Scenic Our House - grubbin (2024)

Chapter Text

You’re in the kitchen of your house.

You can tell just by the scent—wafting spices, something nutty, warm, homely, the gurgling of the coffee machine trickling somewhere behind you.

You lift your head from where it’s buried in your arms, unfolding them and noticing your strange, sharp hands. Smooth, soft white, lined with slashing scars that curl into old, thick chips. Your crooked phalanges drip with strange, feathery blobs. You curl them and the pangs of a dull pain return to you, faint as though a memory.

“Hello?”

The coffee machine sputters to a stop. You find your gaze locked on the open window over the sink. Streams of sunlight seep through, but the view beyond is faint, warped by flat light. Specks of snow muffle the edge of a syrupy, pitch-black horizon.

There’s no breeze; the sheer curtains are hauntingly still, the lace on the edges stained with something old and yellow. A wind chime hangs from a crooked metal chain. It, too, is hauntingly motionless.

A clink and a coffee cup rests on the table. Something feathery brushes past your shoulder, your neck. A crack in the tile trails toward you—it’s from that time you’d set down your cooking pot too hard.

You breathe in, out. Your hands twitch. In the kitchen of your house, the nozzle squeaks and the water turns on and off; it rumbles in the empty metal-lined sink but when you turn to look there’s no one there.

“Hello..?” You gurgle, your voice a cacophony of voices, a thousand pitches and timbers, rumbling then squeaking then crackling to a stop. There’s a small, young voice. A pattering of claws scraping the hard wood.

You shoot up from the stool. You leave the coffee untouched on the counter. When you turn you’re in the doorway in your house. When you stride forward you’ve stepped right into the snow.

Your eyes blow wide, drinking it in, the strange voice chattering with faint, giddy laughter. You wheeze as you sink up to your ankles in the snow; the blizzard swallows the childlike sounds, roaring around you until your ears are ringing and the world is pulsing with brilliant white light.

When your vision clears you see your hands digging. You’re frantic, scrambling, tearing through the snow. Your mouth is open and you feel sound coming out but hear nothing but the ringing in your ears.

You gulp in a breath and try to scream again, feeling the empty sound echo in your throat. Your phalanges are blue-black, slick with ice. The snow continues to fall. You haven’t dug very far.

“No,” you’re mouthing, “No, no—”

The earth rumbles once more. You turn and see it tumbling. The mountain’s a shadowless shape, grayed near the edges, surrounded by fat snowflakes that whip against your cheekbones and gather on your feathers until your vision edges white.

You keep digging. Screaming. Digging. You need to get away or he’s going to find you.

There’s dust staining your coat, from your arm to your shoulder. The room sinks into a dark shroud of throbbing blue. You turn, gasping, to see a shadow looming over you. Your hands are shaking. Melting. The snow sinks under goopy pieces of you. Your mouth opens, the world whirling around you, the storm suctioning all sounds. You’re still screaming. Begging. There’s dust in the air—you can taste it.

Your voice muffled and faint as you cry. You feel your ribs creak. You feel your ribs break. Your hand splits open, a crack near the knuckles weeping sluggish, clumpy dust. You fling your arm out to shield yourself and it melts straight off.

A strangled, throaty noise rips out of you before you can stop it.

You scramble in the sheets, tumbling off the side of your mattress and landing hard against the floor with a muted thump. Your hands slip twice as you attempt to prop yourself up, strange clear droplets dripping off your face and speckling damp spots into the carpet.

You’re sweating. Your pillow is damp with it. You didn’t even know you could sweat.

“Wha..What’s it made of..?” You mumble to yourself, delirious.

Then you crumple with a long, shaking exhale that leaves you feeling hollow. You blink blankly down at your hands, sitting back to curl them together. You breathe in and out. In and out. You listen to the scritch of your knuckles scraping against themselves, but your hands no longer ache. They are numb. Cold.

You squint into the pale, speckled darkness. The closet is horribly dark without windows, like being buried under piles and piles of snow.

Your trembling claws wrap around your cracked ribs through your shirt. You tug at them and sharp pings of pain that register distantly as through a murky film. You feel the feathers there ruffle. You set your hand down. It brushes the fabric of your discarded coat, and you notice a small, edged lump under the fabric and pause.

You curl over it in the dark, pulling it towards you.

Your skull’s buzzing with noise. It’s so loud you can hardly hear yourself think. You curl into the heaviness of your useless breaths, wheezing with every inhale, your ribs expanding like void, creaking in and out again as you pull open your coat and find a hidden inside pocket and rip it open.

Something small and smooth settles into your palm.

A bead. You bring it close to your face, shaking, then lift it up into the light seeping in through the closet door. It glints like a little rounded star, rimmed and round in your hand.

You stare distantly through the small hole in its center, which frames Blue’s overturned lamp, a strange shape in the dark. You know it should be woven through a soft white feather. You don’t remember owning anything like this, and when you try to remember, your mind fills with static, as though you’re sloshing through an inky swamp that grows deeper with each step.

You hear childlike laughter, a ringing wind chime, then you watch feathered wings braid this bead onto a smaller head. Someone nips at your feathers with their small, hooked beak.

You feel as though you're crawling through a void.

You slip the bead back into its pocket and exhale a shaking sigh, then think of your dream—it’s hazy as though cloth’s slipping through your fingers—think of your bones, striped with blue, melting into a feathery goop slick to the touch and sickly yellow. You felt so wrong, displaced, just a formless pool of dust.

It was so clear in your mind’s eye. Was it really a dream? Or was it a memory?

“..Why can’t I remember?” You whisper to the lamp in the dark.

It does not answer, staticy and distant as a shadow.

The door creaks open. You wince, lifting your arm to cover your eyes as a strip of light peels over your face.

A hesitant voice sounds from beyond the crack. “Snowy?”

“..Clem?” You croak, blinking away the dim. The door creaks open further.

“Hello, Friend Snowy..” Clem crosses the closet in one large stride and kneels low in front of the mattress. You see his eye-lights wobbling with worry, the pale orange-yellow glow much more noticeable in the dark. “I Heard You Shout Suddenly. Did You Have A Bad Dream?”

You grimace, reaching up to wipe the weird sweat off your face. He watches your subtle movement with what seems to be a pinch in his brow bone, his skull haloed by the gray light beyond the closet door.

“Sorry,” You murmur in lue of a proper response. You wonder if you’re flushing a color like the other skeletons do, but know at once you’re not—flat faced as always, cold, expressionless and unreadable. “..Did I wake you and Blue?”

“Just Me!” Clem whisper-shouts. You didn’t know such a volume was possible. It’s more of a stage-whisper if anything. “After My Training With Undyne, I Have Become Astute To All Sounds!”

You blink at him. He must see something in your gaze because his smile pauses.

“..Actually, Sans—Uhm, Classic —Has Bad Dreams Too Sometimes.” He divulges. His face looks suddenly tight and withdrawn; you hold back a wince as he levels his glowing gaze on you like holy judgment. “Now I Just Know.”

“Oh,” You respond neutrally. “You’re impressive as always, Clem.”

“I’m Glad You Noticed!” Clem exclaims with a grin, though he’s still making a great effort to keep his voice down. He reaches out and slaps a huge, thin hand on your shoulder. “Now, Since I Am Such A Great Friend, I Will Read You The Very Fluffy Bunny Until You Fall Asleep! How Does That Sound?”

You shrug, sending him a lax grin that you’re sure he can barely see in the dark. “Sounds fine by me—uh—”

Clem’s arms shoot out under your back and knees and he scoops you clear off the floor, blanket and all. You flail at the sudden touch, slamming into his ribcage. He makes a comical sounding “Oof!”

“—Clem,” You manage, your voice strangled, “What are you—”

“Let’s Have A Slumber Party!” Clem exclaims, barely batting an eye at you as you make a muted noise of protest. “You Can Sleep In My Racecar Bed!”

“Uh,” your voice cracks again. “Wait, you don’t have to—”

“NONSENSE!” You flinch at his volume, jerking in his hold. At this rate he’ll wake the whole house.

“Okay, sleepover it is,” you blurt, desperation bleeding in your voice.

Clem sends you his classic thousand-watt grin. He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re as tense as a rock.

“First We Shall Get You Some Warm Milk,” Clem informs you, already moving on. He turns to the closet door and opens it with his foot. He’s so tall you feel millions of miles above the ground. “It’s Good For Your Bones, And It’ll Help You Sleep!”

“..Sure,” You mumble, growing lax in his arms. He’s surprisingly comfortable, radiating a certain warmth.

He’s buzzing with..magic? Yeah, that’s what it is. It feels light and crisp like sour citrus, sparking with thrumming, thudding undertones—a low beating drum. His steps are rhythmic and gentle. You barely notice as he takes you out of his room; you hear stairs creak lightly somewhere beneath you.

“..I See You Are Already Drifting Off Within The Comfort Of My Magnificent Presence,” Clem lowers his voice, shifting you gently. Is he..rocking you? “This Will Be Easy!”

“Mhm,” You hum. He does seem to be rocking you. It’s very soothing, so you won’t complain.

His slippers start to shuffle against what sounds like tile. You barely have the energy to open your eyes, but you help him shift you into one arm by winding your arms around his shoulders and neck to keep yourself upright.

Clem seems unaffected by both your clinging and proximity. How often had he done this for his brother? He’s taking such good care of you it’s a bit scary. And there’s no reason for him to do this, either. You’re practically a stranger, and it’s not like you’re some alternate version of his brother—not that he knows that.

He’s just doing this because he’s genuinely kind.

You hum another quiet noise as you give him one tight, long squeeze. “..You’re really cool, Clem.” You mumble at him, voice lower than a whisper. Your head rests on his shoulder, right next to his skull, so you’re sure he can hear you well enough.

“Nyeheh!” Clem’s quiet laugh is somewhat of a sputtery giggle. “Of Course! I Am The Coolest!”

You hear something sloshing around and then the telltale beeping of a microwave. Clem swings shut the door of it with a chr-click that seems to echo through the whole house.

He shifts his weight back and forth, rocking again. He’s humming something, something soft. You feel his spindly hand pat twice at your back.

The microwave beeps twice. There’s more sloshing sounds and another chr-click of the microwave’s door.

