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Jun 5, 2017

Reign - Chapter 7

Summary: Papyrus seizes the crown for himself, and declares Sans his queen. A series of one-shots covering the highs and lows of their reign, and everything in between.

Chapter Summary: The Royal Guard - Part 1: After Sans returns home injured, Papyrus vows to become stronger, to protect his brother. No matter what it takes.

Papyrus sits by the front window of his father’s estate, waiting for someone to return home. Gaster has been holed up in the Lab for two weeks, and their cupboards have become bare enough to prompt Sans to dig around their father’s room for spending money and voyage out into the capital himself. Papyrus had wanted to go with him, but Sans insisted he stay here. His brother said he should keep watch in case their father returned, but Papyrus isn’t an idiot babybones. Sans is afraid. Striped shirts don’t grant the same leniency they used to. Without Gaster’s presence, leaving the house has become dangerous.

Papyrus fiddles with his cube, one of the rare gifts from his father. The colored squares are curling at the edges. He peels the plastic up before smoothing it down again, and shuffles the cube around. Solving its initial purpose was a day’s work; now, he arranges the cube colors into different patterns, or just revolves squares to keep his hands busy as he thinks.

Sans is strong. He must be. Their father is close friends with the king, and King Asgore wouldn’t permit weaklings in his court. So if their father is strong, it follows that that strength has passed down to them as well.

He has nothing to worry over.

And still, he waits at the front window, which gives him a view of the large lawn. At one point, Papyrus tries to leave the house, but turning the doorknob makes his knees knock.

The hours stretch on. The Underground grows darker, and he can’t wait a moment more. He stands, legs stiff with inactivity, and hurries over to the red rotary phone in the drawing room. The number for his father’s secretary is written on a sticky note posted on the wall above it.

Papyrus dials her number. He wraps the curled cord around his hand as the phone rings, and rings, and rings.

“Dr. Gaster’s office, how may I help you?” She sounds terse, no-nonsense.

“I, um,” Papyrus squeaks.

“How may I help you?” She asks again.

“I need to speak with f—with Dr. Gaster.”

“And who is speaking?”

“I-It’s, I’m his son?”

There’s a brief silence, and Papyrus fears she might hang up on him, thinking he’s a prank caller.

“Dr. Gaster has asked not to be disturbed for the moment, but I can take a message for you.”

Papyrus swallows. What to tell?

“Could you just tell him that Papyrus is asking him to come home? It’s about Sans.”

“I’ll relay your message.”

There’s a click and the line goes dead.

Papyrus returns the phone to his cradle, feeling sick. Has he made the correct decision? If he bothered Father for no good reason, if he made Father angry—

There’s a crackle of displaced air near the front door, a sound he’s come to associate with—

“Sans!”

Papyrus rushes to greet him. His relief warps into horror as he reaches the front door. His older brother is leaning heavily against the door for support. His face is scratched, filthy with dirt. He’s holding tightly to a brown paper bag of groceries.

“Heya, Paps.” His stupid brother is trying to sound cool, in control, but Papyrus sees how he winces with each small shift of his body, hears the reedy rasp to his voice. “I got us some eats.”

“Forget the dumb food!” Papyrus cries, moving closer to him. Where else is he hurt? “What happened?”

“Ran into a few punks on my way outta the store, is all. I’m fine.”

“You’re not!” Papyrus stamps his foot. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I called Father, he’ll be here any minute!”

Sans scowls. “We’re fine without him.”

“You were gone for over six hours! Six!! I d-didn’t know if you were, you were h-huh-hurt, or…”

Papyrus’ breath hitches as tears spill from his eye sockets.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t cry.” Sans pushes off the wall, and wipes away Papyrus’ tears with the sleeve of his sweater. “You know I hate that.”

Papyrus scrubs at his face. “S-Sorry, I…Sans!” He gasps, alarmed. Where Sans had been leaning is now a smear of red. “You’re bleeding!”

Papyrus circles around Sans to check his back, and fresh tears spring to his eyes. There’s five distinct rips in his sweater, like a large claw had swiped his brother’s back.

“Relax, Paps, it looks worse than it is. Let’s start cooking dinner, okay?”

Sans only makes it a few steps towards the kitchen when he starts to sway. When Papyrus tries to steady him, Sans pushes him away.

“Just a little dizzy for a moment, I’m fine,” Sans says.

But after another step his eye lights gutter out, and Papyrus catches him as he crumples to the floor. The bag of groceries falls from his hands, food rolling out across the carpet.

