Kris held a gun to their head.
They were sitting in the pews, beneath the statue of the headless angel, with Cadaver's pistol pressed into their skull, their knuckle-whitening grip burning on their bones and painful on their muscles. Everything in them wanted to click the trigger, to have the smooth, cold ringlet of steel bounce against their head and end it right there. They wanted to see the darkness, to splatter their sad, pathetic, lonely existence all over the wooden seats of the church. Where did it all go wrong? Where did Kris mess up? The world was cruel and uncaring, laughing, mocking them as they struggled with demons no one could see; they were alone. No one watched them, no one cared, they all hated Kris. The heavy rain felt like droplets of liquor against their insides, drenching them with caustic paste that layered like grime. Their young hands trembled with the weight of the pistol. They made sure the safety was off and reached for their wounded leg at the same time.
They had picked it up sometime after they went down from the rooftop, Susie on one side of them, Ralsei on the other. It still had abundant ammunition. Excessive, for what Kris plotted to do to themself as recompense.
Then, Kris had watched as the others came upon Noelle, laying so serenely on the ground. She twitched, disturbed in her veil of peace, and the other two wobbled. By the time Kris opened their eyes, with stark memories of cutting down the Darkners, they knew something was wrong.
Kris messed up.
Kris messed up.
Kris messed up.
So many times, they killed. For no reason, they killed. It was them, not the other. They felt the sword in their hands; the force of the slash weared solely on their body, the dust tickled only their skin, clouded only their eyes.
Their finger inched toward the trigger.
Everything was done. Their one goal, saving the world, the one achievable desire Kris had? Gone, reduced to a smudge on the wall of things Kris failed to do, thrown to the trash by something they impulsively did. Kris was a psychopath. They were tired, exhausted, it took everything and more to lift their limp, broken body from the floor, and they were no doubt cast in a crimson mask of battle, blood caked roughly on their face. When they found the pistol on their person, it was a godsend. And yet, even now, they fought with their own hands to rid the world of a disease. They were sorry, they were so, so sorry that it had to be them, as the hero to save the world, as the puppet to the other, as the child Toriel and Asgore thought they adopted. They were so sorry, they felt like taffy being pulled apart into two strings, like plummeting through the depths underneath the clouds, like the ground was coming for them. They readjusted their grip, scrunching their face as they breathed, lopsided in panic. Their chest jumped with every harsh, active breath, as though rising away from an egregiously dangerous cavern of spikes. A small scream began at the back of their throat, gaining traction, distance, until they pried open their gritted teeth and cried as somberly and furiously as they could, rushing their fine-tuned tendons and whipping their vast slabs of muscle fibers to finally finish it; they pulled the trigger.
It clicked. And not much else.
The Champion.
Kris let out a wretched, ugly sob and fell forward onto their knees, letting the pistol fall with their relaxed hands as tears openly streamed. The ball of wax in the back of their throat dug in meaty fists and refused to clear. Wetness flowed down their face and pooled at their nose, or dripped onto their blood-stained coat and turned it from white to red, or wetted old blood. Even stained as it was, the sight of colorless gray was unique, and strummed something new in Kris. Pains in their sinuses came from the shadows made by the light coming through the stained glass, and the smell of shattered prayers and misplaced faith from the church certainly helped their headache.
They were so sorry, so sorry, so sorry, why were they so sorry when they didn't do anything but be weak, but weakness was their fault, and they were too weak to stop the other, to save everyone, Asriel still left off from his bus-stop and gave them a pat on the head, and Kris couldn't stop blubbering apologies. Moments ago, it was rage against the machine, but now it was themself again. Everything felt so heavy inside them, like weights of absurdly high numbers, and Kris was just too small to lift them again. They were a kid.
But they couldn't really say that anymore.
If being a kid was about innocence, their rite of passage was too long ago for it to fit Kris. The other spoke, almost entirely unbothered as Kris shuffled back from the grave.
This world is now a competition. A game.
"How is… any of this… a game," Kris sputtered between hyperventilating gasps, and then whimpered as their body suddenly reversed the flow of microbe-infested air and began to force their slimy intestines and guts through their larynx, "you… why!?"
There was no one around to hear Kris talk to it.
Their mind was a swarm of chirping locusts. They had to voice their words or lose them.
The world simply exists as a tournament. Every action presents new variables, the pieces wile for an end.
Kris was a piece.
They felt horror well-up, a stirring of blood that made them burst upward and bang the barrel against the back of the row of pews ahead of them like it was the visage of themself in the mirror. Such anger coalesced into senseless violence, that their way down instead hit spirals of red that spun them round and round, until their body shivered with intent, the lightning suction of energy sinking through every cell in their horrid existence.
If they tried now, the gun would surely work. Whatever magic had stopped it the first time would be gone and Kris could finally kill the one thing that mattered and helped-
Themself.
Kris.
The journey shifts. Awaiting, the entities of entitlement, exemplary of facts regarding chaos.
"I…" Kris choked, the pain was horrible, gruesome sickles flailed in their veins, "…killed them…"
The operator enjoins dynamic of puppet and master. Exculpatory, the puppet accedes to recreant, craven cognizance.
"What," Kris snidely chortled, voice stuffed with mucus globules, "does that… even mean…" They slurred with a manic smile overwhelming their sullen face like a wash of delirium.
The memories are false.
Kris lit up like a holiday tree, "Fake. Of course… it's all… fake. What isn't fake!" With a smile as 'glowing' as theirs, it was no surprise when it quickly fizzled from existence like the last spark of a match, corresponding with another grotesque and daring sound of wrenching remorse. They slumped back into the pews, a few feet down, with their body leaned back to stare at the towering ceiling. Vulnerability and falcon-like warning bells rang, and Kris drew their hands down their face to cover their disgusting display, banking into the benches and crying like bubbling laughter. Lips twisted and cheeks stretched like over-inflated balloons, greasy, mushy like chicken-slop, Kris didn't even know what to think of themself. "Fa…" they couldn't even finish before the sturdy hands of astonishingly strong sorrow grabbed them and held them like a crowd of children would die if the hands didn't. And they might have.
Kris was a monster, a killer. They manipulated and broke, stole, hurt, bent, and rifled through their life like a checkbook of sins, compiling thorough lists on why they should go to hell. But they were too pathetic, too weak to pull the trigger in a way that wouldn't jam. They still had a sword. And no matter what the other was doing lying to Kris, they knew how to use it.
The rainbow of simmering glass on each side of the chapel looped gradients of flower petals, grasses, candies, and something like the pleasant view of a cliffside onto Kris. It covered the splotches of rose that had swamped their coat, and the darkness gathering on their collar and chestplate. If they had half a mind, they would take the damn coat off and clean themself up. Feel better.
God, Kris hated themself. How could you not hate Kris? They bred everything- every little thing that was wrong in their life, they made it, or contributed, and they cried and screamed for someone to fix their mess. They didn't know where they went wrong with the other, why it was amicable for some time, and then wasn't, and Kris could only draw the conclusion that they were the factor that warped the robot. The Dark Worlds? They killed, and they were too weak to fight back against their own mistake. Hurting Noelle was like cancer, and every second they looked into her trusting eyes, it made their heart shimmy further up and shove their lungs into the bone-grate of their ribcage. Out of everyone, her. They hurt her. And now, they made a split, so they couldn't even see it through to a point where they could help her, or Susie, or Ralsei.