Shuffling tile. Squeaking stairs. A clink as the glass of milk is placed onto a nightstand. You’ve nearly drifted off again until Clem gently shifts you; you sluggishly force yourself awake.

With herculean effort, you slowly peel open heavy sockets to spot Blue over Clem’s shoulder.

You freeze and tense up like a spooked feline, jumping out of your metaphorical skin. Blue’s eye lights bore into you like neon high beams, a brilliant cyan color casting his skull in a faint glow.

“Snowy, What’s Wrong—?” Clem turns around, then his shoulders hike up in excitement, further pushing your face into the crook of his neck. “Blue!”

Now you’re staring at the cheese poster on the wall. It’s dim and rather hard to see in the dark. Clem soothingly pats at your spine again.

“Good Evening, Friends!” Blue greets, his voice a nasally stage-whisper.

“Good Evening!” Clem’s voice rises into a shout before he remembers to lower it again. “What Are You Doing Awake?”

“I Am Also Astute To All Sounds.”

Conversation falls short. Clem and Blue seem to share a silent exchange where you can’t see.

“..I See!” Clem says finally. “Snowy Couldn’t Sleep, So I Suggest A Slumber Party Strategy!”

Blue makes a muted noise of excitement. You can practically hear him pumping his fists. “Brilliant Idea, Great Clementine!”

“Thank You, Magnificent Blueberry!”

Between all of the whisper-shouting you have resigned yourself to whatever the slumber party entails. If it’s anything like last time, you doubt you’ll be able to stay awake for any of it.

You feel more than see as Clem crosses the room and lowers you—still bundled in your blanket—onto a very soft and plush mattress. The racecar bed. You’re handed a glass of warm milk and you chug it in moments. Then the glass is taken away from you and you’re coaxed into a horizontal position on the bed.

The mattress and dips on the one side of you. Then Blue’s saying “Scooch! Scooch!” as he physically rolls you over.

The mattress squeaks again. Blankets and comforters shuffle around. There’s giggling, a slight scuffle, and then all settles in silence.

Someone tucks another blanket up to your chin, and then you’re out like a light.

“—op Taking Photos! You’re Being Ridiculous!”

You sluggishly blink open your eye-sockets and it feels as though you’re peering through hazy water, blurs of orange and blue in the corners of your vision. You grumble a bit and shift, closing your eyes again.

Magic sparks through the room—something syrupy followed by a familiar sparking citrus. Blue’s magic, too, popping like sugary firecrackers and minty mouthwash.

It’s more than enough to wake you, but the voices don’t stop regardless, loud and booming right next to your earholes.

“The Great Clementine Is NOT Accepting Paparazzi Right Now—”

“Papy! I Told You No More!!”

“Eh, c’mon bro, I’ll send ‘m to you—”

Something launches out from the covers at your side and flings them back so half your arm is exposed to cold air. There’s a loud thump and a squeal somewhere beyond you as you grumble and paw for your missing blanket.

“Blue—no!” Tumbling and the clattering of bones. “ Ahah—Shi—!”

“LANGUAGE!”

“MYEHEH! YOU LOSE!”

“Stop! Nyeheheh—NO! Blue I’m ticklish! Wai—nyehehee—”

You recognize Stretch’s laughter as it warbles off into strangled wheezing. There’s more scuffling noises muffled by the carpeted floor. You manage to find the edge of the blanket and pull it over you, curling up like a disgruntled feline.

“Snowy,” Clem whispers at you. He taps gently but incessantly at your shoulder. “It Is Time To Awaken!”

You mutter a nonsensical response and bury your face into your feathery pillow. Something shifts and prods near your head.

“Snowy, Please Get Up!” Clementine is beginning to sound frustrated. “I Have Many Activities Planned For Us Today!”

“Ehee, nyeehehehee, no, phhhpt—ahah!”

“Snowy, Please—” Clem makes an impatient, disgruntled noise that’s closely followed by an uncanny, strangled shriek from somewhere beyond the bed. “BLUE! You Are Harassing Your Brother!”

“He Started It!” Blue shouts childishly as Stretch once again erupts into giggles. “He Wouldn’t Stop Taking Photo—AH!”

More thumps and squeals in quick succession as the boys likely start wrestling and rolling around again. You take this as your cue to sit up.

Like a body emerging from a coffin, you swing upright with way too much momentum and slump forward into a tired slouch. Your expression scrunches and the scuffling fades off as you unhinge your jaw in a nearly skull-splitting yawn and make a long, low noise like a lion opening its maw. The room goes completely silent when you click it shut again.

You rub blearily at one eye-socket, cracking the other open to peer at whoever’s close by. “Wha’s f’r breakfast?” you mumble.

“Whatever You Want It To Be, Friend Snowy!” Clem bellows right next to your ear. It takes all the strength in you not to full-body flinch and tumble right off the race car bed.

Right. Sleepover. Race car bed.

“..‘M hungry.” You grumble.

“You’re always hungry.” Stretch’s voice is suddenly right next to you. You blink at him blearily—wasn’t he all the way across the room?

Then you scrunch your face as he flicks your forehead with a single phalange. It clicks against your hollow skull and you barely refrain from shrinking away, your face scrunching in disgruntlement.

“GASP!” Blue says ‘gasp.’ “Did That Just—?! Did That Just Happen?!”

He then squeals at such a volume you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter the empty milk glass on Clem’s nightstand. “Papy, That Was A Friendly Gesture! Something Friends Do!”

You rub at your abused forehead and squint at them wordlesslt.

“Uh,” Stretch looks somewhat terrified, flailing in place. “Blue, wait, that’s not—”

“You Flicked At His Forehead! In A Nice Way! A Friendly Way!” He gasps for real this time, a loud and drawn-out breath that shudders into a strangled wheeze. “Could It Be—?!”

”No.” States Stretch. He is ignored.

”PAPY MADE A FRIEND!!” Blue shrieks. With the volume he’s shouting at you suspect he’s announcing it to the whole house. “A FRIEND!!”

Stretch buries his face in his hands. “Blue please stop—”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” Blue flings his hands in the air with a hollering cheer. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!”

You languidly blink open both eyes to get a glimpse of Stretch’s face. His skull is as bright as a neon orange sign. You chuckle at him as Blue whoops and yahoo!’s like a proud parent, frolicking around on the carpeting.

“..Heh, look at you,” You grin at Stretch’s orange face, voice still gravelly with sleep. “G’mornin,’ buddy.”

Blue gasps again, delighted, squishing his gloved hands against his cheeks, but Stretch just flushes even more. “Shut the f*ck up.”

“LANGUAGE!!” Clem booms for a second time, aghast.

“TO FRIENDSHIP!” Blue exclaims, pumping his fists. “Today Is Going To Be An AMAZING Day!”

“Would you idiots keep it down?!” Red shouts through the wall.

“NO!” The Great Clementine bellows. “IT’S BREAKFAST TIME!”

It’s breakfast time.

Clem practically drags you downstairs shouting about the variety of pancakes he’ll make you—which all sounds swell and wonderful until he begins proclaiming his secret ingredient is craft store glitter.

You’re barely awake enough to process this, still bundled in your cream blanket and shuffling along like a zombie because the slippers Clem let you borrow are about four sizes two large. They nearly slip off your feet each time you take a step.

Clem grows impatient by your slow pace so when you reach the bottom of the stairs he slots his gloved hands under your armpits, lifts you off the ground, and sprints through the living room into the kitchen. You nearly lose a slipper.

Blue and Stretch trot alongside you both with matching grins on their faces, though Stretch appears a lot more devious. They hardly react as Clem sets you down into a stool at the counter.

The friendly skeleton beams at you. “Prepare Yourself For The Best Pancakes You’ll Ever Eat In Your Life!”

“Okay.” You say blankly.

Blue lets out a whoop and rushes to the fridge while Clem pulls out a miscellany of kitchen tools—some of which having nothing to do with pancake-making, such as a miniature cotton candy machine and a blender. Their combined chaos fills the house with clanking and clattering at the unholy hour of six in the morning.

Stretch hefts himself into the stool next to you; his crinkled eye-sockets and shuddering smile inform you he’s holding back a laugh. “Have you ever had pancakes with glitter in them, Snowy?”

“..I have not,” you respond tiredly, pulling your blanket closer around your shoulders.

“Guess there’s a first time for everything,” Stretch snickers, looking horribly smug.

A lot more awake, you send a furtive glance toward the stovetop where Clem and Blue are pouring an ominously lumpy mixture into a hot pan. The batter sizzles and pops when it hits the warm metal.

You look back at Stretch, squinting. “..Is the batter supposed to be blue?”

Stretch smiles demurely as he takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. Where did he get that—?

“FLIP!” Blue booms.

Clem cackles and flings the pan upright. The pancake rockets upward like a shot, splats onto the ceiling, and sticks there.

You’re pretty sure your jaw is hanging open.

The excitable chefs are giggling to themselves and you watch with bated breath as the pancake slowly peels off the ceiling, wiggles and spins as though in slow motion, and lands with a splatteringflop back into the pan.

You stare back up at the ceiling—the pancake left some blue-speckled residue behind. You notice there are many other circular stains like it, speckled across the ceiling like misaligned polka-dots.

“Tradition,” Stretch tells you, the word echoing hollowly into his coffee mug. He’s not even looking at you.

“Right.” Your voice comes out faint as you blink wearily at the dots—there are too many to count. “Can I have some of that coffee?”

Stretch sends you a raised brow but ultimately gets out of the stool to grab you a cup. You appreciate it. You haven’t felt inclined to step into the kitchen ever since the Taco Incident.

Whenever the boys are cooking it’s a warzone. You can only imagine how bad that blue batter would stain your bones.

Stretch returns in mere moments—you hadn’t even seen him sit down?—to slide a slightly chipped mug full of warm, steaming coffee in front of you. The mug reads, don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.It has a picture of a frowning human woman on it who’s wearing bright red lipstick.

You stare at it for a few moments. The pale reflection of your skull ripples in dark water.

“FLIP!” Clem shouts this time, but you’re barely paying attention. For a moment you’re somewhere far away, the coffee machine gurgling, your eyes trailing to an old crack in the counter. You hear the pancake fall into the pan with a splat and phantom wings brush at your back, a childish shout echoing behind you as though calling you home.

