By the time they reached the edge of the forest, there were five in their group—a very young girl and a very old man had joined halfway through the night. He couldn't help but think what a sorry group this was—and this was all that was left of their village. But there was no time to wallow, no time to grieve. They needed to reach the monsters' kingdom by nightfall, lest they be ambushed.
Lucida, despite everything, chattered away as they walked. Though strained, her voice still carried a note of optimism in it; her words must have been even more so. Even though W.D. couldn't understand a word of what she said—he suspected it was Serif, but how could he know—he had to admire her tenaciously upbeat attitude. Palatino and the other two remained silent; W.D. had tried to sign "hello" to the old man, but the blank look on his face said far more than his hands could. W.D. stilled his hands for the rest of the walk, instead focusing on potential threats as they made their way through the forest.
The last of the Gasters was good enough for that, at least.
Luckily enough, they reached the Monster Kingdom before the sun had set. The small group drew even closer together as they entered the borders: the old man carrying the girl and Palatino's arm protectively around Lucida. Already, the city—well, really, little more than a village—was bustling with activity. No doubt word had spread about the attack on the skeleton village. They knew the humans were coming. Even so, the odd monster would send a suspicious glare their way—after all, it could only be assumed that skeletons were in some way related to humans. But there was no time to waste worrying over a relatively minor threat; if the monsters wanted the slightest chance of surviving this last battle—and it would be the last, they all knew—they needed to work quickly.
W.D. watched with a furrowed browbone as monsters either dashed in houses or prepared their magic. Even so, the energy didn't seem…right. There was not the frenzy of fear that had been in the village. Just…reluctance? Of course, there was the chance that he wasn't reading them right; he didn't know much about monster culture or warfare, to be honest. But…one thing he did know is that monsters did not like fighting.
That was a purely human trait.
A loud voice echoed through the streets, speaking with urgency. He looked back at the other skeletons, who, surprisingly, looked just as confused as he felt. Oh, of course. Monsters didn't speak Arial. Now they were all just as lost as he was.
He stepped back as the monsters around them charged forward. A call to arms, then. W.D. looked after the last few to run forward, then glanced back at the little group. He clenched his jaw, then turned to follow after the monsters. He heard Palatino and Lucida call for him, but he kept running. He had to help. He could not stand idly by during this. Not with these murderers coming for more death.
He reached the edge of the city, swallowing as he saw the distant smoke of his ruined village over the top of the trees. But he had to focus on the moment. Even now, he could see the red glow of the humans' torches. His hand clenched into a fist as the sound of their war horns filled the air.
The sight of the human army approaching the city's edge, it filled him with…
Rage.
Seething, white-hot rage filled his chest cavity, his abdomen, the gaps between his ribs, everywhere. He would kill every human that came their way if he could manage it. He would make them pay for what they had done. True, monsters didn't like to fight, but he was not a monster.
And so, W.D. Gaster was the first to kill a human in the Last Battle.
And ultimately, it made no difference at all.
The monsters put up a fight, but it did hardly any damage to the hordes of humans; they had no will for it. All around him, they dissolved into dust, filling the air and coating his bones. A thousand souls must have shattered around him, but he would not stop. Not while he could fight. Not while he could get revenge. Bones flew from his hands, impaling what humans he could reach. Humanity's cowardice meant that they focused on the weaker monsters, the ones they could easily kill. Only the foolhardy tried to fight him. They failed…but only for so long.
Human souls, as was well-known, are far more substantial than monster souls—and skeleton souls, for that matter. More impressively, though, they are colder, harsher. They moved like machines, methodically attacking and dissolving without regard for who or what their victims were.
He managed, for a while, to do the same. Until he recognized a face.
He didn't know this human's name. Indeed, the human probably never even saw him. But this was a face that W.D. had clearly seen at the attack on his village. And that recognition caused the rage to spill over, to consume every bit of him. A bone hit the human square in the chest. And then another, and another, and another. A strange strangled scream filled W.D.'s skull; he was startled to realize that that was his voice, and that he could not stop screaming or hurling bone after bone at the long-dead corpse.
He was an easy target.
The blow was quick enough that he didn't feel much pain; his vision immediately went black. What followed was a series of snapshots: his skull slamming into the hard ground, his body being pulled up and dragged away, walking—or maybe floating—toward a gaping hole, then a bright light before utter darkness fell. His sockets shut, and he succumbed to the darkness around him.
A low groan found its way out of his mouth. He had a moment of semi-consciousness before the pain hit him. His cheekbone ached. His joints were stiff. Everything, in some way, hurt. There was a loud ringing in his skull, though it was slowly fading. Strange murmurs were taking the ringing's place; with some effort, he forced his sockets open to see where he was.
A cave.
A big cave, judging from all the noise. He grimaced, then forced himself to sit up before wincing and gripping his side. Broken rib. Possibly ribs. His fingers fluttered out a weak, "Healing, please," but he suspected it went unnoticed. He might be able to manage it himself in a while, but for now he was far too drained. He slowly laid back down on the pallet he'd been set on, staring up at the stalactites overhead. Embedded in the cave's ceiling, luminescent gems glittered down like stars. He might have thought it pretty if he wasn't in so much pain. He let out a labored breath, then turned his head to look around. Monsters were huddled everywhere, hugging each other, murmuring in others' ears. His vision was going in and out of focus, but even so, there seemed to be only…monsters. Where had his group gone?
He forced himself to sit up again, only to let out a cry of pain and fall back down, breathing hard as he grit his teeth. He could push through this pain. He had to find the other skeletons. He couldn't be the only one left. He couldn't.
He tried to sit up again, but this time a hand pushed him down. He looked up, unable to focus; it seemed to be a monster of some sort, though all he could see was a vague, black shape. Regardless, he breathed a bit easier as they said something. Magic, then—healing magic, judging by the subsiding ache in his side. He sucked in a breath, then looked up at his healer again as they suddenly stopped speaking. Their hands—were those hands, or just overly long sleeves?—paused over his own. He frowned and began to (vainly) sign, asking what was wrong, but the action was enough of an answer.
Blood.
Human blood splattered against white bones, staining the phalanges, the metacarpals…everything.
His hands shook, and he let them fall. The healer, whoever they were, abruptly got up and left. W.D. grimaced, but sat up. He was in decent condition, now, so that meant he could search. Slowly, he got to his feet and began to look for any trace of the other skeletons. Perhaps they were outside of this cave; there were so few monsters in here that it must be only for the injured and the healers.
As he reached the edge of the cave, a fish monster grabbed his arm and tugged him back, yammering something at him. He looked at them in surprise, fingers starting to move but stopping before he formed a word. The fish-person looked at him oddly, then said something else. He merely shook his head and shrugged. The fish-person frowned, then jabbed a webbed finger toward the injured monsters. He clenched his jaw, staying put for a moment and debating feigning ignorance of what the fish wanted. Finally, though, he sighed in resignation and walked back. He may be better, but he certainly was in no shape for a fight.
He returned to his little pallet and sat down, resting his jaw on his still-bloodied hand as he looked around. The other monsters looked at him strangely; he tried to ignore them, instead focusing on the next plan of action once he found the others.
After all, they couldn't stay down here. Not forever.