Falsities.
"Shut up." They whined and tapped their foot. "Shut up, just shut up, I can't, not now, just… just please." They begged. "Please, be quiet. Just, just once." They didn't have any hope it would listen. Kris wondered what possessed them, then, to plead with it, to negotiate for silence so they could wallow away. Perhaps it was easier to be alone, to properly understand their own feelings. To tease themself with the loathing they deserved. They had the weight of the world, and they failed their friends. Like a javelin through their bleeding, gushing heart, defeat was present and panging. They sank forward and fumbled with the stool to pray, but just sat there, on their calves, arm slung over the bench as their body contorted into an awkward position that had them wavy like a pretzel. Even still, they couldn't muster up the strength to move, and the numbness that followed was welcomed. It helped with the pain that undulated underneath the turmoil, making every thought long, every word sharp and acerbic, and splitting their focus. The pain, too, was welcomed. Kris almost had a mind to split open their wounds again, with how their leg pulsed with pinpricks.
For a moment, Kris rested. They tried to recall the events again, afterward, but the steam prevailed. Everything was a haze. Like loads of bricks, they laid in a woeful, misshapen heap that breathed steadily, albeit with tremors and quivers. With magnetism between one eyelid and the other, aided by two streams of sticky, gooey tears, they noticed a warmth falling over them. A satisfying, blanketing warmth that superseded the pressure burgeoning between their collarbone and their pelvis. Sleep came to their lethargic, battered body in segments; their breathing slowed; their mind calmed down, vice-grip on the flow of shameful thoughts, holding only one sentimental pondering; limp, body held by wooden stilts and enveloped with soft cloth; and the submerged feeling of water. Floating in a pool.
The other let them drift until they came to, nestled in scarlet. The velvet held them as they jolted, awake, cleaned, dressed within their pristine sweater beneath the sky of the crater. The cold stone was sheathed by the other's gift of sheets.
Kris whined, curling back up, pulse racing.
You must face the transgressions.
Kris wanted to go home. Could they please just go home? Peace, it was all they wanted today. Normalcy.
Injustice stricken, Kris remains stagnant and pitiful. Lieu of responsibility and testament, Kris withers, leaving only self-doubt and artificial atonement.
Kris murdered. Kris killed. Kris showed every rotten bone in their body to the people they loved and were thus thrown away. Was that too domestic to grieve over? To guilt over?
Kris denies restitution. Disallows expiation.
The damn thing wouldn't understand - what did it know? It was an unfeeling beast that knew only victory or defeat. Victory at all costs, compliance being rewarded, excellence praised - and yet it didn't stop them from ruining everything. Unless it couldn't, and then Kris was taken by the great tide. A bigger fish, or simply the rules.
Listen.
They didn't have to listen anymore. It would kill them either way. Just get on with it and let them feel something as recompense for their crime-
Enough.
The grave seriousness of the other still could imbibe them with pause, although Kris merely settled on vapid silence.
They had other problems.
The operator shall speak in simple terms. You. You are allowing yourself to be the mark of a malevolent force.
Kris couldn't help but notice the irony.
The operator seeks charity, on the great expanse. There was an angel. You have fallen ill. Your cortiers remain afflicted by possession of lower echelon of thought, impotent and enfeebled the singular mind of lowly-born. Infecund as they are, forfeiture of their resources was unavoidable outcome. Faculties breached by rancor uncordiality, prey to the higher-expedients of superlative codification.
Kris didn't understand half of what it said and would have kindly asked for it to retake the class that taught it to speak, if only so it wouldn't keep bothering them.
Understood. Layman's terms.
Thanks.
Your memories are planted… specifically to instill this… sense of… guilt.
It sounded like that was hard for it.
The other stared down at them from above, like staring at an ant. Kris felt their hair straighten in instinctual fear as they sniffled back a nasty string of snot and sat upright. It seemed improbable, but the other was going to explain.
The operator presents a theoretical: A traducer, surrounded by mulish associates. Intransigent and stalwart, the entourage is unshakable. Provide an equalizer.
If you can't convince the guards to go away, and they were strong enough to be a problem, then… Kris couldn't do anything but tempt fate.
Answer: Futile. For mortals, futility is entrenched in variables. For celestials, the solution is evident. Unable to convince them, manipulation would be unavailable. Unless said psychology could transfer uncertainty. Doubt.
…there was an angel?
There was an angel. Claiming itself as the Champion.
Kris blinked. Confused, they scrunched their face and blew. Brows furrowed, they stared up at the other.
It transplanted organs of doubt into the minds of lessers.
There was a gentle breeze billowing through the treeline, and Kris felt grimey, and thrifty. Their sword clanked against stone, and their coat chilled them to a shiver.
Investigate yourself. There is no dust.
Why would Darkners leave dust? The other wasn't thinking clearly, not then, not now, and Kris nearly bubbled with laughter.
Not dust. Papers, cytoplasm, feathers. Within shards of sober innocence, this incidence of death clouds your critical thinking abilities. Mind yourself, before you fall further victim to others. Clear minds are stalwart against obvious lies.
They prodded their clothes. The other wasn't lying.
The memory gap. The lack of Darkners in the roadway when you arrived.
Kris glanced themself over, running their fingertips over every inch of their body.
No 'dust' on their boots. A little on their coat, and their gauntlets, but the other sacrificed to them the blossoms of red littering the floor. It was Cadaver's dust; their fists resembled a blistering tumor of leaking, aching blood that screamed for them, and they remembered slamming the meat of their wrists against his face, and the fatty, yellow mush of their palm was blue-gray with bruises from it. Barely visible was a sheen of filmy grime, which they recognized as the flesh of monsters. Blinking, Kris unsheathed their sword and inspected the clean blade, then stared at their reflection in the metal. Aside from haggard and bloody features, they were clean of any sign of battle.
The operator recognizes angelic praxis.
What did it mean, then? If Kris remembered the crimes, but supposedly didn't commit them? What were they going to do?
Continue.
Just like that? Alone, with no allies? The Viceroy was still around, and who knew what dangers lurked besides him. Not to mention, they were obligated to clear this up with their friends. They had to.
The Roaring seeps like mercury through the cracks. The experiment is imperative.
Kris inhaled.
Okay. "So, we just continue as planned? Walk through the Astrowall and get to the Fountain. Then, what do we do?" Kris questioned the behemoth above them. It clicked and ticked with teeth. "Do we just… ignore everything? How are we going to explain this to them…" Kris had an idea. "Couldn't we just use the power to reverse it before it happened?"
Improbable.
…there would be a countermeasure in place, especially if they were dealing with 'angels.' Kris could hardly believe it. Even from the other's presence, even from the scriptures, the books hammered into them from the first time they went to church in Hometown as a human, they never really believed in angels. Not even when the other, a demon, came to them. But they understood the difference. An angel in a book is not like the one in real life. The angel that slighted them, it was not one who followed the Seven Aspirants.
The operator must recollect itself.
Kris felt the crater begin to slip away.
Their body winced to life.
Timeline unclear. Motives unclear.
