Chapter Text
They say dreams lay between life and death, mind and matter, reality and illusion. A boundary of sorts, where possibilities cross paths - if only for a brief moment.
Thus, you dream. First, of the last moments of your life.
One thing you do recall is the burnished gray of New Home, the rosey petals of the overhanging tree and… ironically enough, yellow. The pure, unblemished and shining yellow of a familiar SAVE point. Flowey's SAVE point. Deliriously, you think such a sight doesn't make any sense... if he was trying to revive you, then you wouldn't be dead at the moment.
Alas, the conundrum isn't dwelled upon much further. There is little left of you to even feel confused - it’s been far too long for that kind of clarity. And so, your addled mind moves on, largely unbothered. And on. And on. The second dream is of your home. The third is of your fall. The fourth is of your best friend. So it goes, always shifting to the next dream that catches your afterlife whim.
In-between this process, you ponder. Being a body without a SOUL is odd. There is a clear degree of separation allowed between a human corpse and the culmination of its being. Monsters, on the other hand, seem unable to do this at all.
You wonder why.
When Ceroba had walked away from you, emotions soon started leaking from your frame. Fear, anger, sadness, they were the ones which lasted the longest. Joy, relief, compassion, they were the first to unsurprisingly go.
As all these negative feelings overwhelmed your shuddering body, it soon stopped moving.
You hope none of your friends will ever find out that you died… scared, alone, and angry. With none of the solemnity you previously projected. It took a lot out of you, to remain strong under their concerned gazes.
But, there isn't any other answer, is there?
You simply are not enough to face the king. And you’d like to at least die on your terms. With some luck, Martlet will get praise for your “capture” - giving her the breathing room she needs to remain a Royal Guard. Starlo is a good friend and will make sure Ceroba won't lack for anything - laughter least of all.
Yeah.
He gets you.
In the end, just like him, you only wanted to make everyone feel hope again. Now, they don't have to choose. They don't have to worry about what’s right and wrong, about what’s just. They don't have to worry about sheltering you from the Royal Guard. And you, in turn, don't have to worry about your SOUL being shattered - thus negating monsterkind’s efforts.
…Truthfully, you don't think you would’ve minded life down here.
Out there, on the… Surface, they’d called it? Nothing’s left there for you anymore. You made your peace quite a while ago.
You would’ve been happy, living here.
But they wouldn't have. Monsters… they are growing more desperate by the day. Even when at their goofiest, you can sense their discontent. None of them seem to know what the Surface is truly like anymore, save for the king.
He’s really old, isn't he?
Flowey told you once, didn't he?
So you made a choice. And now, you have to stick by it. That's all.
What is justice?
You fell from Mt. Ebott, holding one answer.
Now, dead to its legend, you hold another.
The sealing of monsters underground was not justice.
The slaughter of innocent humans was not justice.
Two wrongs do not make a right. And you do not hold the authority, the power, the wherewithal, to impart this lesson upon all of monsterkind. Likely, you don't even have the moral high ground to lecture them on such.
But you hope, with this act, that you can break the cycle. That with this mercy, this olive branch that you’ve offered - maybe, a little cruelly… you’ll make the king pause. Perhaps the cold in his old heart can be thawed.
That’s the best you can offer. A path to freedom for monsters underground… and a last chance of salvation, for the next human to come. The bitter taste of failure, in having been too late to ever save any of your predecessors, does ail you. Wherever SOULs may go, you hope you’ll get a chance to apologize.
But you’ve pulled through. You think you can say, with all your heart, that you’ve tried your best. That’s more than most, right?
(Clover will not know of the king’s actions in the future. Since the very first human, he has tasked himself with giving a proper burial to each fallen child. This time around, he didn't have to travel far, the corpse so close to the castle. Sprawled by the parapet of a roof, in the shade of a bloodless sakura. A nice and pretty cadaver of a child - with no stains and no dust, pure and dead.
Awaiting its coffin.)
The outcome of your actions is impossible to know now. Impossible to contemplate just as well. What comes next is not your tale.
Ah, you do have one regret though.
You never got to say goodbye to Flowey, and every other friend you made along the way. But then again, you suppose a boiadeiro’s parting waits for nobody.
It’s getting cold. And numb. The wind shivers and you feel yourself drift. Tired. Tired of it all. Oh so very tired. You can rest now. Regardless of all your pains, everything is over. Over. And over. And over. Like the hollow barrel of a fired gun, it's all smoke that's left. No bullets, no ammo. Only the vague impression of a life once lived.
