papyrus's mind up until this point. It had fled their mind completely by the time the school week had been over. It was hard to imagine Mono- who stood at a bus stop in the pouring rain for no apparent reason- to prioritize returning such a novel little item. A little weird to just come up to the porch herself rather than just send it by mail if she already knew where he lived but… maybe Mono just liked walking in the rain(?). How… disgusting.

Scanning her up and down, Papyrus tried their darndest to gauge how serious Mono was being in that moment and found that, surprise, surprise, he couldn't find anything. "OH. WELL, WHERE IS IT?" 

"………….Well, you see…. That's the problem."

Raising a brow ridge, Papyrus mindlessly tapped the twig against their boots and waited for the shadowy beast to finish.

"…..I forgot to bring it." 

The vacuum of silence left behind was filled by the slight drip-dripping of water droplets cascading down the banister. After a moment, Flowey spoke up.

"Dumbass." 

Rocking back on their pelvis, Papyrus clutched his middle and practically wailed laughter. So hard, it burned his ribs, and Papyrus couldn't remember a time in the past three or so years they had ever laughed this hard at something so silly. His face always went numb when they smiled for too long and they could hear and feel the way his bones rattled with their mirth, jangling musically, muffled by their nice sweater. 

They couldn't explain why it was so funny. Just that it was, and the gut-punch of giggles he had been hit with was easily unwinding so much strain in their shoulders. It felt loose and cozy and nice, like the swaddle of an old blanket or the smell of a well-loved kitchen. It felt like being home again. 

Coming down from their high, Papyrus cracked open a socket and found Mono staring intently (or not intently, just staring) at the wilted rose bushes under the windowsill. Coughing to clear up the rest of the chortles, Papyrus pointed the twig towards the mass of brown, half-drowned petals and thorns. "MISS TORIEL- I'M SURE YOU KNOW HER- HAS HAD NUMEROUS EXPERIMENTING PERIODS INVOLVING LUSH FOLIAGE. NOT ALL OF WHICH HAS COME OUT SUCCESSFUL." 

Turning back, Mono tilted her long, thick neck, "….Don't you try helping her?"

Papyrus shrugged, smile going slack once again. "I TRY, BUT SHE'S STRICT ABOUT THE WAY SHE WANTS THE GARDEN TO BE." 

"You can say that again," Flowey grumbled, clearly still sour about the lecture himself and the young skeleton had been dragged into on why she wouldn't call her ex-husband to take care of the garden for her. The underlying matter itself was too awkward for either flower or skeleton to feel worth bringing up. 

Mono nodded, thankfully just taking his word for it. "….You've got a favourite flower, hon?" 

"You had better say me!" Flowey snapped, the leaves on his stem shivering. 

Papyrus turned a set of unimpressed eyelights down onto the little flowerpot. "NOT IN YOUR WILDEST DREAMS, SAP-BREATH." 

Flowey gasped, the drama queen, extended his stem like a pull of taffy from his pot, leaning awkwardly over to bite down on Papyrus's glove. Flowey's teeth are soft, like a newborn, designed for drinking out of the hose and chewing on the occasional snack of cat food Papyrus would generously spoon-feed him. It also doesn't escape Papyrus's notice that Flowey is biting their free, non-twig occupied hand so Papyrus can still sketch. How thoughtful! 

Mulling over his own thoughts, Papyrus turned his skull here and there, as though wringing the question through a mental cement mixture. "I LIKE ROSES," they admitted, moving the twig to begin work on tracing the beginnings of a rosebud into the dirt.

"I ALSO HATE THAT THEY'RE MY FAVOURITE BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT THE CLICHÉ AROUND ROSES ARE. KISSING AND ROMANCE AND HAND-HOLDING." 'Hate' is a strong word. It's the sort of word Flowey would use to describe something mundane and slightly tedious. Papyrus doesn't like using the word a lot because it feels a little overkill in most scenarios. Like pointing the nozzle of a tank down at a wood pigeon. Or a tiny, helpless Froggit. 

This case, however, Papyrus makes an exception. Romance, to Papyrus, was the worst kind of lukewarm and slimy. It sat better in his stomach as a concept then a viable path in life. 

The rosebud is now being crowned with a wreath of petals, climbing higher and higher as they circle their centre point with reverence. Papyrus should really wrap up this doodle soon; he wasn't kidding when he said Flowey made sap in his mouth. It was starting to soak into their glove. "WHICH IS FINE BUT I'VE NEVER FELT THAT WAY ABOUT THEM. THEY'RE JUST FLOWERS." There! Perfect. Sketch complete, Papyrus turned their attention back onto the little hazard teething on their hand. 

Moving to gently (or not so gently) pry the spitting bud from his hands, Papyrus found their voice hitting a dim note. To confess, the young skeleton had kind of lost focus on what they were saying a few sentences ago. "THEY DIDN'T ASK FOR EVERYONE TO THINK ABOUT THEM THAT WAY. BUT THEY DIDN'T GET A CHOICE. SOMETIMES I WONDER HOW THEY FEEL ABOUT THE WAY EVERYONE TALKS ABOUT THEM. MAYBE THEY'VE JUST GIVEN UP ON TRYING TO BE ANYTHING DIFFERENT."

Swatting Flowey back down into his pot, Papyrus looked up to see Mono staring down at their little mud rose, neck bent low from her shoulders and her sharp snout pointing down. After a moment of dead air, the old beast raised a hoof-hand up and scrubbed the base of her antler. "….I think I understand…. In a way…. It is wrong the guess the intent behind something that can never speak up for itself."

Papyrus squared his jaw, not loving nor disliking the shadow monster's response in equal measures. "I SUPPOSE SO."

With a grumble and a pop, Flowey disappeared down into the dirt of his pot, clearly done with this entire situation. Papyrus though, found themself to be much too curious (curiosity killed the cat but Papyrus wasn't worried about that, 'cause he was all bone) to back down. They wanted to know where this conversation was headed. If Mono didn't speak up in the next ten second, Papyrus was willing and ready to swing her into an impromptu Q&A. Oddly enough, it was not a second before the due date when Mono decided to speak up. "….That's what I'll call you."

"HUH?"

"….Osiria…. Like the flower." She nods her antlers down at his mud-craft.

"UUUMM… WHY?" Nicknames were usually an indication of friendship, right? Mono had already called them 'hon' earlier, but that felt like more of an old person thing. Like how Toriel had taken to calling him 'my child', 'young one' or 'dear'. 

Or babybones by a certain duo. 

It was just the perks of age, Papyrus gathered. But why did they require a nickname? He had never met another Papyrus in his whole life? 

Not that doubles are unfamiliar to them.

Mono chuffed the gravel with the wide brim of her hooves, shrugging. "….Well, I don't think you'd want to be known as 'Rain'." Looking down at her wrist at a watch that wasn't there, Mono adjusted her cardigan, before abruptly turning heel and trekking away. "….Until next time." 

Hauling themself to his feet, Papyrus (or Osiria depending on which party you asked) shouted, just a little frantically, "YOU'RE JUST GOING TO LEAVE?!"

Stalling, the beast craned her neck over her shoulder, mask-helmet-thing blank and unyielding. Her response was a drone of noise. "….Do you want me to come back?"

Shuffling awkwardly on his boots, Papyrus hated to admit this was one of the most interesting conversations they've had in a long, long time. Between his disinterested peers, his coddling overseer and Flowey, the newness of this- whatever the hell this was- was like a sip of cold water in the middle of a humid night. "…MAYBE."

Nodding, as though Papyrus's response was perfectly adequate, Mono turned her back on the young monster once again, continuing her trek down, "….Then I must leave now…. So I may come back later." 

Blinking, stunned like they had just been flash banged, Papyrus watched Mono slowly disappear down the brim of the driveway. On the fourth or fifth blink, she was gone completely. 

Yet, Papyrus swore the air felt colder now, damper too. It clung to the air and offered a silent promise of return. And for some reason, that felt more like reassurance then menace. 

"MONO, GET OUT OF THE PANTRY. IT'S FOUR IN THE MORNING."

"….There's cheese in here."

"I KNOW."

"….It's grey."

"I THINK THAT'S JUST THE SKIN. I WOULDN'T KNOW, I HATE CHEESE."

"….You do?"

"IT REPULSES ME." 

"….I don't get it."

"IT'S TOO EARLY FOR THIS, MONO! I WANNA GO TO BED!"

"….Then go to bed."

"NOT WITH YOU SHOVING YOUR PREPOSTEROUS SNOUT IN THE PANTRY! WHY ARE YOU EVEN IN HERE? CREEPING AROUND WITH THE LIGHTS OFF. HERE, LET ME-"

"….Maybe-"

"HEY, WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO? SLIPPERY BEAST, YOU COULD OF NOT SNUCK BY ME!"

"….Over here."

"OVER WHERE-!! GASP AND SHOCK! MONO, YOU'VE BECOME AN AFTERIMAGE ON THE WALL!!! NO, STOP MOVING!! STOP GETTING CLOSER! THAT'S FREAKY MONO!"

"….It's shadow."

"IT'S VERY CREEPY. AND VERY COOL! CAN YOU TEACH ME?"

"…………………………………No…………………………..No."

"AWW."

"….Hey…. Didn't you want to go to bed?"

"WELL NOW I'M UP AND ENERGIZED!! WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING!"

"…..That must suck."

"WHY- HEY, DON'T LEAVE!! MONO? MONO??! YOU BIG PIPE DREAM! DON'T LEAVE ME HANGING LIKE THIS!!! MONO?!!"

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Wasteland.  

Noun. Definition: A region barren of life or resources; a desert.

Gagging the sooty, bizarre crunchiness of the wind out of their throat, Osiria thinks back to his own Snowdin- the little snow globe world of peaceful chatter and flickering reds and greens- then back to this world and can't help but equate the definition to be a touch too generous to this little slice of hell.  

The deafening crunch of snow overflowed the void of this frosty wasteland Osiria had been welcomed into. Crunch, crunch, crunch! goes the snow under the weight of their blitzing footfalls as the skeleton bolts past dense plumage and weather-beaten settlements. 

Centuries worth of ice glint against the cave walls, forming bark-like layers over untrodden rocks and stalagmites, crystalized waterfalls frozen in time, their current peaking over the jug lips of cliffs. The light winks at him as he races by, the wind like nipping feathers curving its way under his shirt to chew its glacial fangs against the rungs of his ribcage. Osiria was in no way unathletic, but it would appear that being away from home-sweet-home for so long was proving a hazardous miscalculation on their part. He hadn't anticipated being cornered into uncharted territory.

That, however, would need to be their secondary priority right now. Right now, the young skeleton just needs to focus on getting away and locating some potential breathing room amongst the unforgiving winds and jagged sedimentary. Was it him, or did the air taste strangely sweet? Bad sweet, too. Medical sweet, like a finger worth of cough syrup. They should really put his backpack down, maybe somewhere he'll be able to remember. But the ruthlessness of the storm and his peruser make such a task feel so astronomically impossible, it almost exhausts the monster of all their remaining stamina just thinking about it. 

They have been running for hours now, never truly faltering and Osiria has a sneaking suspicion this is more cat-and-mouse than blind luck. Every time they swear, he's getting closer and closer to some end to this constant, half-blind stream of whites and picket fences of trees, an Attack, a cackle, even just the flash of burning white eyelight spooks him off. Deeper and deeper, they go, with seemingly no end in sight. 

Slowing himself to a brisk jog, Osiria tries to ignore the feeling of the dry air burning at his cervical in favour of straining their hearing past the rustle of leaves, the pitter-patter of snow and the violent thrum of his own SOUL. Trying to pick out the odd crunch of snow, or the blip of a shortcut. 

Nothing. 

There was supposed to be nothing here. Mono had said so. And Osiria trusted her. Of course he did! The elder beast had never exceptionally let the younger monster down in the past. She was an oddball, sure, but everyone ought to be a little odd once in a while. Keeps life chugging along smoother. She wouldn't have lied to him. Mono doesn't lie. To anyone. Always oh so willing to say whatever it is that's on her mind, should she be prompted. Sometimes even without. She couldn't have lied to him because if she did…

His ribs were really hurting. Osiria decided to put that thought on the back burner for now. He'll take it out and examine it properly when it feels like his joint sockets aren't about to burst off. He finds he really misses home right now, and their soft bed and warm sheets. 

Osiria shakes their skull, frowning. No time for all that, he scolds himself, you must be an adult about this.

Priority Number One: Safety- home- run, run, run. Evasion. They won't make it anywhere if they're caught and judging behind the intent of the Attacks being flung at them, his pursuer isn't on the spy for any graceful resolutions that don't end with Osiria's skull nicely skewered on the end of a bone Attack, so flee was very much in today.   

Gulping down another lack-of-lungful of this absolutely repulsive air, Osiria tried to pin his cross-wired skull on any familiar landmarks. Maybe their hunter had chased them back around to a familiar location? But beyond the haze of storming snow, nothing pops out. No overturned trees or flattened family cabins or rocks shaped like livers. Nothing. Nothing at all. Hugging themself, Osiria wills the tears from his sockets and gulps again.

 Alright, Papyrus, think. 

Tracing their eyelights upwards, Osiria knows that there is one crystal that glows brighter than all the other. The Jupiter of the star map of the Underground, as his brother (gosh, he misses his brothers, where were they?) would call it. It hangs right above Snowdin and bathes the entire town in a soft spotlight. Helpful for any monsters trying to find their way back home. Squinting, Osiria can't seem to find it, even as the faint twinkle of the other cave crystals reach out like the guiding hand of a mother through the sheets of snow that dampen his scarf and shorts. 

Maybe it's behind him? They've been turned around plenty of time before. 

They miss the brief flash of light camouflaged by the numerous other glints of ice shards littered about, hidden entirely behind of shadowy cocoon of knee-high bushes. It disappears just as he turns his back to it. Beyond the veil of darkness and snow, a twig snaps and the young skeleton jolts back around, breath caught in their ribs. They search and scan for something, anything, shaking with an terror icier then the ruthless landscape of this new version of Snowdin. Seconds tick by, nothing happens. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Breathing out the anxiety that had clung to his ribs like honey, they slump and turn on their heel, eyelights trained upwards. 

For a second, they almost feel hopeful. Relieved. 

Osiria's world is knocked off its axis when a splintered bolt of ivory springs out and shatters against their eyesocket. With a moist crack and rattle, they tumble and fall limp to the biting cold below.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Homesick. 

Adjective. Definition: Nostalgia; missing one's family or home deeply. 

It's has been three months since the official beginning of Osiria's Papyrus's friendship to Mono, and he has already collected a hefty list of quirks and traits on the old shadow.