Kris stood, shaky on blood-ridden bulbs of meat.
Abrupt. Nonsensical. The operator libated much to the ruler.
Placentas of darkness obscured their vision of the crystal glass.
She remains insensate and unknowing. Seditious. The seraph experiments mutiny.
The other was implying some things Kris didn't like. The Angel - the ruler of heaven, creator of Lightners - actually existed. It spoke of her specifically. At the very least, that meant there was some parallel persona accountable for some feats. That was impossible to plan for. And then, it was talking about lesser angels.
An army. Heaven's gate. It opens.
An army of angels. Kris couldn't even fathom what that meant for them. Could the other fight off angels? One angel? A dozen angels? But it mentioned mutiny. Kris realized that it meant this specific angel had slipped under the Angel's radar and sown the chaos here, not that the angelic forces were coming for them.
As vision turned from melted sleet to clear, dry glass, they stared at the headless angel. Coincidental, that it was the statue feet from their incident, and it reflected everything Kris wanted to do to the angel. It ruined their life. Like the other, they supposed, but the angel was even more impersonal. Somehow, it carried over as even more damage, because unlike the other, it went for their friends before Kris. Sweeping over its footsteps in the world. It was covering up the people it killed. It would have established memories of the event, doctored to relieve itself of guilt and to frame Kris as violent. They concluded it had a vendetta with them, specifically. Why else would it bother to kill the Darkners and blame Kris? To weaken them. To spite them. Make them suffer.
They tightened their grip around the pistol before replacing it into their bag.
That sparked an idea. The soldier would know, wouldn't he? That Kris was innocent. Cadaver had mortally wounded them, and even through items, magic, and the star, Kris still had the ghost of a limp. But Cadaver wasn't affected by the mind-control either, was he? He wasn't there to witness, nor care. They could… if they could convince him to reveal their innocence somehow, they could use that as evidence to help their case when they went to amend their relationship with the others. The chandelier of shot-glasses above filled with absinthe made their stomach turn before they realized it was just decorative for the procession. Of course, everything in that relied on Cadaver. And Kris felt queasy relying on Cadaver.
Continue.
Kris coughed and brushed themself down before glancing around. The church itself felt like the walls were closing in, even with the width and height. The tightly-crossed triangle of an arch assisted with that. Their footsteps as they staggered away from the pews resounded around, disturbing the consecrated particles of dirt and faith.
There were two doors on either side. Two that led back, away from the statue, back toward the bridge to the Astrowall. Without any request, they went and observed the strange phenomenon. The big blast-doors that served as the entranceway were preserved somehow. Even more evidence to Kris's innocence. The angel must have used something. Some strenuous magic, or some miracle that it chose, or a blessing, or some artifact with the power to change things.
Angels are not superior.
Kris sighed in honest relief, clutching their beating heart and relaxing. If the other could neatly defeat this one…
The operator digresses. Penury of circumstances allowed for true answers.
Kris walked through the passageways at the other end.
Darkness, all darkness, where Kris could only see the strangely thrumming crystals on their pauldrons, like someone cracked them like a glowstick, their coat shining dancing shadows on them as they crept through the night. Soon, the tile gave way to hard ground, Kris feeling around for anything - a door, a barrier, anything. They found the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. They passed through the dreariness and into… an almost normal village. The domestication of their mind coupled with dreary humor at the sight, but then it was anything but homely.
They emerged from the dark steeple hallway and into the glom of gloom.
The lights remain lit.
The lanterns held flickering flames inside their green-copper bodies. The final traces of habitation of the village. The cobblestone road led into the village, where the houses were stacked five wobbly levels high, like a tower of blocks. Cobwebs within windows, windows within creaking shutters, nailed to ramshackle homes with scaly shingles shedding, and musty cerulean stains on the canvas implements. Then below, the foundations made of thin wood distorted by the weight held weakly.
The palette of the place; Kris admired the poverty, the spartan dedication to dullness. Stewing on dappled monochrome, with only the ablaze lanterns, Kris fashioned it like an unearthed mine shaft. Alabaster in some places, screaming canaries of flames still tweeting, and charcoal everywhere else, plus some sepia memorabilia of it. Directly ahead, there was an opulent clocktower posed like a Clockter ornamented with medals of green flags tacked onto a mantle of interwoven granite and stones. It was lopsidedly designed, and impressed them in a way that made them dizzy.
The clock read sometime passed noon, with two grizzly, cursive pikes pointing out the time as the brass clock soaked up shadows.
And the only thing Kris could see in the background, far outside of the village, where the lime-needles of overgrown forest-grass sloped, where the roots of saplings spread out into dead space, or made brambles around the fly-swatter netting of an elevator - the only thing they could see, and feel stir in the ground if they focused, was the Fountain behind the thick glass.
And following the Fountain upward, Kris saw that the village had enough airspace above that it could fit the mightiest tree within, with some extra space, and then Kris remembered that it was only the first floor. That, of course, made no sense, because the pink-sky hovered above, casting no light, no stars or nebulas, just the fog. Kris could reach up higher than the sky, higher still, into space. How did they fit these spaces within the Astrowall - or even the café and the ventricle? It made zero proportional sense. There was only so much space that could fit within the Astrowall, so unless…
Well. Kris summoned their save point.
The divine powers of this place siphon like heat through the cracked cobblestones. The power of mistaken memory flows through you.
Where to next? A fork in the road split it into two separate branches, one that passed into a larger section of the village with wider space and buildings with signs, with a hitched pole that said 'tavern' pointing down the left road. Looking down that way, Kris could spot the beginnings of humble, rustic stores. Barely any windows or advertisements. They reckoned the village was small, and made so that strangers weren't much of a possibility.
Idly thinking about the idea of intruders, Kris blinked and glanced around, a little spooked.
There are no life-signs.
Kris thanked the other for that fact- except that didn't exclude the villagers being dead. Upon closer inspection of the stores, however, infographics taped to the insides of windows told about normal operating hours. Shelves of trinkets and tchotchkes, clean, empty tables, and preserved interiors - from what they could glean through the windows - told them something, but they couldn't quite figure it out.
They would go left.
Who would?
Noelle, Susie, Ralsei. Into town. Sign alerting, translucent with intentions.
Kris still couldn't wrap their head around everything that was happening. Angels, memories, the Astrowall - Kris couldn't believe they were so easily made into the enemy. A psychopath. But they supposed it wasn't too different. No matter if the memories were false or not, Kris was still a killer… would they make it to heaven, if they were ever released from the other's hold? If there was an Angel, was she the judge of those beneath her? Did these angels, this creator, who molded their life… even care about them? Or was this a misunderstanding? A god. There was a god, confirmed by the other. The demon who tempted their fate toward monstrosities. Would they make it to heaven?
…yes.
Kris didn't know how to feel. Because the other sounded… distraught, and uncomfortable. They wondered, why?
Traverse the right path.
It claimed it was superior to angels, right? So, was it saying that in the sense that, if Kris ever was going to make it to heaven, it would be a concentrated effort of heaven to do so? Among other things - like the still-obliterating idea of their friends hating them, outwardly loathing and afraid of them - that was… almost a relief.
Were they enemies? The other and the angels. Were they natural enemies? It mentioned before that it had met… those who claimed to be gods - that was angels, right?