Papyrus doesn’t care about that. His brother is hurt. He slaps Sans’ face lightly, then harder, but he remains slack and unconscious.

“Sans! Sans!” He shakes his brother, screams his name. Still, he does not stir.

He doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t been taught how to use healing magic, but he tries anyway. Magic sparks and sputters at the tips of his phalanges, but goes no further. His pants are slowly soaked with his brother’s marrow. He can’t leave the house for help; anyone with half a brain would see them as easy pickings, free EXP for the taking.

Papyrus doesn’t know how long he’s held his brother, until suddenly his father is there as well, prying Sans from his arms. Papyrus instinctively clings to Sans.

“Let me heal him.” Gaster says, but it takes several repetitions of the sentence before Papyrus comes back to himself enough to release his brother.

Papyrus watches, hawk-like, as his father turns Sans carefully onto his stomach. He presses both hands gently to his back, and a flood of healing magic lights up the room.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“He’ll survive.”

His father asks why Sans was out of the house in the first place, and Papyrus explains.

“So weak,” Gaster comments. He finishes off the wounds on Sans’ back, so he turns him over again to tend to the injuries on his face. “Weaker than I expected, at his age. Do you want to prevent this from happening again?”

Papyrus nods.

~*~

This is the second time he’s been to his father’s Lab. It’s clinical, with its white walls and sanitized smell. It gives off the sense of efficiency—there’s no idle gossip, no easy banter, just hundreds of scientists hunched over their respective tasks. Papyrus is attracted to every room and experiment he passes by, but his father’s quick, long strides hurry him along.

They get into an elevator. Gaster punches in a code, and they descend further into the Lab.

“This level is my private workplace,” Gaster says, as they step out of the elevator. “The king has given me free reign with the capital’s pool of degenerates, and that’s what we’ll be working with today.”

Gaster brings him into a room. There’s a monster inside, unconscious on a hospital bed. He’s hooked up to multiple monitors.

Gaster puts a hand on Papyrus’ shoulder. His touch feels heavy.

“Dust him.”

Papyrus looks up at Gaster, astonished. “But I can’t just—”

“Why are you arguing with me? Did you not want to get stronger?”

“Yes, but…” The monster’s just lying there.

“You’re weak right now. You’d be useless against an actual threat.” Gaster pushes him forward. “You need LOVE to protect your brother.”

Papyrus approaches the monster’s bedside. His eyes are sunken into his skull. A machine breathes for him. Papyrus touches the curve of his palm—it’s freezing. This monster is as good as dead already. And his father said he was a degenerate. No one would miss a monster like that, not even a brother.

“How do I do it?”

“Sans has taught you how to summon a bone attack, yes?”

Papyrus nods. Pulling upon his magic, he crafts a long femur bone, glowing red. It hovers above the comatose monster.

“You need to pierce the monster’s soul. A direct hit will dust him instantly. But you must strike with the intent to kill, or you will fail.” Gaster’s tone implies that failing him is not an option.

Papyrus aligns the bone attack over the monster’s chest.

With a sharp gesture of his hand the attack pierces down.

The monster’s body jolts upon impact. He lets out a low croak of breath before disintegrating into dust.

Papyrus gasps as a wall of euphoria slams into him. Gaster steadies him when he wavers.

“How do you feel?”

Sick, strong.

“Alive.”

~*~

Slumber eludes him for days after his first kill. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees himself in that monster’s place. Trapped in the hospital bed, unable to so much as twitch a finger as the monster rips magic through his chest. When he jerks awake in a cold sweat, his own gasping breaths in his ear sound like the monster’s last rattling lungful of air.

The second monster is easier. He hesitates less before delivering the blow. His LOVE ticks upwards again, but he doesn’t feel the same dump of rapture as he did the first time—not until a fourth monster is dead by his hand.

It was whispered around the schoolyard that LOVE changed a monster; the higher it was, the less they felt, until they became a callous killing machine. Papyrus feels nothing of the sort; rather, he feels more powerful, more confident, more belligerent.

Gaster has not praised him, but Papyrus did not expect him to. He merely leads him from one room to the next, collecting the dust Papyrus creates into large glass jars.

After Papyrus has felt the surge of power three times, Gaster brings him to a target that can actually fight back.

The cat monster leaps up on her feet as Gaster and Papyrus enter her cell. Her claws primed, she charges for Papyrus’ throat—his magic instinctively rallies, and the wave of bone attacks hobbles her, ripping muscle and chipping bone from her legs. She’s still yowling, curled in a ball and clutching at her ruined limbs when Papyrus silences her forever.