• She is the most apathetic monster- creature- shadow lady Papyrus has ever met. Totally unresponsive, sometimes corpse-like in her disposition. This makes her weirdly honest(?) and it's nice to have a conversation with someone without it feeling like they're not in one some sort of secret or alternate conversation or misinterpretation.  
• She can turn into liquid(?): He's workshopping his understanding of that, since she's always melting into and out of the walls. Only in the dark though. And sometimes they don't even see her come in. She's just… there! Reminds him of someone…
• When she's not wet, she smells like old people and wood bark. It's not too bad.
• She bases all her preferences (this is the appropriate terminology, according to Mono) on food based on its texture. Which is valid. 
• Apparently, she doesn't sleep either. 
• She is not averse to being used as a jungle gym. Papyrus has developed a knack for hauling themself up her back to lay down amongst the rungs of her antler. 
• They're already on tier #3 of the friendship-scale! Mono willingly (or maybe she just didn't care) accompanied them on their allocated once-a-year night out. Theme: Karaoke! (Note: Mono did not participate in the singing but seemed content to smack the tambourine or her weird spine-thing around to the beat, so it was pretty great!)
• No matter how many heat packs he applies, her fur never grows warmer.
• She apparently wasn't a local.

Papyrus once asked Mono what her concept of a love was and woke up to find a block of ice on the floor of their closet. When the ice melted, there was a rose-in-bloom at its core. 

… Papyrus has been doing some research on their given nickname. A nickname that Mono seems absolutely insistent on calling them, so she doesn't 'forget him again' (the phrasing made their sockets twitch). Osiria. They're a type of tea rose and they have to be specially bred and tended to by florist in a greenhouse instead of a garden because they have little defence against diseases and parasites and alike. Is Mono calling him sheltered? Fragile? 

Mono said she called them that because his scarf is a slightly darker red 'from the norm(?)' and she always sees them wearing a white sweater. Papyrus argues that the reason they've been wearing sweater is because it’s the wet season and he wants to protect his ribs and spine from dew build-up. Mono shrugged and said it wasn't a bad thing and that she didn't care. 

…Papyrus once asked if Mono thought of him as a joke. Mono said she didn't have a sense of humour.

….

But that was the times of yesterday. Today was a weekend and Papyrus was sure to make it a productive one at that. And what better way to spend this free time then to catch up on some long-neglected projects while hanging out with some friends. 

"HALT. EXPLAIN IT TO ME AGAIN. YOU SPEAK SO LOW MONO, IT'S HARD TO HEAR OVER ALL THE SOLDERING." Wowie, building a homemade flamethrower could give you a horrible case of tinnitus. Or was this another migraine? 

"….This universe isn't totally unique…. But still different enough to be considered its own thing…. Think of universes like…. The same piece of art drawn by a separate artist…. Everyone has something different to add…. A different style or theme or character…. So while some base elements stay the same…. There are also a lot of differences…. That make those worlds…. Worlds like yours…. Different…. It's quite spectacular…. I myself…. Have been everywhere at least once…. But I'm always finding something new…. At least…. I believe I am."

From the angle he's kneeled at, Mono kind of looks like a small black hole carved out in the corner of his room. The very photons in the room dimming, shadows twitching unnaturally across the walls. Quite cool, these little light shows.

Papyrus nodded along, filing the information away for later. Mono never seems to have the energy to be negative. It's an interesting little quirk, because she never seems to have the energy to be outright nice either. She's quite the puzzle. 

Like how sometimes, she'll say sorry. But never, ever means it. 

"….I am what they would refer to as a 'hiker'." Mono explained from where she sat cross-legged at the base of Papyrus's race car bed. Which reminds Papyrus to take the mattress off later for maintenance. Some of the paint is starting to peel. 

"….It's a basic…. mildly derogatory…. label given to those who wander the Multiverse without an specified reason… or permission from the council."

"MULTIVERSE." Papyrus repeats to himself under their breath, brow scrunched. They turned their skull up from their passion project scattered across their bedroom floor to beam at the old shadow creature. "THAT SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING MY BROTHERS WOULD TALK ABOUT! THEY SAID-"

"Blegh!" Interrupted him, and both bipedal creatures turned their attentions onto the potted buzzkill sitting upon the lone desk. Flowey, petals sunk low and bud-head balanced on the rim of the pot, repeated the noise of disgust before shooting up to glare down at the sole skeleton left in this universe. "Are they all you can really talk about anymore!? Brother this! Brother that! Get a life, 'Rus! You don't have to keep bringing those two trash bags up in everything! It's really starting to grate on my stem." 

Deflated, Papyrus levelled the plant with a stare that was hopefully angrier than what he truly felt about the outburst. Flowey had always been a little ill tempered, even on the best of days. This was only exacerbated by the inclusion on other parties/strangers/brief acquaintances in any given conversation. It led to a bit of a stunting in Flowey's social development, but it's hardly as if the tiny flower could care. Papyrus always wound up feeling too sorry for the angry, piteous plant life to push the matter too greatly. 

Just a little bit more time, then he's settled and stop going on about Frisk, Asgore and time travelling and godhood and all that jazz. Papyrus was convinced things would (crossing their phalanges as he speaks) work out in the end.   

Unwilling to take it personally, Papyrus supplied a rebuttal. "I WANT TO TALK ABOUT THEM, FLOWEY, BECAUSE THEY ARE IMPORTANT TO ME. IT'S ALWAYS GOOD TO TALK ABOUT THOSE THAT MATTER TO YOU! SHOWS THAT YOU CARE." 

"Yeah, sure, and your dearest brothers care so much about you, don't they? When was the last time they dropped by again? Nine- ten months ago? And for a record breaking two days! Wowie, 'Rus, how lucky are you?"

…

Okay, well, that just fricking sucked on Flowey's part. Papyrus was able to smooth out the trembling in their hands by clutching the welder to their pants. 

Ignoring Flowey's triumphant little smirk and his hateful, peering eyes, Papyrus sighed than grit their teeth, "THAT'S NOT VERY NICE, FLOWEY. AND FOR THE RECORD, I DO HAVE A LIFE." Side eyeing the plant, Papyrus allowed for his own cruel smile to lift, "UNLIKE YOU."

"Hey!" Flowey snapped, always so easily offended, "I've got a life, jerk!"

"YOU LIVE IN A POT!"/ "….You live in a pot."

Choking on his own sap, Flowey whipped his head between both pairs of sockets, before sinking against the pot's brim again, disgruntled. "Screw you guys. You're both assholes." 

"SO," Papyrus decides now was a great time to get back on topic, turning to face his partner in crime (the crime being bullying Flowey) with a toothy grin, "THE MULTIVERSE?"

Mono tilted her skull, studying the hand-stitched, flaming-spanner printed carpet. "….The Multiverse…. Is like… a big stack of papers…. All piled up on top of each other…….. But nobody knows how to organize it…. So it's kind of messy…. Very messy…. A little too messy…. The Omega Council…. Was first established to bring order into the chaos…. And not get too many people killed in the process." The beast always looks really old whenever she talks about this sort of stuff. Less like a quaint, cardigan-adorned elder and more like a stone-carved pillar unearthed after centuries of nature working to bury her with the rest of its unseen treasures. "….Its members are hand-picked by the Head of the Council…. Where they work to decide which universes need assistance most…. What to do with certain characters or universes that have gone off-script…. Or whether or not to intervene in some of the more pettier battles that occur between…. I forgot who…. But there are others." 

Papyrus whistles through their teeth, "SOUNDS BUSY. ARE THERE ANY COOL- PAPYRUSES? PAPS? PAPYAS?"

"….Papyri." 

"THAT! ARE THERE ANY COOL PAPYRI ON THAT FANCY OL' COUNCIL?" Were they grown and clad in punk-rock leather? With the spikey studs and chipped bones pieces and necklaces made from teeth and lugnuts? 

"….I don't believe so…. I don't believe Papyri are allowed on the council."

"WHAT?!!" He almost dropped his welder, shoulders hunched up around his temporal bones, "THAT'S DOESN'T SOUND FAIR!!" 

Mono, in her usual manner, just shrugged, "….They believe it to be… too serious a matter to involve Papyri…. There aren't many Floweies on the council either…. Because they're usually too volatile."

Papyrus flopped down the backs of their fibulas, mouth agape. "THERE'S GOT TO BE A VERSION OF FLOWEY OUT THERE THAT ISN'T A TOTAL DICK THOUGH, RIGHT?" Ouch, he can feel his creativity stats taking damage.

Mono was running her hoof-clamps through the papers skewed on the ends of her antlers. Those were new, but when Papyrus checked, they never said anything interesting. "….Of course…. But they're…. Cautious…. The Multiverse is incredibly hostile…. It's not wise to test fate…. There's a phrase for this I believe… Better safe than sorry…. That's what Core always says."

Papyrus frowns, feeling a new, twitching sort of unpleasantness settling behind their ribs. It kind of hurts, to be honest. It kind of burned. "WELL, MAYBE IT SHOULDN'T BE LIKE THAT." 

Mono hummed, tapping a sparkling, star-dotting tag hanging from one of her lower antler branches. "….Maybe….. But it's not my place to change it…. They'd listen to me as much as they'd listen to you, Osiria…. Besides," forgetting the tag, Mono dropped her arm down and caressed the carpet, "….It's not my problem to solve… to begin with…. Best to just let some things sort themselves out." 

It still didn't feel right. Sound right. Anything right. Granted, a lot of the past couple of years haven't really sat right with Papyrus. The young skeleton also knew that arguing with Mono on any number of points was a fruitless endeavour, at best. It was like trying to argue morality with a tree frog. No reception. That didn't make her bad company, but she wasn't exactly good either. Just… company. Still, it was nice, in a way, to have someone to talk to. Light-hearted little hither and tithers that wouldn't make them sweat in anticipation for the final, killing blow. But this conversation left him feeling a little… lonely. Lonely and thinking. The Multiverse, a world of endless possibilities. Endless new faces, new Undergrounds, new Surfaces. It was hard not the froth at the mouth a little in excitement. Or maybe he's coming down with something? Strange, because skeletons can't get sick. 

But they always feel sick. All the time. No matter what they do. It left him feeling… strangely small.

Insignificant.

F̴͇̟̀ó̷͉̩͊̂̓͆͘͜͝ŗ̸̛̫̙̺̱̼̗̱̽͒̃̎̈̐͑͌̐͆̚g̶̡̘͍̥̟̠̪̳̖̦͆̓̒͂̑̃̈́̒̑̏͊̔̎͗͝e̵̡̧̡̨̹͈̲͕͔̝̫̯̲̪̺̿̆͒̉̈t̸̨̡̠̫̱͎̫̟͚͔̰̦̹͋̾̏̌́̓t̶̡̝̘̳̮̺͕̝͕͈̟̱̱̭̱͕͒̈́͝a̷̡̛̝̪̣͔̯̟͕̩̖̮͆͂̐̔̾̋͛̉̓͝b̷̧̨͕͕͈̪̝̩͇̼̤̳̎̚͜͜l̵̢̡͚̻̭̝͖̦̘̺̮̘̰͍̓͛̂̆̂̎̊̒̃̓͘͜͠͝ȩ̸̨̛̩͎̘̯̭̱̬͘

If Mono's company was just company, then what was Papyrus's? What was so wrong or boring or uninteresting about his life that had so many people turning away? People who loved him. Love him. They still love him. If they didn't… Papyrus didn't know what they'd do with themself. 

When will the day come when Mono leaves, when the shadows of his room don't ripple like water and the light pours in brighter?

What will they do then? 

Does it even matter?

"IT SHOULD MATTER." Papyrus countered their own cynicism. Mono turned her snout just an inch in his direction and Papyrus shot her a look of burning faith, a little hotter than he first thought himself capable of. "IT SHOULD MATTER. EVEN TO JUST ONE PERSON. NO ONE…" they gulped, "NO ONE DESERVES TO FEEL LIKE THEY DON'T MATTER." 

His temporal bone feels hot, yet their belly was a frosty lake of nerves. Carnivorous fish squirming right under the surface, just waiting for something to break. 

As desperately as he wants it to, to matter, it'd make a dirty little liar out of them to say they weren't scared. Terrified. And frustratingly helpless to do anything about it. 

If they asked Mono to stay, maybe she would. But if she still has something important to do…

"….How rude of me." Vision clearing (when did it start getting blurry?), Papyrus refocused their eyelights up to the elder beast. Mono adjusted herself to sit up straighter, neck craning to give the young skeleton a modicum of her attention. "….I have yet to inquire on the current quality of your life…. So," sometimes, Papyrus cannot believe this big ol' shadow is already so important to them, "….How's life?" 

... Y'know, Mono's kind of lame. So is Papyrus. So, they're both lame. That's… an interesting thought. Still, it's nice that she's asking at all. 

It also makes him feel a little sick, because Mono doesn't care at all, but she still asks anyway. Papyrus knows plenty of people- monsters and flesh alike- who mix their apathy with their cruelty. Who just want to lash out and hurt. Or giggle at normalcy to make it seem less normal. Crying, laughing, loneliness. 

It reminds them too clearly that cruelty is always a choice.

"I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT GETTING INTO EXTREME SPORTS," they said, casting a look towards the other end of the room, where his old hockey gear and basketball shirts sit neglected and unlooked at, "I'D HAVE TO COME UP WITH A REALLY CONVINCING ARGUMENT TO PERSUADE MISS TORIEL, THOUGH. OR LIE AND SNEAK OUT TO DO IT IN PRIVATE." That would be a bold move one their part but it's not as though they haven't managed Operation: Get Out Of This Damn House more than a handful of times since moving in.

The young skeleton always winds up feeling bad though, because he knows how badly Toriel would freak out if she ever discovered his bedroom empty. But there was also a certain thrill to it too. The delicate padding around the room, the slow organization of whatever bits and bobs they needed to crate out that night. Scaling down their bedroom window, using the wooden slats to give their boots better grip. The quiet hush of the night, where anything or anyone could be lurking. 

It was… energizing. 

Mono nodded, but then turned her helmet again, curious, "….You're going to graduate soon…. Right?.... I assume that means you'll be…. Hunting for a…. What are they called?.... A job." 

Papyrus huffed a laugh. Of course, Mono wouldn't care about jobs. Given the sporadic times of their meetups, Papyrus assumed she wasn't working off any kind of set schedule. But she always had something or other she needed to get back to. She must be a pretty busy shadow monster. That probably means she's also popular. 

Note to self: Ask Mono on friend-making advice. 

"IN A WAY." Papyrus mumbled, flipping the flamethrower over to begin patching up the metal sheet flaps at the back. "THEY HAD THIS JOB-DAY THING AT MY SCHOOL A FEW WEEKS BACK. I DID APPLY TO TAKE A COURSE IN THE LOCAL FIRE DEPARTMENT BUT…" they trailed off, unable to tell if Mono was still staring at him or not. Quick peek check. She was. Never mind. "THEY SAID THEY WERE 'HESITANT' TO ALLOW A MONSTER TO EVEN VOLUNTEER, SAID IT WAS A SAFETY HAZARD. I THOUGHT ABOUT APPLYING TO ONE OF THE HUMAN HEALER CLINICS BUT THE LADIES AT THE STAND WOULDN'T TALK TO ME. THEY MUST'VE BEEN BUSY." 