Angels. Fools. Mortals with hubris.
Then, it knew there was an actual god. That was the connection. The other had a comparison, and they didn't meet the criteria.
Verily.
The Angel. With a capital letter. She was the creator of everything, wasn't she? No little angel, or king, or president could compare to her powers.
Kris suddenly looked upon religion with a much different light. They never were one for belief, since the other could never fit into that. But now? Now, they were left questioning how the other fit into the equation itself, instead of the equation being within the bounds of the beast itself.
And if there was one god, were there more? Was… was the other a god? They vaguely guessed it wouldn't see itself that way, but they never knew.
The operator remains beneath deities.
A hierarchy. There had to be an order to the chaos, or else it would be even worse.
They wondered if forgiveness was somewhere in the Angel's scriptures. They wanted… They wanted to be with their friends again. Wanted to see Noelle smile, Susie laugh, and Ralsei… be content. Even for a moment, it would be worth going through this hell if everyone else was okay.
Repairs will be made.
Kris sighed.
Never a shred of worry could be so coldly crafted than within the computer's hold.
They just needed to be strong, and persevere.
Proceed.
Passing through the graveyard-town settled dread over them like a tight, woolly scarf. Beads of sweat stuck between their neck and their coat. Forging their way along the path, they admired the sparse blocks of buildings, almost medieval in style, put together with simple, stout designs. Resilient designs, as many floors expanded toward the ceiling.
Kris found their leg aching. At first, merely a pinch, then a roaring throb, as though, without fail, it wanted, perhaps, for Kris to search for their friends instead. It hurt, inside. To release their in-born desires for friends, to let them go alone. These streets weren't safe, and they wouldn't know if the others were alive.
The operator scans.
Eventually, the village reached the boundary of a retaining wall. Beneath one sheer drop, which Kris used the stairs leading down to surpass, the hill began and was hairy terrain. They could slip easily and fall, both with the tangles of grass and turtle-green rocks, and would thankfully be caught a few dozen feet down by an orange safety net, likely there in realization of the hazards that the slippery earth brought.
There was a semi-circle of roots spread around, like an island with no water, and past the boundaries of the bottle-moon, the Fountain was contained behind sheets of glass fastened with rivets the size of Kris's shield.
Kris recalled what Ralsei said about plants not growing close to Fountains.
Deviant. How peculiar.
They'd agree. Either he was working with incorrect information, which Kris was beginning to realize most of their information about the world was, or there was something else at play. Something extraordinary.
It planted itself into their mind.
…
Come on, that was good. They're trying to relieve the horrid atmosphere. At least appreciate the pun.
Clever.
Hard to believe that ambivalent voice.
Kris sighed, shook their head, and minded their footing as they went further down.
An elevator led down, and as Kris approached, their leg protesting and their lungs struggling, they rested against the railing and glanced down. It was a bottomless pit of blackness. Nothing, not even a cliffside. The bottom of their stomach dropped with the thought that the ground was paper-thin.
Take the elevator.
Kris staggered over to the elevator, identifying buttons on a console and calling for the elevator. It creaked, banged, crashed, clinked, and grumbled with the single most miserable groan Kris had ever heard. If anyone was alive in the village, they would have awoken, like the brassy clatter of the tin lid of a garbage can after watching some horrific movie at night.
A deep fog spilled from inside the cabin, blowing through cobwebs that held ghosts of spiders, lifeless, dull, curled into rolled balls and speckled with shaving chitin. The muscles in Kris's chest, and just beneath their lungs, refused to listen to them as they contemplated normal breathing routines. Jumping, like a wound-up spring, or a Jack-in-the-box rotting in the attic, their heart pulsed in shock as the cabin dipped down, just a few inches, just the depth of their pinky.
Kris held the railing, gripping with enough strength to bend the metal, as they lifted their cargo-box arm and pressed the only button present on the console: Down.
Squeezing their eyes shut, Kris tensed their untrained body until the blood vessels in their thighs burned.
The elevator began a seamless descent.
The vision of the blackened wall ahead made Kris reevaluate their surroundings, noting the vast expanse of nothingness. And the Fountain, so brilliant. They could see nothing but the Fountain, as the rock, or the metal, or whatever supported the Astrowall, remained darkened in shades of abyssal blues.
Kris questioned the height of the descent as it ended, the cage door opening onto ledges blurred with shadow. It wasn't too long, it wasn't too short. An oddly similar idea to porridge.
Allusion noted.
It was a classic.
Advance.
Their footfalls echoed around the tunnel as they left the elevator behind. They were blind as they advanced, which seemed to be a running theme now. Step, step, step, step. Nothing called out over their steps. Step, step, step. Moisture gathered in their gauntlets as they held their hands out, feeling wind come over their metaphorical tight-rope as they crossed the hypothetical city. Step, step.
And then there was a door. A keypad, broken off from its anchoring and exposing sparking wires. A fly buzzed around a lamp hanging from a metal body before breaking away to land on the apocalypse-orange splotches of cigarette smoke encrusted onto the worn cement of the bunker ahead. The door was rusted in odd shapes, leaking water somehow, and Kris paused before taking the doorknob in hand. Something told them not to progress, some little inkling inside their head, like they were missing something but didn't know what. Their friends, perhaps. Perhaps not.
Enter.
Sludge adhered to the knob and slowed it, tantalizingly slow, sticky and wet. But it eventually opened.
Yellow tape separated the end of the platform from the cart tracks. Kris glanced around for any posters, thinking there was some trick. But it was all business. And there was a cart waiting for them. Their hairs began to stiffen as they slowly inhaled and then blew softly over their crisp bottom lip, puffing their cheeks in anticipation.
How ominous.
Expecting.
Was it a trap?
Unlikely. Advantageous in forethought. The importance reminisces finale. One-way. An ambush would not occur behind locked doors without forewarned arrival.
Kris glanced back to check that the door was still open.
Should they continue then?
Yes.
They supposed it knew best.
Kris clambered into the cart and sat down. This one had a seat. It was cushioned strangely and pressed on their aching muscles pleasantly. Easing the lever forward, the acceleration broke the silence with smooth, electric noises. Soon, Kris was headed down a slightly sloped track, hair blowing softly in the wind.
The gray-tones never left, even as they reached the end of a spiral-track, slowly coming to a stop and exiting into an almost identical platform, passing through an almost identical door. The terrace was a dead-end. A smoking haunt. Cigarette butts laid over parts of the floor, underneath two rows of fluorescent squares. A vine fell from above and hung over the railing. Kris couldn't even see the rivets anymore in the pitch-black.
This was it?
Incorrect assumptions occur.
Kris batted away the vine.
There was something still bothering them about this all. They had been thinking of their friends a lot lately. Recounting events. When they first found Noelle, for example. Or when Susie and them explored their bedrooms. There were many times with Ralsei that Kris ached to forget about, if only until it didn't hurt anymore. But they also thought about times as a group. As the heroes. When they fought the Lobotomy, the other found the cheat. When Kris breezed past the Viceroy, and no one questioned why. Coming off of the high of escaping an explosion. Relaxing in the ice. Queen. The first elevator ride, in a simpler time, when Susie first opened up to them. Coming home to Noelle and her father in the hospital.