Pleased with the demonstration, Gaster begins to train Papyrus, in addition to his dusting sessions. His father is a grueling teacher, his lessons tempered with experience from the war Aboveground, with the humans. Fueled with determination to not disappoint his father, and to protect his brother, Papyrus excels in each task that is put before him. Gaster even spars with him on occasion. Papyrus has never landed so much as a scratch on him. It’s not a difference of LOVE, but Gaster’s own cunning. He takes advantage of Papyrus’ weaknesses and vulnerabilities in his battle techniques. Each time he’s knocked down, Papyrus learns a little bit more on how to defend from creative, underhanded tactics. For months, everything goes smoothly.

And then Sans finds out.

Papyrus doesn’t know how he learned of his training sessions, but one day he just showed up right as Papyrus executed his target, the smell of burnt dust still thick in the air.

Ignoring Papyrus, Sans marches right up to Gaster, roiling magic burning from his left eye socket.

“What the fuck have you done to him?” He spits.

“The same I’ve been doing for you,” Gaster says, calmly. “Preparing him for the world.”

“You had no right—no right—”

“Brother, it’s okay!” Papyrus wills Sans to calm down. Gaster is not a patient monster. “Father is helping me to get stronger.”

“Stay out of this, Papyrus,” Sans says, without so much as looking at him.

Unbidden, white-hot anger flashes through him. How dare Sans be so dismissive, like he’s some kid who doesn’t know what the grownups are talking about.

“We’re not going to be your guinea pigs any longer.” Sans says. “It’s over.”

“Brother, I asked him to teach me, I want to help.”

“Papyrus is leagues stronger than you were at his age. Would you really rob him of the opportunity to prove himself? That would be the cruelest thing you could possibly do, Sans.”

“He’s not going to be your little killing machine. I don’t give a fuck how you justify it. We’re leaving.” Sans grabs Papyrus by the hand, roughly tugging him towards the door. Papyrus yanks his hand away.

Sans sighs, like Papyrus is testing his patience. “Papyrus—”

“Stop treating me like a kid! Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Because you don’t understand a goddamn thing you’re saying! Don’t argue with me.” Sans reaches for his arm again and Papyrus sees red.

“No!”

His magic lashes out with his anger, and Sans is knocked viciously to the floor.

The haze of his rage evaporates as Sans groans in pain, clutching at his mouth. Papyrus gasps at the sight of blood welling in Sans’ mouth.

Sans hisses as Gaster pulls his hand away from his mouth, inspecting the injury.

“You cracked his tooth.” The words hit Papyrus like a damnation. “That’ll have to be pulled out. Let me—”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” Sans knocks Gaster’s hand away, and retreats.

Stricken with guilt, Papyrus tries to approach him.

“Sans, I’m sorry—”

“Save it. You’re just like him.”

Papyrus flinches back as Sans disappears with a crackle of magic. He didn’t mean—he didn’t want to hurt Sans.

“Ignore him. He’s merely upset.” Gaster says, patting Papyrus’ back. He leans into his father’s touch. “I do think this is a good indicator that we should proceed with the second half of your training.”

Papyrus looks up at him. “Second half?”

“It’s time for you to enlist in the royal guard.”

~*~

Papyrus eyes his new living accommodations, trying not to let his distaste show outright. The cabin is a quarter the size of his room in his father’s house, and he shares it with three others. The room is sparsely furnished. There are two bunkbeds, wedged against either side of the room. The mattresses are thin, the pillows flat. There are four small dressers for each of them, presumably for their clothes and personal effects.

Since he’s the first one to arrive, he claims the bottom bunk on the right for himself, setting out his new training uniform to stake his territory. A small axolotl enters moments later, shy and silent. He clutches stuffed dinosaur in his claws, stroking its fur repetitively with a nervous energy.

It doesn’t take long for their two roommates to arrive. Papyrus hears them well before they burst inside. They’re a pair of loox monsters, hulking, thick-muscled, and worst of all, old friends. They stumble into the room together, elbowing and jostling playfully. They snicker down at Papyrus and the axolotl. One of them snatches the stuffed dinosaur from the axolotl’s hands, and holds it high out of his reach as he inspects it. Papyrus subtly shifts away from the sniveling axolotl.

“The hell is this?”

“This isn’t a fun little summer camp for babies,” The other sneers. “How’re you going to survive the Rabbit Farm like this?”

Rabbit farm? Papyrus hasn’t heard anything about a rabbit farm yet, but he doesn’t dare ask for further information.

The loox holding the stuffed dinosaur rips it to pieces, before throwing it on the floor of the cabin.