“Yes!” Blue exclaims, and you’re back, phalanges slowly curling round the mug handle. You lift your skull to smile at the pair of skeletons stacking an impressively tall pancake tower.

“Lookin’ good,” you tell them faintly.

“Only The Best For Our New Friend Snowy!” Blue proclaims with a comical thumbs-up.

The pancake stack towers twelve-high, piled with thick, blue pancakes that have taken on a greenish tinge. They sparkle as Clem picks up the plate, likely due to the craft glitter. Many of the pancakes have varying ingredients; you spot blueberries, raspberries, chocolate, and—did they add carrots?

“For Strong Bones!” Clem answers your unspoken query. He grabs a pancake from the top of the tower with his bare hands and slaps it onto a plate with unnecessary force.

You stare, speechless. The cake is about three inches thick with a convoluted mixture of carrots, chocolate, and glitter in it. It’s so large half of it spills off your plate. You have no idea what emotion you are feeling right now.

“Honey?” Stretch offers to you, leaning closer with a grin. You have no time to respond before he pours an ungodly amount of the stuff onto your mammoth of a pancake. Then he winks at you and starts drinking the rest straight out of the bottle.

You stare at him as he chugs the bear-bottled treat through its yellow cap and politely replace your gag reflex with the most disgusted expression you can possibly muster.

“What?” Stretch stops drinking to blink at you as if you’re the one acting absolutely insane. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.”

You glare at him. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, it’s real good. here, have some more—”

“Don’t.” You hiss, grabbing your soaked, slimy pancake plate and pulling it farther away from him. It’s the most malice you’ve put in your voice since you’ve arrived here and for some reason Stretch looks delighted by the sound of it.

He looks you straight in the eye as he picks his own pancake from the tower, pours half the honey bottle into it, and folds it like a taco. As he takes a bite of his pancake he moans in delight and a repulsive amount of glitter and honey spill out the back of it onto his plate.

You can’t even watch this. You resign yourself to staring at Clem and Blue as they start on their second pancake tower. You don’t think this whole house will be able to get through the first one—

The floorboards creak. Stretch inhales sharply, drops his breakfast, and yanks you back by the hood of your hoodie. He drags you into him and half off your stool as you exhale quickly in shock. Then you twist your head to see Mars looming over the counter like a hanging specter.

He glowers down at you with one large, wavering red eye light, his skull shrouded by shadow. You barely mask your startled cough.

Mars curiously tilts his massive skull, eye-light blinking in and out. The kitchen lights reflect off the jagged edges of his head wound. “..You’re the new guy.”

You open your jaw but quickly close it as your mind runs through a series of things at once. Either he’s messing with you—pretending not to recognize you for a third time—or, he has memory issues, which you assume resulted from that abnormally large hole in his skull.

Conclusion: acting as if this is the first time you’ve met him is likely the safest bet, especially because of the frantic, terrified look on Stretch’s face, which leads you to believe he’s forgotten to tell you something important.

“Snowy.” You introduce yourself for a third time, gesturing casually toward the breakfast tower as though Stretch hasn’t pulled you half-horizontal into his lap. “Want some pancakes?”

Mars nods mutely; his single eye-light sparks and warps as though in distant recognition. He nods at you again, a different sort of expression on his face, then picks up the entire plate of pancakes with one hand and turns to shuffle out of the room.

When he turns the corner Stretch lets out a huge, heavy breath and loosens his grip on your hoodie. You sink into him and he scrambles with a strangled wheeze.

“Sorry! sh*t, I forgot to tell you—” he pushes and shoves at you until you’re back in your stool. “Mars has memory issues. Short-term, mostly, but he might not remember you at first until you—”

“You’re good, bud,” You huff at him, slightly peeved by all his manhandling. “I kinda figured.”

“Right,” Stretch chuckles nervously, scratching at the back of his skull. “Well, you handled that better than I did.”

You grumble to yourself as you re-adjust the crumpled collar of your hoodie and your blanket, which has mostly fallen off you.

Stretch seems to register what he’s just done as he flushes more orange than you’ve ever seen him. He kicks you and your stool away from him spastically and you reluctantly accept that living in this house includes being constantly manhandled like a cute, squeaky chew-toy.

All the while, Blue and Clem have been finishing up their second pancake tower. Theyare now slathering it with ridiculous amounts of sprinkles and whipped cream. You watch them squeal as the tower nearly tips over and hold back a heaving, long-suffering sigh.

“Good Morning, House!” Erupts a shrill voice from the hall.

The tell-tale click-clack of heeled boots announce Edge’s entrance.

The pointy skeleton holds his head high with the poise of a king gracing his subjects. He’s not wearing his apron nor his leather battle-suit, rather a plain collared shirt and slacks that’s rather jarring on his pointy, lanky figure. This slightly diminishes the effect.

You try not to make your baffled stare too obvious but likely fail; Edge sends you a searing look as he fixes one of his buttons. You carefully avert your eyes to peel off a carrot-filled corner of your pancake. It has the consistency of half-dried glue.

“Good Morning, Edge!” Calls Blue, sounding distracted. “Would You Like Some Pancakes—?”

“I Am Fine, Thank You.” Edge interrupts as he glances at his wrist to check a fancy-looking watch. “I Am Headed To Brenda’s Office. I Expect This—“ He huffs and makes a wide, sweeping gesture to the entire kitchen, “—To Be Completely Clean By The Time I Get Back. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir!” Blue salutes playfully, his glitter-covered spatula bonking lightly against his cranium.

You slowly bring a weeping slice of pancake towards your mouth. Glitter oozes out when you bite down. The taste is..indescribable.

“Don’t You Worry, Friend Edge!” Exclaims Clem, dutifully supporting the Leaning Tower of Pancakes with shaking hands. “Blue And I Will Have This Kitchen Spick-And-Span!”

Stretch doesn’t say anything, taking it upon himself to slurp every last drop of honey off his plate, teeth clattering against the ceramic. He has already swallowed his entire pancake like a snake.

Edge huffs and makes a disgruntled expression at the display which isn’t much different than his usual face. You finish chewing your pancake and pick at some glitter left in your teeth.

“..Bye, bossman,” you say offhandedly, reluctantly tearing off another corner of your blue pancake with your phalanges. “Have a nice day,”

Edge sends you one last infuriated—and strangely bewildered—glance before turning sharply on his heel and disappearing into the hallway.

Clem and Blue eventually have to leave for work.

Clem has some strange, vague job called ‘Monster Representative,’ and Blue apparently works at a trampoline theme-park, which honestly explains a lot. So you’re left with Stretch and whoever is left in the house—Black’s obnoxious, edgy motorcycle disappears from the driveway at some point so you assume it’s just Rus, Red, Jupiter, and Mars. All of whom don’t seem to like you very much.

Well, Jupiter hasn’t been outwardly hostile but he’s obviously uncomfortable around you. You take that as a bad sign.

You sigh to yourself for the umpteenth time, the awful texture of your ‘breakfast’ still lingering in your mouth. The joyful smiles on Clem and Blue’s faces was worth that torturous texture-trauma, but you don't think you’ll ever be able to look at pancakes the same way again.

Stretch, in the living room behind you, flips through a bulky textbook. It’s the only other sound aside from the muffled rain outside. The house is empty and quiet aside from the pitter-patters of another morning downpour.

“When do you think it’ll let up?” You say, skull propped up in your hand where you sit at the kitchen counter. The window above the sink is blurry with a layer of droplets dragging through a foggy film.

“‘Prolly this afternoon.” Stretch grumbles back. He makes no other effort to engage with you. Maybe this morning drained his social battery; you can hardly blame him.

But stars, you’re bored as hell.

You want to take a walk. Or draw, or read—or do anything, really. But you’ll probably be killed if you mess with someone else’s stuff, so the most viable option for you right now is to sleep. You’re still in your pajamas—wrapped in your blanket and everything—so why not?

You heft yourself down from the kitchen stool and trudge into the living room. Then you collapse heavily into a large plush armchair with a satisfied grunt.

“..Are you..are you taking a nap?”

You look up at Stretch from where you’re cozying up into the chair and make a muted noise of agreement.

“Nice.” Stretch intones. He nods as though napping a mere hour after waking up is completely acceptable. This says a lot about him.

For a while you think that’s the end of it, settling in, curling into yourself with your skull tucked atop the cushy armrest. Your eye sockets fall shut but you hear some shuffling from Stretch across the carpet.

“..Here, have some more blankets.”

You feel him drop another onto you—a fluffy comforter. You mumble a thank-you but he’s already shuffled elsewhere.

You’ve begun dozing off when he comes back. He’s snickering quietly. You blearily crack open one socket as he throws a few more blankets over you. Soon, your vision is completely obscured.

The weight on your body slowly, steadily increases. Your head presses uncomfortably into the armrest. You grumble something into the fabrics and Stretch must hear you as he takes a moment to dig out an air-pocket for your skull.

“Cozy?” He asks, beaming down into your veritable blanket mound.

You stare tiredly up at him and sigh. Which you seem to be doing a lot today. He chuckles at you and disappears from sight; you can’t even hear his footsteps anymore. He’s imprisoned you and left—the bastard.

Now suddenly awake, you begin the treacherous ordeal of digging yourself out of the blanket mound.

Comforter spills around your legs as you shove blankets off yourself to stand. You stretch your arms high above you with a muted pop but freeze as you notice Stretch’s abandoned textbook on the ottoman, splayed open to reveal marked-up pages.

You jitter with anticipation. High-strung as you are, you’ll read anything. Even if it’s something awful and boring as a physics textbook.

You scramble over to the book and snag it; it’s heavier than you expected. You quickly scurry back over to your armchair before anyone can catch you then settle back into the blanket nest. Stretch’s blankets work to your advantage as a good cover from curious eyes.

The rain pattering on the roof makes for pleasant white noise. You huff sigh and begin to read.

Every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction.

Gnawing distractedly at your cracked thumb bone, you peer with surprising focus at the long, drawn-out paragraphs ahead.

You may have heard this phrase before—like Einstein’s theory of energy, Newton’s Third Law is the foundation of the Multiverse theory. The slight differences in each reaction create what are known as ‘alternate dimensions’ where things may be similar, or completely dissimilar, depending on the overall impact of a reaction event.