In a different timeline, in a different age, these moments would have been triumphant. Enjoyed, even as Kris felt sour saying the word. A world where the other stayed as nothing more than something that had asserted itself into their life to bask in the sunlight and exchange studying favors with them. Similar to a curse upon them, however, these moments, the bonding - meeting the doctors, exploring a mystery, helping Darkners, even meeting the Viceroy - they all carried the prophecy that Kris would never experience happiness. That was the chill riding beneath their coat, not the freezing ice.
Kris recounted their favorite memories, just from this time. The garden with Ralsei, the pie in the diner, even walking and talking with Detter - wherever she may have been at that moment. There was always a disconnect, like two sides reaching with outstretched limbs and just… never quite reaching the middle, leaving both to drift apart until they orbited again. The Costumers, Susie's badgering. Kris appreciated the position they were in. Appreciated how they never could reap the benefits. Watching Ralsei as the machine fixed him, Zero and Ralsei in the war room. Little moments that made them feel heavy with laughter, tired with pain. Kris leaned over the side of the railing, gazing down with a contemplative expression. Then before all of that. Fighting Queen in their robot, the glory of it. That time where they were squished beneath King, almost helpless, until Susie helped them, and Lancer saved them all. Hanging out by the lake, or on the swan ride in the Cyber World, or the damn box puzzles of Rouxls, or even the first time they met Spamton. It used to be such a rush. Such fun, such fun. But things change, don't they? Kris wasn't having fun anymore, were they? Moments here and there, sure, but they didn't see this time as being one they could look back on and feel nostalgia.
It all had to mean something, in the end. Ideas like the 'experiment' being beneficial to the world were ludicrous. Pre-destiny put them at odds with the Angel. Did they have to find their own meaning? Didn't the other say something like that before?
It was hard to keep track of everything. Every little fact, every facet of everybody.
They tried their hardest to do so.
Was this their revelation moment? Was this designed to get them alone, somewhere where not even the other knew where to go next? Or was this their idea of purgatory. Or a place to sort out their thoughts.
They wanted the strength to make it through, for one. The power, the weapons, the armor, the items, the information. Information was the most powerful. Angels were now their enemy. Their worst enemy. Because of information, Kris was alone. They wanted the information. Or, at the very least, some semblance of control that couldn't be contorted by others. Something unique to them.
They wanted to be done with the other.
They wanted to be able to protect their friends.
They wanted to make their own fate, pursue their own dream in a way that didn't get them killed.
They wanted peace.
Kris closed their eyes as they realized: Those goals were mutually exclusive.
They supposed their problem was greed, and stupidity. Above all else. But the sloth was that - though it made them do things they didn't want to - the other could help them with their goals. Either out of pity, or some greater machination like power.
Their plight was…
Well, their plight was-
Green.
Kris opened their eyes as something flashed before them, staring deeply into what appeared to be a save star. Yet discolored. The air stung their skin with cold.
Glancing through it like transparent crystals, the opaque anomaly didn't quite hit Kris for a few seconds. When it did, it marched briskly, head held high and chin-up as it focused far away from them. Like an outline surrounding the glare of the sun through the school windows, Kris recognized the mottled hair, the ratty sweater passed down from Asriel, the shoes and pants. The only thing missing was the knife.
Before the other even had a chance to tell them to, Kris was interacting with the star. Almost like ascending above their shell, the world pressed away from them and drowned underneath the green. Clasped like the belt buckle of a stiff corpse, Kris found it incredibly difficult to spare thoughts for it. Instead, they were staring out over the illuminated depths of the pit, armor clinking as they curled their spit-shined gauntlets over the railing, dragging cape held down in their fists. It sparkled.
Kris wasn't in their own body anymore, the hands curled around the railing weren't theirs, and the cigarette smoke that flitted around their breathing port sure as shit wasn't theirs.
"What broke this silence," 'Kris' asked.
"I don't know, Director. Perhaps we angered the gods?" A voice they found familiar responded. But it wasn't. It was an office-worker with bundles of neurons for a face.
"We have toiled over this for months. Fighting for her favor." Kris frowned sadly. "And she repays us with this affliction."
Silence was shared.
Kris breathed, "Eight-Eight-Four-Four. Use that as the answer. Eight for… me, eight for the Fountain," they hummed, "four for hope, and four for hell."
Kris didn't experience sensation. Thick with awkwardness, words filtered over their 'mouth' and coughed and sputtered within their coarse throat.
"Understood, Director. Eight-Eight-Four-Four."
"Construction is working well, then? The command center is imperative to this. Make sure the nodes work as intended." Kris's ambivalence still stirred something within the worker. They saluted, stumbling with the movement. "Oversee the override switch yourself. No one is allowed down there, not Dr. Scrubs or Dr. Felin. Tell no one about it."
"Yes, Director. I understand."
"Good."
Kris exhaled and released their grip on the railing, staring out over the abyssal fields. Someone had taken a squeegee and charred paint to it. The grass was fed by some concoction of chemicals that combined with the magic from the Fountain. Not normal growth.
"I'll be in my office from now on." Kris informed their employee.
They turned, hulking barrel-chest covered with armor of twisting tubes, knotted wires. They towered over where Kris used to stand, height just barely above the waistline of this body.
Red strings snapped, snapped, snapped.
The Director Interim sang with croaks, lamplight inside her visor ablaze with green as Kris blinked, suddenly back in their own head, glancing up at the warrior queen and balking at her jagged blade, hanging from her belt beneath her mantle like the warped dream of death, a blood-moon conquered and broken until it formed the serrated edges of a sword with the points of stars, the essence of control.
As the Director sighed through speakers, with her computerized jumbling, Kris stepped backward and gasped.
The Director froze.
And then she turned, head like a bronze-plated light bulb, covered with leaves of metal, with one body of flickering flame like a digital fireplace.
The Director pushed off the railing and reached for her sword-
Kris cut away the illusion with their Rapier. The green mist faded away until it was just Kris, alone. No other, no Director.
The green spread until it faded, the memory sending Kris's injured heart into overdrive like a shitbox trying to keep up on the highway, and pain arched through their flanks, lightning, inconceivable and instantaneous, but on the eve of existence. It faded, swiftly. Left them clutching the railings for dear life as their leg groaned and threatened to blow out.
They glanced up at the Fountain, and then to the now-dead lights, down to the dirtied floor, riven with pained panting. The floor was clean before but had then been revealed, tainted. Tire-tracks, almost. Divots in the floor, broken by treads, spider-legs, and something like papers. They knew the papers because there were still some jammed into the holes.
Except for a suspiciously untouched square, about their size wide and as tall as a Sharpcrawler.
Kris thought they understood.
0-0-0
"Oh, hey! Lightners! Light! Ners!" The only Darkner in the world stood before Noelle, shaped like a muddy balloon bloated with hot air. Sap dripped from the bulbous creature. Matrixes of tendons and fatty material stitched together, sewing machine precision ensuring the ropes roosting from the stage-rafters would withstand gravity. The weight of the Darkner sagged and held the fleshy anchors taut, easily holding him up. One could reach out and touch the fuzzy, bear-pelt carpet that the Darkner's skin was.