“Better wise up now, kid. Or you’ll end up just like your toy.” The weight of the bully’s glare settles on Papyrus. “You got somethin’ you want to say, bone boy?”

Papyrus shakes his head mutely. The monsters shove past him on either side, and claim the right set of beds for themselves. One of them, noticing Papyrus’ extra sets of clothing are already set out, knocks them off the bed and onto the floor.

“That’s my stuff,” Papyrus says, tightly. The axolotl watches him, bug-eyed.

“Well it’s in my way,” The loox sneers.

The two friends approach Papyrus. He stands firm. He can defend himself.

“Maybe your skull is a little thick. I’m Loto,” Says the loox that’s a duller shade of green. “And my friend here is Byron. As long as we live in this cabin together, you two toothpicks need to know your place.”

Growling, Papyrus summons a bone attack. Raising it like a club, he charges for Loto.

Loto catches the attack mid-throw. Papyrus tries to tug the bone out of his hand, but his grip is too strong.

A flicker of fear flashes through Papyrus as the two monsters advance.

“Looks like you need more of a demonstration.”

Papyrus is beaten down with humiliating speed. The axolotl is of no help, shivering in the corner. When the recruits are called to line up that afternoon, Papyrus is reprimanded for the tears in his new uniform, and that night, he sleeps on the lower left bunk.

~*~

Barely a month into their training, the Commander tells them to prepare for a class trip. Whispers spread through the recruits. They’ve all heard the term “Rabbit Farm” by now. Their senior classmates have mentioned it without explicitly stating what it is. The recruits with brothers and sisters in the program lord their knowledge over the rest, discussing preparations for the Rabbit Farm with knowing smiles. Papyrus can’t even tell if it’s a mental or physical exercise, so he quietly prepares best he can for any eventuality.

The day of the trip they’re awoken three hours earlier than normal, and after they all quickly get dressed, they file outside. The Commander assembles them in neat lines.

“Today is the last day you will be lined up by your father’s names. After today, your father’s name will mean nothing. Who you were before you came here will mean nothing. All that will matter is your personal performance today, and your resulting rank.” The Commander walks down the rows, appraising them. Papyrus keeps his head high, his spine stiff and straight. “Your initial rank will determine which classes you attend. Your performance in these classes will ultimately determine your final rank. Dependent upon your score, you may be stationed as lieutenant in one of our four districts. Or you might end up cleaning officers’ boots for the rest of your life. It all depends upon your actions, beginning today. Now, march!”

The recruits assemble, three abreast. They follow their Commander, marching out of the barracks. Older students hoot and holler as they leave, shouting sarcastic encouragements and making bunny ears with their fingers.

The Commander leads the group, while additional guards flank the sides of the group. Thanks to his father’s last name, Papyrus is situated near the middle of the pack.

The swift pace is unrelenting in its speed, and soon becomes brutal for some. Papyrus has not brought along a timepiece, but he figures it must take at least two hours for them to leave the capital and enter Hotland. The weariness of the recruits is compounded by the punishing heat. It’s not long before recruits are gasping for breath, sweating profusely as they struggle to keep the pace. Papyrus is one of the fortunate few, skinless; though the march is taking a slight toll on him, the heat barely touches him.

They’re midway through Hotland when a monster several rows ahead of Papyrus sways and crumples. One of the guards marching alongside the group hauls the recruit upright again, and the company continues on. Some time passes, and then the same monster wavers again, stumbling out of the group. The same guard lifts up the monster—and dusts them.

“The royal guard has no time for weaklings!” The guardsman roars, for all the recruits to hear. “If you falter here, you are not worthy of the title!”

The threat puts an extra jump in their step. No one wants to be singled out and picked off.

They pass by the Lab. While some monsters have gathered to watch the procession, Papyrus sees neither his father nor brother within the crowd. It’s not too surprising. Father has plenty to work on, and Sans…

A few hours more and they pass through the worst of the heat, entering Waterfall. The Commander shows no sign of stopping, so they continue on. Just how far is he taking them all? To the ruins of Home? Papyrus hates the uncertainty, unable to know if he’s pacing himself properly.

Waterfall is cooler, at least, but presents its own obstacle: marching through the muck. The Commander is leading them through via the most direct path, which is not always the travel-worn roads, but instead through muddy marshlands, where the footing proves both treacherous and laborious. No one wants to stumble and fall out of the company, but the mud suctions to their boots, making it difficult to keep pace.

