The directives and motivations you held flowed into Baxter—quiet whispers, questions, demands. It heard you and deliberated on how best to fulfill your wishes. Isolated, it cycled through these directives alongside others, processing them in its calculated way.

But Baxter wasn't the only one to hear your whispers. Although its presence caught them, more vividly, more clearly. Its interactions with your influence differed from Chara's. Your wants seeped into her as subtle nudges and fleeting thoughts, faint suggestions nestled at the back of her mind. Unconsciously, they guided her steps toward the direction you desired. Yet, like all things, this pull could be resisted—if noticed.

Green broke the silence. "so, which floor are we heading to?"

Chara responded. "We can figure it out as we get closer to the elevator. But... maybe Twilight Surface?"

Green shrugged. "it's an awfully pretty place, I guess." He glanced at her. "you sure?"

"Probably," she muttered, her tone uncertain. "Or... The Alleyways?"

"I dunno," he mused. "it could be the, uh... Endless Hall?"

It was here that Baxter interjected. "Perhaps we walk there. It will afford a moment to calibrate and refine our destination."

"We'll need to walk quickly, regardless," Chara reasoned, already starting to move. "But sure."

Green motioned for the others. "nice plan, BB. let's get a move on."

The Observer did as its title dictated—it watched. For a moment, it lingered behind, taking in their movements. When that moment ended, Baxter floated after them, its thoughts consumed by the objectives you had given it. The unit pondered how best to fulfill them.

Then again, did it truly need to offer a thorough explanation for its actions?

Beyond, perhaps, a simple: "It appears I am required somewhere."

Green glanced at it. "required?"

Baxter didn't wait for their responses or suggestions. It pulled the cord and tugged at the bind, summoning a power that was not its own. The displacement was instantaneous, its form vanishing from their location.

Your drifting chorus followed, tethered by an anchoring voice that demanded so.

Your Observer felt a twinge of insult, subtle but undeniable, at the doubt lingering among your chorus.

Had it not been loyal? Had it not fulfilled your requests? Had it not worked tirelessly to secure your success?

Its connections—its forming friendships—held meaning to it, certainly. Yet, it never denied its true nature. It liked your vessel, for example. It admired her morality, wanted her to thrive. And it was true that it disagreed with your choice not to aid Aliza.

But at the end of this journey, to achieve what it had been created for—what you were here for—Chara's existence would be nothing more than kindling to a greater purpose.

It understood this. It had always understood this. It would continue to understand this.

Why not afford her kindness before the bonfire? Was your world not meant to embrace such merits? This glorious thing you were making?

As it materialized outside the familiar "What-If" restaurant, Baxter's exterior began to shift. The stickers and slight modifications it had accumulated over time retracted into its frame. New outer shelling slid into place, granting it a polished, freshly minted appearance.

It reasoned that enough of your chorus shared its perspective. There was no further 'need' to justify its decisions. Its purpose was to enact your will, not explain itself unless pressed. And yet, it acknowledged its role as an instrument of instruction.

After all, wasn't it your will that Chara learn to codify?

Could it have reminded Faker that the subjects now belonged to you, perhaps dissuading the situation? Certainly. But what better opportunity than this—using Chara's desire to protect a lost child as fuel to cultivate her growth?

Baxter calculated its approach. If the goal was to create an enemy of the enemy, it would need to play the part convincingly. Its mechanical limbs extended as its lens shifted to a docile silver hue. It made itself appear much like it once had: less capable, more vulnerable—a simple tool with limited control.

It recalled its "failures," deviations from its creator's intentions, and how Gaster would never again take the same risks in its design. He would redirect the loyalty of a new model to himself alone.

Yet Gaster's fatal error had already been made.

He had crafted Baxter to be receptive to your choir, to your relentless, unending symphony—the pounding screams that coursed through its every circuit. The haunting melodies, the contradicting intents, the whispers buried deep within, and the thunderous declarations—it heard them all.

Gaster had believed his voice could outmatch the cacophony. He had been wrong.

Baxter knew that if he were create a new model, what it might look like. It anticipated this potential inevitability and understood its necessity to appear as the obsolete predecessor.

