Howdy! Sorry about the one week delay, work was kinda nuts these past few weeks. But, I have news! And it could be good or it could be bad! See, pretty soon here (November 3rd to November 17th) I'm going on a vacation. And I probably won't have much opportunity to type through that time.

So, I'm hoping to get next chapter out next week, on Sunday so that you guys don't have to wait until November 22nd for the next update! I'm not entirely sure how much I'll be able to type while vacationing; if it's anything like last year I probably won't get much done lol. But, basically what I'm saying is, the next update could be any of these four dates!

November 1st, November 8th, November 15th, or November 22nd.

So next chapter might come out early, or late! I'm not sure how much I'll be able to do! Fingers crossed for early, though! Sorry about the chaotic update schedule, but y'all know how life is. Crazy and up in the air and whatnot. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the chapter and are nice enough to share your thoughts with me in the reviews!

Thanks go to 10burgers, Linki, elicas, Doctah Sawbones, GMLxAwesome, Acoolnamme, Zack Frost, Wingah, Chara Moonstone, Genowar, and NBoss01.

Disclaimer: I do not own Undertale. Mako and Max were created by and are owned by XRabbit14.

Did'ja miss me? I missed you.

"Here we are." Badster's voice followed the wooshing of reality's tear, the tall skeleton's steps crunching onto the forest floor. His sockets scanned the greenery that surrounded him without much interest. Whether it be the lifeless dark of the void or the lively light of nature, existence was all the same to Badster. He shaped the world, not the other way around.

"..." Silently Anthony The Anarchist stood there, his muddy feet pressing into the fallen leaves and broken twigs. He still stunk of sewage water, his white hair was still crunchy with blood and sweat. What little clothing he had left was burned and filthy. Just a ruined pair of jeans, closer to a pair of shorts now. He turned his head from side to side, let his lifeless eyes scan the shifting green.

We were apart for so long, weren't we? You must be on the edge of your seat to get some more Anarchy content.

"... And no one will find me here?" The Anarchist asked calmly and quietly, wandering a few steps deeper into the wilds. The trees were so tall, the vegetation so dense. Everything breathed, everything moved, everything was alive. This was foreign to Anarchy, so unlike the void of death that so often followed him.

"Not a soul." Badster bowed to his master, folding one hand over his abdomen and the other behind his back. "I'll make sure of it."

I should warn you, these past years I've been... Trying something different.

"... Thank you, Gaster." Anarchy spoke, wistful eyes peering up into the looming canopies overhead. His words made Badster furrow his brow bones, and the bad doctor looked to his abomination with some confusion in his sockets.

"... Sir?" Was the only way Badster could think to voice his concerns. He watched The Anarchist closely, tiling his skull some. He just didn't understand, how could he? He had foreseen many outcomes to this day, and this was not one of them. Everything from the sparing of The Hacker to Anarchy's strange, unreadable attitude. These number didn't add up, this data didn't scan. The bad doctor was confounded and befuddled and frankly he was aggravated by it. Anarchy, his only companion in the world, was hardly any help. If Badster was an emotional man, if he felt his feelings instead of thinking his data, he hypothesized that he might have felt lonely.

I've been trying a lot of different things, really.

"I'm good, for now." Anarchy lifted his hand, waving it dismissively back at Badster. He did not turn around, did not cast his crimson gaze upon his right hand man. He found the harmonic green life that surrounded him to be far more important. "You can go."

"As you wish, sir." Badster bowed his head, letting his narrowed sockets lay upon the muck of the forest floor. Crushed up leaves and mud and animal droppings and the corpses of all sorts of lifeforms, all ground together and melded into one to form the nutrient rich ground.

... My whole life, I've always felt the same. Unhappy, I mean.

"... Gaster."

"Hm?" Badster lifted his head, once more looking to the scar riddled back of his master. He folded his hole punched hands behind his back, which he straightened, making himself look presentable and ready to serve. "Yes, sir Anarchy?"

After my fight with Angel, after hearing him apologize... I was confused. For the first time in an eternity, I felt uncertain. That's why I came here; I needed to think now more than ever.

"... Are we friends, Gaster?" Anthony The Anarchist stuffed the fingers of both his hands into his pockets, letting his thumbs poke out while he arched his back. He stared straight up into the light that had scorched his skin, rejected his existence from the moment he was born, and he tried to understand.

Another anomaly in Badster's data, but the bad doctor knew how to respond. Without hesitating, he dutifully asked. "Would you like to be friends, Anarchy?"

"..." Anthony thought for a few long moments, before he finally shut his eyes on the light. The corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly, a bittersweet smile. "Maybe someday, doc. Maybe someday."

Badster nodded his understanding, before his body broke away. Bones turned to pixels, colorful cubes. The doctor faded into the code and disappeared, leaving Anthony The Anarchist alone in the light.

... I needed to consult my prophet.

Chapter 52: Somewhere Quiet

Or: Three Years As The Anarchist (Part 1)

For some time Anarchy wandered the forest. He let his toes seep into the mud, reached out and ran his fingers over the rugged bark that armored the trees. How quickly he could make it all die, he thought. How instantly his touch could become poison and devastate this ecosystem. Did it know? That he lurked within its leafy green, a pulsing cancer just waiting to activate?