They let the air hang for a second, hoping, or maybe dreading, a response from their bestial friend-lady. Her continued silence was not very reassuring. Or maybe it was? Papyrus was nervous either way, shooting her his cheesiest grin. "THERE'S THIS NICE RESTAURANT THAT TAKES IN MONSTER EMPLOYEES- IT'S EVEN GOT FAIR WAGES FROM WHAT I'VE HEARD!- BUT MISS TORIEL SAYS I SHOULDN'T APPLY UNTIL I HAVE BETTER EXPERIENCE IN CATERING." 

The sentence sounded odd, even to them. Perplexed, Papyrus allowed their voice to trail off, "That Doesn't Make Sense Though. I'm Applying Because I Want To Better My Catering Skills… But Then Why Would…" 

Sighing, feeling strung out, Papyrus concluded, "WHATEVER SHE SAYS GO'S." 

"….Whatever she says go's." 

"Yeah." To be truthful, Papyrus didn't want any of those things as a career. School work had bogged down his passion for cooking, the fire department had too many grown human males that acted a lot like his track team and the medic… really, Papyrus just tried because they knew they were good at healing magic. The whole process had left them feeling… dispassionate about the whole 'employment' thing. Toriel had just laughed and patted his skull and said he just 'hasn't found his footing yet'. 

Sometimes, Papyrus is pretty sure he'll never find his 'footing'. 

Giggling, just a little too manic to be endearing, had the young skeleton swinging his skull in the direction of the desk again. "So ironic, isn't it?" Flowey twisted his head over the pot's rim, eyes bloodshot, pupils like huge gouges running down his face. 

"Your brothers were always so much more popular than you. And now that they're gone, no one wants to hang out with you. Sense a pattern merging, bud?" Just ignore him, Papyrus, he doesn't mean it. He's just upset about the teasing from earlier. He'll never say sorry but still. No need to get upset over it. "All that desperate flailing and for what? The shred of whatever attention the 'wacky skeleton duo' left behind? Get real, 'Rus."

Wowie, it's raining inside. And for some reason, they can't stop staring down at their pants. The texture's nice. So is the colour. 

"The only reason anybody even knows who you are is because of your brothers. And now that they're gone-"

They do come back, sometimes. In the rare occasion they pop back in like a lazy supernova. They're always so happy to see him again, and Papyrus is happy too. But it's not the same. They give him head pats and hugs and forehead bonks, but it never really distracts Papyrus from the moments they're ushered away so the two can talk amongst themselves about things so much more important than him.

"-no one wants to be bothered with you. No one but that stupid, lonely, heartbroken old goat. And even then-"

They haven't left him. They'll be back. They always promise and Papyrus knows how they feel about promises. 

"-who's to say those wine-coloured glasses won't slip off one day? Speaking from experience, pal, brace for the worse. One day, you'll wake and the flowers and songbirds will all be gone and sometimes there's isn't anyone there to SAVE you."

Sometimes, it feels like the world is ending. 

Papyrus couldn't respond if he tried. They're bent low over their folded legs, hands limp against their kneecaps. Their soldering tools have fallen out of their hands and Papyrus wasn't sure he had even made any actual progress on the flamethrower. 

Something about that made them want to cry even harder. 

From the corner of the room, so completely disconnected from Papyrus's present, yet wholly extant and inflexible from Papyrus's wholesome, dull little world, Mono spoke, "….I…… Can't specifically say I like being here….. But if it's worth anything to you…. I think…. I prefer to be here….. In the downtime I have." 

No sincerity. No condensation. Her words neither dried their tears nor added to the deadweight on their SOUL any lower. It was so Mono in nature, something like laughter clung near the base of Papyrus's cervical. Which, on its own, made him feel a little lighter. Not better essentially, but lighter. 

Not frowning, not smiling, Papyrus slowly raised his eyelights up towards the corner of their room, where their dusty sportswear hung, unloved and unused. Their back felt a little less stiff, shoulders a little less tense. 

"Y'know, I Think I Want To Try Dirt Bike Racing." 

Mono sighed and Papyrus could hear Flowey grumble and the low pop! noise of the anomaly sinking back down into the dirt to sulk. Whatever it was about the scene made the young skeleton smile, just a tiny bit.

"….Whatever you want, hon….. Whatever you want." 

"YOU KNOW, MO. YOU'RE NOT AS SCARY AS I THOUGHT YOU'D BE."

"….You thought I was scary?"

"TERRIFYING. ESPECIALLY WHEN WE FIRST MET. I'M GLAD I GOT TO KNOW YOU. YOU'RE ONE OF THE FUNKIEST OLD LADIES I'VE EVER MET."

"….That's… an interesting way of putting it."

"WHAT WERE YOU EVEN DOING AT THAT BUS STOP ANYWAY? DID YOU END UP GOING ANYWHERE?" 

"….I don't remember… when we first met…. I think I just remember thinking…. Wow, a bus stop…. Then you poked me with that umbrella-"

"SPEAKING OF! YOU STILL HAVEN'T GIVEN ME MY UMBRELLA BACK."

"….Oh right, I keep forgetting…. Sorry…. I'll get onto that."

"DON'T BOTHER. I'VE GOT A BACKUP AT HOME AND AT SCHOOL. BESIDES, I DON'T WANT YOU FORGETTING ABOUT ME YET."

"….Huh?"

"YOU SAID THE UMBRELLA HELPED YOU REMEMBER ME AND MY UNIVERSE. I DON'T WANT YOU TO FORGET NOW."

"….But…. I do remember you, Osiria….. Clearer than many other things…. Your face and clothes… I haven't needed to look at the umbrella in weeks now."

"That's… REALLY COOL, MO." 

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.၊၊||၊. ♬ ݁˖

Concert.

Noun. Definition: A combination of vocal performances and instruments created to entertain a crowd.

The thrill is back! Sparking like live wire to shoot out through their magic in a way that makes their hands itch. It pangs from their SOUL and travels through the very marrow of their bones to make them rattle like maracas. The sort of blinding energy that makes him feel like he'll pop into confetti. In the best way possible. 

It's late. Midnight blackens the skies, interrupted only by spurts of stars and a moon that hangs like a judgmental wheel of pasty cheese. 

:::

'HEY MONO? IF THE MOON COULD TALK, WHAT DO YOU THINK IT WOULD SAY?'

Mono stared far beyond the glass of the young skeleton's bedroom window, mug of mystery liquids in hoof.

'….She'd ask for some shades.'

He raised a brow, and Mono pointed her snout down to face him.

'………'Cause the sun's getting in her eyes.'

'SHUT UP!!!!!!!'

 :::

Breaking the stretch of darkness from settling over the horizon, a stadium blares its music loud enough to rock the dirt under their boots, stroboscopic streamers blitzing the night air, shooting off with the potency of a nuclear meltdown. Glitters explode from hazardously placed party cannons and eye-melting hot pinks meld next to shiny metallics. All the way on top of the hill, Mettaton's concert looks more like a fashionista rave, a pot boiling over the brim as humans and richer monsters mingle and wail along to the synthesized vocal performance of the Underground's (and most recently, the Surface's) hottest sensation.

It's a sight Osiria (they've been testing the name out, trying to see if it can fit) would have been sore to miss, and absolutely would have had they not convinced Mono to help them sneak out to the far edges of the city. A journey that should have taken hours wound up being a hop, skip and a jump away when your strange shadow friend can liquify into dark matter and pop up just about anywhere. 

It was so strange, feeling the entire town and forest and city past him by like a gust of wind, before being plopped down on this little hill. 

They're far enough away that no one will spot them. Osiria was already decked out in their appropriate MTT-TV merch (glow bracelets, headband, baggy socks and sports sneakers, crop top) and moving to the faint rhythm and bass boost that riled the dirt to jump like frightened bug up from the ground. 

SOUL pounding. Bones aching and rattling in their joints. Osiria was all aglow (as a rule of nature, Papyrus did not sweat. He precipitated awesomeness) as they danced to the beat just out of reach, hitting the perfect poses during the peak of the choruses, practically twisting himself into a bone-pretzel to keep up with each song that rapidly increased in tempo. 

He feels like he's about to fall apart. It's the most alive they've felt in years. 

For a few blissful hours now, home and school and the stress of the future rest on a cozy backburner that Osiria aches to turn the temp up on. Just so they can stay here in this mindless moment, for just a little bit longer. 

Mono, the old, potentially glass-boned creature that she is, has made herself comfortable in the grass, a little way behind the grooving skeleton. A cat's cradle made up of old, tattered red string knotted unevenly between her hoof-clamps. According to Mono, it helps her with her dexterity. Osiria saw no fault in the logic, so with only a few nudges to get her up and dancing, Osiria left her be.

The song, a bassy electro-swing, tapers out and Osiria gives himself a moment to swipe the stickiness from their frontal lobe and rehydrate. 

High on music and magic, the young skeleton turns to the shadow, brimming with a newfound splendour. "DO YOU LIKE THE MUSIC, MO!?"

Mono only looks up from her craft for a moment, before dropping her snout again. "….Mono."

"IF YOU GET TO CALL ME OSIRIA, I GET TO CALL YOU MO." He grins in a way he hopes she doesn't believe to be too cruel. 

"….That's fair."

Good. Steady water. Mono's such a cool cucumber. She's more robotic then Mettaton! Nyeh heh heh!... That was mean. 

To lighten their own mood, Osiria swung their arms out, vocals loud enough to drown out the roaring of the distant crowd. "DID YOU KNOW A LOT OF MTT SEQUENCES ARE DIRECTLY INSPIRED BY HUMAN MODELLING CAMPAIGNS AND THE STYLE KNOWN AS 'JPOP'? ALPHYS TALKS ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME, SOME OF METTATON'S POSES ARE EVEN INSPIRED BY HER HYPERFIXATION 'MEW MEW KISSY CUTIE'. WHAT INGENUITY!" 

"…. I thought you hated anime?"

Osiria frowned, able to recall the dozens of times this month alone they have raved about the artistic degeneration of the anime style artform and wilfully ignores all of it to shake their skull at Mono, smile small and all knowing. "I MOST CERTAINLY DO! BUT!! KISSY CUTIE KILLERS 3™ IS AN IMMERSIVE EXPERIENCE THAT DIFFERS FROM IT'S SILLY CARTOON ORIGINS! THE MECHANICS ARE CLEVER. THE PLOT IS IMMERSIVE. I'D EVEN GO SO FAR AS TO SAY THE CHARACTERS ARE HALF-DECENT! BUT THE MOST PRODUCTIVE ELEMENT, IN MY EVER CORRECT OPINION, ARE THE COMBOS AND SUBSEQUENT UNIQUE SPRITES! THE POSES ARE JUST BEYOND COOL! AND SEXY!"

"……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………How'd you get that trademark there?"

"SECRET OF THE TRADE, MO. GET IN LINE." 

Osiria adores these moments. Where he doesn't have to think or stress or worry too greatly about eyes casting judgement or voices whispering behind hands. It's just them and Mono and that's all he really needs for a nice night out. 

The wind is cool, brushing past their burning bones like a chilled balm and it helps unclog the stuffiness that's sat in their ribs for so long now. The air tastes like freedom and it's easier to smile when everything looks so bright and ecstatic. 

Osiria manages another three songs before they fall on a spin move, landing with an 'OOF' against the dirt, metaphorical wind knocked out of them. It takes a second for him to rise, bones popping and stiff from the rigorous discoing of the night, to crawl towards Mono's side near the top of the hill. He tries not to wince as the grass blades scrape across their kneecaps. 

Mono doesn't pause her activity. Despite this however, her long, heavy spine-tail shifts across the dirt to give Osiria space to sit beside her. 

He's huffing and sputtering by the time he reaches her, plonking down heavy on their pelvis and dusting their knees free of stray leaflets. 

In spite of all the exhaustion however, their smile never falls, beaming like a fresh ray of sunlight through the smoke of a forest fire. 

"THIS IS GREAT, ISN'T IT MO?" 

From his peripheral, Osiria can spot Mono not paying their words any heed, twining the threads of burning red string between her hooves. Osiria had asked earlier where Mono had gotten them from. Mono said they were given to her and had left it at that. 

Mono was usually quiet, withdrawn and unsociable. In most cases, it was Osiria who had to engage in the conversation first to get any proper stimuli out of the shadow and sometimes that took a little prodding. 

"THANKS FOR HELPING ME SNEAK OUT, BY THE WAY. MISS TORIEL WOULD OF NEVER LET ME GO, EVEN WITH AN ESCORT." Raising their voice a few notches, Osiria grins when they've finally seemed to of caught Mono's attention again. "I'VE BEEN TRYING TO GO TO A METTATON CONCERT FOR YEARS NOW. I'VE EVEN SAVED UP TO PAY FOR A TICKET FOR MYSELF! BUT MISS TORIEL SAYS IT'S 'TOO INAPPROPRIATE'." 

Running his phalanges over the sequins lining their bedazzled leather jacket, Osiria sighed, then laughed. Without needing to check, he could already feel Mono's hollow consideration pressed solely onto them. "IT'S FUNNY. THIS ONE TIME, A FEW YEARS AGO, WE HAD SET UP THIS GYFTMAS PARTY AND TORIEL GOT ABSOLUTELY PLASTERED! WENT ON THE KARAOKE MACHINE AND REPLACED ALL THE GYFTMAS WORDS WITH SWEARS."

Osiria laughed and tried not to think about how awful it felt to drag the poor lady all the way to the garage with the inflatable mattress. Toriel's damp, bitter breath against their temporal bone as she muttered under her breath, sorrows of the past and apologies to people whose names Osiria didn't recognize but knew were important anyway. 

Even Flowey couldn't crack a cruel jab at the whole scene, face stony and blank. 

Osiria didn't mention the incident to Toriel, ever. And years later, it's easier to just think of it as an absurd little fluke, something that was fine and funny and could be so swiftly swept under the rug then something that made their insides hurt. 

So even if Mono isn't laughing, Osiria can trick themself just fine for the both of them. "….Sounds like quite the night." 

"OH, IT WAS!" It's hard to admit how much it hurt to see someone, someone so strong and resilient and level-headed as Toriel, crumble under the weight of demons' unseen, horrors unfaced, traumas untapped. It reminded him of- …It just reminded Osiria of stuff. Still, they laugh on, because there's not much else he can do about it now. "I THINK THIS WAS RIGHT AFTER FRISK-"

Frisk. Friend, saviour, murderer. Soulless husk, companion. Puzzle master, dancing queen. The most talented human Osiria ever met. Gone on their separate path, to a place unknown to all their new friends and family. 