The ‘Multiverse.’ A bit like what Stretch had mentioned when you ‘appeared,’ for lack of a better word. You squint your eyes. The next paragraph has been highlighted and underlined so many times it’s nearly illegible.

Each reaction will impact the force that created it, and so on, creating what is known as a chain reaction. As such, Chain timelines—also known as Branch timelines—are near identical iterations of a main, or ‘prime,’ timeline where the chain reaction first occurred.

In these timelines, the makeup of all atomic structures, magic, and thereby matter, is so intrinsically connected that a ‘you’ from a chain timeline could be exactly the same as a ‘you’ from your prime timeline—other than a slight, near imperceptible difference, such as a different colored t-shirt.

Prime. You trace your phalange under the word.

I’ll give you an example. In your Prime universe—the universe you exist in now—you are wearing a white shirt. In a nearly identical Chain universe, you are wearing a shirt of a different color. This simple difference may not seem significant.

Consider, however, the reactions that may occur due to this choice. You are strolling along the street in your white shirt, and you notice you’ve spilled coffee onto yourself—something the bright fabric cannot hide. You go home to change. Then you’ve realized you’ve missed your bus and consequently have missed your job interview, a job you otherwise may have gotten. This small decision alters your life forever.

You lean closer into the book, nasal ridge nearly brushing the pages.

Let us go a step further. Perhaps you have a wardrobe full of shirts of many different colors, including white. You could choose between any of these shirts. These are all separate instances, and thereby separate timelines, where you are wearing a shirt of a different color.

One color looks inexplicably flattering on you, and the interviewer hires you on the spot. Another shows the coffee stain despite your best attempts to hide it, and you’re left jobless. This core event creates many opportunities and choices, simply due to a wardrobe change. Chain reactions within chain universes can compile and compile until a ‘you’ from a chain universe is entirely unrecognizable.

“Where Did You Get That?”

Your neck snaps up with a crack as you flinch in shock. Like a deer in the headlights, you peer over the rim of your textbook with wide, empty eye-sockets to spot Edge glaring down at you, hands propped on his hip bones. He’s tall enough to see right over and into your blanket fort. So much for that.

Pausing, you take a moment to observe him. Without his usual outfit he’s much less intimidating. His nice polo shirt is speckled with rain; you watch a large droplet trickle down his cheekbone, slipping down his awfully large scar.

“Stretch left it open on the table.” You state in a rush. He doesn’t stop glaring at you. You try to nonchalantly stare to one of the weird diagrams you can’t understand. “..If you’re going to kill me, can I at least finish this page?”

Edge’s expression twists, incredulous, as he raises a sharp brow.

“Why Would I Kill You?” He huffs noisily. “That’s Prime’s Job—He’s The One Keeping You Under Lock And Key.” Then he snorts a puff of air through his nasal bone, an odd sound. “Don’t Feel Special. He Did It To All Of Us.”

Prime. Classic. Suddenly the nickname makes sense. Regardless, Edge’s strange lack of hostility has thrown you for a loop; he blinks at you and you realize you’re staring at him like he’s grown two heads.

You cough into your fist, a short, hollow sound. “..I thought you were going to starve me.”

“A Mere Intimidating Threat, Of Course. Though I’m Happy To See That It Worked.”

“So you won’t kick me out?”

“You’re Not Allowed To Leave This Place, Kicking You Out Defeats The Purpose.” Edge sends you one last, long, critical glance: his eye-lights trail from your oversized slippers to your hoodie to the sheer amount of blankets tucked around your frame.

“..It’s Clear To Me You Won’t Be Harming Anyone.” He says finally. For some reason you feel vaguely insulted. He makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Go Back To Your Joke Book, Snowflake.”

He turns on his heel and you nearly launch out of your chair in an aborted attempt at following. “Where are you going?”

“I Will Be In The Kitchen.” Edge states with finality. “Don’t Bother Me Or I Will Reinstate My Prior Rules.”

You blink and open your mouth but he’s already striding off. You hear him clattering about the cabinets in mere moments.

You glance at your boring physics textbook as a sweet smell fills the room and quickly make a decision.

You scramble out of your blanket mound, slip on Clem’s massive slippers, and dart into the kitchen with the madness of a bored toddler. A searing glare has you skidding to a stop.

“What Did I Just Say?” Edge states dangerously, his eye-lights small, sharp and shadowed.

“I wanna watch,” You inform him.

Edge blinks at you, a whisk in his hand, and he seems to read your honesty off your face. For some reason he straightens up as though flattered.

“..Are You A Babybones?” He grumbles; he turns back to his mixing bowl. “Fine. Just Don’t Get In My Way.”

Edge moves about the kitchen with a practiced poise, stirring powders and liquids with lovely fruity smells. He even adds a bit of honey and vanilla. You stare unabashed as he pours the finished cheesecake mix into its pan; the batter is a soothing, creamy ivory color. It looks edible.

Edge stiffens beneath your wide-eyed gaze. “If You’re Going To Stand There Staring Like An Idiot You Might As Well Make Yourself Useful!”

You startle. “Oh. Okay. Uh—”

“Just—” Edge nearly growls at you, lunging over to shove a bowl of sliced orange halves into your ribs so hard you nearly stumble back. “Shut Up And Juice These Oranges! No Talking!”

You dutifully begin juicing oranges but start talking again in mere moments. “So what’s the cheesecake for?”

Edge pauses. “Oh, You Are Curious, Aren’t You?” It appears he’s lifted his talking ban now that he’s been given the chance to brag. “I Understand. Anyone Who Catches A Whiff Or Glance Of My Delightful Cooking Is Immediately Enraptured—I Am Simply The Greatest Chef Who Has Ever Lived.” He clears his throat obnoxiously. “So, You See—“

The pointy skeleton seems to warm up to you with each passing moment that you let him talk your non-existent ear off. He rambles about non-stick versus regular pans and the merits of using magic-based oils and complains about fellow culinary students whom he finds ‘Absolutely Unbearable.’ You wonder where the hell his brother is.

“—Thus, I Have Been Tasked With This Current Assignment. Though Making ‘Cheesecake’ Is Not In My Job Description I Must Adapt And Become More Than Adequate At Every Manner Of Cooking. And Also Baking.”

You nod in appropriate sympathy and add, “Sounds tough.”

“It Is Tough—But Not For Me! I Am A Fantastic Chef, Ready For Every Unseen Situation!” Edge thuds a fist into his chest. “Even Undyne Would Be In Awe Of My Culinary Skills! I Have Long Since Surpassed Her!”

“Yeah.” You agree blandly, focused on the juice squeezer. You have no idea who the hell Undyne is, but you’re not going to ask lest he blow up on you or something. You decide to compliment him instead: “You’re pretty good at this. Your lasagne the other day was fantastic.”

“NYEHEH! It Was, Wasn’t It?!” You can practically hear him prop his hands on his hip bones. “Lasagne Is My Specialty Dish! I’ve Perfected My Recipe!!”

“Mhm.” You’re unsure of why he’d decided to make his lasagne completely inedible and covered in shell-filled scrambled eggs but perhaps that was a purposeful choice, seeing as he can cook other dishes besides. You watch as pale, glimmering juice spills into the bowl below. The permeating smell of citrus sizzles in your nasal bone. “I can’t wait to have it again sometime.”

“YES!” Edge booms, “I AM SURE TO PLEASE!”

It seems the more excited he gets the louder he raises his voice. It’s a good thing you don’t have ears of any sort because they would’ve been blown clean off.

The last of the juice trickles down into the bowl, a pale orange and speckled with chewy bits of pulp. Edge instructs you to sift it out with a strainer. You move together in silence as the rain patters into nothingness—stripes of warm sunlight slink in through the window over the sink. You clink some bowls about, murmuring sounds spilling subconsciously from your mouth.

Edge cuts you off as he slams a bowl onto the countertop. “What Is That Infernal Noise?”

“—Ah?” You blink multiple times, realizing. “Oh, sorry. I was humming. I’ll stop.”

He doesn’t look as annoyed as his initial reaction implied. “Is It A Song?” He asks, surprising you with the expression on his skull. He appears thoughtful and genuinely curious—with a typical note of disgruntled constipation. “I Recognize It.”

You nod, offering him the bowl of finished juice. “One of Shyren’s. Do you know the name of it?’

Edge takes it gingerly, voice flat. “No. What Is It Called?”

“Oh. I dunno.”

“What?” Edge does a double take, dumbfounded. Then he simply glares at you, discarding the bowl onto the counter. “You—Why Are You Like This?”

You chew on an extra orange slice and stare at him blankly. “Like what?”

“Vague!!!” Edge booms, flinging his hands up in emphasis, “Incomprehensible!!!! Yesterday You Said You Were From The Mountains! But When You Arrived You Spoke Of Snowdin!”

You stare as he gesticulates widely in a way that reminds you of Blue. “It’s Like You Talk In Riddles! You Sound Uncertain About Half The Things You Say! You Are A—“ He flounders, “Puzzle! A Puzzle, I Tell You!”

“Huh?” you intone, swallowing the last of your orange. “I thought you liked puzzles.”

“I Do!” Edge exclaims, sounding increasingly distressed. He points a sharp phalange in your face. “But I Do Not Like You! You Are An Annoyance!”

You blink at the hooked tip of his finger. “Oh, okay.”

Your nonchalant response seems to frustrate him even more as he stomps his foot with a strangled “NYEEH!”

“Uh,” Red’s voice sounds beyond the counter. “What’s goin’ on here, boss?”

“Fine.” Edge hisses at you, completely ignoring his brother as he glowers down at you with folded arms. “Since You Insist On Being A Menace, I Will Allow You—No, I Will Kick You Out Of This House.”

“Wait,” you blurt, eye-sockets wide. “Do you mean—”

Edge turns to his brother. “Red.”

Red straightens to attention at his brother’s address. Edge points down at you like you’re a rabid little animal. “Take This Thing Outside.”

Red blinks rapidly. “Uh—you sure, boss?”

“Just Do It, You Insufferable Half-Wit.” He exhales a lot of air out of his nasal cavity. “Bring Stretch With You If You’re So Nervous. He’s This One’s Official Keeper, After All.”