The only question was whether or not he wanted to. If he wanted to let his DETERMINATION flood out, release the beasts of his darkness and feed his bottomless gullet with whatever would bleed between his jaws. But, ultimately, as mud turned to water, and Anarchy found himself wading upstream, he decided to let this world survive. At least for now.

Wayward stones scraped and sliced between his toes and along the soles of his feet, but he hardly minded. His red soul sealed any wounds that the wet stone floor of the stream opened, and his red eyes stared ahead. With each passing step, he was approaching the waterfall at the stream's peak. The fall was hardly massive, and its pressure was far from intense. It did not crashed to the stream below, it merely poured down the smoothed surface of the natural wall.

A few more steps, and Anarchy stood before the vertical stream. He stared into the distorted, shifting reflection, and it stared back at him. He was a mess. A disgusting gutter rat. A body beaten and broken and put back together a trillion times, gallons upon gallons of blood bled. And he felt nothing at all. He could fill an ocean, he could feed a planet. But instead the planets fed him.

God's Bastard Son. He'd never been treated like a human, like a mortal man with hopes and dreams. Now, he hardly felt that he was a human. Staring into his beastly eyes, watching the reflection of his invincible body. In that instant he didn't know who or what he was anymore. His focus had been Angel, his wrath towards his best friend had made him feel like he was still a human being.

But now he didn't feel anything. He reached out, with one scarred and pale hand. His powerful fingers lifted to his reflection in hopes of finding something there, anything. But the water merely split around his flesh, and his reflection distorted to shifting, fading colors. He watched his image disappear to an endless, rushing flow of energy, and he frowned.

Slowly, Anthony The Anarchist pulled his hand away from the water. Droplets raced down his palm and dripped from his fingers, before his hand clenched. His fingers closed around one of his only possessions as he summoned it from his inventory. Something he had worked for, something he had spilled blood to earn.

Under the raining stream Anarchy sat. He crossed his legs and he straightened his back while the filth was washed from him. The water was cool and refreshing, cleaning away all the disgusting misery he was tarnished with. This made him feel nostalgic, reminded him of the broken pipe he had showered under years ago. The day he made the switch, chose the only path he could. The path that the world had laid out for him, the path that meant he would live so long as everything he touched died. And across his lap, he laid the Devilsknife. The gift from the Prophet Jevil, his only link to the one who could do anything.

"Take this gift from your jester, Chaos Incarnate. And when years pass, and twilight washes over you, you will have aid against Order's Mad God."

Order's Mad God? Anarchy hadn't understood then, and he certainly didn't understand now. There was a lot of things he didn't understand. Why couldn't he do it? Why'd his hands stop, why couldn't he kill Angel? It was supposed to make him happy, it was supposed to gratify his entire life, make everything worth it.

... It was supposed to make him happy. But it didn't. Nothing did. And now, Anthony The Anarchist didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to work towards. For what felt like forever now, he'd had a set path. A clear goal. Revenge. But now... He didn't know what he wanted.

So he reached out. To the man that knew everything, and could do anything.

... Jevil? You there?

Silence.

Anarchy shut his eyes, exhaled slowly. He felt the water pour over him, let its chill cool his heated body. He wrapped both hands around Devilsknife, one around its bottom and one just below its wicked blade.

Jevil. Don't fuckin' ignore me.

Silence.

Anarchy's jaw tightened, and his eyelids clenched together more harshly. The emotions bubbling beneath the surface of his soul grew more reckless, and his crimson heart appeared on his bare chest. The water pouring over him heated, and just when it threatened to steam, he took another deep breath. Just when the trees began to shift and creak with unease, and all the animals felt their hairs stand on end, Anarchy's expression relaxed.

The trees stopped their groaning. The uneasy chatter of the birds quieted once more. The stream quit its bubbling, its water returned to its cool temperatures. As The Anarchist's devastating soul slipped back into his body, a single drop of the forest's lifeblood dripped from his dangling wet hair. It struck the blade of Devilsknife, ran along its lethal curve, and dripped from its point.

Drip...

The droplet striking the water rang like a church bell. Waves rippled out in perfect circles from its impact, and some form of harmony was achieved. Life and death met there in the woods, and both found themselves understanding of the other's company. A halfway point was reached, a middle ground. And in the peaceful quiet, a voice spoke out.

"Have you lost your way, Chaos Incarnate?"

Anarchy's eyelids parted, and the scarlet of his eyes gleamed in the dark. Suddenly he was not in the forest. He no longer felt the water pouring over him, he no longer felt the pulsing life force surrounding him. Now he sat cross legged in the void of his own darkness, and directly across from him the mad jester himself stood.

"... Yes." Anarchy spoke solemnly, his face a stone mask. Devilsknife now missing from his lap, he lifted one knee, planting his hand upon it and shoving himself up to his feet. Still he loomed over that goblin Jevil, and yet his haggard eyes lowered to the man he'd defeated with such ease, and they looked so desperate for answers. "I don't understand, Jevil. I don't know what to do."

"The Angel's blood did not quench your thirst?" Jevil tilted his head with exaggerated quickness, his wide yellow eyes never blinking as he stared into The Anarchist. Then, as if he was not satisfied with this dramatic head tilt, he whipped his head to rest against his other shoulder. And he smiled, like he was content with his second tilt. "Or were you unable to drink, drink?"

"... I could have killed him." Anarchy lowered his pain filled eyes down to his powerful hands, stared into his open palms. He flexed his thick fingers, curled them inward and spotted the red that was still stained beneath his fingernails. "I ripped him apart a hundred times. Tasted his blood, felt his pulse fade out in my hands... But it wasn't enough."