Osiria had no doubt the little human's Determination would pull them through the trials of life, but it had been, still was, hard watching Toriel weep so, for yet another loss she must endure. 

It all served to remind Osiria of how different or how distressingly alike this new chapter in his life was to the old one Underground. 

And how lost they felt, watching the strongest in his life weep under a burden Osiria was never welcomed to shoulder. 

Mono's still looking at him, it's one of those looks that isn't any different from any other expression she makes because her mask doesn't move but it just feels judgmental. 

Burrowing a hole into the dirt with their eyelights, Osiria feels now, with the bit of downtime they have, is a good time to clear the air on something that's had them feeling a bit skittish these past few weeks. 

"HE ISN'T SO BAD, Y'KNOW."

Understandably, Mono asks, "….Who?"

"FLOWEY." Osiria elaborates. The tips of their polished sneakers look so shiny in the moonlight. Osiria makes good to focus on them instead of Mono herself. "I FEEL LIKE YOU HAVEN'T BEEN GIVEN A VERY GOOD FIRST IMPRESSION OF HIM THESE PAST FEW MONTHS." Actually, can Mono go back to focusing on her cat's cradle? It's kind of hard to breathe unnecessarily with the old beast's all-consuming darkness bedimming the concert lights.  

It makes his teeth click.

"HE REALLY ISN'T THAT BAD. WE POKE JABS AT EACH OTHER ALL THE TIME." They were friends, best friends even! Have been for years now. How long has Osiria known Flowey for again? Five- six years? But then, how long has Flowey known Osiria? Who's to say, after everything Frisk told them… 

Osiria was trying not to cringe so hard it's starting to physically hurt. Instead, he clenched his knees and leaned forward, hoping maybe to catch a ray of moonlight beaming down, away from Mono's oppressive profile. "SOMETIMES FLOWEY JUST… FORGETS THAT WORDS CAN HURT. IT'S GOOD TO JUST GIVE HIM SOME GRACE. CAN'T BE EASY LIVING AS A FLOWER." It was something Osiria had always sympathized with. Osiria couldn't fathom what it must be like to be the snippy golden flower. 

No hands to hold tools with. No legs to run away with. 

A stationary life, a trapped life. 

And Flowey always made good to remind Osiria of this burden. Day in and day out. Whether it was in the middle of a study session, or the middle of the night, where'd the prickly blossom would stretch his stalk to hover himself over Osiria's prone form. The dead glassiness in those doll-like slits the little bud called eyes so very shiny when he grinned and laughed and told Osiria about how much he hated this version of the world. And how much he hated Frisk for ditching him here after dragging him out of Ebott by his roots. 

Giggling and wheezing, the funniest joke in the world that only Flowey could really understand anymore, serenading in his squeaky, smooth as silver voice about oh, how he hated Toriel for forgetting him and how much he hated Papyrus-

Suddenly, Osiria feels a weird syrup of feelings clog their cervical and something tells them to wrap this spiel up before he starts to really choke. "HE'S STILL A GOOD FRIEND AT THE END OF THE DAY. THOUGH, SOMETIMES I THINK THAT POT IS THE ONLY REASON HE HANGS AROUND ME. OR MAYBE IT'S NOT AND I JUST DON'T KNOW HIM?"

Perking up, plagued with a new idea, Osiria says, "Y'KNOW, HE KIND OF REMINDS ME OF YOU A BIT, MO." Boldly (in his opinion), Osiria lifts their skull up to face Mono head-on.

She stared at him. Papyrus felt their eyelights flicker.

Struck with nerves, Osiria scrambled to summarize and hopefully dampen the flames of offense as much a skeletally possible. "AS IN YOU'RE BOTH VERY… BLUNT! NO SUGAR IN THIS BLACK COFFEE! YOU'RE NEVER SCARED TO SAY WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND. THAT REALLY COOL. I COULD NEVER- IT'S JUST… IT'S FUNNY. I LIKE THAT ABOUT THE BOTH OF YOU. KIND OF REMINDS ME OF-"

Blues, reds and whites splash across their vision and Osiria feels their smile pull taunt. Taking a sharp inhale, Osiria's chin touches their collarbone, scrutinizing the tawdry concert so very far away.

"Never Mind." 

Mono doesn't reply right away.

Maybe this will be one of those nights she just doesn't say anything. Some nights are like that. Or maybe she's waiting for Osiria's cue, maybe she can sense there's something more. Or maybe, in Mono's bottomless well of patience, she's waiting for Osiria to clear the air for her. Mono has displayed a preference towards working with a full picture set before her, like how a surgeon won't begin the operation until all the tools are set.

Osiria thinks that is what Mono would want. But Mono also doesn't really want anything either. It makes his skull spin just thinking about it. The elder shadow is quite the head-scratching contradiction. 

Mono never really seems to expect anything from Osiria. On their part, Osiria doesn't know how to feel about that. So many years now Osiria has been floating in this little washing machine cycle of home, school, church, home, school, church- unbroken for so long, always meeting the quota with bubbly compliance, happily waiting with nary a whine for something to come a temporarily burst the bubble. And then… he'd go right back to waiting.

So peaceful had the little run been at the start, but now it seemed fit to drown the young skeleton in its smothering embrace. 

"It's Just…" They don't know where to even begin, with Mono or themself. It's easier to just rub over the smooth dips of their knuckles and hope for a chance to salvage this convo. "HE'S VERY IMPORTANT TO ME. SO EVEN IF HE IS A LITTLE MEAN… IT DOESN'T MATTER. WE'RE WORKING ON IT." Okay, he was definitely lying there.

"YOU'RE BOTH MY FRIENDS. I DON'T WANT YOU THINKING BAD OF HIM." That definitely wasn't a lie.

For all the silence of the night, Mono's voice, still ever so low and inharmonious with the gaudy tunes blasting from hundreds of feet away, still manages to startle the stripes, "….Sometimes…. The most important people in our lives aren't always the best… Osiria."

Osiria doesn't want to think of the implications of that. Faces and voices converge to the focal front of their mind, turning into an echo chamber of noise that makes his mandible quiver. Most of them are smiling, patting his skull, chatting over the lips of teacups or coffee mugs. Hyping him up, calming them down. Talking, talking, talking. 

Somehow, it's never to Osiria. 

Swallowing, Osiria can't bear to turn away from the glittering light show, not handling the heaviness that presses anew against their ribs, a pulsing, breathing thing that watches him, seeks him out in everything, no matter what. His every victory and flaw. 

Desperate, Osiria pivots, "Do You Remember The First Friend You Ever Had, Mo?"

If Mono felt scuffed at being ignored, she doesn't show it. She never shows it. All the same, she answers, words measured as if she were plucking them out of her mental library. "….No…. Not particularly…. I don't even remember my first words…. Maybe it was something like… 'Hello'…… I drifted…. A lot…. In those first few millennia…. Not interested in anything…. Good or bad alike…. I think I saw many wondrous things… and many horrific things…. But I could never really appreciate them for what they were…. So I always wound up turning around and walking away…. I still do that sometimes…." 

Whatever it was about that sentence left Osiria feeling newly hollowed, a frosty sort of upset that writhed between the matrix of their bones, wiggling and feasting off the pit forming in his ribs. 

Mono had seen many, many things. She told Osiria such and maybe it was just her phrasing, but Osiria always got the impression the old beast had lived many more lifetimes than him. 

Ever a wonder, how many stories out there Mono might have forgotten.

"…..I don't know if anything changed really… but I suppose I've just found less reason to turn away…. Maybe(?)"

Shifting uncomfortably in the grass, Osiria couldn't help but think back to Flowey's crueler moments, where he would gladly laugh off any pleas for silence or demands for apology simply by divining his Soulless nature, saying he couldn't possibly care, that he was evil to his core eternally just by the very nature of his own existence, as if that was in any way an adequate excuse. 

It didn't matter how many times Osiria tried to point out that Flowey still had choice, judgement and a conscience of sorts. 

That effort only served to boil the anomaly's temper. 

Somehow, this all felt very similar to that.

"THAT DOESN'T MAKE YOU BAD, MO." he tries to speak with a voice of steel, but it comes out more like drywood. He doesn't want Mono to think of herself as bad, too many people in Osiria's life think that way.

Mono makes some motion with her helmet, turned away as he is, Osiria can't tell if it's a shake or a nod, "….No, but it does make me inhumane…." Mono is gesturing with her hoof-hands, but Osiria can't see it past the blur screening over his viewpoint. He hates hearing her talk about herself like this. He's so sick of hearing people they love deny themselves such basic dignity. 

Isn't the fact that Osiria likes- loves them to begin with reason enough to believe they deserve better? Or… is it not enough? His mouth feels dry.

"….If I cannot change…. Then I cannot create change…. Nothing of substance can be made without intention to back it… even the most artificial of causes can be rooted in a greater objective…. I am nothing… I am just Mono."

Mono doesn't startle at the sudden contact against her torso. Osiria takes the moment to curl his bony arms around her puffy cardigan-adorned middle. In actuality, it's more of a side-hug, because even with their lanky, rag-doll arms, the young skeleton can barely cup the base of the old lady's back, nowhere close to intertwining their phalange together in a full encirclement, but he tries, nonetheless. For Mono. 

It's an awkward thing, the hug. The cardigan's fabric does next to nothing to shield against the natural biting freeze of Mono's thick pelt. Like faceplanting against a frozen lake fully exposed. There is nothing to protect Osiria from Mono's overwhelming brumal burn and every quaking nerve in him tells them to let go. Despite this, Osiria clings on just a little tighter. 

"WELL, 'JUST MONO' IS MY FRIEND." they snip, ignoring the frigid ache settling in their sternum. "YOU MATTER TO ME. EVEN IF YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ANYTHING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD… EVEN ME- I DON'T CARE. NO ONE DESERVES TO NOT MATTER." Mono twists her neck at an uncomfortable angle to point her snout at him and Osiria grits their teeth, staring straight into the void of her sockets in spite of how they made him sweat, "AND ONE DAY, WHEN I'M GREAT AGAIN, I'LL MAKE SURE TO SPREAD SOME OF THAT GREATNESS TO YOU."

The night carries on, the concert continues to pollute the air with pink pandemonium, the leaves on the tree overhead still rustle, the cat's cradle still burns. This moment, where Osiria stares up into the nothingness seems indefinite and totally irrelevant to the bustling world around them. Just him and Mono. 

It's the longest contact they have ever had, the young skeleton realizes. Osiria simply assuming Mono would not care for physical affection. She just never seemed the type. It's a bit of a shock to find her not pushing them away. A prod against the base of their spine startles the stripes, but his befuddlement is quickly washed away when Mono's winding tail flops down against the grass before curling near his legs in a loose swirl. 

"….You're already pretty great, Osiria." It's difficult, Osiria finds, to hear things like that from Mono. Because it's so hard to believe, yet somehow, Mono makes it sound perfectly reasonable. 

It’s Mono that breaks eye contact first, instead choosing to make the stars her audience, "….Now that I'm thinking about it…. There was this old man I used to play checkers with…. But I'm sure they were less of a friend and more of just… someone I happened to share a space with." Mono speaks with no whimsy in her voice, yet Osiria cherishes ever word. Understanding them in a way that left him a little unsettled. 

"THAT'S FINE. LOTS OF FRIENDS ARE FRIENDS OF CIRCUMSTANCE. HAVE YOU EVER FOUND THE OLD MAN AGAIN?"

With a shake of her helmet, Mono's twisting antlers block out the moon and drown Osiria in a sea of dark, if only for a second. "….No…. I believe he's been long gone for a while now…. I think I left him behind… when I first started going around…. I believe I've left a lot of people behind." 

"YOU'VE LEFT PEOPLE BEHIND?" Osiria means to sound curious, but their phalanges were shredding clumps of grass free from the hill. 

Bobbing her helmet along, Mono says with such unconcern, "….Yes…. I'm sure you are familiar with the occurrence…. Do not fret to greatly…. Thousands of Papyri are left behind in their universes by their brothers…. Your circumstance is quite common."

It feels like a strike. Like a full-body scrape across a powerline and Osiria cannot breathe, not even if he wanted to. 

All too quickly, Osiria feels the temperature drop to sub-zeros and with frantic legs, they kick away from the slouched beast. Paralysed down to their magic core, equally as galvanized on a terror he had once believed firmly buried, Osiria found himself gasping for air like a drowned bird. Legs trembling to pull himself up, to run away and never come back. Especially when Mono now seems invested in watching their every move. 

"LEFT BEHIND?!!!?" they near screech, unable to stop their arms or legs or SOUL from shivering, "AS IN 'LEAVE AND NEVER COME BACK' OR 'POPS IN FOR QUICK VISITS' OR- OR WHAT!!?"

Mono, perhaps not expecting this reaction, shrugs and explains far too evenly, "….Well… from what I've seen…. Sometimes they come back…. And sometimes…. They move on." 

Osiria takes the words like a swing from a sledgehammer directly to their ribs and Osiria feels like their knees might buckle from the weight of the confession. At the confirmation that those many sleepless nights stewing in their own anxiety weren't just lapses of hysteria. 

Osiria chokes out, "MOVE ON?! FROM- WHAT??!!! FROM ME!?? FROM THEIR WORLD?! THEIR FRIENDS AND LIFE?!! WHY??" Osiria feels like he knows exactly why. That might be the worst part.

Mono's nonchalance doesn't help, only serving to ignite his panic into something harsher, meaner, "….Sometimes it's just circumstance…. Sometimes they just want something…. More interesting…. I suppose."

Breath catching, hands floating uselessly in the air, Osiria can't get their mind to quiet. The echo chamber is back, only this time it's filled with eyelights that look wrong, sad and sorry. Smiles that are only bright when they're directly facing him, only to fall the moment they think his back is turned. An apology for the long wait, one that becomes longer and longer between complaints of work and their new friends and their new life, out there in the Multiverse.

How could this world, or Osiria, ever compete with the pull of infinity?

Strangled and staggering on their feet, a wave of nausea pulses up the pit of Osiria's belly, tears welling around his eyesockets, "OH MY ANGEL! THAT'S WHAT'S HAPPENING, ISN'T IT? THEY'RE GOING TO LEAVE ME HERE!" It's the worst thing in the world, because regardless of how Osiria feels, he finds that they would never beg for either of them to stay here. 

In a world that had worn them down. Where they too would be stuck in this same cycle.

It wouldn't be fair.

But that doesn't make Osiria feel any less rotten, resentful.

So far detached from his consternation, Mono's voice only taps at the exposed nerve end of Osiria's bleeding patience, "….Your brothers?... I don't.... I never said they-"

"BUT YOU DON'T KNOW THAT DO YOU?!!"

"….Neither do you, Osiria." 