It seems like he wants to rile you up by suggesting you’re a pet of some sort, but you honestly couldn’t care less. Being allowed to see the sun for the first time in years is the best news you’ve heard in..well, years.

“Thanks, bossman,” you tell him with a beaming grin, one that pokes above the edges of your scarf.

You wonder if your eye-sockets are wrinkling in happiness like Blue’s did this morning. They must, because Edge’s eyes go huge until you can spot a slight spark of something bloat up his pinkish eye-lights.

Grateful, you tack on: “That’s real nice of you.”

“I’m Not—You—” He flushes an angry red, suddenly furious. “Get Out!!”

The air tastes crisp.

It’s heavy with humidity from this morning’s rain. Dew speckles the stretching lawn, curling over bending grasses that lower each raindrop into the plush, mossy ground. The world stretches out around you, sunlight drifting from a clear blue sky.

You stumble down the stairs with the grace of a newborn fawn, staring at the sky. You’d forgotten that it was blue and not just an endless blanket of white-gray clouds, of cold, muffled numbness.

It’s green. Warm. The scent of flowers and fresh-trimmed grasses fills your nasal cavity. The sky sprawls above you in a great, sloping dome of cool colors and wispy clouds that amble along overhead.

A smile twitches up your face, unbidden.

You feel the weight of eyes. You turn to spot Stretch and Red staring, though their gazes aren’t probing nor malicious. Red’s flushed and sweating, as per usual, and Stretch’s cigarette hangs limply, burning like a cold sore at the corner of his mouth.

“The sky is..yeah.” Stretch nods to himself, peeking at your face before quickly looking away again. “You know,” He adjusts his cig as a fond-looking grin pulls up his cheekbones. “Blue made that same exact face.”

You’re not sure how to respond to this so you don’t. You fling off your scarf then shuck off your coat.

Red makes a startled noise but you ignore him to collapse in the grass and use your discarded garments as a pillow. The damp dew soaks into your clothes but you hardly care.

However, your housemates appear to mind.

“The dew—?” Red starts, but you wave a dismissive hand and he surprisingly falls silent.

You yawn widely, eyes crinkling shut as you pick at your elongated, sharp canines. Red continues to stare.

You close your mouth to squint up at him. “Need somethin,’ mustard?”

“..Nope.” He states, gaze weighted. “I’ll be inside.” Then he simply blips out of sight.

The wind whistles. Stretch lets out a long sigh, smoke billowing out of his mouth and pooling into the place where Red once stood.

Red is gone.

You rocket upright like a shot. “Wha—“

He’s gone. Simply gone. The only trace left of his presence is a divot in the grass where he once stood and the rotten, sour smell of mustard. You stare distantly at his shoe-prints in the dirt before Stretch snaps you out of it by clapping loudly right in front of your face.

“Hey. Hey. Don’t you know about shortcuts?” He sounds baffled, crouching in the grass right next to the spot where Red just disappeared.

You stare at him, then point at the empty space. “Explain.”

“It’s our magic. As Classic-types.” Again with that annoying terminology. “You know, when—”

“I have never done that before in my life.”

Stretch sighs, exasperated. “Have you ever tried?”

Your jaw opens and closes dumbly. “How would I even begin?”

“Use magic,” Stretch deadpans.

You stare at him.

Stretch stares back. “..It should be second nature.” He reluctantly explains, “Every monster has a specific magic ability. It’s innate from birth,” He huffs. “C’mon, you know what I’m talking about. Magic ability.” He snaps in your face as though trying to knock you out of a trance again.

At the completely uncomprehending look on your face, his expression slowly pulls into one of horror. “..You don’t know what a magic ability is?”

You feel a sudden urge to defend yourself. “Of course I—”

“I can’t believe this.” Stretch barrels over you, scrubbing frantically at his skill. He puffs another cloud of smoke right into your face, but it passes right through you. “How could you not—“

He gasps to himself, cigarette falling from his teeth into the dewy grass. “No wonder you don’t have eye-lights.” He drags his phalanges down his face. “Oh stars, Classic’s gonna kill me.”

You watch listlessly as he devolves into stuttering panic. “..Stretch.”

”He’s never gonna let me work the machine again.” Stretch garbles. “He’s gonna tell Blue. He’s gonna—“

“Stretch.” You repeat shortly.

You place a hand on his back. Stretch makes a strangled noise and jolts upright; you pat the center of his spine as he stares at you, bug-eyed.

“Listen, bud.” You state flatly, hand stilling over his hoodie. “We’re not gonna get anywhere with you freakin’ out on me.”

Your touch seems to help as Stretch finally starts to relax, slumping over himself and mumbling dejectedly.

You sigh. “How about this? You tell me what you know, I tell you what I don't know. Deal?”

Stretch squints at you, seeming perturbed by your phrasing. You’d basically just admitted to knowing absolutely nothing.

Then he opens his mouth, and, reminiscent of Edge, launches into a rambling monologue of lore about monsters being trapped in the ‘Underground’ until they made it to ‘New Home’ which you roughly translate as a steaming pile of bullsh*t. Who the hell names a place ‘New Home?’

“Like Snowdin, where you’re from—what’s with that look?” He’s starting to sound panicked. “C’mon, you know, the Underground?”

Your vision twists. Surface. Monsters. Freed. The plipping cave in your memories. You think of Mike from the car, of that man in the town— your kind’s not welcome here.

Your head is starting to hurt. And Stretch, now that you’ve got him going, will not stop rambling.

“I should’ve Checked you from the start—that would’ve been social acceptable, at least, but I was honestly worried you’d explode on me, though I know now you’re a better monster then that—“

You withhold from asking what a ‘Check’ is. Again, the term sounds familiar but also completely incomprehensible.

“And I wasn’t sure if I should wait for Classic or—“ Stretch’s voice goes nasally with stress. You feel like your skull’s been bonked around like a billiard ball.

“—And I’m surprised no one else Checked you, but I think they were tryin’ not to piss you off—last time when we Checked Black and Rus, Black nearly blew off the roof, and..”

He trails off, then sends you another glance, muttering, “And maybe they could sense it too.”

You arch a brow-bone. “Sense what?”

“You’ve got an, uh,” Stretch gestures to your entirety. “Aura about you.”

Stretch seems to struggle with something as he huffs to himself. “Ah, I can't really explain it. Most of us do—it’s how you can tell we’re boss monsters—but you’re,”

He cuts himself off again and you wait as he collects his thoughts. “..There’s something off about you.”

“‘Off?’” You don’t really like the sound of that. “How so?”

Stretch mutters to himself, scrubbing a hand over his cranium. “I dunno.” He sends you another long look, his eye-sockets narrowing. “You’re just different, I guess. It’s something about your magic. It’s—strange.”

He must read the flat, sinking look on your face because his expression rightens into a casual smile. “Hey now, don’t worry ‘bout it. We’re aura friends here.”

You open your mouth but pause. “That was awful, man.”

Stretch chuckles as he shifts to light another cigarette. “Yeah, I know.”

Birds chirp somewhere in the trees beyond the clearing. You watch Stretch smoke: he inhales slowly into the cig’s flickering bead of light then exhales a grey-tinged cloud of smog. It frames his face, making the glow of his eye-lights stark.

After a moment’s silence he pipes up again, a bit awkward. “..So, uh, can I check you?”

“Sure,” you shrug, propping your hands behind your back as lean into the grass. “Go ahead.”

You feel his magic rush over you, probing, feel a sharp, chilling spark run up your spine—like you’re being watched.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling—cold, almost—but Stretch’s magic feels familiar, thin and crackling like toffee or candied oranges—a crystallized cracking shell with syrupy honeyed insides. You relax and close your eyes under the warm, golden sun, grass tickling at your hands.

That is until your companion chokes.

“Whuh—uh, why—“ Stretch gurgles through a series of stranged noises before blurting: “Your name’s not Sans?! What the f*ck is—why the hell is it blank—?!”

You inhale slowly and exhale an unnecessarily long breath. He could see all that from a Check? You suppose a Check is exactly what it sounds like.

Well. Cat’s out of the bag. Or should you say the skeleton’s out of the closet?

You make a big show of yawning again as Stretch begins to vibrate next to you at an alarming frequency.

“Uhm, you, uh—“ Stretch’s voice trembles with his intermittent jitters. “You—wait. Is your brother’s name Papyru—“

“I don’t remember,” you inform him, opening your eye sockets just enough to spot his haggard, falling face.

Stretch’s skull contorts with utter terror. “You don’t remember?“

You managed to steal Stretch’s entire pack of cigarettes from his pocket and you’re on your third cig, huffing smoke up into the ceiling with the hope that it’ll f*ck up Black’s stupid chandelier.

Stretch is pacing around the living room with every bit of manic energy radiating out of his bones which gleam with his unrestrained orange magic like Sunkist solar-power.

“Papy, What’s Wrong?” Blue bursts, wringing his gloved hands as he watches his brother stomp around in furious circles.

“Why Did You Call Vanilla?” Black huffs, folding his arms. “And All Of Us, For That Matter? What Could Be So Important To Interrupt The Perfectly Planned Schedule of the Maleficent Black—”

“Snowy isn’t a Sans,” Stretch regurgitates.

Every eye in the room zeros in on you. You puff a long stream of smoke up into the ceiling, hardly paying attention.

”Snowy’s..huh?” Intones Red intelligently.

Your unzipped coat and dangling scarf, sill speckled with damp flecks of dew, crinkle in the shock-silent room. Your every move sounds uncomfortably audible.

“Whoalso does not have a Papyrus—well, he said he doesn’t remember, so who knows if that’s even true.” Stretch drags his hands down his face, still sweating profusely. “sh*t. Classic’s gonna kill me.”

”Tough luck bud,” Rus adds unhelpfully. Stretch looks seconds away from strangling him.

“Doesn’t Remember?” Jupiter parrots before they can start, sounding baffled.

”Amnesia,” You tell him, knocking a fist against your skull. “Can’t remember much beyond the last few months. Can’t remember my name, either.”

”..That’s why there was that blank space,” Stretch whispers. “A blank space in the Check. Stars.”

It’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop.

”..I don’t understand,” Red warbles, staring. “How’s that make any sense? The machine..”