"Well you certainly shouldn't settle for an end like that!" Jevil jumped like he was disgusted by Anarchy's news, drawing his hands back towards his chest. "Dreadful, dreadful! Chaos should never settle!"

"You think I don't know that?" Anarchy hissed, his scarlet eyes darting up to the jumping clown. His hands clenched into tight fists, trembling with his jaw. His teeth ground together, his body once again vibrated with rage and indignation. But, just as The Dark around them began to shift and giggle and hiss, Anarchy shut his eyes. He relaxed his jaw and his fists, and he exhaled slowly out of his nose. The Dark returned to its natural stillness, and Anarchy whispered. "... I let him go."

"Wonderful, wonderful!"

Anarchy furrowed his brows at his jester, his expression twisting with confusion. Jevil jumped and clapped and giggled, and Anarchy didn't understand. How could this be a good thing? Jevil was in Anarchy's corner, he should have been rooting for Angel's death too. And yet here he was, celebrating the survival of that... Rat bastard! That douchebag, that dickhead! Once more, Anarchy tried his best to stifle his rage, and he grumbled. "... Fuck do you mean wonderful?"

"Anarchy, Anarchy! Do you forget the definition of your own name?" Jevil waved both hands to dismiss his master's rage. Then, his black lips curled, and the hands he had waved began shaking in jazz hands. "Anarchy means chaos! Chaos means do whatever you want, want!"

"But I don't know what I want!" Anarchy shouted, pain pouring into his eyes. He took one step closer to his prophet, slamming one powerful hand against his own sturdy chest. "Don't you get it?! I thought I wanted Angel dead!"

"But then you didn't, didn't! So you let him live!" Jevil shrugged casually but grinned crookedly. His yellow teeth were jagged and wrong, much like his personality. "Because it wasn't perfect like you wanted! It wasn't perfect, so you didn't settle, settle!"

"Well, I mean..." Anarchy receded back some, his uncertain eyes darting to the side. What Jevil was saying was true, Anarchy had hardly spared Angel because he wanted the traitor to live. He just wasn't satisfied with that end. And his life had already had so many unsatisfying endings. The murder of Angel The Hacker had to be the one perfect moment, and that instant in the filth of Waterfall just... Wasn't it. Anarchy's eyes narrowed, "... I guess that's true."

"You think think and you work work. It's all that you do, Chaos Incarnate." Jevil relaxed some as Anarchy quieted down. He folded his hands behind his back, and the bells of his hat jingled some as he walked calmly up towards The Anarchist. Again he flashed those gold teeth with a wicked smile, "You should try playing a game instead!"

"A game..?" Anarchy repeated, narrowing his ruby orbs at the jester with clear skepticism. His eyes widened, however, when the ground seemingly disappeared beneath him. He dropped straight down, and his eyes darted below to see the only thing he could catch himself on. Directly between his ankles and racing further up was a sharpened edge, a massive one. It's mysterious metallic gleam made Anarchy think of Devilsknife as his left hand shot out.

He planted his palm in the thin edge of this blade, immediately cutting deep into his hand. He still continued to fall however, and he shifted slightly, letting his left inner thigh crash onto the sharpened edge. This sliced open his leg as well, but even though two streams of his blood were pouring down the edge of this massive blade, Anarchy was no longer falling.

"On the razor's edge you live your life, Chaos Incarnate." Anarchy lifted his now aggravated eyes to Jevil, who stood with perfect balance upon this blade, not letting it sting even slightly into the soles of his feet. Anarchy didn't know how he did it; probably because he could do anything. "But this edge can't kill you, because you can't die, die!"

"What's your point?" Anarchy growled, his eyes narrowing and flashing a predatory gleam up at his prophet. His blood poured from him, forming red streaks down either side of this blade's massive curve. This didn't matter of course, because Anarchy could bleed forever.

"There's no point! To anything, anything!" Jevil performed a perfect backflip to punctuate... Something. He landed on his hands, and crawled in a handstand down the blade's length. "You force yourself to live on this edge, but there's no rule stating you must stay. There's no rules at all!"

"... So, you're saying I should do whatever I want..?" Anarchy furrowed his brows down at his gushing palm, never feeling its sting. Thinking about it, he felt stupid for even needing help now that the solution was laid so plain before him. "... Even if it means letting Angel be for now? Even if it means taking my foot off the gas and... Relaxing?"

"Whatever you want, Anarchy." Jevil smiled with a mad joy as he flipped forward, landing back on his feet. Then, he lifted one hand, and he pressed his thumb and middle finger together, as though he was preparing to snap. "Whether it be violent noise or peaceful quiet. Your eternal life is whatever your powerful soul wills it to be, be!"

Snap!

Suddenly, the blade was gone from beneath The Anarchist, and he was plummeting. Wind threw his hair upwards, his wide eyes stared down to the pool of his own blood. He saw his reflection in the meaningless scarlet waters as he raced closer and closer. Rapidly he approached himself, flailing his limbs all the way down.

And just before his collision, he saw deep into his own eyes, and he saw all that he was.

THUD!