"THAT DOESN'T MATTER!" It almost hurts to scream like this. When their SOUL is racing in a way that feels so wrong and off-putting, like a single stroke of paint askew on a canvas. "IT COULD STILL HAPPEN!! AND THEN WHAT?!!! I'LL JUST BE- FUCKING- STUCK HERE!!"

Mono looks out, up at the stars, at the moon, at the hulking stadium and at the grass underfoot before she replies, "….This world doesn't seem so bad."

"YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING LIVE IN THIS WORLD, MONO, HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY KNOW?!!" Osiria feels the words rip out of their throat, opening up the floodgates for more to come. He's never been this verily enraged with the old lady before and regardless of the guilt they feel deep in the wells of his sockets, the young skeleton couldn't stop themself if they tried.

He just needs- more than anything else in the entire world- for Mono, anyone at all, to understand.

"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW GOD DAMN MISERABLE IT IS TO GET UP EVERY ANGEL FORSAKEN DAY AND DEAL WITH YOUR SHITTY, TACKY SCHOOLMATES, WHO LAUGH AT YOU BEHIND YOUR BACK AND TALK TO YOU LIKE YOU'RE SOME STUPID LITTLE LOST PUPPY!!" Their face is damp and sticky, droplets of champagne orange beading down their chin. His hands shake too violently to wipe them away. 

"YOU DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE WINE CABINET OR WHETHER OR NOT THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE MOST ARE EVER GOING TO COME HOME!!! DREADING THE DAY THEY DISAPPEAR AND YOU NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN!" they gasp on their next inhale, throat burning, "AND IT'S GOING TO HAPPEN, ISN'T IT?!!" 

It would be so much easier to just accept and move on, but Osiria is so terribly frustrated with everything and everyone.

Their schoolmates.

Their monotone universe.

Their friends.

Their family.

Themself most of all.

Because-

"THEY'LL LEAVE YOU! THE BEST MONSTERS IN YOUR LIFE WILL LEAVE WHEN THEY REALIZE-" 

They've found something so much greater than him. 

Coughing on their own scream, Osiria gags, shrinking down into a squat, hugging their legs and squeezing his sockets shut. He cannot face the open skies like this. Their legs ache, skull throbbing now that it's been relieved of its burden. There are no more echoes or faces or memories to spark their passion and rage. All Osiria was left with in that moment was the dark and their own heavy sobbing. 

It's so painfully quiet. 

The thrum of the concert can't pierce through the white noise gathering around their nose ridge, ringing all the way to the back of his skull and numbing his spine. Ice crawls down from their neck, spreads out to the tips of their phalanges. 

It hurts to live in that moment, in a world that could move on without him.

"I'm Sick Of Feeling Alone All The Time." Tears stick to his teeth, voice croaky, worn down to its foundation. "I Just Want Someone To Like Me Without Feeling Scared That They'll Leave One Day. I'm Sick Of Pretending To Be Happy When I Know I'm Not And It Feels Like The Whole World Doesn't Care Whether Or Not I Am." 

The truth burns on the way out of between their teeth.

"Why? Why Do I Always Feel Like This? All The Time?" The Surface is so great, isn't it? It was the promise land of monsterkind. Osiria couldn't of been happier to see the sunlight for the first millionth time. At some point, that light had fizzled out and left Osiria with the ashes.

Past the haze of tears, Osiria watches their hands tremble, gut-wrenched and frightened and alone. "What's Gone Wrong With Me? Why Can't This Just Be Enough?" 

Whittled down to his base, Osiria looks up to the beast, too uncaring of what will come of it when the grief feels so overbearing.  

"I Don't Know What To Do, Mono. I'm Scared To Change. But I'm So Scared That, If Everything Stays The Same, I'll Lose The Chance To Figure Out Who I Am." 

Osiria doesn't want to give up. On… anyone. 

But it's so hard to believe when so much of their own faith feels so shallow nowadays. 

"I Want To Do Something More. Be Something More. Even If It's Just For A Little While."

How come in a world as big and as beautiful as this one, Osiria always ended up feeling so, so alone. 

The silence following does nothing to fill the vacancy of his mind, leaving Osiria feeling mined of every little fickle sentiment that had once rested there. For just a moment, none of it matters. A sensation Osiria finds to be neither good nor bad. Flimsy and light, unfeeling now that the drainage has been released. To just… exist. 

To just cry unthinkingly, all greater worries filtered out with every tear shed. A gruelling cargo finally dropped, and Osiria can't even describe how it feels. Even if they cared to. 

Mono's fur blends oh so neatly in with the dark of the night. Only cut off by the soft pastels of her cardigan and shirt. Leaving her off-white, Cervidae mask to float between the stars. It's absurd but Osiria is too wearied to take any humour from it.

So instead, they drop their skull between the channel of his kneecaps and weeps. Their scarf was growing damp under his flood works. Osiria didn't bother to move it. 

For a handful of minutes, with only Mono and the moon as his witnesses, Osiria cries.

"….You do that sometimes."

Sniffling, Osiria lifts their skull at the abrupt statement, knuckling the tears from his sockets, "Do What?"

Pinching her hoof-clamps to adjusts her sleeves, Osiria sees that Mono has turned to fully face him, cross-legged and slouched low, "….Talk to me like I'm stupid."

Flinching, Osiria flexed his hands against his kneecaps, feeling a little shy, "Oh… I'm Sorry, Mo." It was fair, in a way, that Mono got to point out a nick of Osiria's, after he had screamed at her like that. Somehow though, she doesn't even sound offended. 

The fresh shame in Osiria's SOUL tells them she should be.

It's worn away at Mono's next words.

"….All's well…. No offence taken…. Besides…. I'm aware I'm not… compatible…. with many high stress situations…. It's for the best you've gotten this off your ribs anyhow."

A little embarrassed, Osiria taps a tuneless beat against the toes of their sneakers, wanting to look at anything but his beastly friend.  

"….I am sorry." Mono intones robotically and Osiria blinks the tears out of his eyesockets.

Ugly frustration still gnaws deep into his SOUL, infecting their voice like an active virus, "You Don't Mean That."

Nodding along, perfectly understanding the accusation, Mono replies, "….No, I don't…. But you deserve an apology from somebody…. Might as well give it a try…. And I have caused upset…. I should apologize… I'm mature enough to admit that… even when I don't mean it… the least I should do is say it."

The words do nothing for Osiria, and the young skeleton struggles to gather the brevity needed to just explain themself, now that the frightful beehive in their skull has been abandoned. "I Just… I Wanna Matter."

"….You matter." Mono assures so easily, the tone all logical and cold and it's weird to hear such consolations from that voice, "…. I bet you matter to a lot of folks out there…. You probably don't see it right now because… you're frustrated…. Maybe even hurt."

Osiria shakes their skull. "Yeah, But I Want-" to matter to themself, "I Want To Be Someone I Can Be Happy With. Proud Of. I Want To Be Enough- To Be Someone's Reason To Stick Around. And I Just Don't Think I Can Find That In This World."

Chin tucked between his knees, Osiria frowns, eyelights shiny and wobbly. "I'm Sorry. I Didn't Mean To Yell At You." He hopes beyond any hope that she believes him. Osiria doesn't know what he'll do if Mono disappears too.

"….All good."

"Or Make You Feel Stupid."

"….Didn't feel a thing, hon…. You're fine." 

Osiria puffs out a laugh but they're not sure if they're smiling, "I Don't Think I Am. I Just Wished You Would… Care. Just A Little Bit."

Mono looks out along the skyline, to the stars and the moon "….You might be wishing for a long while, Osiria."

It's so, so weird. How Mono seems to hold so much hope for Osiria, a hope the young skeleton thought extinguished, yet can't spare herself a single shred. It makes them want to laugh and cry all at the same time.

Maybe it's just logical to her. 

Still, as the crickets begin to call and the music of the stadium changes, there are a few more things that set unsteady in his SOUL and Osiria speaks a little sterner than the warble of their voice should have allowed.

"She's Not A Drunk, By The Way."

Again, Mono is confused, like she has been many times tonight, it would appear. 

"….Huh?"

"Miss Toriel." If Flowey deserved some grief, then Toriel deserved nothing short of the heavens for the amount of forbearance she held towards the foppery around her. "She Isn't A Drunk. She's An Adult, She's Allowed To Drink. Even My Brothers' Used To Share A Few Of Those Disgusting Beers Together. It's Just Sometimes, When It's Bad- Like At Gyftmas- It Just… Kinda Sucks." 

Toriel held some of Osiria's happiest memories in her visage. As well as some of their gloomiest. When he thinks of the kindly, speckled goat, Osiria wants to foster the smell of cinnamon and light, playful scolding and soft paws running over the crown of their skull. 

He hates himself whenever those happy little memories are marred by the smell of sweat and heady wine and vicarious embarrassment. 

Toriel deserves to be thought of as her greatest self. It's the very least Osiria can do for her.

"She Isn't A Bad Caretaker. She's The Best Goat Mum-Adjacent I Could Ever Ask For. She Knows Everything, I Swear! I Could Never Imagine Running A Whole School Plus Work On The Peace Negotiations And Then Come Home And Make Dinner And… Snail Pie." Trying to suppress a full-body shiver, Osiria turns his attention down to his lap. But Mono must've noticed anyway. 

"….You like snail pie?"

With a so-and-so nod, Osiria hums through their teeth. "YEAH."

"…………" She doesn't seem to believe him.

"IT'S OKAY. SHE MAKES THEM WITH LOVE." 

"…………." She really doesn't seem to believe him.

Caving in under the pressure, Osiria laughs out, "IT FUCKING SUCKS. I'D TAKE TEMMIE FLAKES OVER SNAIL PIE ANY DAY." 

Mono nods, "….The type with the frosting sugar sprinkled on top?"

"OR CAT FOOD."

"….May I recommend bird seed."

"WITH PEANUT BUTTER AND HONEY."

"….For variety." 

Banter with Mono is fun, she says everything so forthright and basic, it's always funny to see how genuinely ridiculous their conversations can become. 

But it can't distract the stripes for long, not from their new emptiness and despite how close they feel to getting back their groove, they can't help but still feel lost.

Wrapping their arms back around their knees, Osiria watches a huge, sparkling pink ray of light cleave the dark sky, sending the crowd into an uproar. "WHAT DO I DO, MO?" 

"….Tell her the truth."

"TORIEL?"

Mono nods and Osiria jolts back, limbs twitching as his legs fall limp to the dirt.

"WHAT!?" they flail, "I COULD NEVER- THE LOOK ON HER FACE- SHE'D BE HEARTBROKEN!!-"

Bowing her helmet, Mono hand disappears into the darkness of the night as she moves to swipe up the length of her antlers. "….Maybe not about how you're feeling…. Not right now, of course… But work your way up to it…. Sometimes you've got to take little nips and bites out of the problem before you can fully address it… that has happened before…."

It makes sense, but it sounds too concise, too sensible and easily spoken. They almost want to deny it, still so unsure but fail to demand any silence. Osiria laughs, almost fully.

"WHY DOES IT SOUND LIKE YOU'VE HAD THIS CONVERSATION BEFORE?"

Mono patted her knees mindlessly, watching the beam of pink split into thousands of shorter, thinner streaks that dash the night, "….Perhaps I have…. But there is no point in not saying it again….You should tell her about the pie."

"THE PIE?" The pie was so miniscule to this entire equation of issues. 

"….And the drinking." The old beast continues and Osiria's smile drops, "…. Maybe if you explain to her how it affects you… how it makes you feel…. Just enough to get the point across…. Then proper progress can start to be made…." Tapping her knee, Mono looks to the stars again, skimming through her own memory, "….I believe you said something of a similar connotation when we first met… Can't remember…. Something about… inevitable…" 

Oh, they know what she's referring to and it makes them pout. 

"'PROCRASTINATION ONLY SERVES TO DELAY THE INEVITABLE'." He can't believe Mono's somehow managed to turn his own words against him. They'll get her back for this at some point.

With a finger-point and a nod, Mono persists, "….Exactly…. And the next time your brothers swing around… you should talk to them."

"I DON'T… Think I'm Brave Enough For That Conversation Yet." He laments, the sear returning to their sockets no matter how the earlier crying had left them feeling like a wrung-out wash cloth. The suggestion leaves them feeling small and rickety, like one small crack in his platform will leave them blind and alone and desperately scared all over again. 

It's hard to believe that… after everything, it would be just that easy. To just… talk about it.

"….It'll take time." She doesn't sound sure, but her words are sure. "…. Everything does…. But you'll get there."

Afterwards, the quiet sits a little different. A little less muddled and jittery, and when Osiria allows himself to settle, they're reminded very quickly of the fatigue the night has set in their bones. Still, one last thing was still atilt in Osiria's mind, and it squirms like a salt-draped snail to be known.

Osiria pipes up. "HEY MO?"

"….Hmm?"

Wringing his phalange, Osiria asks the next question with a touch of diffidence, "YOU TRAVEL THE MULTIVERSE TOO, RIGHT? LIKE MY BROTHERS."

"….Indeed."

The lights and the music of the stadium still rave on, but Osiria doesn't think they could dance along even if he wanted to at this point. Besides, it's way less important than what they're about to ask. "IF I GAVE YOU LIKE- A PHOTO OR A REALLY GOOD DRAWING, COULD YOU JUST… CHECK UP ON THEM FOR ME? PLEASE? JUST TO MAKE SURE THEY'RE DOING OKAY."

For a second, Mono just watches him, and Osiria can't begin to piece together what she may be thinking before she replies. "….Course, hon…. If that'll make you happy."

It does. Just a little and Osiria's smile matches the tiny relief it offers them. To hopefully just… know just a little bit more, to not be left in the dark and wondering when they'll next be back. 

It doesn't feel quite like the Hail Mary Osiria was expecting. All things considered, it sounds so two-fisted Osiria ended up feeling a little… silly, in hindsight, for not considering it. Just talking.

At the same time, it felt monumentally impossible. 

But Mono probably wouldn't have suggested it if she thought Osiria incapable. That, at least, gave the young skeleton a bit of boost of confidence.

Maybe… maybe it would work. Make life just a little bit more bearable. 

"THANK YOU, MO." They mean it with all their SOUL. "I'M… GLAD… YOU'RE HERE." 

"HEY MONO, WHAT HAPPENS TO A UNIVERSE IF… SOMEONE LEAVES?"

"….Leave?... As in…"

"LIKE LEAVE-LEAVE. YOU ONCE MENTIONED A DESTROYER, I THINK? SOME GUY THE TORE APART REALITIES THAT WENT 'OFF-SCRIPT'. IF SOMEONE LEFT… WOULD HE COME HERE?"

"….In some universes…. In many actually… an individual's impact is so miniscule that they can be forgotten by the world's code entirely…. In other circumstances…. Say, after a route has been completely…. The events that happen after have little impact… so anything can happen, realistically."