You think… you can see your town from here. The fiery sphere on the horizon frames it, heaven's eye painting the sky a bloody coruscant red. Then, is it time to ride into the sunset?
…Is it time to go home?
The Wild East shines under the glow of freshly-mined swelterstones, strategically placed to give a festive ambiance upon the plaza. The underground is forever dark, so with a little bit of effort anyone can get that “campfire” ambiance Starlo always raves about.
Logs have been placed, freshly cut from Snowdin, for different food stands and seats all around a central hearth. It is cozy, it is homely, but it’s also helplessly somber at times. Life moves on for everyone, even when the dead do not.
Ceroba knows this more than anyone. Too many people have died in her life. Grief is a familiar friend, waiting by her nightstand - from the moment she wakes to the moment she goes to sleep - in a bed that seems to get emptier and emptier with every week.
It’s only on the days she fully indulges in vengeance, retribution, and salvation - that she truly feels strong. Powerful. Alive. A clarity above the constant static and buzz of her depression, the gloam that swallows even Starlo’s best jokes. And Starlo… even as he tries his best, sun in and sun out, it’s not like Clover’s death hasn't affected him.
He’s damaged too. There’s a quiet horror to that. She doesn't like seeing her own gaze reflected right back at her.
Particles of fire magic rise up into the sky, drifting and drifting. Ceroba watches them go with a blank look, pensive.
Yes, Clover’s death had affected everyone. But, in turn, they’d all coped differently.
“It’s an honor to have y’all here!” Starlo calls over the lively din, the anachronistic microphone in his grip allowing every word to reach all parts of town. “It’s been hard, I know! For a moment there, the Feisty Five risked being lost. Forever!”
A couple chuckles and shocked gasps among the audience, “So…! To celebrate our reunion, I've decided to seed our calendar with more festive occasions like these. There’s so much to celebrate down here, so why not take the jump, y’know?”
The crowd murmurs in quiet approval, even as the children get rowdier at the prospect of more parties. Tonight, even the folks from Oasis City get to participate, leading to quite the congregation. It’s nice to see Starlo like that, appreciated just like he wished to be, surrounded by his trusty companions.
“And… not everyone could make it,” the sheriff admits with a lower voice, “but this is a darn good gathering! So, we'll make the experience so memorable - they’ll definitely attend the next party!”
Another cheer while pots and plates are banged against each other in an instinctual rhythm. Laughter rings out, the squeal of play-fighting children followed by the cries of worried parents.
Ceroba ignores the phantom pang in her SOUL, following that particular thought.
As the celebrations go in full swing, Starlo approaches her, sharing a few words with passersby en route. With a sigh, she feels the log acting as her seat slightly dip, the sheriff making his weight known.
“Ceroba,” he starts, hesitating, “talk to me.”
Everyone else in the crowd chatters, someone starts the music and dance is soon to follow. Listlessly, she gazes onwards and past the giant fire.
“About what?” She closes her eyes, not wishing to ruin the mood. “I’m fine, go enjoy the festival. You organized it and everything, you’d be the first to deserve a break. Besides, you don't want to leave the Feisty Four behind, do you? Mooch will definitely start pickpocketing if you’re not looking.”
He snorts, “Heh. She would do that.”
A brief spell of silence.
He kicks the sand with the toe of his boot, an inscrutable expression on his shadowed face, “I just… last time it wasn't enough, right?”
Lacking for words, he gestures towards the party, “All of this.”
“You’ve gotten better at it,” she tries, before pausing. “And… I was getting better, but then they came and it changed things. You couldn't have possibly—” Her ear flicks, “You acted differently as well, with their arrival. I think you get it.”
“Yeah,” he admits, chin propped on his gloved palm, “Changed everything. It’s like, every human's a small storm, flipping the entire underground upside down.”
She thinks back to Chujin’s tapes. “That’s not incorrect.” And then she fixes a crease upon her robes. “...Again, I’ll be fine. Eventually.”
Starlo makes an unhappy noise, tipping his hat forwards in contemplation, “Say - what about helping around town?”
“I'm not joining the Feisty Five, Starlo. I don't need the ‘lassons’ as your posse calls them.” She deadpans.
He waves a hand, “Lasso lessons, lassons, same thing. But - I don't mean it like that. Last time,” he squirms a bit, “we didn't give you anything to do. It was all about cheering you up and making sure you had space and…”
Ceroba considers his words.
It’s true that she’s not the type to stay idle. She has wallowed, of course she has. But when facing these kinds of problems, most of the time her mind resorts to hands-on action. That’s what made her and Chujin so different.