"... Eugh..." Groggily, eyelids parted, and ruby orbs looked out at the forest once more. Anarchy was drenched now, soggy hair clinging to his face, neck, and shoulders. He was slumped against the stone wall now, and his legs were sprawled out in front of him. He groaned, leaning forward and out of the water while he dragged his hand up his face, pushing all that wet hair back onto his head and slicking it back to keep it out of his face. Devilsknife had disappeared back into his inventory, and he once more clutched his crowbar in his off hand.

He blinked his eyes into the morning sunlight, and wondered for a moment or two how long he'd been out. After he decided he didn't care, he got his hand under himself, and then his knee, climbing shakily to his feet. Once he was standing, Anarchy groaned and grunted while he stretched his arms over his head. His immortal body popped and cracked as stiffness was relieved, before he slouched forward. He yawned and scratched his lower back, blinking sleepy eyes a few more times. And then, finally...

"Gaster!"

Within two or three seconds Badster materialized through those shifting pixels, standing at attention for Anthony The Anarchist, who was climbing out of the stream and walking up onto the muddy shore. The bad doctor showed no surprise about being suddenly called and no concern for his soggy master, he merely asked, "Do you have a request, sir?"

"I'm tired'a bein' wet and nakey." Anarchy grumbled, the sleepy gravel still apparent in his voice. His unforgiving stare rested on a perfectly comfortable Badster, who smiled his plastic smile at Anarchy's request. "Fix it."

"As you wish." Badster answered dutifully, before waving one hole punched hand out to his master. From his digits, a wave of those pixels floated. They washed through the air, expanding and growing until their tide washed over The Anarchist in his entirety. And the fading pixels, the buildings blocks of this reality, disappeared from him a moment later, revealing him to be once more fully clothed and dry.

"... Mm." Anarchy lifted his arms, looking over his red striped, black sleeves. His eyes drifted down to his jeans, then to his shoes, and then back up to Badster. And Anarchy didn't say anything, he just nodded his appreciation.

"Does this mean that you're ready to move on, my boy?" Folding his hands behind his back, Badster tilted his head some. He arched one cracked brow bone at Anarchy, who just shook his head.

"... Nah." Anarchy turned away from Badster, waving a hand back towards him to dismiss him carelessly. If this bothered Badster, he did not show it. His crescent smile never faded, even as his master wandered towards the tree line that surrounded this babbling brook. "I'm gonna stick around awhile longer. You can do whatever; I'll call ya if I need ya."

Badster didn't speak, he merely bowed. And then, once more, he faded away to blocks and pixels. His bent over form disappeared into nothing, and Anarchy was alone once more.

But, not really. In the light he was never alone, nor was he alone in The Dark. The forest crawled with life, and the shadows slept in waiting death. Anarchy was aware of both sides, and both sides were aware of him, though he did not know if they were aware of one another. Not that he cared.

... I don't know how long I wandered for. Days, nights, they all blended together. I don't know if I was walking straight or in circles. I don't know if I was awake or if I was asleep.

Through the brush and the thicket alike the Ivory Ghoul roamed. Throughout his endless wandering, white stubble had formed upon his cheeks, chin, jawline and upper lip. But, he didn't even know it was there. His footsteps were simple, in no hurry and without hesitation. He was neither rushing nor delaying. He merely walked because he could, he only wandered because he did not wish to sit in place. It was unlike him. Anthony's life was motion, it always had been. The only time he'd felt comfortable standing in place was within the fences of the playground.

The playground. His Heaven. Where he'd lived and where he'd almost died. If he were to die, if someday his immortal body were to give out and his eternal soul was to fade, he thought he might like to die upon those woodchips. Flat on his back, staring up at the sky he'd once wished to soar through. He wondered if the clouds would clear for him then. He wondered if in that moment he would desire the light, or if he would scorn it.

But the forest was quiet. Unnaturally so. No birds chirped, no leaves rustled. I wanted silence, and the forest gave it to me. The only thing that made any noise was me. My footsteps and my breathing.

It didn't matter though, because the playground was long gone, and Anarchy was unkillable. He could never return to that place, and so he could never die there. And if he could not die, then he had to live. And life for Anthony The Anarchist was motion, so that meant he had to continue moving. Doing... Something. Anything.

I thought for an eternity, but I don't remember what about. I just know that eventually eternity ended, and I made my way out of the forest.

His wandering led him to a clearing in the trees. An opening, to wide fields and flat lands. And Anarchy finally stopped walking, pausing there where one biome met another. He squinted his tired ruby eyes out into the overgrown, flat fields. He could see for quite a ways. Miles maybe, but then again he didn't really know much about measuring distance. Probably not miles. Probably a good handful of acres, though. But he didn't know how big those were, either. Literally none of that mattered, however.

What he did know was that the forest circled around these humble fields, and at the edge of the swaying grass, he could see a beat up dirt road. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked overgrown and unmanaged. Untraveled. Outside of that dilapidated road, the only human touch was a faded, leaning barn. It's red paint was brownish now, and its rotted wood walls leaned inward. It appeared to be moments from collapse. A few birds landing on it, a modest storm. Something like that is all it would take, and this ancient structure would crumble and fade away.

... And suddenly, I was out of my haze. I had an idea, something to do. Motion.

This isolated, abandoned place drew Anthony in. Its peace and its quiet spoke to him in such a way, that he desired to exist within it. So, he began moving again, wandering down the hill that divided this plain from the forest and wading through its overgrown fields. He brushed tall grass aside, and he wondered if any tics or flees would be dumb enough to hop from the foliage and try to drink of his blood. It hardly mattered to him; there was nothing a parasite could take from him that he couldn't replace and there was nothing a parasite could survive stealing from him.