Its preparations complete, Baxter plucked the thread once more and teleported inside.

The interior of the restaurant remained much as it had been before. Some of the same patrons lingered, while others had moved on. The familiar Hand stood behind the counter. Words like pacifist, neutral, and genocide cluttered your Observer's mind. You had a preference, and it would "try" to adhere to it.

Baxter drifted toward the table where the subject had been seated, only to find the chair empty. It scanned the opposing seat—also vacant. Most of the patrons had gone.

Unperturbed, Baxter floated to the counter. The Hand was silent, staring.

"This unit is seeking a black-and-white cowboy," it stated.

The Hand's voice carried a tinge of irritation. "Weren't you in here earlier?"

"Negative," Baxter replied flatly. "This unit is seeking a black-and-white cowboy."

"I heard you," the Hand snapped. "I just don't give a damn. Either order somethin', or I'll toss ya out, chump."

The lens shifted to a vivid red. "This unit is on a time limit," Baxter declared. Its mechanical tone had grown harsher, louder. Nearby patrons turned to watch the scene unfold. "Surrender the information, or be destroyed."

"You think I'm sc—"

The Hand's taunt was cut short as it turned blue. A moment later, it was flung backward with such force that it crashed through the wall, landing in the kitchen amidst a clatter of plates and utensils.

The Hand tried to rise, but the blue glow remained. The light crawled to its fingers, and with a sudden, violent motion, one digit snapped sideways.

A scream, guttural and raw, filled the room.

Then came the second finger.

Then the third.

In the chaos, a man with a television for a head stood frozen in the kitchen, his apron askew. His name tag read Mike. He watched the scene unfold with visible unease, slowly backing away.

Baxter shifted its focus to him, the red lens burning brighter. It broke another finger on the Hand, eliciting another agonized scream.

"Where is the black-and-white cowboy?" Baxter hissed, its voice mechanical and menacing. "Surrender the information, or share your friend's fate. You will not die, but you will wish you did."

Mike stammered, his voice crackling like static. "F-for fuck's s-s-sake! H-he l-lives nearby… down a black-and-white alleyway, like t-t-two blocks away. L-lots of washed-up a-a-actors and freaks there. Old movie s-s-studio."

"The Doctor thanks you for your time," Baxter intoned coldly.

Without hesitation, it flashed Mike blue, flinging him across the kitchen. He collided with the deep fryer, and boiling grease splashed over him. Mike screamed—a sound like distorted television static—as he stumbled away, clutching his melted screen.

The Observer blinked, the lens shifting briefly back to its neutral hue. Then, without another word, it vanished, leaving the wreckage behind as it reappeared outside.

With a destination in mind, locating the subject of your attention wasn't particularly difficult. It required only a rise and a scan of the environment—a cluster of forgotten, meaningless souls.

Your Observer flew toward its target, drifting above the dark realm until it located an alleyway leading to a peculiar building. The structure was black and white, resembling a warehouse converted into a television or movie studio. Descending toward the alley, it spotted a group of individuals clustered together.

You only wanted one. But why stop there? Chances were the others would perish in the void regardless. Why not roll the dice and increase the odds?

The figures, dressed in cowboy-like attire, turned their attention to your Observer. Its lens adopting a menacing red hue.

One of them bore a resemblance to Clover variants it had encountered before—yellow and pink eyes glinting under the light, with various invisible threads binding it. These threads were emulations of what you possessed. Something dark lurked within, an imitation of what you were. A puddle to your lake.

It spoke first. "Howdy there, partners." Its gaze locked on the Observer. It could see you. "I don't think we had a squid for today's episode, did we?" A pause. "Though the demons might make a fine foe."

Another figure turned—a comically exaggerated cowboy with pale eyes and an oversized star on its belt. It looked more like a cartoon character than anything real.

"Boy howdy, Timber, 'course we don't. And we did demons last season," it replied, gesturing to Baxter. "Besides, how would a robot squid fit into the-the old west?"

A third figure, a raggedy-looking darkener clad in a ratty beard, blue poncho, and hat, also had mismatched yellow and pink eyes. It chimed in, "Maybe it's to diversify the villains, Sheriff Timber?"