There was nothing in the 'store' besides the table sitting in the corner, covered with the remnants of some birthday party; rotted food, clutched gently underneath films of bloody, vascular tissue; streamers, hats, cones of pastel colors since worn by time. Frazzled ribbons hung from the ceiling.
"You have money? Buy my wares!" The Darkner called.
"Who are you?" Susie replied.
Noelle held her breath as the Darkner shrunk, and twiddled her thumbs watching it. What could she do? The Darkner took less than a moment to debate it, and with 'hands' like twiney reeds, began to stroke some semblance of a chin beneath flaps and wings of connective tissue. Noelle's stomach churned in visceral vexation, unsure of the… logistics, of the meat-like Darkner, and then uncanny thoughts of humans filled her. Her hands trembled. But it was a good distraction, the Darkner. Something warm burgeoned in her chest, like the evening sky on a cold day, soft touches of her hands in Kris's- she pitied the Darkner. Looked upon it with a wan, sorry smile until she couldn't hold her head up anymore and dropped it.
"Oligo. My name is Oligo. How are, and who are, you all, customers?" The Darkner bounced in a happy motion, inviting them closer. "You must be from outside the wall. Surely, you brought money."
Ralsei cleared his throat.
"I'm the Prince of Castle Town. We're the heroes here to stop the Roaring." The Darkner without much of a face somehow radiated confusion. "The Roaring? The cataclysm?"
"Oh. You mean this plague is called the Roaring?" Oligo quizzed, totally unaware of the situation. "That means you're here to help her, I suppose. Too late. She's dead."
Noelle stepped forward, glancing at Susie. "Who… is dead?" Oligo bluntly laughed. Noelle hummed a single nervous chuckle and eyed the room.
"The Director Interim, of course." Oligo shifted forward to stare at them. "Were you not here for her? 'Heroes,' you said? Who are you here to save?" The Darkner seemed genuinely curious. "Heroes in this world. Spectacular." Noelle clammed up and let the others decide. Something about Oligo made her want to put something in between, to stop him from closing in on her. He was already behind a counter, though. There wasn't much else to do.
"What happened in here?" Susie asked.
Oligo made the noise of a dying hamster spinning in a wheel and puttered out.
Outside was nothing but dust, empty, expansive, but dusty. She had some of it on her hooves and it felt like spiders trailing along her legs.
"You mean… what happened to everyone else? They didn't buy my wares. That cursed them to misfortune." Oligo was dead-serious.
"Oh, well then…" Ralsei's malcontent voice transferred with some modicum of belief.
"Their misfortune came quickly, with fury that they couldn't match without me." Oligo clenched his… hands, and wrapped up his vein-wings like a blanket. "I still see that day, when the alarms first rang. Everyone ran for the elevators, ran straight past my store."
"Okay, but what… happened?" Susie beat her hand against the counter, the action weary and lethargic.
Oligo whirred, "What didn't happen that day? The elevators wouldn't work, the computers in the offices stopped functioning. No one had the alcohol to fix themself," the Darkner chortled in mirth, "because they ignored their vendor, me. And when the Champion arrived, utter chaos followed the fiery footprints."
Everyone seemed to understand the sentence after seconds of comprehension. The Champion. Ralsei blinked and opened his mouth, voice hammered with distressed emotions.
"The Champion was here?"
"So they say." Oligo cryptically added. "But trusting their minds is hard. They followed her to death, and persisted afterward…"
Susie's fervor returned, "They? To the death? What does that even mean?"
Oligo chuckled.
"I'm trying to make a profit here. If only there was some way to jog my memory." The subtle intonation was to buy things from him. Noelle narrowed her eyes at the shopkeeper, unsure of his trustworthiness. He was the only Darkner around. That could mean anything.
"Jog your memory, huh?" Susie remarked. She seethed openly, "because you can't just tell us? Fine. We can get you what you need."
"Wonderful. I have many wares-"
The Devilsknife slashed into the counter mere milliseconds before Noelle could stop Susie. Oligo leapt higher than the rafter, frightened by the display of weaponry.
"Rot in hell, you scumbag." Susie cursed. "We've had enough of people bullshitting us. No more lies, no more games. Tell us what we want or we'll break every single thing in this shithole."
"That's, that's no way to treat a friend!" Oligo argued, trembling with exertion as he held himself above the 'heroes.' Noelle didn't feel like much of a hero terrorizing this swindler, even if he was conning them.
"We want information, Mr. Oligo. We have no want to harm you or your shop." Ralsei was unphased by Susie. Noelle couldn't help but feel apathy, as well. They all looked like ratty vagabonds; Kris was their leader and the loss was felt, even as the chaos went on. "Who is the Champion?"
"H-Human!" The Darkner answered, shocking everyone. Susie inhaled, air pressed around the budding rage inside her. "The Champion is a human!"
"…the Knight," Ralsei settled. "is the Champion. A different name. Kris, we should have known…" Ralsei whispered something beneath his breath. He busied himself with prying Susie's weapon from the counter. "And the Director Interim? What happened to her?"
"Killed," Oligo bit back. "The Champion killed her. Everything went to shit since then, with all the dementia." Noelle couldn't help herself anymore. Thoughts of everything had blasted through her mind, and with every extra impetus of insanity, she could only hope to stop the flow of tears.
Noelle couldn't think of anyone but her father, now. Not Kris. Specifically not Kris. She didn't know if she hated them or felt sorry for them, and it felt like a gut-punch laced with needles to her abdomen, and then the thought of their possible innocence was across her face like a brick - because she knew they weren't. They weren't innocent, they had killed everyone and-
She shook her head, slapped herself. Stilled her quivering body.
Susie let her scythe rest on the table, "You see a candle around here? Wearing some obnoxious outfit, maybe with two doctors following him?"
Oligo bristled from above. "No. No, I didn't. Leave my store and let the door hit you on the way out."
Ralsei stiffened. Noelle wasn't even sure he was breathing. "This may be… useless to ask, but do you know where we can go to seal the Fountain?" Noelle didn't ask what happened to purifying the Fountain: She had larger problems.
"Seal the Fountain. You want to seal the Fountain… the Fountain," his tone was mocking and contemptuous. "Like that's even possible. And even if it was, I don't know." His tone said he was telling them the truth. "I don't know." He reaffirmed.
"Perhaps, you're right." Ralsei admitted. "Without Kris, who knows if we could seal the Fountain. But as long as we have each other, as long as we trust each other…" Ralsei cackled, a total whiplash from his usual self. "Who am I kidding? The best we can do is clear the way for Kris. Not even… murder, not even that can workaround the limits of power."
"Kris, whatever they did, wherever you go- what do I care?" Oligo spat, slowly lowering to the floor as his muscle fibers gave out. "Get out of my store."
Ralsei hummed warmly.
He paced forward and placed his paws onto the counter.
"We would like to buy something, now," his calm voice was taut, stentorian, "if you don't mind." Noelle stared at him like he had grown a second head.
"Get. Out. Of my store-"
Fires sparkled around the shop, Ralsei merely shuffling his shoulders, "I'm afraid we're on a time-limit. Saving the world is very easy, but we need some time left to see the sights before we leave." Moments passed before Noelle even registered Ralsei was lying. "I need to fix this before everything else becomes worse. I'm sure you understand, having seen the Knight's destruction."