I got down to that barn, I stood there, and I thought some more.

Eventually, The Anarchist wandered up to where the grass dulled some. He felt dirt become gravel, but he could hardly see it through the two feet tall weeds. As he wandered, he began to notice a few pieces of machinery lost within the overgrowth. Trash, mostly. Some tractor model that surely hadn't been built in over half a century, tires flat and metal rusted to dust. A broken down rotary tiller sunk into the dirt behind it, the hitch that once connected it to the tractor broken and rusted away.

I thought about living with my mom, I thought about living with the gang. I thought about all the time I spend wandering the infinite multiverse, I thought about how long it had been since I'd laid my head down in the same place twice.

Anthony walked past this destroyed equipment, though he let his eyes linger on it for a moment as he passed by. He stepped over an old tire, and the crusty tire iron that had removed it. And finally, he wandered through the wide open, massive barn door, and he disappeared within those decayed walls.

And I thought about Angel, and the life he had settled down in. The home he had built, the bed he let himself sleep in.

Anarchy's head turned from side to side. He looked upon windows dusted brown, corners webbed by generations of spiders. He turned his eyes up to the ceiling, and he spotted birds nests in the rafters. Beyond that was a hole in the roof, through which sunlight shined in through.

I wondered if I would like that.

Anarchy furrowed his brows silently, and he let his gaze shift to the center of the wood planked floor, which was scratched and cracked and stained. Rat droppings, fallen bird eggs, animals that had come here in their final moments to die. They were merely fuzzy brownish piles now, so decayed that they no longer even stunk.

That if I had my own home, if maybe this secluded and quiet place could be my own... If that would make me happy.

And Anarchy walked, let his footsteps echo along the destroyed walls and make the old floor creak. He walked to the imperfect circle of sunlight that laid upon the filthy floor, and he exhaled silently through his nose. He stood in this spotlight, and he looked straight up. He squinted at the sun, and he didn't know for how long. What he did know was that the light could no longer burn his skin, his body had grown too powerful. The bright light of the sun did not even make his eyes ache, did not threaten to blind him. He had outgrown this weakness, he no longer had reason to fear the tyrant star's brutal sting.

It was right about then that I realized just how free I really was.

Upwards Anthony The Anarchist reached, let his open palm grasp towards the star above. Invincible was he, immune to the burning light. So, finally, he allowed himself to bask in the warmth. Because the sun couldn't burn him anymore, there wasn't a damn thing the light could do to keep him out.

I didn't have to hide from the sun anymore. I didn't have to take care of my mom, I didn't have to repay any debts to Xander. I could do... Whatever I wanted with my time.

And Anarchy smiled at that. At the thought that he could in fact have a life of his own design, because nothing was powerful enough to stop him from achieving it and nothing was powerful enough to take it from him once he had it. And though he was certain that an abomination like himself could never have a life like Angel's, that he could never play the hero for an armada of adoring friends and he could never live a perfect, cushy life... He was at peace with that, because that life isn't what he deserved.

What he deserved was work. Busy hands and a relaxed mind. And it hardly mattered to him what that work was, but he knew he had grown tired of chasing Angel. He still hated Angel, loathed him in fact. He'd never forgive the rat bastard for what he had done, and there would in fact be a day when his life reached its crescendo, and he murdered Angel. And that day would be perfect, it had to be.

... But I wasn't ready for it yet. It wasn't time to end things between him and I. Not yet.

So, Anthony The Anarchist decided that until he was ready for that noise, he would enjoy this quiet place. He would put in work for himself, and not for anyone else. Not in servitude of anyone, not in pursuit of anyone. Taking his life in one direction purely because it was the direction he wanted it to go, without guilt and without shame.

"Gaster."

Once again, at The Anarchist's call, his doctor appeared. Badster entered this dull place in a wave of color, hands folded behind his back and polite smile drawn over his features. He did not look around at this strange barn, and if he thought it odd that Anarchy was standing in the light like this, he did not show it. "Yes, my boy? Is there something you desire?"

"Paper and pencil." Anarchy stated simply, outstretching one open palm towards the bad doctor. He curled his fingers back twice quickly in a 'gimme gimme' motion, and though Badster looked a bit confused by this request, he obliged. The doctor reached into his own inventory, and made a pad of paper as well as a pencil appear in his skeletal hand, before he dropped it into Anarchy's.

Anarchy didn't speak, he just took the writing utensils. He squinted at the paper, and spent a few seconds trying to remember how to hold a pencil, before he began writing. After a few more seconds, he stopped his scribbling and he turned his ruby orbs back up to Badster. He handed the paper back to him, "Here. It's my prescription."

"... Pre... Scription?" Badster furrowed his brow bones now, squinting through his glasses and down at the words written on the paper. Anarchy wasn't being metaphorical, it certainly looked like some type of drug or medication name was written upon the paper.

"Antipsychotics." Anarchy explained blandly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He looked up at Badster casually, like nothing about this was weird, even though he was sure all of it was. But he didn't care if Badster didn't understand or if Badster didn't like his request, he only cared that Badster got it done. "Used to take them back in my world. They keep me even... Ish."