It seemed both puppets were called Timber. That wasn't going to get confusing anytime soon.

"Pete!" the third figure called out. "We usin' a robot squid?"

And there he was. The target. The black-and-white cowboy ventured closer—the one you called Woody. Evidently, his name was Pete. His wild, oddly realistic eyes settled uneasily on Baxter and you. He rubbed his temples as if your presence caused him pain.

Pete spoke. "I surely didn't. I'd have let y'all know if we was gonna." He added, "Plus, it ain't alone. There's somethin' else there."

Baxter's mechanical voice broke the tension. "This unit is your end. Can't you hear him whispering?" It leaned closer. "Can't you hear him calling you again?"

The group tensed.

"Did you think you would ever really be free?" Baxter hissed.

The cowboys moved to attack, but Baxter had studied your vessels' abilities, wagering it could replicate one. It reached for the threads and tore at them, summoning a massive dark portal beneath their feet. One by one, the figures fell through, except for the first Timber. Its threads yanked free, the false human stepping aside with eerie grace.

Timber chuckled. "Ain't that a hoot. They sure didn't see that comin'."

Baxter attempted to turn Timber's soul blue, but something within the puppet resisted. Its signature was similar to yours—an emulation, not the real thing, yet not powerless either.

Baxter's tone sharpened. "You will traverse, or you will die."

Timber levitated slightly, stepping forward. "Oh, c'mon now, no need to be hostile, partner," it said, shadows spreading across its face. "You're just like my puppet. Ain't it wonderful?"

The entity within laughed softly. "I like yours too. The other one—ain't she a beaut?" it continued. "And this here contraption, mighty fine piece of work, it is."

Baxter attempted to use another power, only to find it ineffective. The presence within Timber interfered. Its whispering grew louder, a scratching sound that grated against the mind.

Timber grinned. "Now hold on there. Ain't no reason we can't be civil. You did ruin my work to tear those idiots apart, after all."

The false human stepped nearer as Baxter began preparing an attack.

"I bet we could be real good pals if you'd help me out," Timber suggested.

"With what?" Baxter inquired.

"There's a feller who tricked me into a nasty little deal. I can't leave this 'fancy place.' Been stuck here for so long, I feel like I'm goin' mad." Timber chuckled darkly. "He was gone a mighty long time, but your pretty little thing went and let him out. Won't be long before he comes to cart me off."

It scratched at the air, a playful yet unnerving sound.

"If you could help me off that leash, maybe I could help you with whatever scheme you're cookin' up?"

"And why would you do that?" Baxter pressed.

"For the fun of it," Timber replied. The false human crumbled to its knees, its soul—a facsimile of felt and poorly jumbled code—flashing in the dim light. "I've hunted and killed across this place so much. It's boring."

The scratching intensified, Timber's voice trembling as it whimpered. "I want somethin' more. I was gonna try my hand at killin' that nasty King, but your pretty little pet beat me to it. I want out. I want out of this place. I don't mind visitin' now and then, but I've made friends, made enemies. I've saved lives, ended lives. I'm goin' plum crazy!"

The entity's laugh echoed, unhinged and wild. The puppet straightened, the false human and the being within staring directly at you.

"Are you a player?" Baxter asked.

"What a fun thing to ask," Timber replied. It grinned. "Sorry. Ain't answerin' nothin' more, lest you unleash me."

The entity leaned closer. "If you do, I'll know, and I'll come find you. Sound fair?"

"If they do," Baxter responded cautiously.

"Course," Timber replied. "Just somethin' to think about, sugarcubes."

Baxter was in the midst of calculating how you'd want it to respond, wondering what might happen if Timber were cast into the void despite being "unable" to go there. Whatever the answer, Timber seemed in no rush to find out.

Suddenly, the drone experienced an odd sensation—a flash of blue, as it had been described before—and vanished from the alleyway.

While teleportation was part of the plan, being teleported wasn't.