On and on they march. Glowing flowers seem to mock them, echoing back their gasps for air. Papyrus’ father had brought him and Sans here, once. They had delighted in pointing out glimmering rocks in the ceiling, had whispered funny words to the flowers. Coming here now, the dark caverns just feel empty, isolated.

The false light that illuminates the Underground begins to dim as they finally reach Snowdin Town. The cold hits Papyrus harder than the heat, perhaps because his uniform has been soaked through with mud and swampwater. Beneath the damp fabric, his bones rattle softly.

“Company, halt!”

The sudden command jars him from his stupor. The recruits stop, air puffing visibly from their mouths. Fluffy flakes of snow have started to drift down.

They’re in the center of town. Houses are illuminated in the dim, monsters poking their heads out from windows to get a look at them. There are several long tables to Papyrus’ right. There are at least a hundred bowls on the table. He watches a rabbit monster ladle soup into another cup and set it with the rest. They each look piping hot, steam billowing from the bowls.

Papyrus’ mouth waters. Food, and warm food at that. It’ll provide a much needed kick to his magic, pull him back into peak condition.

The Commander’s voice carries over the group. “You will have a 15 minute rest period. Help yourself to the food, if you can.”

The Commander’s final words are like a gunshot at a relay. The recruits rush the tables. Papyrus tries to squeeze his way through the throng, but he doesn’t have enough mass on the other recruits to effectively shove. Bulkier monsters knock past him, and one jars him hard enough to knock him off his feet. Papyrus instinctively covers his head, as the remaining part of the herd step over him. He winces as they step on his hands, his spine. But when the crowd has diminished, and he’s returned to his feet, at least nothing is broken.

Monsters at the front grab two, three, four bowls of soup. Crying out in victory, they guzzle down the meals. Papyrus watches, along with the weaklings. Seething.

He sits. The snow seeps into his pants, unpleasantly, but his aching legs are grateful for the reprieve. While some of the other recruits squabble over leftovers, Papyrus’ gaze wanders from the demure rabbit, to the Commander, talking with the group of guards. The march alone wasn’t the test. The recruits number around 150—and yet, the sophomore class boasts a lean 75. There’s something yet planned for them.

When their 15 minutes are up, the recruits are called back into formation. Oddly, one of the rabbits joins them, their arm held in the firm grip of a guard. The Commander leads them past the edge of Snowdin, and into the woods beyond. The forest is dense; thick, dark trees tower over them. It seems to stretch on forever. The overcrowding of the capital seems ludicrous, looking at the forest’s expanse.

“Recruits, halt!” The Commander stands upon an overturned log, so they all can see him. “Today you will be taking part in an exercise we call the Rabbit Farm. How well you perform today will result in your base rank, so it will be in your best interest to perform adequately.”

The guard with his arm on the rabbit leads him up to the Commander.

“Scattered throughout the forest are hundreds of monsters like this one.” The Commander grips the rabbit by the ears; he can’t help but squeak as he’s lifted up into the air. “You have until daybreak to return with a minimum of three scalps.”

The Commander summons his magic, in the form of a ruby sword, and lops the top of the rabbit’s head off. The Commander keeps the rabbit’s ears, and top of his scalp, in his hand, while the rabbit drops to the snow, already dead.

The sight makes Papyrus’ gorge rise. He doubles over and heaves. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, so all that comes out is stringy, sour magic. Nearby recruits snicker at his display.

“You will notice that the rabbit is not dusting.” The Commander continues. “They have been fed beforehand with an embalming agent. There are few rules once you’re inside the forest. The rabbits will fight for their lives. You might tear into each other. The only absolutes are that you must return with three scalps by dawn, and you cannot leave the perimeter of the forest.”

Two guards grab hands, channeling magic between them. A field of energy crackles to life out of them, expanding to form a magical barricade, fencing them in to the forest.

“Begin.”

Monsters scramble in every direction. Some split off into groups; distantly, Papyrus notes that his two burly roommates have grouped together, shouting their plan of attack to each other. Papyrus stands still as monsters bump and brush past him, still in shock at the sight of the greying rabbit at the Commander’s feet. His father had him kill degenerates, scum of the Underground. Monsters that deserved to die. But these rabbits—what are their crimes?

He had agreed to join the guard because he understood their purpose—or thought he did. The guards are supposed to keep order, and punish wrongdoers. This hunt, this game, flies in the face of everything he believed them to be.

Papyrus startles as a guard slaps his back, making him stumble forward.

“Better get moving, recruit. The night won’t last forever.”

“I—I don’t understand.” Papyrus says, sickened. “They don’t deserve to be hunted down like—like animals.”