"SO, SAY WHEN MY BROTHERS- OR IF I- LEFT, NOTHING WOULD GO WRONG?"

"….This is a post-pacifist timeline…. Since the story has already been completely… the actions that take place afterwards do not matter."

"Does Anything Matter In This World."

"….In the Multiverse…. Everyone lives under the lamp of unpredictability…. So everyone matters as much as anyone else… and so forth…. Your brothers…. And those alike them…. Can traverse the Multiverse freely without fear of what may come of their own universe…. As this is now a world free of consequences…. Unless of course, the human decides to RESET… and the code goes haywire trying to replace its missing pieces."

"WHY DO YOU CALL THEM THAT?"

"….Hm?"

"FRISK. YOU CALL THEM 'THE HUMAN'."

"….They are most certainly a human of sorts."

"THEY HAVE A NAME."

"……I'm sure they do…. But who's name?.... Who can say."

"…"

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Hysteria.

Noun. Definition: A behaviour of uncontrollable or excessive emotion, such as panic or anger.

Osiria was laughing. Jeering, cackling.

Marrow and mana soaking through the ridges of their phalanges to patter the ancient frost underfoot. They can taste it- a dulled bittersweet flavour- as it spills down their chin, the bubbling sunset orange oily and thick and unpleasant. Leaving behind a nice tracking trail for the monster clambering at their heels. They could feel bits of bone fragmenting off, dusting while still connected to the delicate rim of their socket. It blistered with waves of brewing ache and sickness, exploding out from the impact point to trip him over and make his arms spasm. SOUL pumping, hands shaking from where he tries to weakly cover the splinter streaming like a lightning bolt from their right eyesocket. 

All the while, Osiria laughs. 

They can't help it, and they have not but a clue as to why this whole horror show was so fucking funny to them.  

Maybe it was the adrenaline? The rush and thrill and inevitable end of the chase. Tantamount to surge of energy that would flow through his manalines when completing a specific and gnarly trick on the racecourse. The dry wind flowing past their burning bones, thinning their sweat and rippling down to his very SOUL. 

This was too alike to that. And many other bombastic things Osiria had been drawn to their whole life. The open flame on a stove. The ear-splitting explosion of a fire canon on the risk segment of MTT-TV. Sneaking out to train in private. Or race along the bumpy dirt paths sprinkled across the mountainside.

Or maybe it was the irony that, after all this time, all this risk and suffering, it was all coming back to bite him in the coccyx. A cruel little twist of the knife, a way for the whole Multiverse to tell the young skeleton he wasn't made for this. That he was better off at home.

And maybe he was. That was so, so funny.

The pain is blinding (pun intended) and Osiria stumbles, gulping as tears join with their marrow. He can taste them too, between gulps of this sweetened, dusty air and Osiria can't tell whether they were giggling or weeping anymore. 

It's just too funny. 

The biggest joke of them all had emerged from those bushes. All blue jacket and curved smile and slumped, lazybones posture.

Only there had been so much wrong with him. From the back of his skull, caved in and cracked like an eggshell, the splatters of red lining their collar and their boxy teeth. 

Eyelights, thin and manic, wobbling out of shape, dilating when they wavered down to stare and gape at Osiria's recumbent suffering, legs burning as they tore themself off from the snow bed to dodge the next oncoming Attack.

It was him. His jacket and dirty white t-shirt and stupid little bean-shaped smile. Even those disgusting splotches across his shirt were so reminiscent of ketchup, it had made Osiria sick to their SOUL just to look at them. 

At him.

Oh, brother. 

What did this world do to you? 

Half-blind, Osiria stumbles as much as he sprints, shambling like a broken wind-up toy on their cracked legs while his frostbitten phalange work to keep half of his skull from slewing clean off. 

Wheezing and smiling and sobbing howbeit, Osiria's feels his SOUL tremble at a certain thought. 

If the Multiverse could do something like this to a variant of his brother, then what could it do to lowly little Osiria? 

Even the concept makes them feel faint around the ankles and it burns to keep moving, to even so much as inhale. But the crunch of snow now rests as a constant at their heels and any second, any blink of pause would be the end of Osiria's little romp through the incomprehensible. 

They've lost their way. Every tree and rock and snow path, all looks the same. Osiria does not dare tear their eyelights away from what's right in front of them, not wanting to risk running head-long into their final resting place. Because he knows if he falls one more time, he'll never get back up. It was enough of a struggle the first time…

With all other possible choices cut off, Osiria knows they'll have to work on the fly to get help. And fast.

Unhooking his backpack from his shoulders, Osiria must drop their hands from their face, drawing a wince and a hiss of air. They can already feel tiny bone fragments chipping and flaking off, some in chunks, sliding down their face. They giggle and sniffle as their magic begins to pool down the hole of their nose ridge, streaming down between their teeth. 

The throbbing climbs and climbs around their socket. Vision sparking in and out of focus, the light in their socket shattered and pulsing till the base of their cervical begins to prickle. He can feel his magic straining, working to keep at least a part of the socket glued together and Osiria doesn't have any breathing room to try to heal it now. 

Now, they must focus. 

Purblindly, keeping their one good eyelight up and focused on the trail ahead, the young skeleton is forced to feel around the different pockets and zippers of their backpack, cursing the Angel and the Underground for their own lack of foresight. The fear pulsating from their SOUL to the phalange make their hands tremble like saltshakers and Osiria knows if they drop the bag, there was no going back to retrieve it. 

Pain building, legs spasming under their endless, icy toil, hands cramping, it’s a relief like no other when Osiria feels his phalange brush against a familiar plastic casing. 

Ripping the tiny lifesaver free from the backpack, Osiria could almost scream with a sort of gratitude close to pious devotion.

Squeezing between his phalange, the little plastic, two-buttoned, black-screened miracle perfectly reflected Osiria's dishevelled exterior: the pager.

Just before they can burst into tears, Osiria is tripped up as another, sharper bone Attack brutally and cleanly sunders his fibula, sending the young skeleton tumbling down once again with the deafening crunch of snow before they can even press the button.

Facedown in the snow, Osiria watches the white bleed into orange.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐

Frolic.

Verb. Definition: To romp; to behave in a playful and uninhibited manner.

Thick, fragrant musk perforates the air, carried by a low breeze that flows by Osiria's heavy red boots, where he stands in the middle of the flower patch. The wind whirlpool's petals and autumn-dried leaves, carrying them in waves that flow over an ocean of flora. The glorious Surface sun rest huddled behind mountains of grandiose clouds, the sky a brilliant fresco of pinks and golds as nighttime creeps up opposite, spotting the sky slowly with twinkling stars. 

The scenic route from his school to their home is one of Osiria's favourite things ever.

Too bad they can't enjoy for too long, not with Miss Toriel breathing down their cervical spine after the past fortnights… little accident.

"And you promise you're on the scenic route, right?"

Osiria must hold the phone away from his face so they can sigh proper. The casting bandage wrapped snug around their forearm is starting to itch something horrid and it's making their phalange twitch. "YES, MISS TORIEL. I AM ON THE ROUTE HOME. DIRECTLY HOME. NO DIVERSIONS."

Osiria doesn't remember much from that night. A bad flip on the racetrack had left the young SOUL dazed and achy, barely registering the trip to the clinic let alone the sheer amount of dirt that was getting between their joints. Or the tidy cleft in their left ulna. 

The clearest memory Osiria possessed of that night was waking up in the little hours of the mourning with a full-body bruise and a very unimpressed Toriel sitting with her legs and arms crossed. The following lecture had lasted long after the young skeleton was discharged, trickling into the drive home and even when they arrived, Osiria was sat on the couch and plucked threadbare till the grand sun itself seeped through the living room lace curtains. 

Osiria couldn't even get a word in before being ushered to bed. 

It had been a long night. A frustrating night too. Because now Miss Toriel wasn't going to give Osiria an inch of leeway in anything. It was seriously curbing Osiria's confidence to talk to her, genuinely, about… well, the pie and the drinking and… church.

It was Friday, the best day of the week in Osiria's opinion. Not just because school was out but also because Toriel would always be at peace negotiations on Friday's and she wouldn't be able to drag him to church for two hours of prayer. Where Toriel would clasp her paws together and beg the Angel to somehow fix Osiria's 'unruly' and 'dishonourable' behaviours. 

Little did she know Osiria spent the majority of that time kneeled in the pew brainstorming new contraptions.

Church was… strange. Osiria had never been before moving in with Toriel. Maybe once or twice while at school but it was never a part of his routine. His brothers always leaned towards rationality and science for answers to the impossible and Osiria kind of just rolled with the punches. Church was intimidating. All sepulchre white and high-backed ceilings and glass-stained depictions of weeping Angels. 

It felt judgmental. Kind of like Toriel. 

"Good, good. You are to go straight home, young skeleton. And to call me once you get there. And later, before you go to bed. Honestly, I'm seriously considering installing proper security cameras around if you think this is in any way acceptable behaviour. Just wait until your brothers hear of this." 

A sour, nasty little part of Osiria wants to say they'll never hear of this if they never come back. The acridity caves in a moment later when Toriel sighs, soft and sad, and says, "You really scared me that night, Papyrus."

Remorse eats away at whatever was left of their bitterness and Osiria can only hush back a small, "I Know, I'm Sorry, Miss."

Toriel sighs again, no less upset then before. "I'll be back tomorrow morning. That way we won't miss the early services. Be sure to have your scarf ironed and pressed neat."

Osiria muffles their groan into said scarf, before nodding then replying verbally and the call ends with Osiria's good arm hanging loosely by their side. 

What a mess, and to think Osiria was actually going to…

Well, nothing he can do about it now but to ride through the waves of worldly retribution and hopefully come out the other side intact.

Trees rustle and shrub shake. And Osiria finds themself perfectly content to stand here for a time, absorbing the scent and the licks of wind against his bones. He swirls his free phalanges distractingly against the warm wrap of their casted arm and smiles. Not doubt, the wind is blowing their rose-red scarf in a way that makes it look incredibly mystifying and epic. 

It almost makes them feel like themself again. Almost.

Osiria can feel his SOUL rest in gentle thumps within the confines of his ribcage for the first time in ages, sighing after a long day of activity and buzzing about. Surface life was a mesh of excitement and stress that inspires unease at every unturned corner, like a cat unsure if they are about to stumble upon a broom or wet food. 

But once the phobia is conquered, Osiria realized, there was very little left to do then to simply live with it. And that got stale. Fast. No matter how much Osiria wants to love this world, with all of its beauty and its sunset and the moon. 

There was always something missing.

Despite his own desires, Osiria knew they couldn't hang out in this field all evening. Not if they wished to avoid the wrath of their caretaker. 

It's just… hard. Standing here, in the beautiful, breathtaking world, and not feel anything towards it besides dissatisfaction. 

It's these little moments of glory that remind Osiria how selfish they are. 

And the sun really is so amazing. It fills the young skeleton with a sort of joy that feel ethereal and undeserved. 

If Osiria could just hold this small moment in his hands just a single moment longer, they could soldier through the rest of the weekend perfectly happy. Not thinking about home or church or school. If, for just this second, these roses and trees and breeze and sunset belonged to him, maybe they could be happy with this chasm in their SOUL.

Maybe.

The rose field keeps Osiria wonderfully content. Wonderfully distracted. He finds himself pleasantly startled when a halo of soft petals falls atop the crown of their skull.

There is no flare of magic to brush against their own field and Osiria can name only one creature out there capable of moving with such absence. 

"MO!" he laughs, twisting to playfully smack their good arm against the soft cardigan sleeve, hiding dense, void-black fur. For the first time they notice her immense shadow blanketing him and some of the patch they were standing in. "I SHOULD TIE A BELL TO YOUR ANTLERS SO YOU CAN'T SNEAK UP ON ME ANYMORE!"

Mono hums, low and dull as always. She moves to help adjust the flower crown over Osiria's skull. Her hands haven't mastered the proper skill necessary for the delicate twiddling needed to knot stems together, so the crown quickly comes apart and sprinkles red and white over their shoulders and the flowers underfoot. 

"…. Sorry if I startled you, Osiria," she mumbles, and if he didn't know her, they'd mistake her for sounding shy. Mono is never sorry for anything. It's part of her cool cucumber charm.

With their widest grin, Osiria throws her a double thumbs-up. "ALL GOOD! YOU'VE BEEN WORKING ON YOUR THREAD WORK, HAVEN'T YOU? IT'S ALWAYS GOOD TO PRACTISE YOUR HAND-EYE COORDINATION." 

Mono shrugs, as much of a creature of noncommitment then of habit. The young skeleton watches the shadow bodily tip onto a patch of grass away from the tea roses and daffodils, crossing her long, awkward legs as her long, awkward arms fall into her lap lazily. Osiria can discern the difference between strained exhaustion and pure lousiness with a connoisseur's eye, like a musician can pick out one wrong note from an entire piece. 

She's such a sorry sight on most days it's exhausting Osiria out via osmosis just watching her.

"….How'd that happen?" Oh, she's pointing at their arm cast.

Feeling maybe not as ashamed over the actual injury then he should be, Osiria feels their eyesockets crinkle under the force of their cheek. "BIKING ACCIDENT. TORIEL WAS FURIOUS. HASN'T STOPPED DRAGGING ME TO CHURCH SINCE."

Mono's nods, though it slows down significantly as her helmet turns to stare back down at the flower fields. "….Church… Yeah…. Church." She's saying it in a way that, upon inquiry, she would never give a concise answer to. Strange because Mono rarely skirts around her intentions. If any at that. Osiria blames it more on her memory going haywire.

"…. Your brothers are gonna be out for a few more weeks." Mono huffs, as if trying to blend her voice into the air so maybe Osiria won't hear her. "…. Said they should be back for Gyftmas, at least…. And that they miss you a whole lot." 

Osiria smiled, strained, and instead focused on fixing up a new flower crown with the surrounding wildflowers. Blues, pinks, yellows. "THANK YOU, MONO."

In measured steps, Osiria approached the strange shadowy beast. With deft hands, he began to gently thread flower stems between the branches of her broad antlers. Mono shifted her Cervidae helmet to accommodate as they twisted and knotted bundles of wildflowers and speckled flower vines to bloom from her blackened form. Little polka dots over an ash-covered canvas. 

The busywork kept his hands and mind occupied away from less welcomed trails of thought. It wasn't in Osiria's nature to think badly of people, especially about individuals he loved. It always made them feel a little sick. He was better than that. More hopeful than that. 

Even when, sometimes, it was difficult. And they were hateful and angry and hurt. When they lashed out and didn't mean it. Never meaning it. Because honestly… being angry was just so fucking tiresome.

"MONO?" Mono shifted again and Osiria found himself staring into the vacant hollow of her eyesocket. "WHAT'S THE MULTIVERSE LIKE?" 