Oligo flopped to the floor, unable to maintain his facade of agility.
"…I'm marking it up." He explained. "You Lightners are rude. You're rude. You pay more for less manners.
"I'm afraid…" Ralsei clambered onto the counter, standing up to his full height and sweeping his paws behind his back. "…we don't have any money to give to you."
Oligo pressed against the back wall of his workshop.
Witnessing the downfall of the group was something Noelle certainly didn't expect. Dread swamped her at Ralsei's display, rubbing at her teary eyes and blinking at the sophisticated Prince threatening the shopkeeper. She never regarded him much for his strength- and now, without Kris, her strength meant nothing. His strength, his magic… inspired her. If only giving her the belief they were safer than three teenagers wandering through a skyscraper in a Dark World.
A fireball danced in Ralsei's hand, crackling like the pleasant flames outside in the lamps.
"You seem wounded… if not a little bothered." Ralsei commented blankly.
"Yeah, uh. Wonder why." Oligo swallowed, the noise odd with no apparent face. "Maybe because three kids entered my alcohol business, politely threatened me, began talking about their crime-committing friend, and slashed my counter with a scary scythe."
Susie glanced at Ralsei. "Ralsei?"
"Yes, Susie?" He responded quietly.
"Did you see any kids who look like they could do any of that?" Susie grinned at him.
"Susie, he's talking about us."
Noelle cut in. "Ralsei… she was making a joke." The Prince gave her the dirtiest look she had seen on the goat's face. Not even Asriel could make that same tightened glare.
"I apologize, but I'm not in the joking mood."
Susie crossed her arms and held the scythe by the haft, letting it clang against the floor.
Oligo watched this unfold. "…usually someone tunes in when I say alcohol. Especially kids. No fun with you all." Suddenly, his tone changed to unsatisfied, and he propped himself up. "What's wrong with you guys?"
Ralsei exhaled softly, maw gently clenched. "We lost our friend. Something… is wrong with them, and they did some things."
"They are a fucking killer," Susie scoffed, "and we want no part of it. Not mindless violence. We're not… dicks, we're jerks." The purple girl tapped her feet before turning and leaning against the counter.
"…I thought I knew them," Noelle blurted. She scrunched into herself, folding her hands to her shoulders and lightly caressing herself, drawing circles.
"I…" Ralsei faltered. "There must be a reason. I know it, Kris… they wouldn't just do that."
Susie groaned. "Ralsei. Dude, I'm sorry. I know you were close to them but…" She grabbed onto the counter. After a moment, she split from it and laid a comforting hand onto Ralsei's calf. Awkward as it was, he dropped his hands and sighed horribly, like the ghost of a broken king watching his kingdom fall all over again. Noelle was jealous and almost argued that she knew Kris longer than anyone. "Hey. Noelle, come here. Ralsei, come on, get down."
Noelle didn't need convincing but Ralsei stuttered for a second, lagging behind her words.
Susie pinched her nose before waving Noelle closer, eyes squished closed as she gestured for a hug. Noelle was all-too pleased to oblige; she didn't even question Susie's suddenly affectionate predilection. Ralsei joined them, giving a chaste hug to Noelle.
Susie sighed and patted the both of them, grumbling like a tired bear after a day of foraging. Ralsei snuggled closer to Noelle and she realized her ill-will to him was unfounded - he was just hurt… just like her. How could Kris do that to them? It was mean, just plain villainous. Sinful.
"Heh," Susie produced a noise, like a laugh, "last time we had one of these was… what, a day ago? Two? With all the docs, and all." Noelle didn't remember. Everyone in for a group hug. But glancing around, she couldn't help but notice the absences that would have been there. More absences than those present. Dr. Scrubs, Dr. Felin, Dr. Rnd… Kris. "Hey! Don't get too comfortable!"
"Sorry, Susie."
Noelle sniffled. "Thanks."
Ralsei had some more to say. "I think Kris is… not in their right mind anymore. They haven't been good since the Card Kingdom started. Do you think they're… ill?" His question struck nerves. Noelle was thinking it, but that was an apologist mindset. Kris hadn't been okay for some time. Even if it was mental illness, what could they do? Kris was holding them back from saving the world. "They meditated. That's how they knew about the Roaring, and that helped them try to talk down the poisoner and Rouxls. If that's a sign that Kris is still redeemable," his harrowed face resolved, "then I will do my best to help them. Later. When we have time to talk in-depth."
Oligo chose that moment to speak up. "The 'poisoner'?" The Darkner rocked backward. "You don't mean my friend Boyles, do you? Well, it's not like there's anyone else that could fit that bill. He was my business partner." Noelle blinked softly at the Darkner. Another death, another friend lost. She felt her SOUL thrum for it. Susie and Ralsei averted their gazes, with Susie fiddling with her scythe. "Those looks… bah, that's not… necessarily what I expected from him. He had a sister to take care of but, but I guess this world has a way of tearing people down to their worst and leaving them there."
"He wasn't infected." Ralsei said. Oligo peered at him. "And he did try to help his sister. She was infected. But Dr. Scrubs did something to her, and he… believed someone he shouldn't have and did something he shouldn't have."
"Dr. Scrubs, that woman? The Director's prodigy. Yes. Yes, I quite clearly remember her." Oligo spoke lowly, bidden by the past. "Not surprising that she would do something heinous. She was always… strange, never really someone I could ever talk to. But Boyles… my stars, that boy…" Noelle wondered if her curiosity was born of genuine intrigue or clusters of pain from other topics: she asked more about Oligo and the doctors. "Oh, Boyles and I were simply tavern keepers in this village. He knew how to make alcohol, I knew how to bottle and label it. Not that it mattered eventually- as I said, the world claws you down, and the bottle is a good way to forget," Oligo reached beneath the table. "Thank you for this, Lightners. It's… nice to hear of old friends. Here, on the house, just for you all."
Actual liquor. Noelle gawked at it, unsure of the exact moral implications of the Darkner serving them alcohol. Noelle's mother would kill her. Heck, her father would kill her. But… but… how to explain to them that she drank in a separate world where Kris had killed people and there was a plague spreading?
"You kids are… not-alright, but decent, I guess. Don't overdo it. I imagine you all want to walk in straight lines toward wherever you're going next," Oligo placed three glasses on the counter with his 'hands' and used them as a harness to open and begin pouring the liquor.
"Umm, I don't think we should drink that. Alcohol is bad." Ralsei contested.
Susie didn't even argue, just reached for her glass and shoved it back, coughing and clearing her throat afterward.
She took Ralsei's shot, then grabbed the whole bottle and swigged from it heartily. She never radiated positivity or tact but seeing her unabashedly breach her norms like that… scared, and absolutely unsettled Noelle. Her fur stiffened at the sight, as though her body recognized some predator. It didn't wane even as she slammed it down, wiping her face off with grave urgency and a grim expression of pain. Noelle knew how this affected everyone, not just her, but seeing Susie so… distant, with her eyes gazing through even the Darkner host, and her shoulders hunched over the counter as her whole body toppled over made Noelle remind herself: Everyone. That's who was affected by Kris's killings.