The guard shrugs, uncaring. “Life ain’t fair, kid. But if you don’t bring back three scalps, it’ll be your head rolling.”

The guard beckons for him to get moving. Still stunned, Papyrus lets his legs carry him away, into the forest.

“Isn’t that the doctor’s son?” One says to the other, before they’re out of Papyrus’ earshot.

He can’t dust someone that doesn’t deserve it. But if he fails to bring the scalps the Commander requires, that’ll be the end of him. He doesn’t want to die, but still. Still. There has to be another way out of this.

Papyrus’ pace slows, until he stops entirely. He can hear the sounds of skirmishes faintly, deeper inside the forest. Sans would know what to do, if he was here.

But he’s not.

In the bushes nearby, a twig snaps. Papyrus whips around towards the source of the sound, bone attacks sparking to life above his head. He strains his sight, but he can’t spot so much as a shadow. Was it a small animal?

He hears quick footsteps from behind, and realizes he’s been had. They’re approaching too swiftly for him to react properly—he’s barely turned when a strong fist catches him in the temple. He’s struck to the ground hard, fresh snow shoving its way through his nose and eye sockets.

Papyrus coughs, his head buzzing, when a firm clawed hand presses him further into the snow. It’s not a rabbit that surprised him, but another recruit, a gargoyle monster. Stone-faced, he raises a knife, aiming for Papyrus’ neck. A flurry of bone attacks force him to back off, give Papyrus enough time to stagger upright again. He backs away. The gargoyle circles him, studying him, trying to find the best place to strike. Three pairs of furred brown ears are already tied around the gargoyle’s belt loop.

“You’ve already gotten what you need.” Papyrus says. “Why attack me?”

“Commander didn’t say there was anything wrong with thinning the herd.” The gargoyle tosses the knife in his hand.

Papyrus checks him.

ALASTOR LV 7 HP 473/500

Alastor grins. “And you’re a measly 5. But don’t worry—it’ll be quick.”

Alastor catches the knife and lunges for Papyrus again. Papyrus barely dodges, the knife whistling by his head with inches to spare. Alastor’s tail lashes out, knocking Papyrus flat on his back. Alastor stabs down, and Papyrus rolls out of the way.

Papyrus flings a bone attack his way, but Alastor catches it. He squeezes it in his fist, until it splits with a sickening crunch. It dissolves in a shimmer of magic.

Papyrus sends more, but the attacks bounce off Alastor’s unfurled wings harmlessly.

“It doesn’t matter how you try to attack me. Your LOVE is too weak.”

Drawing deep from his magic, Papyrus walls his opponent in with a cube of attacks, before enclosing them around Alastor. He might be able to shake off some of Papyrus’ attacks, but he can’t dodge them all. Though his back and wings are unharmed from the barrage, Alastor yanks out a bone that pierced his stomach. Grainy dust trickles from the puncture wound.

“You little shit,” Alastor snarls. Dropping the knife, he goes down onto all fours and rams into Papyrus, catching him in the chest. Papyrus chokes as the air is knocked out of him. Alastor yanks up his uniform shirt, exposing his chest. Alastor’s hand wraps around a rib.

“Don’t—!”

Papyrus shrieks as Alastor snaps off his rib. The gargoyle tosses it aside, and reaches for the next.

Forcing himself past the pain, Papyrus sits up. Alastor hasn’t let go, and Papyrus can feel his second rib starting to give beneath his grasp.

Papyrus reaches up for Alastor’s belt loop and snatches a pair of rabbit ears. Fearful of his prize being snatched away, Alastor reflexively releases his grip on Papyrus, and reaches out for the ears—

Papyrus punctures Alastor with a sharp bone, and drags it through his insides. Sand spills out, pouring onto Papyrus and the snow.

Alastor lets out an unearthly shriek, but the damage has been done. He collapses upon Papyrus, motionless. The gargoyle bursts into a mixture of sand and dust, spraying Papyrus.

Revolted, Papyrus sputters and coughs as he spits out Alastor’s remains. He lays there in the snow for a moment, breathing hard. His chest burns with every jagged inhale.

Gingerly, he sits upright. His ribcage protests the slightest of movements. He muffles his yelps of pain with his glove.

He scatters bone attacks around the clearing. He pulls himself upright, and starts to search. Finding a white bone somewhere in a field of white snow is no easy task, and pain blooms in his side every time he bends down to search.

He’s not sure how much time passes as he looks for his rib, but his fingers are numb and he’s sweaty with the combined exertion and pain as he lifts the bone from the snow. He brushes it off, and lifts his shirt. He had broken his tibia once, falling from a tree in the front yard. Sans held his hand while Father slotted the bones back together and applied healing magic.