Stretch scrapes his phalanges down his skull again as you take another slow inhale of your cigarette. The frantic skeleton continues to pace around, lanky limbs swinging around him.

“Regardless of the amnesia thing, Snowy’s by all means an unforeseen anomaly.” He does a weird wiggly thing and wrings his hands. “This means either the machine is pulling somewhat related boss monsters from much different universes or it is now ripping through the fabric of time.”

You huff a laugh, barely paying attention as smog creases between your canines. Stars, what you’d give to know your name. You’d thought a Check would tell you but it appears that even your own Soul doesn't remember it. Isn’t that a laugh? It’s like you’re soulless. Like you’re not even a monster at all.

You decide not to share this thought aloud.

“I knew he was f*cking weird,” Red blurts frantically, sweating profusely. “Stars, are you even a guy?”

You shrug one shoulder. “Dunno.”

Red does a double-take. “sh*t, seriously?”

Edge stomps forward. You hold your ground as he reaches out and grabs you by your coat collar, nearly lifting you clear off the ground.

“Why In The Star’s Name Didn’t You SAY Something?!” He bellows, shaking you with a snarl. No one makes a move to stop him.

“I tried to.” You admit, inadvertently blowing a cloud of smoke into his face. “I tried a couple of times when I first arrived.”

Edge drops you unceremoniously and backs away. A twisted realization twitches onto his face.

You huff at him, cigarette poised between jet-black phalanges. “Evidently, I decided to keep quiet for the sake of my own survival. Not sure what you’d do if I wasn’t a ‘Sans.’” You’d roll your eye-lights if you had any. “Everybody kept sayin’ all this crazy sh*t about Classic ‘getting rid of me’ when I haven’t even met the guy.”

Black sends Edge a debilitating look; Edge’s face scrunches visibly at the implication of your words. Yeah, you weren’t taking chances on his jabbing threats, even if he’s proven to be kinder than he lets on.

Stretch’s pacing gets worse; it almost seems like he’ll start walking up the walls.

Blue loudly clears his throat, then blurts: “I See You Finally Checked Them!”

Stretch jerks to a halt. Edge flinches as though he’d just been slapped.

“What?” Says Black loudly.

“You knew?!” Stretch gargles, flabbergasted.

“Clem And I Noticed Something Different About Snowy The Other Day,” Blue divulges to his brother.

Oh, their weird reaction when you flashed them your feathers—perhaps skeletons don’t usually have those after all. That makes sense.

Then to you, Blue states, “I Apologize For Invading Your Privacy, Snowy.”

“No biggie,” you return easily. You’re the one who’d flashed him your entire ribcage, after all—and you’re mostly surprised he hadn’t spilled the beans right away.

Stretch looks surprised by this too, flailing around as orange sweat drips off his jawbone. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I Thought You Already Knew,” Blue chastises casually, raising a brow bone, “As You Were Supposed To Check Them When They First Arrived.”

Stretch flushes bright orange and buries his face into his hands. Edge whirls on his heel and takes three measured steps toward the kitchen, his fury directed elsewhere.

Something settles in your chest when you realize Blue had changed your pronouns.

Black sighs heavily and pinches at the bridge of his nasal ridge. “It Seems There Have Been..Multiple Communication Issues.”

“That’s nothing new,” supplies Rus, chewing at his bone-shaped cigarette.

Black snarls and snaps, “Oh For The Love Of Stars, Would You Stop Smoking In The House?!”

Rus straightens with a garbled squeak. “Sor—Sorry, m’lord,”

At this, Jupiter, who’d been hulking in the corner like a stretched shadow, steps forward. “..Snowy.”

“Yeah?” You’re barely focusing at this point, watching Rus stuff his still-smoking cigarette into his hoodie pocket. It burns a warped hole into the fabric which crinkles inward with a small puff of flame.

“I..Have Told You Many Times That You Are Safe Here.” Jupiter murmurs, sounding solemn. He steps closer and places a long, spindly hand on your shoulder.

You don’t answer that, taking another long drag of your stolen cigarette. You’re nearly done with this one.

“I Am Sorry For Not Checking You Either, Nor Giving You The Chance To Explain Yourself When You Arrived.” Jupiter squeezes your shoulder.

You crane your head to meet his gaze. His magic pools over you, sparking like Clem’s but fuzzy like moldy, rotten fruits. Mars, lurking behind him, stares at you with an unreadable look on his face.

“No worries,” You say casually, tapping some ash out onto the floor. “You were surprised, weren’t you? I’d covered the basem*nt in snow.” You smile at him kindly, eye sockets crinkling. “Who wouldn’t be chilled to the bone?”

The joke seems to lighten the air at least a little bit. Mars’ heavy gaze lessens. Stretch laughs and then groans. “Ah, I think I’m starting to understand how Blue feels.”

“Good!” Blue shouts, stomping his boot onto the hardwood. “Let The Feeling Sink In, Papy!”

“Mm, lemme think about it..nah. Nope. Sorry, I was tellin’ a fibula.”

Blue stomps his foot harder with a glorified squeal. “MYEH!”

Jupiter removes his massive hand from your shoulder. “Snowy, Would You Like Us To Call You By Your Real Name? I Know Stretch Said It Was ‘Blank,’ But We Could Help You..” He thinks for a moment. “We Could Perhaps..”

He trails off again, sounding at a loss. You can understand. What are you supposed to call a monster who doesn't have a name? You might as well just keep the one they’ve given you, as silly as it is. At least it’s good joke material.

You huff, feeling the smoke inside your ribs roil and settle. The household watches you with heavy eyes.

“..Nah, Snowy’s fine,” You divulge, crushing the remains of your cigarette between your phalanges. You send some chilly energy to your fingertips and the burnt ash and paper disappears into a flash of white light. “It’s kinda grown on me. Like a fungus.”

“That Doesn’t Sound Very Positive,” Jupiter notes, picking up on your sarcasm.

“‘Snowy’ it is,” intones Red, not giving a sh*t about your sarcasm.

You snicker to yourself. You’ve barely dug your cigarette packet out of your coat pocket when a flash of purple appears at your side.

“That’s enough of those,” Rus states, snatching the pack out of your hands. You make a low noise of protest that he easily ignores.

“C’mon, man,” You grumble, “Just ‘cause your bro won’t let you smoke doesn’t mean I can’t smoke—”

“No Smoking In The House.” Black commands flatly.

The door slams open.

There’s another small skeleton standing in the doorway. He’s dressed in a clean, pressed lab coat that contrasts strangely with his scuffed, fluffy pink slippers, and he’s breathing heavily as though he’d just run ten miles.

Behind him, Clem stands tall, adjusting his scarf. When he notices you he sends you a covert grin.

You realize who the new skeleton is all at once. It’s the famous ‘Classic’ Sans.

He shuffles into the room, cutting into the silence with a sharp, stern frown. “Has anyone checked them?” He doesn’t turn to acknowledge you. “Even once?”

“If Stretch Had Done His Job, We Wouldn’t Be Having This Issue,” Black informs him.

Stretch sticks his hands deep in his pockets with a garbled “Sorry. My bad. I, uh, checked them just now—”

Classic throws his skull back and groans, dragging smooth, round-tipped phalanges down his face. “Stretch, you’re supposed to check new arrivals when they first arrive, so they’ll—”

“Have an opportunity to check us back and realize we’re alternates, I know, but last time—”

“Last time went poorly, yes, but this is worse,” Classic hisses, gesturing around him. “We didn’t realize the newbie’s a space-time anomaly until now. Did the machine display any outliers—?”

Stretch huffs, sounding impatient. “Just check ‘em for yourself.”

Classic’s short form shudders with a huge, heavy sigh as he relents and shuffles toward you.

For the leader of the house, he’s a simple guy, dressed in a hoodie and slacks that someone likely had to force him into. There’s a pen and a ketchup packet poking out of his lab coat pocket and his skull has a round friendliness to it that’s hard to ignore.

He stares you right in the face and you feel his magic rush over you like a tidal wave.

Empty cups. Long halls. Tiles tinted blue. The feeling twinges inside you, something old and foreign but at the same time awfully familiar. It tastes like minty toothpaste, fresh enough to sting your teeth.

“They don’t even have the same stats,” Classic grumbles. At the resounding silence he smacks his hand to his forehead again with a muted clack and groans like the world is ending. You’d laugh if you knew what the hell he was talking about.

“..And?” Stretch prompts.

“And..they have a relatively high LV ,” You watch as Classic narrows his brow bones. He has a dark look in his eyes, but his smile remains placated and wide. “Average HP , but that’s typical.” Classic sends you another long look as his smile sinks. “..What the hell is this blank space?”

“Language, Sans!” Clem patiently corrects.

“Sorry, Paps,” Classic apologizes distantly, eyes never leaving your face. You resist the urge to shuffle in place, burying your nasal ridge into your scarf.

As Classic looks at you like this, you feel another chill—cold —slink up your spine. The ache in your teeth returns, sharp enough you want to grind them together.

A Check. If Classic and Stretch can do it, surely you can too. You hum, focusing hard on Classic’s little blue eye-lights, your magic reaching out in query. Numbers float in front of your eyes, stunning you into silence.

SANS SERIF

HP: 1/1

ATK: 999

DEF: 1

LV: 1

*Wonders why they have no name.

“They need healing,” Classic says, his smile growing more and more pinched the longer you stare blankly at his face. “Their HP’s only half full.”

Jupiter gasps, shocked. “Snowy! You’re Hurt?! Why Didn’t You Say Anything?”

You had no idea you could be hurt to begin with. You suppose the chronic ache in your bones makes sense now. However, you don’t turn to acknowledge this, trapped in an invisible, stretching hall of darkness.

Classic and you are still locked in an intense staring contest. You wonder how he feels looking deep into your empty eye-sockets, black and hollow as the void. At least his have cute shiny lights in them, like Blue’s, though they’re paler, powder-blue color, like wispy cotton candy.

Jupiter’s still talking, rambling how he’d grown worried when he saw you absolutely inhaling your food, but you ignore him.

You focus hard and check Classic again.

SANS SERIF

HP: 1/1

ATK: 999

DEF: 1

LV: 1

*Wants to take a nap.

A bulging blue bead of sweat rolls down his skull. “Slow down there, bud. I know ya wanna get to know me, but checking me once is enough.”