A noise, not a huff or hum or even a sigh, drifted in a breeze of air from the sightless void under her helmet. Slumped like a beaten pillow, Mono turned her gaze towards her lap.

"….You've already asked me that… I think."

"TELL ME AGAIN. SAY IT HOWEVER YOU FEEL FITS. I WANT THE TRUTH." All Osiria knew of the Multiverse was that it was endless, disorganized and that his brothers were set adrift somewhere out in it. Not a lot to work off of and Osiria was tired of not knowing.

Mono scratched her snout, then the length of her neck, then spoke. 

"…. Big…. Horrifying…. Unimaginable…. Filled with many things that don't make sense and many things that don't matter…. People and places and names…. Gods, Guardians, Angels, mercenaries, maniacs…. Good, bad, everything in the middle and everything outside it…. Broken people, people that love to break things…. The Godless and the faithful…. Cosmics and worlds beyond death…." with her big, clumsy hoof-hands, Mono handled a stray rose with all the delicacy her form could manage. 

"…. If it does not consume you…. It will take everything you have…. And give nothing in return…. You will have to build yourself up from whatever is left…. Be you God or mortal…. The Multiverse moulds its travellers to its standards…. It is an apathetic, all-encompassing force that cares for no man or monster's story, love or willpower." 

Osiria wrapped up the final loops on the flower monument he had constructed. They touched their scarf, the soft, frayed material well-beloved and filled with the residue intent it was originally sewn with. Rich and mellow love and admiration intertwined, awe itself woven into every stitch used to keep the garment strung together all these years.

It was their intent. Muffled after years of wear and tear.

The Multiverse sounded like… a lot. Terrifying and life changing. The sort of commitment that one couldn't return from. Osiria had witnessed firsthand how the forces that be had changed their brothers into monster's so detached from everything they once were. Jaded and nihilistic and coldly logical. Sure, they'd perk up at Osiria's beck and call with extra pep in their steps but it'd never last. The moment that portal closed, Osiria knew they were going to come back just a little different from before. 

He wished, desperately, to understand why. And maybe, a little frugally on their part, fill that gap of boredom in their life along the way.

"MONO?" 

The beast leaned her forehead against his shoulder, squishing into the white plush fabric of their sweater. "…. Yeah?"

Osiria fiddled with the clasps of his maroon-red gloves. "Can You Promise Me Something?" 

"….Anything, Osiria." He could feel cold air rasping against his exposed legbones. 

Steeling his nerves, Osiria furrowed their brow ridge and stared into the glorious sunset, clouds carved over them like a stadium filled with faceless spectators. Looking at the brilliant pinks and oranges overcasting the wildflowers and roses filled the young skeleton with Determination. 

"PROMISE ME ONE DAY, YOU WILL TAKE ME TO SEE THE MULTIVERSE."  

Silence. Whistling, ambrosia-filled silence. Then- "…. It'll be the most exciting, traumatizing, mind-bending experience of your life."

"I KNOW," Osiria smiled, patting her helmet like they were patting a cat statue.

"…. No other experience will compete…. You might find yourself viewing yourself or those around you as….unimportant." 

"MAYBE," They huffed, certain, with the ghost of a laugh. "OR MAYBE I WON’T. WON'T KNOW UNTIL I'M OUT THERE." 

Mono pulled back, leaning back on her arms. "…. Your brothers won't appreciate me dragging you around all willy nilly…. I'm not exactly in the business of making enemies, hon." 

"WELL, THEY DON'T HAVE TO KNOW, NOW DO THEY?"

It's a horrible, horrible mischief that spurs him on, a delicate thrill that makes their SOUL swirl and pound and Osiria grins higher and higher by the second despite the tiny ounce of hesitance that sits low in their ribs. They're too deep now. The taste of knowledge and excitement was too tempting. 

And Osiria would be damned if they missed out now.

Besides… it's not like this world has much use for him anyway. Toriel shouldn't have to deal with such a rotten kid anyway. 

Mono tilted her helmet and said with what Osiria could pretend to be fondness, "…. No….They don't."

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

Starstruck.

Adjective. Definition: To be in awe of something or someone.

"Wowie." Spellbound, Osiria couldn't even raise their voice above the captivated hush it had fallen into.

This world was just… wow.

Stars blinked like all-seeing eyes across a pluming bed of lavenders and midnight purples, with dashes of turquoise and bright golds and pinks slashed upon its underbelly. Brighter grape purples cupping the edges of this masterpiece, coiling around the beauty like clouds swirl around the tips of high mountains. 

Osiria can do little but sit and admire as a streak of electric blue plummets across the brume, followed by another and another; shooting stars.

Someone once called them their 'shooting star'. That was a long, long time ago.

To think, there were worlds out there like this and Osiria may of never known. Never seen. His magic practically trilled with wonderment, watching the colours mix and melt into each other, curling like sand in a storm, sweeping higher than his vision could follow. 

It was mesmerizing.

A sort of beauty Osiria could only ever dream of. Even then, Osiria was pretty sure his impressive imagination would have fallen short. The sheer awe of this sight was making his skull tingle in the best kind of way.

This was the fifth world Osiria had visited thus far, chaperoned by the shadow in each one. Every single world was more spectacular than the last, exciting and new and nostalgic all at the same time. It was driving Osiria nuts! 

However, there were a handful of rules Mono was not easily budging on.

Rule #1: Keep a low profile. Osiria was to keep their skull always covered and their voice low when out interacting with the natural denizens on any given world. Stick with small talk and know when to leave a scene. According to Mono, detection could lead a fracture in the order of the universe's timeline, which would garner the attention of all sorts of bad news. Best to stay out of that.

Rule #2: Don't overstay your welcome. The longer Osiria lingered in any given universe, the more likely it was his code would be detected as a foreign element by said universe. Again, it all came back around to avoiding any nasty business coming his way.  

Rule #3: If something, anything goes wrong- or off-script- or if the blue strings start popping up- leave immediately. No matter whose voices he hears screaming. 

Mono hadn't elaborated on that last point.

Taking everything into consideration, Osiria would say these past few days have been smooth sailing. No big fights or confrontations, Osiria had grown adapt at wrapping their scarf around their skull in a makeshift hoodie and speaking in lower-case. 

Mono pinned that on the fact that all the universes they've visited thus far have been so-called 'pacifist' timelines. 

Osiria didn't mind. He had never had so many friendly interactions before with near-complete strangers! They found over the course of their travels that it was a lot easier to talk to monsters when you knew they couldn't see your face. 

SOUL a soft thud against their ribs, Osiria whips his skull back to their shadowy companion, and current Multiversal guide. "THIS IS AMAZING, MO!! I NEVER KNEW- AND- WELL, JUST LOOK!!" he's grinning wider than he could ever remember before. Their whole face is growing numb.

It's been one week into the allocated two months of travel Mono has offered to the young skeleton and despite the few bouts of nausea that spring up in the few moments of downtime Osiria was allowed- where their mind was plagued with images of loved ones, faces twisted up in disappointment and distress- he simply couldn't bring himself to regret this. Not when this was the just one slip of a shadow away. 

Mono, quarter turned to the young monster, back slouched low and hands occupied, didn't respond. She was fiddling with something that must have been giving her quite the amount of grief. Must have been something small and finicky. 

Shuffling across the rocky surface of what was apparently this universe's moon (the MOON!) and briefly parting with their travel backpack, Osiria spies over the clouds of stardust down to the little device curled between Mono's hoof-clamps. Just a moment later, and with speed that does not proportionate to her bulk, the beast swung her neck around.

"….Here." 

Something small and firm was slipped into Osiria's hanging phalange. Curious, Osiria opens their palm and squints down at the device. 

It's a little plastic box, small enough to easily fit in the palm of their hand. It was a little beaten, with visible teething and scratch marks along the deep grey of its casing. There was a screen, or something alike to a screen. It was more like a rectangle of darkness, not at all dissimilar to the same dimness that comprised Mono's entire being. Only it glinted quite sharply, like well-polished glass, all sleek and glossy. It made Osiria a little nervous to look at. It was so cool. 

Underneath the screen was a row of buttons, two buttons actually. One had a single, spiralling swirl upon it. The other displayed a pair of antlers. 

"….It's a pager." Mono mumbled, tapping a hoof-clamp against the plastic box. Osiria frowned, not at all assisted in the explanation, turning the little device over in their hand. 

Leaning over, Mono poked the box once again. "….It's improvised…. I've had it forever now and I don't remember exactly why I made it to begin with…. Might as well give to you….. Since you're gonna be wandering out on your own soon."

Feeling his SOUL leap up to his cervical, Osiria blinked and arched their shoulders, "ON MY OWN? YOU'RE LEAVING???" Travelling the Multiverse was much more fun with Mono, who seemed to know everything there was about whatever world the shadows spat them out in. It was a small comfort, just to have her around, even when Mono wasn't very comforting.

"….I've got to." Mono was obviously unconcerned about all this. "….Can't stay with you all the time…. I've got things I need to catch up on."

Maybe a little bitterly, Osiria pointed out, "YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT THOSE THINGS."

Mono shook her helmet. "….No…. I don't….. But they will get done anyway…. Besides," Osiria squawked when Mono's tail picked up and tapped him against sweater-covered lumbar, "….You've got the hang of the rules by now…. If you stick with them you'll do well on your own…. Unless you want to go back home." 

Swiping at the spinal intrusion, Osiria frowned, holding the tiny device up to their sternum, "NO, I DON'T." 

Helmet hung low, Mono nodded before gesturing to the pager again. Osiria obligated by presenting it in their palm. With a drowsy sort of slowness, Mono pointed at the vortex-like symbol. "….You'll press that if you want to travel anywhere….All you've got to do…" pointing over Osiria's shoulder, Mono indicated towards a large patch of shadows by the edge of the crater they were seated in, "….Just stand in a dark area…. Preferably one with thicker shadows…. Then press down….then-" 

In demonstration, Mono's form shifted, becoming a liquiform silhouette of herself that snaked in a lighting streak across the moon's surface, emerging by the bowl-lip of the crater. Just as quickly, as Osiria blinked, she was right back in front of him. Osiria swallowed down a yelp.

"….that…. You'll wind up in whatever universe you have in mind." Osiria nodded shakily, eyelights flickering between the little swirl and Mono's empty sockets. "….Unless you're scatterbrained…. Then you'll be spat out anywhere really…. You've shadow-walked before so…. This is nothing new to you."

A new shiver of excitement had Osiria shaking for a different reason. The ability to teleport! On his own! To anywhere they sole desired!! Sure, it was always fun sharing the shortcuts Underground with his brother, but this was entirely different.

Osiria could help but think back to the portals that would drop off and pick up their brothers every visit. A humming eye-of-a-hurricane, blinding whites and reds. They'd stand in front of it and grin and Osiria would grin back while waving them goodbye. Forever wondering where they were off to. And now, well, Osiria would come close to finding out.

They weren't about to kid themself. Osiria was pretty sure his brothers would pop their lids if either of them found their little brother just floundering around the Multiverse like a stray pamphlet caught in a harsh breeze, but Osiria was confident they had the stealth necessary to scooch around this little issue. Looks like improv will be a strong notch in Osiria's belt when these two months were over and they really did go home. For real. 

But there was also something very… electrifying about all this. The running, the hiding, the little secrets and hush pacts. It was like learning to sneak out of the house all over again.

Just on a scale of infinity. 

Amazing. 

It was just so… fulfilling. The adventure, the thrill, each exciting new world. 

Mono's prodding of the pager brought Osiria back to the present. The elder shadow was pointing down at the button with the pronged antlers, her voice even, "….This button…. Is for me…. Press it…. And I'll come to wherever you are."

Osiria circled the button with their phalange, confused. "WHY WOULD I NEED TO CALL YOU?? AND WHY COULDN'T YOU JUST GIVE ME A PHONE INSTEAD???"

Mono was very, very silent for a minute. Then, "….I believe I have stated in the past…. That the Multiverse is unpredictable at its best of times….. It is better to be safe than sorry…. And you will find in your travels…. That some universes can make even the strongest of hearts…. Very, very sorry." As ominous as it sounded, Osiria got the gist of it. There were things out there he wasn't prepped to deal with yet. Skill came with experience, they weren't called 'hikers' for nothing. 

"….As for the phones," Mono slipped a few sticky notes from her antlers, shuffling the neon pinks and yellow while skimming through the chicken scratch. "….The Council has yet to successfully set up a proper Multiversal communication wave….. Most contact is either individualized…. See the pager…. Or direct contact…. Which we…. We, as in you…. Must avoid." Perhaps not finding what she was looking for, Mono stuffed the notes underneath her mandible, never to be seen again. "….All attempts to communicate via…. Cellular telephone…. Produces garbage noise."

Bobbing his skull in something like understanding, Osiria padded back to their backpack and slipped the pager into the inner front pocket. The rip of the zipper harmonized with the sound of Mono creaking up to her hooves. Old lady she was. "….Be leaving soon….. Got everything?"

"YEP!" Osiria cheered, hearing the clinks of supplies stuffed deep within the bag's inventory. Considering those were like pocket dimensions, Osiria wasn't afraid of running out of space.

Swinging the backpack over their shoulders, Osiria was greeted with the sight of Mono, hoof-hands on her hips and her snout pointedly directed at him. "….You sure?"

"UH HUH!!" Osiria had run stock once, twice, thrice and quadrice for good measure. They were very sure they had everything. From food to supplies to spare clothes. 

"….And you're sure you still want to go through with this…. You don't want to go home yet?"

The idea of homemade Osiria feels a little queasy. Though, they were unsure as to specifically why. Queasy over being away from home. Queasy of the idea of going back, falling back into the cycle. Queasy over what they'd say, how'd they look. 

Queasy that this was the last straw. Queasy that it was all over now.

Queasy that there now really was no home to go back to.

"NO, MO. I WANT TO STAY OUT HERE." Here might be all Osiria has left. They refuse to feel sick over it.

"….You're sure?" 

"YES." 

"……………………………………………………..Positive?"

"MONO!!"

Buffing moon dust from her cardigan, Mono shrugged; her trademark. "…..Just saying…. Don't you think…. You're risking more then you'll be rewarded for?" Why did Mono care? She didn't, that was what made this conversation so tedious. The old beast was simply curious. Still, it's nice to play make-believe every once in a while. 

Huffing, Osiria tried to stay good-natured, even as a deep ridge sets along his brow. "I DON'T SEE WHY WHAT I'M DOING IS SO IMPORTANT. IT'S NOT AS IF NOBODY ELSE IS PRANCING ABOUT THE MULTIVERSE."

"….You're unregistered….. Could be dangerous." At Osiria's confused skull turn, Mono elaborated, "….The Council you see…. They are very strict…. Many of the unregistered travellers…. Are dangerous folks…. So if they send anyone to find you…. They could make assumptions…. That could lead you to a very bad spot." 