Papyrus winces as he presses the disconnected bone to the remainder of his rib. No one’s taught him proper healing magic, but after Sans’ collapse in their house, he scoured their library for books on healing techniques, so he wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes. He tries to recall the lessons left in the old tomes. Healing magic is about molding raw magic with care and compassion. By default, it’s easier to heal a loved one rather than yourself, as one must trick the magic into the compassionate state for the latter. Papyrus’ eye lights dim. He’s vulnerable, out in the open like this, but if he doesn’t heal his rib immediately, there’s a likelihood it won’t reattach later.

He lets his mind go back to that day, with Sans bleeding on the floor. His phalanges heat up, and the green magic gets to work. Papyrus feels a flash of giddiness—it actually worked!—but tamps down on it, keeping the scene in his mind until his rib is firmly reattached.

He traces his fingers around the joined segment. His rib is whole again, but the area is still tender. He tugs down his shirt again, and makes his way back over to Alastor’s dust. Two bundles of rabbit ears are mixed in with the dust, and the other set is a few feet away, half buried in the snow.

Disgust wells within Papyrus at the sight of the scalps. Most would steal the rabbit scalps and be done with it. But not him. The rabbits have done no harm, and do not deserve death. There has to be another way.

Papyrus leaves the dust and rabbit scalps behind. It’s grown pitch black, so he calls his bone attacks from the clearing. He dismisses most of them—it wouldn’t do to provide a beacon for his position—keeping only three to illuminate his path over gnarled roots and deep pockets of snow.

He walks almost aimlessly, while his mind runs through a thousand potential scenarios, none of them viable. He could look for a weakness in the force field perimeter, scamper home with his tail between his legs and beg forgiveness from his father. He could convince three rabbits to return to the Commander with him. He could try to persuade the Commander to give up this aimless, wasteful exercise. Papyrus scowls. Each idea he comes up with is more futile and ridiculous than the last.

Papyrus stumbles over something in the dark. He peers down, holding the glowing bone attacks close. It appears he’s tripped over a rabbit hole. It must lead to one of their warrens, surely. He’s more than small enough to fit inside. Before he can second guess himself, he shimmies down, into the hole. He goes in head first, so he can crawl with his arms, and see where he’s going. The soil loosens as he passes by, but he’s light enough that he’s confident the tunnels won’t collapse.

The tunnels have to lead to one large space. If he can get to the center, he might find some rabbits in hiding that he can reason with. Then, maybe his half-formed plan of leading the rabbits to the Commander will bear fruit.

But there seems to be no end to the tunnels, as Papyrus continues to crawl. His breathing is shallow in the cramped, dark space. Clods of dirt have gotten into his joints, his mouth. He’ll need a thorough bath after this is over.

The air changes as he turns another corner. It smells fresh. There must be another entry hole further ahead. He can pop out and get his bearings. He continues squirming his way through the tunnel until he reaches the exit. He claws his way up, until he’s reached the surface again. He breathes deep of the crisp, clean air.

Suddenly, a tail wraps around his neck. Choking, he claws at it, trying to break free. He’s pulled out of the rabbit hole and flung on to the ground. Something crawls atop him, peering down at him with beady eyes. Then the tail around his neck loosens.

“You’re not a rabbit.” He says.

“Obviously,” Papyrus grits out. His magic illuminates the area—standing before him is the axolotl from his cabin. His uniform is stained with dirt, but he appears to have gotten through most of the Rabbit Farm unscathed.

“Don’t think we ever introduced ourselves, did we? I’m Tully.”

He extends his hand. Bemused, Papyrus shakes it.

“Papyrus.”

“Why are skeletons always named after fonts?” Tully gripes. “So weird.”

When Papyrus doesn’t respond, Tully nudges him.

“Hey, relax. We’re on the same side here.”

“You tried to choke me to death.” Papyrus states, flatly.

“I didn’t know it was you. Why were you even in a rabbit hole to begin with?”

Papyrus rubs at his sore vertebrae. “But still, you’re dusting rabbits?”

“Uh, yeah? Are you not?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought you were strong, you know? It took guts to stand up to Byron and Loto that first day.”

“It’s not about guts. It’s wrong to kill these monsters when they haven’t done anything wrong.”

Tully shrugs. “You know the rules. It’s kill or be killed.”

“But…”

“Come on. You’re half-frozen. I set up a camp not too far off from here. Got a nice fire and everything.”