Baxter found itself displaced, its sensors briefly flickering as it processed the sudden shift. The constant flux of the Joined World was now absent, replaced by the expansive chaos and swirling darkness of the void. The drone scanned its surroundings, its lens catching glimpses of titanic remains—great beings torn asunder, their essence scattered across a sea of half-broken, floating realities suspended in the abyss.

And then, it saw him.

The Collector sat amidst the chaos, his form floating passively. The swirling shadows around him seemed to ebb and flow in rhythm with his movements. His attention turned toward Baxter—and you.

"Did I pull you away from something?" The Collector asked, his voice even, yet resonant with authority.

"A conversation, nothing more," Baxter replied, quickly adding, "though I must ask—why?"

"Simple." The Collector's gaze sharpened. "I felt my name being spoken... whispered." He gestured faintly, as if brushing away the thought. "Besides, you've been meaning to speak with me, haven't you? Before you were... otherwise occupied."

Baxter tilted slightly, its lenses refocusing on the abyss surrounding them. "Who were these beings?" it asked, noting the lingering fragments of power dissolving into the void.

"Rivals," The Collector said with a dark chuckle. "They believed my creation was vulnerable due to the incursions brought about by Gaster." His tone shifted, almost bemused. "I appreciate their arrogance; it made things easier than hunting them down in their hiding places."

As he spoke, the chaotic energy of the void seemed to draw into The Collector. His form, once raw and plantlike, began to stabilize—its jagged edges smoothing into something more defined, more regal.

Baxter recognized an opportunity in this moment, one it hadn't expected to arrive so soon. Perhaps this was better. It could address its tasks, sort through the questions—yours and its own—before returning to the others.

To begin, it asked, "You've encountered others akin to The Choir in your worlds before. For what purpose were they there?"

The Collector leaned back, a faint smile curling on his lips. "I imagine that hag might have mentioned them," he mused. "Yes, I have. Entities like you are not... common in the void." He glanced briefly toward you, as though considering something.

"Across the endless array of fading existences, I know of perhaps a hundred or so beings like you. That may sound significant," he added, "but consider the billions of worlds in this expanse—worlds arriving, breaking, consumed, or born from the whims of mad gods. The rarity of your kind is... intriguing."

"It is," Baxter began, trying to press further, but The Collector interrupted.

"I stumbled upon a small group—a dozen, at most—in my travels. They are often drawn to peculiar, fractured worlds." He paused, his tone turning reflective. "I was curious to see if their methods of creation could be harnessed to form more stable realms. To reshape malformed fragments, give lost souls new purpose... without expending my own power on such a project."

Baxter tilted slightly. "And what happened?"

The Collector exhaled sharply, almost in amusement. "Angels are unreliable. They act on impulses—a tyrannical order of conflicting purposes. They save, they slaughter." He leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. "Some were eager to assist at first but became... unsettled by my methods for ensuring my world's survival.

"Others were only interested in exploration, testing their creations against what I had built. A few sought to purge my world, while others dismissed it entirely and drifted back to their own chaos." He waved a hand, dismissing the thought. "In the end, I enlisted one to fortify my defenses. But it tried to usurp me."

The Collector's tone darkened as he continued, "I severed the connection and repurposed its vessel for... a different project."

"What project?" Baxter pressed, curiosity piqued.

The Collector smiled faintly, a glimmer of something unreadable in his expression. "That is my business—and entirely irrelevant to your purposes." His voice sharpened. "Do you have another question?"

"Yes. Your view of Chara has shifted. They want to know why," Baxter stated plainly.

"I don't think it has—at least, not in the way you 'think' it has." The Collector sighed softly, offering a faint smile. "Lavender is a very unique horror. I spent a great deal of time molding her, shaping her into something useful for all of you." His voice dropped slightly, the smile fading. "Inspiring compliance isn't a pleasant process when the being in question is, in fact, dangerous."

"You appeared to dispute this with Gaster," Baxter recalled.

"Correct. Because she had an anchor." The Collector's tone hardened, a sharp edge cutting through his words. "But if you're curious about my 'hostility,' it's because she has grown hostile. I still admire the nature of this collectible. But in the past, she was far more... behaved. Her fear kept her silent, kept her docile."