“Your ‘LV’ is low,” You note with a disinterested tilt of your head. If he’s gonna read your unfamiliar status aloud, you might as well do the same.

Black folds his arms together in your peripheral, creasing his dark leather jacket. “Vanilla San’s Universe, The Universe We Are In Now, Is Very Peaceful.”

“A pacifist route, if you will,” Classic divulges faux-nonchalantly, though the term means absolutely nothing to you. He’s still sweating, nearly as much as Red. You feel another chill run down your spine as he ‘Checks’ you again.

You tug down your scarf to grin at him and he startles at the sight of your massive, sharp teeth. “Didn’t you say once is enough?”

“Right,” Classic fumbles. You feel the tingling at the base of your neck fade away. “Sorry, bud. didn’t mean to scare you to the bone.”

“Scared?’” You huff.

“Uh, nevermind.” Classic shakes his head. He looks past you and abruptly shuffles over to the couch, which he collapses face-first into.

You hear him snoring only moments after.

“SANS!” Clem bellows, aghast.

“..Do You Think He Was Unnerved?” Black asks, looking utterly pleased with himself for no reason. “Snowy’s Stats Must Be..Hm.”

He strides toward you. You stare down at him over the ridge of your nasal bone. With him so close, you realize you’re a full head taller than him. He’s barely bigger than Blue, even, though he’s a bit thinner and his skull’s marked with scars.

You feel him Check you. That uncomfortable feeling tingles up your spine, and his magic engulfs you, textured like an old stone, sprawling like a wide plush armrest, a swamp of sinking sludge and sharp-smelling metal. There’s a crackling sensation like a crinkling wrapper.

You resist the urge to snarl as something inside you snaps.

“That’s enough,” You growl. You’re tired of this. Of the gazes and covert looks like you’re prey to be hunted. Of the wobbly grins, of the suspicion, of the threats, of the uncaring dismissals like you’re something to be discarded. “Back up.”

Black’s little violet eyes shrink to pinpricks, his skull contorting into a snarl. “You—“

“I don’t like being checked. Feels like sh*t.” You grin wildly and stare at the big stupid crack on his face, where you could easily shove one of your pretty white icicles. “Don’t do it again.”

Black opens his mouth and snaps it shut.

He clears his throat, his eye-lights wide and dilating. You watch him stand there and start flushing violet, color speckling in glowing patterns all over his skull. He mutters something and very pointedly stares somewhere beyond your head.

”..Language.” He states finally. He meets your gaze again, expression unreadable as he folds his hands behind his back. “I Do Not Appreciate Your Tone, Snowy, But I Will Let It Slide Just This Once.”

You raise a brow.

He sends you a disappointed frown but his hostility has dissipated into a gaseous wind. “..I Would Have Expected Better Manners Coming From You.”

You continue to stare at him, rolling around his odd, subdued words in your mind. He’s actually backed off. Did your little threat really work?

You suppose fighting fire with fire is the right way to go. Black’s gaze lingers on you with something like approval. Or is it self-satisfaction?

You don’t care to know because you’restarving.

You brush past the Commander Carpet and shuffle past Boss EdgeLord into the kitchen. The pantry door is open so you take that as an invitation to pull out an entire loaf of grocery-store white bread and begin devouring it. Surprisingly, Commander Carpet doesn’t protest.

“M’lord, uh,”

“Shut Up, Rus.”

“..Sure.”

You’re exhausted. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the clusterf*ck of your goddamn gender reveal. Shoving food into your face seems to be the most soothing option, so you continue to fill your empty void of a stomach with something other than smoke and air.

The squabbling in the living room comes to a lull as you hear someone say your name again.

“Snowy, Do You Mind..” You look up to see Black meeting your gaze, before he seems to grow nervous and look somewhere beyond your head. “..If I Explain Your Stats?”

He’s asking for your permission? You’re not the only one stunned, apparently, because the rest are staring at him bug-eyed. You nod carefully as you continue stuffing your face.

Black nods carefully in response. He’s flushing again, color spreading from his zygomatic arch to his nasal ridge; you can’t tell if he’s embarrassed, guilty, or uncomfortable. Maybe all of those at once.

Apparently he’d nearly blown up the house when he’d been checked upon his arrival—perhaps that’s the source of his embarrassment. Your reaction was veritably cute in comparison.

He clears his throat again. “..Snowy Has An Attack Stat Equal To Vanilla Sans. In Addition, They Have HP That Totals To More Than Half Of What Vanilla Papyrus and Blue Possess.”

Skulls swivel towards you in equal amounts of bafflement. You have no idea what any of that means, so you continue leisurely shoving bread in your mouth. It’s quite good; it fizzles like a firecracker in your non-existent stomach.

You’re half-tempted to take one of Stretch’s bottles of honey and some cinnamon to make cinnamon toast—which you can’t actually remember how to make. Was it toasted with the cinnamon on it, or does the cinnamon go on after? Wait, how did you know about cinnamon toast in the first place?

Wow, this is a fantastically annoying train of thought. You chew through another mouthful of bread and realize you’re halfway through the entire loaf.

“Snowy.” You stop nipping crumbs of your phalanges to see Edge standing a few feet in front of you. He’s straightened his posture to an uncanny degree and tucked his hands neatly behind his back. Nice and proper, like a big, gangly soldier—just like Black, who stands only a few paces away. “I Would Like To Ask For A Spar.”

You’re so distracted by his silly posture that his words don’t even register for a minute.

“Huh,” You state intelligently with the slightest intonation of confusion. Crumbs spill from your open mouth.

Edge’s brow twitches with a subtle wince. He’s clearly disgusted but is now going to great lengths to hide it. Interesting. “I. Would Like. To Spar.”

Red sweats nervously, shuffling in his silly yellow hightops. “Boss, I, uh, dunno if that’s a good idea—”

“Shut Up, Red.”

“..Sure.”

Deja-vu? The edgy twins are by all means way too similar. You wipe your crumb-covered face with your coat sleeve. Edge winces again until he flattens his skull into unreadability.

You wonder what ‘sparing’ entails. You don’t bother putting your mittens back on, because maybe you’ll be punching the sh*t out of each other? Who knows.

Well, fighting is always good stress relief, and you used to beat up bears for fun. Since you can’t get yourself nice pelts anymore, you’ve been way too wound-up which is so bad for your feathers.

Oh. Right. You don’t have very many of those anymore. Bad for your pretty white porcelain, then.

“Sure, bossman.” You chuckle a little. Edge stares at you. Okay, maybe the chuckling is a little uncanny. You try to tamp it down with: “I knew there were sparksbetween us.”

“ENOUGH With The Puns!” Edge bellows, nearly startling you as you move to toss the remainder of the bread back in the pantry. “Take This Seriously! You INSUFFERABLEBabybones!”

Classic cuts in with a loud, obnoxious snore from the living room.

“Boss—” Red starts to protest.

“I Will Not Have My Great And Terribleness StampedOn By This Miserable Little SNOW POOF!”

Oh, is he trying to rile you up? You feel your grin widening, peeking above the frayed edges of your scarf. “Heh, all right, Mr. Great and Terrible. I’ll take this serious.”

He steps close to you, arms folded in front of him as he glares down his nasal ridge. You suddenly know how Black felt when you stared down at his Maleficent Tininess. “You’d Better, Snowflake.”

You tilt your head slowly, feeling very much like a mafia boss from a crime show. “Okay. Welp, let’s take this outside.”

It turns out in addition to a gorgeous hedge garden the Great and Terrible Serifs also have sparring grounds in their backyard. None of this should surprise you anymore.

You and Edge stand across each other in a large circular ring surrounded by low wooden fencing. There are divots in the ground from what seem to be prior explosions. Right beyond the chipped fence stands your audience, which includes the entirety of the household sans Classic Sans and Mars.

Sans Sans.

You notice Edge glaring at you and stop snickering to yourself. You’ve felt particularly unhinged ever since you smoked Stretch’s cigarettes. There must’ve been something in those. Or maybe it’s just stress.

“Are You Ready, Superific Snowflake?”

Okay, that’s a weird-ass title if you’ve ever heard one. What’s with these guys and their adjectives? “Sure thing, Great and Terrible Edge.”

You try to imagine him as a slightly more intelligent bear wearing spiked leather clothes. The thought gets you snickering again and you receive another thinly veiled glare.

“On Your Marks!” Shouts Blue, holding up a massive air horn. “Get Set—!”

Edge braces himself, taking a stiff fighting stance in his heeled leather boots. You shuffle with your hands in your pockets. Blue’s airhorn rings through the clearing like a comical clown honk.

“GO!”

Edge rockets toward you like a shot.

You barely step out of the way as his dark streak of a form whizzes by you. He’s followed by a volley of—holy sh*t, bones—which nearly take your skull off your shoulders. You lean all the way backwards like some kid playing limbo, barking a startled laugh.

Edge gives you no time to recover as he conjures a massive spear and stabs it at your ribs with the force of an avalanche. You twist mid-bend and feel the whistle of wind it creates as it whirls past, clipping the edge of your snow coat.

“Are You Just Going To DODGE?!” Edge shrieks furiously, cutting the spear across where you stood only moments prior. You hop around like a little snow bunny as he stabs and stabs and stabs at you again.

“WOAH!” Shouts Blue on the sidelines.

Edge’s spear pulses and grows larger and he abruptly chucks it at you; it nearly breaks the sound barrier, swiveling with a muffled, delayed crack past your cranium.

“What, do you want me to stand around?” When the spear hits the ground behind you it sounds exactly like a stock-audio explosion. “Nice.” You lean away from his next attack with a casual shuffle-step.

“FIGHT BACK!” Edge roars, sending another volley of red bones at your face. They glitter and pulse with unrestrained energy, sharpened into spiraling points. Jeez, is he trying to kill you?

You’d say he’s only slightly slower than the speed of that stars-awful gun. Which really says something—guns are fast. Regardless, as someone who’s been shot at repeatedly, you’d say this is much more fun.

Yeah, you’re actually having fun. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this light, this carefree, your magic bubbling up inside of you, chilly yet comfortingly familiar.

You blink as another bone skids past your skull. Huff as a spear sweeps under your feet, making you hop over it like a jump-rope. You intone a hup! as you skip around a tumbling bone-spelling of ‘THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS.’