She's looking at him. Actually, fully looking at Osiria and Osiria finds they despise those hollow sockets in that moment. Just a little. Something so empty shouldn't hold so much weight. 

"….Council isn't as forgiving as it used to be, hon…. Too much has gone wrong when they were…. Could spell trouble for you… down the line."

"AND?"

"….And?"

Looping the end of their scarf around their wrist, Osiria scowls down at the shining grey moon dust. The back of his heel falls in rhythm to clack against the other boot tip. Enmity varnishes the ladder up his spine, making their back of their cervical feel hot and stuffy. "WHAT DOES IT MATTER? THERE ARE THOUSANDS- MILLIONS OF VERSIONS OF ME, RIGHT?? WHY DOES IT MATTER ALL OF THE SUDDEN THAT I DECIDE TO RUN OFF FOR A BIT? IT'S NOT LIKE I'M NEVER GONNA GO BACK!"

Osiria would be back. He would be. They just… needed some time to themself. 

Mono halts, and Osiria swears the air- or the artificial equivalent in this spacefaring universe- trickled down a few degrees. She was looking at him again, really looking. "…..Don't…. You ought not to think like that." She doesn't sound any different, look any different. But the words inflame the young skeleton either way. 

"WHY NOT!!?" they burst, throwing their scraggly arms up at the outrage of it all. At the questioning. "YOU DO!! YOU AND PLENTY OF OTHER MONSTERS, EVIDENTLY. I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO JUSTIFY WANTING TO LEAVE. WANTING TO JUST- DO SOMETHING WITH MY OWN LIFE! NOBODY ELSE HAS TO!!" Pirouetting on his feet, Osiria kicks up the dust as though it were rain water, ribs feeling stuffed with pillowy seething.  

They just didn't get it. Their brothers did this- hell, the Multiverse was practically their entire lives by now! And Osiria never heard of either of them ever being hounded about the whys and the what ifs. Not even at home! 

Ugh, of course. As if they'd ever actually talk to him about any of this! 

If they… even… came back at all. 

"I'M GONNA GO BACK ANYWAY!" Giving Mono his back, Osiria spins on their heels, arms crossed and voice crosser, "I EVEN LEFT TORIEL A NOTE. A NOTE, MONO! CAN'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I WOKE UP TO ONE OF THOSE. AND NOT JUST AN EMPTY… Room." Tenor hitting a sadder, softer note, Osiria allows it to fall away. Those mornings always felt so suffocating to remember.

"…..What if they come back early…. And you're not there?" 

Osiria had never thought of that, and a gross bitterness rises to replace the echoes from the past.

Hugging himself, spinning again, Osiria scoffs, "I SUPPOSE THEN, THEY'LL KNOW HOW IT FEELS."

"….What about Toriel?"

Pausing mid-spin, Osiria plants their boots in uniform against the rocky moon surface, trying to hide the curve of their frown in his scarf, "SHE- She Doesn't Need To Deal With Me- This- Any Of This. I Tried To Explain Everything To Her In The Note. She's Strong And I Only Stress Her Out I Think. She'll… She'll Be Fine Without Me." The lie taste slimy, slimier then snail pie. Osiria could choke on it. And maybe he'd deserve it. 

"….And Flowey?"

His expression falls slack into a deadpan, "He'll Be Fine. How Attached Can You Be To The Same People You've Killed?"

Mono, once again, shrugs. And once again, her answer is even and logical. "….As attached to the people that killed you, I imagine."

"That," Osiria breathed through the tight squeeze in their SOUL, "Doesn't Matter Right Now, Mo." 

Finding his response perfectly adequate, Mono nodded, specks of stardust flaking down her antlers from where they had rested dormant, "….I understand that." She paused, in what could only be consideration, before moving on, "…. But…. Why?..... Curiosity…. Vexation…. Insanity…. All reasons to come out here…. But you…. Osiria, you are many things…. A nihilist is not one…. Not truly…. What do you want to get out of this?... You have yet to tell me the full reason…. You are a strange, strange skeleton, hon…. More willing to deal with the unfathomable…. Then to have a simple conversation…. But that could apply to many other characters."

Squirming, Osiria isn’t sure how to put any of his thoughts into words. There was just… so much. And it should really be simple to explain it all. But Osiria had never so vehemently defended something even they were so unsure of before.

"I-…. It Never Really Mattered, Y'know. Whether Or Not I Succeeded In Whatever I Was Doing Because…" Warm smiles and friendly, mellow voices almost wring their cervical. "Because I Knew There Was Always Someone At Home That Would Be Proud Of Me. And Maybe That Just Made It Easier To Like Myself."

Sure, yes, they could always go home. And maybe, deep, deep-down Osiria does. But then what? 

A headache builds around his brow. It takes active focus on Osiria's part to push the tears down from their sockets. "Home Isn't Really Home Anymore. Not When Home Can Just Walk Through A Portal And Think All Is Right In Your World. Without Them. So…"

Mono tilts her helmet imploringly(?) at Osiria and it spurs the young monster on.

"I… I Want," despite the trouble, Osiria was able to shove the words past his teeth in a tight succession, "To Be Someone I Can Be Proud Of, Mo. I Want To Be The GREAT Osiria One Day. Or Even For Just A Second. And If That Means Turning My Back On My World For A Bit… It Would Be Worth It. Maybe."

They hate how hesitant they still were about all of this. Swiftly, Osiria tries to stuff it deep down into the uneven thump of their SOUL before Mono can spy it out.

"Isn't Anyone Else Like This?" he grumbles, surlier then he was confused, "Wanting Something More. What About Me Running Off Is So Unique?"

"……It's not….." Mono answers, very steadily and Osiria clicks their teeth together. "….Unique, I mean….." Osiria follows her arm as it sweeps past the open skies. As if somehow she could whisk the endless stars to the broad swaddle of her chest. "…..There are plenty of travellers out there…. Of all sorts of trade….. It's just…. There aren't many Papyri…. Not many allies….. Danger is a fungus that grows along the trunk of the Multiverse….. You could get hurt."

It's Osiria's turn to shrug, and the next words the roll out come easy, "I've Been Hurt Before. Why Is Now Any Different?"

Flowey and Frisk never ever even pretended to be sorry. Osiria sometimes wondered if they could be. Had turned the Underground into a mass graveyard with nary a twitch on their lips. 

How could they skip merrily by in life with such weights on their heads, while Osiria stood amongst so much astonishment and was still chained down by his own shame?

It wasn't fair.  

"….Well," Mono starts, stops, dusts the sleeves of her cardigan, then pins the young skeleton down with her empty, empty eyesockets, "…. If you are confident…. I suppose…. But," with a sharp swat of her tail, a plume of stardust clouds up the small space they stand. Osiria can feel it tickle their chin. It spins like figurants, reaching higher and higher in the moon's low gravity to snake around the peaks of the elder beast's antlers.  

She's so… looming like this. Like a great oak, with its branches in cinders, smoking ash creeping higher. It's the first time since they've met Osiria can properly acknowledge how… imposing she was. There's no change in her voice when she speaks next, but Osiria feels them with a sort of severity they weren't prepared to shoulder yet. "…. Do try to be safe out there…. An unfortunate trick of life…. Is that sometimes you never know how much you mean…. Until you are gone." 

Osiria takes a second. Sucking air through their teeth, he muscles down the significations of those words- he doesn't want to think about the faces or voices or anybody- and hopes the dip along their brow ridge was stonier than the warbling of their SOUL. 

"I WANT TO DO THIS, MONO." Maybe if he says it enough, Osiria will start to truly believe it. 

Mono loses her ground, shoulders collapsing low as the dust settles. Nothing about her has changed. 

"….Then…. Come along now," lifting her tail, the strange spine-like appendage twitches and Osiria sighs as he reaches to grasp it. Turning, Mono trots off to a bulkier patch of shadows, Osiria dragging himself behind, feeling all the world like a child being tugged through a shopping centre by their guardian. "….You have places to go…. And I have places to be." 

Reaching the patch, Mono slides down, as though slipping over the edge of a swimming pool and Osiria feels themself be dragged under right beside her, cementing their commitment for good.

Drowning in the airy stream of darkness, Osiria can't feel, smell or see anything. Though they swear they can hear everything. Banter, bloodshed, hymns of affection and ancient mutterings. Shadow walking between universes was so much different from the regular 'walking between place to place in his old world. It still left Osiria a little dizzy and they wobble on their boots when their suddenly pulled into a bank of frosty white. 

Grabbing at their knees, Osiria takes a moment to collect themself as Mono martializes by their hip, her tall structure and long neck stretched up to scan their surroundings. 

Prying their own sockets open, Osiria is met with a face-full of schmaltz, between the weary, dry oaks and the unnatural glitter of snow once imbued with generational mana. 

"THIS IS SNOWDIN." The young skeleton gasps, rising back to full height. Beside them, Mono nods.

"….A version of Snowdin, I believe…. Barriers' still up…. But the life signature is very low." Dragging her hooves, Mono begins to trudge through the crispy sleet crust, each step sounding like crushed apples. "….Dead world."

"MAYBE IT'S FROM A NEUTRAL ROUTE?" Osiria proposes, easily catching by leaping between imaginary lily pads of snowdrift. They weren't familiar with this part of the woods but that doesn't iron out their excitement either way. They felt bubblier now that the world felt so much more familiar. "FLOWEY TOLD ME ABOUT PLENTY OF THEM. MAYBE THIS IS A VERSION WHERE FRISK KILLED EVERYONE BUT THE REGULAR CITIZENS."

Mono's antlers graze past a decayed branch. They catch and the branch breaks with a resounding snap that does not falter Mono's path for even a second. "….Maybe."  

In no time at all, the shadow and skeleton encounter a large barren plot of snow, cooped between endless lengths of oaks and a handful of boulders. Osiria bounds ahead of Mono, swinging his skull left to right to determine the best spot to set up camp.

Mono, seemingly unfinished with her earlier comment, pipes up again, "….Still…. Be vigilant…. Just keep an eye out…. No shame in turning tail if things seem a little off."

"I WON'T!" Stomping his boot down on a spot near the middle of the division, Osiria feels a little surer in themself now that they're back on familiar turf. Maybe tomorrow, they can hike to this world's Snowdin village and enjoy a nice, steamy cinnabun! That would be… really, really nice.

It settles that fizzling hesitance that rattles their core so. Gives them just the boost he needs to go on.  

"….Be sure to practice with the pager….. Only call me for emergences…."

Beaming, plopping their backpack down, Osiria began to riffle through its inventory for his camping gear. "I KNOW."

Mono's hoof-hands fiddle around her cardigan for a second, before producing a writing pad and a pen that was comically small for the wide brim of her hands. A few slow squiggles flick across the paper, before she slips the pen back to wherever it belongs, tears off the few notes she's written, then skews them on the end of one of her swirling antlers, a little higher from the base ones. 

"….I'll come check up on you…. Whenever I remember…. If you want to…. Use the pager to go back home…. And be sure to practice 'walking with it."

Laughing full-heartedly, Osiria can't fathom a need for all the fuss. Not when this freedom made them feel so light. "I'LL BE FINE. I'M SURE I CAN LAST ONE NIGHT BY MYSELF, MO. TRUST ME, I KNOW SNOWDIN LIKE THE BACK OF MY HAND." Osiria had no idea what the back of their hand looked like, but they digressed. 

Mono, at her sloth pace, nodded, taking one, two, three steps back. "….Alright…. Alright…. I'll leave you be." Halfway through her turn, Mono stops again and Osiria can only assume she's peering at them from the corner of her socket. "….Osiria," perking up, grin wide and numbing, the young skeleton has never felt so ready for anything in their life. 

"….Just…. Do try to be careful…. I think…. That there are a lot of people out there…. That care a whole lot about you." 

Having no reply, and offering none, Osiria watches Mono slip away into the darkness of the huddled oak, feeling neither light nor heavy. It would be just like Mono to leave with one last statement to perplex the young monster into stillness. 

Lacking a tone of either soothing nor scolding, the words just float around, and Osiria can feel them as much as they can feel the rising snowfall against their back girdle. Refusing to let any sort of chagrin creep too far into their mind, Osiria settles on his knees with a heavy sigh.

They couldn't wait to see what tomorrow brought them. And they were going to enjoy himself for this. They refused not to.

Unbeknownst to him, however, a set of eyelights, flickering and swirling in their sockets, pried through the thick brush of whittled forest life. It's been years since they last saw someone move outside of the fluttering blur of hallucinations. And this new threat- pal- target certainly was quite the strung-up puppet. It makes the invasion DT searing through their manalines jolt up in interest, like a stray catching the whiff of fresh blood.

And if they were any closer, maybe Osiria would of smelt the dust in the air behind them.  

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Hope.

Noun. Definition: Expecting or believing something will or can happen if only it is wished for.

At some point, there's only so much pain one can burden before they start to grow numb. And it's hard not to allow it when the unforgiving ice leeches the warmth from Osiria's very magic. There's a paradox between the invading chill and the sticky, sweet tepidity of the marrow pooling down their chin that leaves the young skeleton gasping and wheezing. 

Their legs are on fire, like molten fury had been poured between the gaps of their joints, poisoning their motion and leaving Osiria paralysed in the snow. It rekindles a memory from his babybone years, when his tiny sweatered self, with his big dumb circle-frame glasses, found a tiny, furry Surface animal, stiff and frozen under a snowdrift. 

Osiria had mourned it, not quite understanding even what it was but feeling retched, nonetheless. They had cried and cried as their brother helped him bury it. 

That time was so long ago, it felt almost impossible to grasp. The little bones were so entirely different to who Osiria was now. He almost resents how much easier they had it, when life was hugs and head bonks and homework. 

Now it was Osiria who was stuck in the snowdrift, legbone shattered, phalange clamped around their only salvation.

It hurts to even make the motion of breathing, the ferocious frost blacking out all their other senses till even the taste of their marrow grows stale and nullified. 

Osiria gags and spits as they laugh, as the stout, staggering creature twist it's corpse-like visage forward, snapping and crackling all the way- because they are a sorry, sorry creature, slumps forward between the parting of two pines, slippers snow clogged and arms hung limp at his sides. One hand- one awful, cracked, bloodstained hand- dragged a sharp heavyweight behind him, carving a path of red through the snow. 

And it's hard not to laugh. At… everything. 

Osiria. They're a type of tea rose and they must be specially bred and tended to by florist in a greenhouse instead of a garden because they have little defence against diseases and parasites and alike.

He gets it. As the gnashing jaws of torpor chew away at the feeling in their legs and arms and chest, right down to their SOUL, Osiria gets it. 

As this awful, broken shell teeters on, face twitching in short, manic spasms, shirt splattered and magic field burning with their animalistic intent, Osiria gets it.

And as their phalange shake and press down on the tiny antlered button, Osiria gets it. 

Now, all there is is HOPE.

It was all he had left.