For once, the thought of him brings happier memories in tow. Without any of that familiar sorrow choking it all down. Ceroba lets herself smile, if only a little.
“...I want to make sure we've learned.” He says, somber. A rising trend. “For Clover.”
“Alright,” she takes a breath through her snout, “what do you have in mind?”
He scratches the back of his head, “Uh, I don't exactly have anything yet.”
She stares at him, unimpressed.
“Look, give me a night, and I'll have something set up for you in a jiffy! Trust me, sheriff’s honor.”
Rolling her eyes, she crosses her arms, “Fine, fine. But I won't agree to anything stupid, okay?”
He places a hand on his badge, “I would never—! But,” fixing up his vest, he stands up, “that doesn't change the fact you still have to enjoy tonight’s show! So, how's about it? Would you like a dance?”
Gracefully, she stands up, “And you know how to dance since when, exactly?”
He grins, all bluster, “Since now!”
Things didn't turn out as expected.
Instead of death ending it all, the continued preservation of your yellow heart has changed the script.
You're forced to leave behind your body, consciousness now encapsulated within your SOUL and the glass casing enveloping it in turn. Supposedly, this is whatever device the king must be using to harvest the fallen humans and their great power. It’s hard to wrap your head around complete and utter sensory deprivation though, lacking any and all perceptive organs needed to interact with the world. So, instead, you linger.
Conscious and yet not. A ghost, perhaps, if humans could take such a form.
You wouldn't call yourself a thinker, but when dead - well, there’s nothing else to do but think. There is no void, just the vastness of your mind, because musing and pondering is everything that’s left to do. Your body can't distract you, you can’t be fatigued, or famished, or thirsty.
You can't even go insane, with no brain. It’s odd. Everything about this situation is odd. When burying the dead, SOULs aren't conserved like this. So this is 100% unfamiliar territory.
With nothing else to do, and to pass the time that you cannot even perceive, you turn to your memories. Hundreds, thousands of them. Pouring over them once, twice, thrice, losing the thread and then starting at some other point or the like - even blanking out and doing nothing at all for who knows how long.
But then something happens.
Martlet may have developed a habit. She’s been sneaking around far too much lately.
The thing is, time and time again, she’s the type of person to hesitate until the very end. Martlet would not call herself decisive, at all. But what she is... is crafty, in part thanks to Chujin.
And speaking of Chujin, that’s exactly why she has made her way inside Ceroba’s house and its hidden basement. Pouring through the man’s research, notes and more. Recalling the time she’d been here with Clover, going through every record and every file. Past the Steamworks memorabilia, further into his SOUL-related works.
Because of her hesitation, she must make sure first. She must confirm the horrible thoughts brewing in her mind. Heh, if she had a G for every time she snuck in a scientist's secret laboratory, she would have two G, which isn't a lot but it's weird it's happened twice.
Martlet is, besides the king and the Royal Scientist and Ceroba herself, perhaps one of the most informed monsters in the underground on the nature of SOULs. She… she never got rid of the DT ampule, nor did she ever forget about the experiment entries hung on the True Lab’s walls.
And so, Martlet hesitates. She hesitates to call quits. She hesitates to admit this is how the story ends. She hesitates to accept that mourning is the right thing to do.
Miraculously, it pays off.
The note she was looking for is an almost-crumpled diary page, hanging by a thread upon the book’s spine. With her feathers, she slowly smooths it out, spotting a particular fold over one line…
“—ce crossing the barrier, and being grievously injured by the humans of a nearby village. Therefore, why did King Asgore not cross the barrier? With only one SOUL, he could’ve easily gotten six more from said village. He must've known, he must’ve know we—”
Martlet drops the note, her arm trembling.
Clover always used to read with his fingers, tracing the words upon every sign. It was adorable, just a cute quirk at the time that Martlet happened to notice by complete accident.
But the ugly crease… right over that particular line in the paragraph. The kind that would form from a page tightly held - in sheer anguish - between thumb and index. Just a small pull, and it’d be completely torn off from the rest of the book.
Martlet may hesitate.
But when she comes to an answer, she stubbornly follows through with it until the very end.
It’s a small thing. A small detail. Forgotten in the wake of Chujin’s reveal, of the fourth human’s fate and Axis’ actions. But now, even small things matter, in this great emptiness. There's nothing else to do but to overanalyze every instant, every moment. To cherish what little is left.
And for once, something else fills your SOUL. Something other than this everlasting contemplation.
It is not justice.
It is not determination.
It is, however, rage.