Edge, vibrating with fury, flings a barrage of bones that you have to lunge over like an obstacle course. The bones get bigger and bigger until you have to float; at which point he finds you defenseless and flings bones at you while you’re mid-air.

The next bone he sends out is nearly as large as a house. If you had eyes, they’d be boggling out of your skull.

You whoop, spinning over the bone, flipping over your heels like a child on a trampoline.

“YOU COWARD!” Edge bellows. He shoots a sharpened spear at your head as you tumble over the edge. “ATTACK ME OR I WILL CARVE OPEN YOUR SKULL!”

“Okay,” You chuckle. You flip around and land gracefully on the ground—as gracefully as you can while you’re still dodging his volleys of bones. “But you might get a bit chilly,”

Edge’s next attack misses. You sharply lift your hand. A spherical bubble of snow expands beneath your palm and engulfs the training grounds into a landscape of white.

Silence, save for the whistling wind in your ears.

It’s a bit like coming home. Snow rakes against your face and tickles your nasal bone. The storm howls at your back. You grin into the white, soundless emptiness, where Edge’s baffled shouting rings out into the blank horizon.

You can’t see him, not even his dark uniform; only flickering flashes of his red magic cut through the endless blankets of snow. His magic’s tinged with smokey sparks of ash and a sharp, sweetish smell like peppermint. Your own magic swallows it.

It’s so cold. You shiver, bones rattling, tromping through the powder, kicking up piles and flinging them out into the empty nothingness. The word shudders into a puff of white air, a short gust, a mere whisper. You stumble, lightheaded. Cold.

You twist into the wind. It’s like fading into it. Like burying yourself in piles of it. White grayness in your eyes. White grayness curling up your spine. You hover with the storm until you’re up behind him and his attacks faze right through you. A shortcut—or perhaps something like it. It smells like hand sanitizer.

“WHERE ARE YOU?!” Edge bellows, his voice pitchy and nearly frantic. He whips his skull around, searching the storm, his scarf and jacket just streaks of red and black fabric.

He whirls around again, but you’re everywhere, in front of him, behind him, hovering next to his skull, tapping lightly at his ridiculous shoulder pads with phalanges made of crinkled sleet.

The show gusts into huge puffy splotches like speckled feathers. Edges stiffens in place as you appear in front of him.

“You’re it,” you mutter. You hear the ghost of a childlike giggle.

“Wha—”

You grab his shoulder. Your ice engulfs him and freezes him solid.

The blizzard fizzles out into nothingness. The dim fades as the sun warms the field into the day. Silence falls, as though the calm after an avalanche; snow crunches under your feet as gravity brings you back to the ground. You inhale a gasp, grinning so hard it hurts your skull.

Your vision clears as you stand there in breathless wonder.

“Wow!” You exclaim, grinning maniacally, staring up into the clear blue sky, “Wow! That was,” you whip your arms around you, spinning, laughing, kicking up powder beneath your feet. “Amazing! That huge bone—insane! Ahahah!”

Edge stands there, stunned, frozen in his pretty little ice-cube. The only thing uncovered is his shiny, sweating skull, which pokes out of the peak of the iceberg like a topping on a cake.

“You—”

“It went like—woosh!” You fling an arm out in emphasis, your scarf bouncing with you. “I had to—wham!” You slam your boney hand into your boney palm, then throw your hands out again. “I was flying!”

“Would You Kindly,” Edge grits out, “Unfreeze Me. Please.”

You stop whirling around to stare at him. The remainders of your frozen wind whistle around you.

Your arms grow lax as you shrug helplessly. “Oh..uh. Sorry, bud. I dunno how.”

You believe he would be vibrating furiously if he wasn’t frozen solid. “What Do You Mean You Don’t Know How?!”

“Uh..you might hav’ta stand there until you thaw out.” You gesture to his big edgy ice-cube of a body. “Sorry, bossman. Ice swear I didn't mean to.”

A flush pools on his face. First pinkish, then a vibrant, blood red.

“I Am Going To Kill You,” Edge states. Then he repeats it, firmer, his voice lowering into a reverberating growl. “I AM GOING TO KILL YOU.”

“Heh,” you chuckle at him, ducking your grin into your frost-covered scarf. This seems to make his fury worse.

“First You Did Not Take Me Seriously,” His voice rises and rises until he’s nearly shouting. “Then You Pull This Underhanded Trick And Completely Demolish Me! Do You Have Any Idea How A Spar Works?! Do You Have No Etiquette At All?! LOOK AT ME! I Am An ICICLE!!”

Yeah, you really can’t take him seriously when he’s frozen like that. “Popsicle,” you correct, a little too loudly.

Edge makes a garbled shrieking noise, skull writhing around. A piece of his ice cube cracks.

“Ah—phhpt—” A low, strangled snicker pierces the silence, growing pitchy and uncontrollable. “Ahah—ahaha!”

You blink, turn to the audience, and spot Rus rolling around in the grass, absolutely losing his mind. Stretch is hunched over next to him wheezing and bracing himself against the crooked fence. Even Black is silently shaking and covering his face with his shiny leather glove.

“Pop—Popsicle!” Rus wheezes.

“Papsicle,” Red corrects, bright red and looking absolutely sh*t-faced. On a flask of straight whiskey, it seems like. He’s dribbled it all over the front of his turtleneck sweater.

“RED!” Edge bellows, steam hissing out of his ear-holes. The ice seems to tremble with his remaining magic and restrained fury. “YOU DISGUSTING MONGREL! ARE YOU DRUNK?!”

“Papsicle,” Red repeats, hiccuping and giggling.

“Papsicle!” Rus howls.

“SNOWY!” Calls a cheery voice. “THAT WAS AMAZING!” Blue looks seconds away from launching himself over the fence in glee.

“YOU COULD EASILY BECOME A MEMBER OF THE ROYAL GUARD!” Papyrus exclaims, fists pumping up and down, similarly hyper and enthused. You have no idea what the Royal Guard is.

“That Was An Excellent Spar!” Jupiter cuts in, clapping happily. “You Are Both Very Strong!”

“NO THEY’RE NOT!” Edge booms. He’d probably be jabbing a phalange in your face if he could move. “THEY DON’T KNOW HOW TO UNFREEZE ME!”

“Sorry,” you repeat, not sounding sorry at all.

“We could stick you in the—heh—snrk—oven,” Giggles Stretch, his eye sockets crinkling with mirth. He looks at the expression on Edge’s face and snorts so hard he has to bury his skull in his hands, cackling until his body is wracked with laughter.

“I’m So Glad You Find This Amusing,” Edge hisses with a thinly veiled threat of death.

Stretch, unfortunately, does not seem to fear this. He’s hunching over so much he’s practically joined Rus in rolling around in the dewy grass.

Black runs his hand down his skull. If he had skin, he’d be dragging it off his face.

“Snowy..We Are..” He clears his throat with a trembling frown. “Very Impressed By Your Show Of Power. But You Cannot Leave Edge Like This.” He sends the frozen skeleton a sidelong glance. “..I Am Worried He Will Die.”

“You Think I’ll DIE From This Pathetic Attack?!” Edge bellows, “They Didn’t Even Use Killing Intent!!”

Black levels you with a Look. You think you get his memo. If Edge feels anymore humiliated his ‘HP’ or whatever might drop down to zero.

Your exasperated sigh sounds too much like a chuckle, but regardless, you shuffle over to the ice cube and tap it lightly with a black-tipped phalange.

It shatters in a flash of white light and fizzles into sparkling ice crystals.

Wow. That worked?

Edge doesn’t seem to notice the dumbfounded expression on your skull as he feigns composure, brushing sleet off the pointy shoulder pads of his uniform. “You Have Bested Me This Time.” He grunts, “But It Will Not Happen Again.”

“Alright,” you agree. “Well, let’s cool it a day.”

He watches you try and fail not to erupt into chuckles at your own sh*tty joke and another stunned expression spreads across his face. He doesn’t look angry, though, which slightly encouraging.

“Oh,” Rus hums with a grin, sidling up close to you to swing his arm around your shoulders. “I like you,”

He opens his mouth to snap playfully near the side of your skull like someone trying to take a bite out of decedent cake. You lean away to dodge and his teeth clack closed around empty air.

“Get the hell off me.” You state flatly.

Rus lets go immediately and nearly trips as he backs away. Stretch snorts.

“Your Magic Is So Icy!” Blue exclaims, skipping up next to you. “Like A Snowdrake!”

The hell’s a Snowdrake? “Thanks.”

Blue sends you a trademark thumbs-up then skips ahead of you to rush inside. Clem and Jupiter follow him, chatting amiably along the way. You watch them as the rest of the group approaches you.

“Have You Possessed Ice Magic Your Whole Life?” Black asks you suddenly, stepping into your space but maintaining a polite distance as he crosses his arms. “It’s Uncommon For A Skeleton Monster.”

You shrug at him. “I dunno. I’ve always been like this.” From what you can remember.

“Really?” Black still looks skeptical.

Stretch, at his side, looks equally curious as he tacks on: “You were born with ice magic?”

“Maybe my mommy f*cked a Snowdrake,” You suggest sarcastically, quoting Blue’s earlier comparison. Stretch chokes.

“UGH—“ Edge cuts in, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge. “Really? Must You Be So Crass?”

No dirty jokes either? Damn, these guys are really killing your repertoire. You open your mouth to hit him with another one before Stretch quickly interrupts you.

“Uh, well,” He blurts, “We’ve never had a classic type with different magic before—but their power levels are remarkably similar.”

“Not a Sans,” You remind him.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, flushing orange. “Yeah. Right.”

Edge seems to have mostly composed himself but he’s definitely still staring daggers into your side. Rus is avoiding looking at you altogether—maybe you should apologize for telling him to piss off.

The silence stretches until you really can’t take it anymore.

“Well, I’m starving,” You amble forward, shoving your hands deep in your pockets. “What’s for dinner?”

“..Seriously?” Stretch asks, looking like he’s going to laugh.

“You Are Insufferable.”Edge mutters as though realizing it all at once.

“C’mon, bossman,” You grin as you stroll past, pausing briefly to give him a casual pat on the arm. “Could I try a bite of that cheesecake?”