The skeleton was dead.

He was your one lead, the one person who might have some answers for you, and he was dead.

Aren't they all? you ask yourself irritably, forcing out a humorless laugh. You consider your options. If the carnage stopped here, the rest of the Underground was likely fine. Then again, while the destruction of the town stopped here, the dust did not, and neither did the general decay. Perhaps this was just an anomaly. Perhaps whatever killed the skeleton, whatever killed everyone, had encountered no resistance further into Snowdin.

But that made no sense. You could see it from where you stood, the town kept going, but whatever had bulldozed the landscape behind you had stopped at the saloon.

Or started, you thought briefly, before turning back towards the ruined landscape. The town isn't big, but easy enough to hide in. I could have stepped right over them for all I know, if they just hid in the dust. But that makes no sense. There would be footprints, right? No wind. No snow. This had to have happened recently.

No wind...in a cavern.

Right. That might mean no weather, too.

Everything down here is dead. Except me and whoever caused this.

You pick up the jacket, and shake the dust out of it. After noting that the bullethole didn't go all the way through to the back, you put it on, ignoring the gritty feeling between your sleeves and the fabric.

Unlike monsters, humans can freeze, you reasoned to yourself. Besides, he doesn't need it anymore.

With some trepidation, you step through the saloon doors, hand on your knife. When your eyes adjust to the dark, you can see a stranger in a cowboy hat sitting at the bar, staring at an empty glass on the counter. Had it not been for the steady rise and fall of their chest, you would dismiss it as a trick of the dark, contorting things that weren't a person to look like one.

"H-hello?" you call out hesitantly. The stranger stiffens. They pick up the glass, huff in disappointment, and set it back down before turning to face you. Their eyes have a faintly yellow glow, barely visible under the brim of their hat. "what-"

Their hand is a blur, you hear a deafening crack before finding yourself on the ground, a strange ache in your chest. A warm feeling pools around you, even as your body goes strangely cold.

You wake up at the entrance to town, the coat still wrapped around you. The ache is gone, and in its place jumps a rampant panic.

Shot. They shot me. I've been shot, you think, pawing weakly at your chest where the pain had been. Blood. Gotta stop the bleeding. Where...what?!

I was shot, and now I'm here.

I'm not dead. I should be dead.

Was that another dream? But...I still have the coat.

I don't want to die again.

Again?

You shake your head, get your bearings. You're on the Ruins side of Snowdin, regarding the destruction from the beginning of the town onwards. You can see the saloon, in the distance.

Grillby's. I got shot in a place called Grillby's. And now I'm here. Far away from Grillby's.

You hold a finger to the bullethole in the jacket. It's now significantly wider. They hit me in almost the exact place they hit the skeleton. God.

I guess I know who cleared out the town. And possibly the entire Underground.

Not complaining, but...I should be dead. God. I should be dead.

But it refused.

What does that mean? Never mind. Get out of my head.

You never got out of mine.

"Fucking stop!" you shout. The echo reminds you that you aren't alone in your mind or this town.

You're not cold. You just can't stop shivering.

So you start moving.

Back through the ruined town, back to the saloon doors of Grillby's. You brace yourself, and draw the dagger Toriel gave you.

I'm going to die if I go through with this.

Nothing I haven't done before.

Can't even tell if that last one was mine or theirs.

Just go. We'll be fine.

You kick in the Saloon door. The gunslinger is already facing you. They seem surprised, but they raise their hand again, this time more slowly. An obscure detail throws itself into focus, the bulletholes in your jacket. They never appeared on the other side. Bullets. Bones. Wood double doors.

You don't move.

The doors crack off the walls and swing shut.

The gunslinger fires. Hits the same spot. Except...

The door.

You understand.

You sprint through the doors, leaving the shattered wood swinging on its hinges erratically. Your foot reaches out, finds a chair, sliding it towards the gunslinger. He catches it, and fires, but the chair jostles him enough that he only grazes your shoulder. You kick another chair, and throw the table down, ducking behind it.

The table shatters. You have splinters in your neck.

You grab one of the larger shards and throw it like a dart, sprinting towards the gunslinger as you go. They raise a hand, grunting as the sharp chunk of wood pierces it. They raise their weapon as you reach on of the chairs, and you use it as a springboard, leaping up and over the gunslinger. They fire again, but all that does is rain splinters on you both. The dagger flips around in your hand, and-

It sounds like stabbing an apple.

That's the worst of it, you think. Not that its awful, terrible, not the slick warmth pushing over your hand and around the blade, its the utterly mundane sound the blade makes when it pushes into the gunslingers back.

You can't think about that. They're not dead.

You pull the knife out and spin as he turns. Something inside you just knows where they will be, almost like...almost like you've been here before. Like you've gotten good at this.

The deep slash across their throat doesn't make much noise at all. It's the gurgling afterwards that gets you. The sound of the gun clattering onto a hollow wood floor. The stench of humanity, human blood as a human bleeds all over your human hands and their human weapon and your monstrous dagger.

Part of you is repulsed by all this.

Part of you loves the warmth coating your hands. It wants more.

Part of you hates the fact you can't tell which, if any impulse, is from the foreign influence on your mind.

The gunslinger falls, thoroughly dead. The gun still glows faintly, a yellow light radiating from the cylinder and barrel. The weapon calls out to you, and with some trepidation, you grab it. The yellow shifts, transitioning into a blood red.

You stare at the gunslingers body, straining to see movement in the dim light from outside. You did such a large amount of damage in such a short amount of time that they're already gone, drowned in their own blood and last words.

No answers. No reparations. Just death. Yours, then theirs.

You think back to the fight, however short. The decisions you made...they weren't really "decisions" were they? They were instinct. The coat's bullet holes had made it all fall into place, and after that, you were just along for the ride.

Was that them?

Was that you?

Or was it...?

Timelines stopping and starting, jumping left and right, until suddenly-

Stop it.

I can help you.

I don't want you to.

What's the last thing you remember?

You ignore the question, busying yourself with your weapons, old and new. You wipe the knife off on your pantleg the best you can, the sheath it. Turning your attention to the revolver, you flick the cylinder open. It's chambers glow with a crimson light, the same flowing out of the barrel. You spin it, flinching at the sound, and flick it closed again.

One of seven, you think, fully aware that its not really you. But not in the order we are familiar with.

This is my fault.

As quickly as you can, you strip the belt of the dead gunslinger, fixing his holster on your own, opposite the dagger. A sense of power courses through your chest, down your arm, and into the weapon as you rest your hand on the grip. A sense of righteousness.

You stroll out of the bar, pushing past the double doors, and everything goes white.