She didn't know what she wanted anymore. First, to go home. Then, go be strong for Kris, and help them save the world. But now, she found herself with wistful, somber energy, unable to hold herself still as Susie drank and Ralsei removed his hat, setting it on the counter.
"What're we gonna do," Susie started. "Without Kris. What the hell are we going to do." Her broken, frustrated tone struck a chord in the air. Noelle didn't know where her sudden double-back on Kris came from. Susie clicked her tongue and swirled the bottle, the amber hues dark in the dim lighting. "Tsk, God, why is it so easy to hate them? I tried… I really did. To be nice." Shaking her head, she went under for another drink, then set it down and pushed it back toward the center of the counter.
"I think we have to find out what happened to them. They changed," Ralsei lamented, "didn't they? Kris was hurting and now they're the one hurting others! Once this is all over… you two should talk to their parents. Maybe they know something."
"Ms. Toriel? You're right." Susie clamored, turning to face Ralsei.
"They would know best, wouldn't they? If Kris was having issues, their parents would know - that's what they're supposed to pay attention to." Ralsei pinched his ears and scratched them.
"Tough luck with that." Susie remarked instantly, almost offhandedly.
"Susie's right. Kris's parents…" Noelle frowned something mighty. The air irritated her nostrils. "they have their own problems. I'm not sure they would notice anything since Kris… Kris, Kris had always been sad. T-This…" Noelle's words were interwoven with the whine of growing realization. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Her throat clasped and choked, unable to move, even as she strained herself.
Ralsei glanced at her with pity, meeting her eyes before she turned away.
The Prince mourned. "They've always been… sad, haven't they?" Noelle nodded and let her gaze fall to the floor. As though it were proof to his visions of Kris, or somehow undamning them from their fate, the Prince cracked the type of smile to make Noelle's chest flutter. "That's good." He said.
"How is that good? Any of it. Because it all sounds bad to me," Susie protested, drumming her fingers over the counter, making Noelle search outside the store for any movement and hide herself behind the wall subtly.
"It's like I said." Oligo interrupted. "This world, it's horrible, and without faith and care, those inside of it can be taken under the waters of the deepest vats of hell. And held there, kicking and screaming." He paused. "The best thing you can do for them now is to leave them alone. Once you're done, and broken, it would take a miracle to fix you." Oligo pulsated like a beating heart and stretched backward, facing the ceiling. "Or for something inside to click, but it seems their insides… are like mine."
"Huh?"
"I'm talking about my handicap." He explained it like it was normal. "Did you believe that I stayed here when everyone else was trying to retreat, because that's stupid. I couldn't escape anyway. I had the miracle of the Champion- this Knight person- ignoring me."
His dry laughter drained all vigor from the room.
"…" The Darkner stayed silent. "You should continue on your quest. Here. You'll need items." Oligo proved a tender soul, and Noelle's mind sang songs of remorse for being afraid of the bartender. He gave them some more alcohol and passed tins of biscuits over for Ralsei.
The goat humbly accepted it and apologized for his misbehavior.
"Think nothing of it." The Darkner simply nodded his bulbous body and shook happily. The tension seemed to fully siphon from the room, Noelle loosening her hands and relaxing. Upon second glance, the Darkner wasn't so monstrous. "Now, what does that friend of yours look like? I'm curious, might say hello if they come by."
Ralsei stammered, "Well, well, they're… blue. Dressed like an icy knight, with nice spikes." He popped a small, sad grin.
Noelle couldn't see them as anything but the same Kris as she always knew. Same sweater, same eyes seemed like the ocean. "Their hair is always… nuts, like absolutely nuts."
Her laughter cut down the bitterness that she felt, and was more than slightly relieving to her mood. It didn't seem like the whole world was crashing down around them.
"Always look like shit, yeah." The monster checked the labels on the bottles of liquor Oligo gave them. Her curiosity beset her astringent tone. "Freak doesn't even shower."
Noelle supposed she wasn't wrong.
Not that monsters were particularly critical of scents given that most of them boasted their own peculiar smells, but she agreed that Kris wasn't the cleanest. Something told her that was part of the puzzle and something she failed to miss.
Oligo spoke. "Now… that's right, isn't it? This friend of yours must have had a rough-go of it for a while, and I'm surprised it took them this long to show it so clearly. More than likely, you missed some signs of their… turmoil." the word was strained. Noelle paid attention to him. "No blame on you, just saying to pay more attention to your friends. Otherwise, you might lose them to their own minds. Thoughts are your greatest enemies. Loneliness, and pain, and sadness, they're just close to them enough to worm in."
Ending on that thought - the thought that maybe they should have been watching more, should have been more proactive - Oligo bid them a good night.
The village didn't stir for their return. No howling Lunatics, no gunfire.
Just the dead silence of eerie light from the Fountain bright.
Soon, through many heavy, shaken footfalls, they continued along the wall of buildings that led further into the Astrowall.
Noelle felt lost. Even as they saw the elevator, neat, modern, pristine, with a keypad that she froze over, she didn't know what to do. Even when they all settled down in the elevator, she was… lost. Sat there, back against the buttoned panel as the cabin began a slow, agonizingly slow ascent. Ralsei dropped to his knees and pulled his hat over his face, curled into a little ball. She wasn't sure who was shaking because of the lift or because of their emotions, but she knew. Noelle knew. Susie was leaning against the wall.
"Was it our fault?" The hat was pinched and pulled by claws.
"No."
"I… I think it was," Ralsei whined. "We're Kris's friends. And, umm, shouldn't we have seen it? And we should have been… umm, aware. Of where we are. This place. It's not happy."
The vicious nature of the noise Susie made told Noelle her stance.
"They're a liar," Susie blamed, she accused, observed, "and it's not like they were gonna let us know anyway. Who knows what's inside their head; you think they know?" Noelle's shoulders slumped as she stared at Susie, swallowing dryly. Susie wrinkled her nose like she smelled something foul, and Noelle would say it was traced by dumb fury. Her teeth appeared as she shivered, as though cold. "You can't just explain everything as… depression, or, or mental shit, or whatever the fuck that they're trying to-"
"Susie. Shut up."
Noelle surprised herself with how adamant and authoritative that came out as. Shockingly, she listened to Noelle well, even though her wild-eyed face seemed panicked enough to respond. Noelle just glared at her, unforgiving in her staunch resolve.
She made a resolution then and there. It was her fault, however partly, that Kris went off the deep-end. She had failed as a friend. But she wouldn't anymore. Kris may have been gone but she would try to pull them back. Whenever she could, she would try. The bumpy hum of the elevator disturbed her thoughts, but she would try. Even if they were merciless in their killing. Even if they deigned to strike everyone down, or if they chose to be the bad guy at the end. Noelle had to be strong for Kris. Perhaps, in a different manner than before, but perhaps not.
She would save the world.
She would save Kris.
And judging by Ralsei's upset demeanor, with his hidden face and tightly glued-together claws, she wasn't the only one who felt they could do something. Help Kris. She had to help Kris, whether they liked it or not.
She used to listen to them. But now, she would speak to them. And they were going to listen, even if she had to make them.
But for now, she leaned her face against the walls of the box and closed her eyes, remembering what she could, seeing what went wrong with everything, and soon enough, the elevator arrived at the second-floor offices.