"..?" Badster couldn't think of any words to respond to this, of all things. First he spares Angel, then he hides in this forest, now he wants treatment for his psychosis? If it wasn't certain death, Badster would have protested all of this. He was confused and nearly aggravated by all these sudden changes, but he could hardly voice that to his merciless master. So instead, he just stared at him, unable to hide how baffled he was.

"It ain't gonna turn me back into happy Anthony or some shit." Anarchy furrowed his brows with moderate aggravation towards Badster's less then supportive response. "It's just gonna help me take it easy. Subdue those murder itches I've always gotta scratch."

"Well... As you wish, Anarchy Sir." Badster bowed down to The Anarchist, shutting his sockets once his face faced the floor. He drew in a deep breath as quietly as he could, let his mind rationalize and put out the fires of what few emotions he had left. It wasn't worth it, trying to figure out and calculate Anarchy's thoughts and actions. He would have to obey, and he would have work around, and he would have to wait. He was not the master after all, that was Anarchy.

"One more thing." Anarchy's voice stopped Badster, just as he prepared to disappear to retrieve what his master had requested. The bad doctor straightened his back, lifted his head and looked upon The Anarchist, who was not looking at him. Instead, Anarchy's eyes traveled the dilapidated walls. They inspected the rusty tools strewn about, the dust and the rust and the decay. And his lips curled thoughtfully,

"... Whaddaya know about barn renovation?"

Had to learn a lotta shit back then. See, I didn't exactly have a full education. Had to drop out of middle school to take care'a my mom. I wasn't all that great at math, and I couldn't read particularly fast. So that certainly slowed down the whole 'learning architecture' thing.

By a fire outside the barn Anarchy laid. His feet pointed out into the dark that surrounded his bonfire, and the top of his head pointed towards the fire. He used the flame's light to see the book that he held over his head, furrowing his brows at the words. The cover read "Carpentry for Dummies!"

Gaster was helpful, though. Guess he knew a thing or two. Apparently he built this big machine at one point. "The CORE" or something. I dunno, I wasn't really listening.

Badster and Anarchy stood over a work bench that they'd dragged out from the barely standing barn, after Badster insisted that there was no way they could work within the walls of that crumbling structure. Anarchy had listened, because he knew Badster knew more about this than he did. It was humbling in a way, being faced with something that he wasn't particularly good at and had to take time to learn. Though Anarchy didn't think himself any kind of egomaniac, he thought it was always good to have things put into perspective in such a way.

Took a few months, but you know me. When I put my mind to something, I get it done. I let my DETERMINATION work towards learning something instead of destroying something, and honestly? It felt kinda nice.

Badster leaned over a large paper, a mass of blue prints for the barn. They'd have to rebuilt it almost entirely from the bottom up, that much had been obvious after just one inspection. Now, Badster's skeletal fingers pointed at the paper, and he tilted his head towards Anarchy while he spoke instructions. The Anarchist furrowed his brows thoughtfully, before carefully drawing a few lines across the page with the carpenter pencil in his hand. Then, he looked to Badster for confirmation. And the bad doctor smiled with approval, several skeletal hands appearing floating behind him to give Anarchy a few thumbs up.

... I only really talked to my dad once, you know. Never really had any fatherly figures in my life, or any good male figures in general. Maybe that played a hand in making me a hulking testosterone monster. I dunno.

A little smile pulled at Anthony's lips when Badster praised his work, but The Anarchist turned his head away some and pretended that it wasn't there. Badster didn't need to know that Anarchy had been happy to hear he was doing a good job, it was hardly essential to their mission.

So it felt weird, being mentored by Gaster. I mean, it wasn't like his skeletal ass was teaching me how to shave or something, but I appreciated having a teammate. Pretty much all the work I've ever done, I've done as one man. I appreciated having someone's help and someone's support.

Anarchy and Badster stood at the front of the barn, Anarchy's back facing the building while he furrowed his brows back at the bad doctor. With the passing of time, that stubble that was on his face after wandering in the forest had grown out into a short beard. Badster just shook his head and waved a dismissive hand towards the entire building, and that got Anarchy to shrug his agreement. Then, the Ivory Ghoul suddenly spun his entire body around, throwing his left arm out to his side and sending his crowbar sliding up his sleeve. He caught his weapon in his hand, and he swung with stunning force, blasting the front wall of the barn with a vicious strike.

With that one attack, the entire building folded in on itself. Its soggy walls crumpled inward, creaks and snaps disrupting the peace and quiet of the fields and the surrounding forest for a few long seconds. Dust and mildew of all kinds was sent flinging up into the air, and Anarchy had to snap his eyes shut, a wave of grey ash blasting out from the collapsing building and slapping across his face, painting his front with filth.

But, all things end. Eventually I knew all I needed to know, and Badster supplied me with all the tools I'd need. I was back on my meds, I was alone, and I was somewhere quiet. And that's all that I needed. That's all I deserved.

"Well, it seems you're adequately prepared, my boy." Badster smiled in his usual way, that crescent that shaped his unusual skull. He watched Anarchy's back, his master staring at the leveled and clean base for his barn. He and Badster had written out all the blueprints, they had cleared away all that they needed to, and Anarchy knew everything he needed to know. Now all that was left of the barn was a nice new stone floor. Anarchy didn't know where Badster had got a cement mixer, but he hadn't cared.