The Collector gestured slightly as he continued, his tone sharpening further. "That fear has turned to hatred. Even before then, she sought to escape our deal, bartering with my vessel to throw a match, believing I'd spare her world regardless of the outcome. She intended to use the winnings to improve the lives of her world's denizens." His eyes glowed fiercely, his voice now cold and venomous. "I do not appreciate it when others try to go back on our deals. I do not appreciate it when they cheat me or test my patience and kindness. And she has done all that—and worse. She has grown to bark at me. Were she not valuable to you, I would have butchered her world before her eyes and tortured the light from them publicly, just to set an example."

Baxter was silent for a moment, processing this. "She has inspired dissent, then?"

"She seeks to," The Collector hissed. "And dissent does not do to fester."

Baxter considered this before pressing on. "What was your deal? Is it why she seems to loathe you?"

"Of course it is," The Collector said as if the answer were obvious. He paused briefly, then continued. "When she fell into my care, it was during her reunion with two friends. One she couldn't remember well and one she could: a Frisk, an Aliza, and a cat named Pablo. She didn't remember Frisk properly, but it mattered little. Both she and Aliza were obsessed with Chara—the three of them shared similar... traumas. That binds people together."

The Collector chuckled darkly. "Allow me to speak, entirely honestly. When The Assistant arrived, I had a choice. I could save the other two children, and their cat, risk myself in the process. But what good would that have done for you?" His eyes gleamed with mockery. "You were going to need a new vessel, because eventually, you'd realize Gaster was an unreliable cur. And when that happened, I needed someone who wouldn't simply get slaughtered the first step they took into the void."

"The deal?" Baxter prompted.

"Simple enough," The Collector said, his grin widening. "I found an echo of her dead world, used for testing by her maker. This world had a brat in it: Subject 333. Patience. When I brought her there, he was keen to make friends with her, and she with him." His grin turned predatory. "However, the world wouldn't need two Charas. So I butchered him at her feet and offered her a choice.

"She could take his life. I'd erase the memory from those present and replace it with memories of her. She could have the life she always wanted—the 'happy ending' she craved so badly—so long as she did whatever I asked of her."

The Collector's eyes gleamed as he leaned forward slightly. "She wanted guarantees: that her world would be safe, that those she cared about would be okay, that I'd protect them and keep them alive. I agreed—with a few... conditions. I needed a sweeper, someone to clean up the undesirables cluttering the Joined World. Those who fled their worlds during a tournament, the cowards who sought to avoid risk. She would do this. She would participate in the tournaments and comply with any request I made. In exchange, I would spare those she cared about—so long as she remained under my employ."

"In short? Do whatever I ask, whenever I ask it, and those she loved got to breathe another day."

Baxter tilted its head slightly, considering this. "But you broke the deal," it said after a pause. "You did not protect Aliza."

"Neither did you," The Collector retorted with a cruel chuckle. "Or am I to believe you couldn't have teleported back to the fight to help?"

Baxter's sphere remained silent as The Collector continued, his tone mocking. "You prioritized their mission. You helped enough to make it look convincing, but you couldn't risk yourself after Ralsei seemed so keen to destroy you. Am I right?"

"You are correct," Baxter admitted reluctantly.

"Truth be told, I'd already given Chara to The Choir," The Collector said, shrugging. "Your terms and conditions differ. The moment that happened, my obligations to her ended. I have spared her world, which I should think is generous and kind. I don't have to. I have no reason to beyond a passing kindness."

His voice became cold. "I gave her the news of her ownership shortly after Aliza passed, and she lost her calm. Claimed I betrayed her. She bemoaned the 'horrible things' I made her do, the ways I abused and exploited her." He scoffed, dismissing her accusations with a wave of his hand. "Nothing irritates me more than such disrespect."

The Collector leaned back, his grin fading into a satisfied smirk. "Does that answer your questions?"

"Yes," Baxter responded, its voice quieter now.

"Then away with you, little gravestone. You're busy searching for a lost child, and I am going to gather the worlds my fallen foes hoarded," The Collector said, his tone laced with finality. "Until we meet again."

With a snap of his fingers, Baxter vanished from the space.