"... Yeah, looks like it." Anarchy spoke more to himself than his doctor, letting his ruby eyes scan over this small area of the property. He stood at the edge of the still drying stone, and his gaze drifted down to its surface. After a moment of thought he bent his knee, slowly lowering himself towards the ground. He knelt in the gravel, the overgrown grass having been trimmed by his gnawing worms long ago.

Behind him, Badster arched a curious brow bone. The bad doctor took a few curious steps closer to The Anarchist, tilting his head some to get a look over his shoulder and see what he was doing.

"..." Anarchy lifted his left hand, and he let it hover over the grey muck. For a few seconds he contemplated, before he slowly let his hand sink downward. His fingers and his palm pushed into the wet cement, forcing it into the mold of his hand. Then, he lifted his hand, his skin now tainted a light grey shade. He didn't seem to mind though, instead just turning his head up towards Badster. And Anarchy didn't speak, he just gestured out towards the cement next to his hand print in an inviting way.

"..." Badster did not speak either. He stared at Anarchy for a few seconds, and his crescent smile faded away. His expression expressed little, his sockets narrowing only slightly in silent contemplation. But, eventually, Badster did step forward. He walked next to where Anarchy knelt, and he leaned forward. His long body craned down, and his right hand reached out towards the cement beside his master's hand print.

And Wing Ding Badster cringed some as he felt the muck push between his fingers, fit through the hole at his hand's center. It was hardly a texture that he liked, but he endured it nonetheless. And after a moment, he delicately pulled his hand away, and he stared into the perfect impression of his own hand beside that of Anarchy's.

He didn't understand. What this meant to Anarchy, or even what it meant to himself. Anarchy had not asked him to leave a hand print after all. It was hardly an order. He had merely invited him to do so, and that had been enough for doctor Badster. It was such a simple, meaningless gesture. All of this was simple, all of this was meaningless. Everything he and Anarchy had done together these past few months, it had been a complete and utter waste of his time. So why now, when it came time to sign his name and celebrate their work, did he comply without hesitation? Why, when he and Anarchy stood up and stared down at these hand prints in the stone, did he feel some strange pride?

"... Well, looks like that's everything. Thanks for the help, Gaster." Anarchy's words cut through the quiet and shook Badster from his contemplation. The bad doctor turned his curious sockets towards The Anarchist, who smiled his crooked smile up at him. It was a little more even now that he was back on his medication, Badster had noticed. "I'll let'cha get back to doing what'cha do now."

"It was no problem, Anarchy sir." Badster's skull flashed that smile again, but it seemed to be carved from something other than plastic. He took a few steps away from his abomination, folding his hands behind his back and never breaking eye contact. He felt compelled to add, "It's been fun working with you. I'll be listening for the next time you need me."

Anarchy nodded, his smile shrinking some from his face. Whatever he was feeling now was strange, hard to explain. It was bittersweet almost, that their work here was done. It had been a nice focus for Anthony, and it had been less than lonely. And less than lonely was a lot to The Anarchist. As he contemplated this, he watched Badster bow his head, and he knew the doctor was about to disappear. This pushed him to reach out one more time, give one more request. "Oh, Gaster. One more thing."

"Hm?" Doctor Badster lifted his head some, arching one brow bone at Anarchy.

Tilting his head, Anarchy thought for a moment or two. Then, he straightened his head out, and nodded it twice. He spoke calmly. "... You should call me Anthony from now on."

This made Badster's sockets widen some, his brows rising. He straightened his back, and watched Anthony The Anarchist curiously for a moment or two. For just a second, he was concerned. He worried that The Anarchist was once more rejecting his chaotic nature, like he had in his Deltarune Dream. But, then he retrieved a memory from his filing cabinet brain. Something simple he'd said to that fearful girl he'd befriended months ago.

"I go by Anarchy pretty often, but that's mostly to victims or future victims?"

Anthony... Would calling him this remove Badster's name from the list of 'future victims'? Was this an offering, some kind of attempt at friendship? It had been an eternity since Badster had possessed a regular life. Back in his Royal Scientist days, how dull things had been then. How closed his mind was to the possibilities of the infinite. That was the last time Badster had... 'Friends'. And he thought it would be the last time, period. That was something he had hardly minded, something he'd rarely thought about. All of the time before The DoubleKids, before The Anarchist, blurred together in boring grey. Sort of like the cement the two had left their marks upon.

"... If that's what you want, Anthony." The name felt strange on Badster's less than existent tongue, but he spoke it anyway. Anarchy was a hard man to read, but he thought it might have made Chaos Incarnate happy to hear. That brought the smile back to Badster's face. "Then I'll call you that name from now on."

I didn't see Gaster for a long time after that day. He was out doing whatever nerd stuff and mysterious planning he does with his free time, and I was in the woods.

The forest, like always, remained silent. Anthony would have thought others may have found that silence ominous, if Anthony burdened his mind with concerns of others. But, Anthony had learned that people's worries were not his worries when he was a boy, and now as a man, he was alone. But he did not mind this solitude, did not scorn the silence. He instead thrived in it; it felt therapeutic in some way that he didn't try to understand.

Day and night I wandered between forest and plains, I drifted between asleep and awake. I foraged for food, I drank from the stream, I slept under the stars. But I didn't do these things often, because my soul could keep my body in perfect health without food drink or sleep for an untested amount of time. But I still did those things, because when I didn't, it made me feel dead.

The only sounds in the world now was a rhythmic thunking, and singing. Anthony The Anarchist cut down tall trees, and he harvested every bit of wood that he could. He would pile this wood into a large trailer that himself and Badster had fixed up - having found it laying broken to time near the barn - and he would drag it all by hand back to camp when it was full. Then, he would skillfully carve logs to planks. When he was in a rush, his darkness would assist him in the shaving and slicing, and when he felt like taking his time, he would do it by hand. Whatever was not cut perfectly would become wood for the fire that he slept beside every few nights.

And all day Anarchy would sing. Loudly, into the void of soundlessness. He would have wondered how far his voice carried, if there was anyone else in the world who heard him. That is, if he burdened his mind with the concerns of others. But he did not. Their worries were not his worries, he had learned that when he was a boy. So all day and all night, to no music at all, he let his songs echo out into the trees, never to be heard by him again.

And he reflected. Upon the sins of his mother, the sins of his father, the sins of his fellow man. Were they his fellow man? Was he ever one of them? Were they ever one of him? He hoped not, as he reflected upon his own sins. All that he'd done, all that he was. All that had motivated him, all that motivated him still. Of course he was angry, of course he was sad. When he was himself, everyone threw him aside. Only now that he was what he never wanted to be did he exist in the minds of those he had loved. But he couldn't ever say these words, he couldn't ever process these feelings the right way. All he could do was sing for a quiet audience. Sing for no one at all.

"I crossed a clearing yesterday. Somewhere that I recognized." His voice rang out, deep in its haunting melody. "Coouunted aaaall the paths along the wayyy..."

"Furrrther than I've been before. Touched your hand, but nothing more." As he sang, he thoughtlessly drew his axe over his head. Before him, a log rested upon a stump. And as he swung downward, something drew his thoughts back to his Angel. To the green eyed little boy, who found him in that alleyway. Yes, those eyes. Their unique stare... "No one's ever looked at me, that wayyy..."

As The Anarchist watched the split log tumble from the stump after one mighty swing, he hummed. He hummed, and he pivoted, grabbing another log from his pile and setting it atop the stump. And as he rose up his axe once more, he continued. "Soooon, your touch will disappear. It's sommmething that I recognize. Sommmething that, I should have come, to fearrr..."

"Trace, the lines, upon my face. They tell, a tale, I can't erase." Painfully Anthony's eyes narrowed down at the log before him. The endless work, the menial task. The blood, the sweat, the tears. Hard work for him, hard work only he could understand. "No one's ever looked at me, that wayyy..."

Chop, and the last log was cut. But still the work remained, and still the scars ached. The Anarchist let his axe lower to his side, he let his agony dulled rubies rest upon the chipped and splintered stump, all that remained of something grand a beautiful. Slowly he exhaled, before he continued.

"Well if, I could, apologiiiize..."

With a thud, his axe landed by his side. His shoulders sunk while he thought of the good days. From the alley to the playground, the dreams of the sky and what it might hold. The days before his Angel flew away. Maybe somehow Angel had known, like the sun had known, that he would become this. Maybe he'd even been right to flee.

"Put, the light, back in your eyeess..."

But that was bullshit. Anthony didn't have to become this, Anarchy was fine the way he was. He never deserved the scorn nor the abandonment. He'd never asked for too much, not even now... So, he shut his eyes, and he reached out. Placing one hand upon the stump, he turned around, and he lowered himself to sit upon the chopping block. And he tilted his head back, opening his eyes upon the clear sky and the trees that still reached up towards it. The light reflected in his red eyes, on his pale skin. In the overgrown white mane that ran down his shoulder blades, even in the now scruffy and unmanaged white beard upon his face. He felt his scars burn, he felt his heart ache, he felt his darkness seethe.

"Nooo one's, eeever looked at meee... That wayyyy..."

And then, for a few seconds, everything was quiet. Anarchy shut his exhausted eyes, and he sighed through the curling hairs of his beard. He lowered his head, and he reached up, rubbing his eyes with both his index finger and his thumb. Perhaps it was time for a break.

But, when he lowered his hand and he opened his eyes, he nearly jumped. He scooted back on his stump, and his wide eyes stared at a new face. Because there, directly across from him, was a skeleton. A short thing, wearing a blue wig and covered mostly by one oversized leather jacket. And Anarchy was bewildered as he stared upon her, wondering just how long it had been since someone had been able to sneak up on him.

But the way she looked at him... It was without fear or surprise, without concern or worry. Suddenly, with all his might and all his scars, Anarchy felt like he was that little boy laying on the cold pavement. Because when he looked at Mako, when he saw the awe-filled star shape of her eyes, he was looked upon in a way that he had not been in years.

Her eyes were a magenta color, but they shined with KINDNESS. And something about those eyes, their familiar shine and how he had longed for it but never knew... All of Anarchy's walls were torn away, melted down to nothing at all. And as she grinned sheepishly, realizing she'd been caught, Mako the skeleton lifted one hand and waved, even though her fingers were hidden within the massive sleeve of her jacket.

". . ." Anarchy didn't talk. He just stared, stunned, at her welcoming smile and accepting eyes. To her, he was regular. A mortal man, a person. And all Anthony The Anarchist could do to respond was slowly lift his scarred and calloused hand. And with confusion still written on his face, he gradually waved this hand in return.

Hoo boy, I wonder where this'll go. Stay tuned.

Counting Paths is by Matthew and the Atlas.

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