The axolotl sings a familiar arm around his shoulders, leading him along. Tully hadn’t been nearly as friendly and open in their cabin, but perhaps he’s grateful to see a recognizable face in the darkness. Papyrus knows he is.

“It’s just through these bushes,” Tully says.

Papyrus pushes through the foliage. Sure enough, there’s a campfire.

But he doesn’t expect to see Loto and Byron present, warming by the fire with a stack of limp rabbits stacked between them. There’s a pile of bones and fur as well, and Papyrus’ stomach roils. Not only have they killed rabbits, but they have been eating them, too.

“What…?”

Tully’s tail whips him hard in the back, knocking him to the ground. Papyrus growls. He’s getting tired of being attacked from behind.

Tully comes forward, wrapping his tail around Papyrus’ neck again. He’s dragged by the neck closer to the fire.

“What’s this?” Loto asks.

“If it isn’t bone boy!” Byron exclaims, seemingly delighted.

“I found him out by the warren,” Tully says.

“Smart of you, bones.” Byron bends down, knocking two knuckles against Papyrus’ skull. He snarls, ready to lunge for him, but Tully tightens his hold in warning. “But if you were a little smarter, you would’ve gotten there hours earlier to beat us to it.”

“I-If he was real smart, he wouldn’t have enlisted in the first place.” Tully jokes, weakly. He laughs at his own joke, but quiets as the two larger recruits throw him withering looks.

“Now, bones, what are we going to do with you?”

Loto grins, displaying his razor-sharp fangs.

“Chop him up and throw him in with the hares.”

Loto’s lips smack. “I’ve heard cooking with bones brings out the flavor.”

They laugh, all three of them. Papyrus can feel something within him breaking. He’s exhausted, injured, pushed to his absolute limit. This isn’t—this isn’t what he’d wanted, he can’t die here, why won’t Sans save him—

“Aw, look!” Byron coos, lifting Papyrus’ head up by his chin. “The babybones is crying.”

Byron smacks him before letting him go. They keep laughing at him, and it’s all too much. He’s been beaten, mocked, betrayed by his fellow recruits. They’ve killed innocents. They…

Papyrus’ hands curl into fists. They’re filthy degenerates. His father taught him what to do with degenerates.

Papyrus whips his head around and bites down on Tully’s tail with all his might. His serrated teeth puncture Tully’s skin. Blood wells in his mouth, but he keeps biting, forcing his jaws shut until they crunch through bone.

Tully yowls, releasing his hold on Papyrus as he stumbles away. He clutches his tail, whimpering.

Byron and Loto watch Papyrus regain his footing. Wary, but still confident.

Something roars inside Papyrus, eager to be let out. Papyrus lets the whirlwind of feelings in his chest manifest. Before him materializes a massive animal skull, with red magic flaming from its mouth like fire.

“What the fuck—”

The skull opens its maw and a raw beam of magic bursts free, catching all three monsters in its radius.

There’s screaming, swiftly silenced, then the thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Papyrus stares in awe at the skull he’s summoned. It’s unlike anything he’s ever crafted before, unlike anything he’s ever seen. Papyrus shudders as a wave of EXP crashes upon him. He hunches in on himself, bones rattling with pleasure.

The skull rumbles lowly, and then it flakes apart, until a gust of wind carries the magic away entirely.

Papyrus approaches the three recruits. Their HP counts all read zero, but their bodies haven’t dusted. It must be because they’ve ingested some of the rabbits, and thus the embalming element inside them.

Papyrus is filthy, exhausted. His meager bed at the cabin would feel like heaven. He doesn’t have much time remaining before dawn hits. He looks over to the pile of rabbit corpses, and summons a bone attack.

~*~

Most of the recruits have already returned by the time Papyrus trudges back to the Commander’s position. A guard, catching sight of him, beckons him to present his prizes. Papyrus keeps his back straight as he makes his way to the front. The air stinks of the dead. Other recruits brought in the bare minimum, while some brought in several more sets of ears. The recruits are in various states of filth. Some emerged covered in grime and blood, while some came out virtually unscathed. Most have a distant, hollow look on their faces.

A small group of disgraced recruits have returned empty-handed. They’re kept separate from the main group by a few royal guards, but there’s been no movement to dust them—the task must be left to their parents, then.

When Papyrus reaches the Commander, he has to wait for the previous recruit to finish. She’s a small fish monster, smaller than him, even. But beneath her frizzy red hair is a wild yellow eye, and her blue body is soaked in red. She radiates savagery. Her other eyelid is glued shut with blood, but she doesn’t seem to care.

The recruit is pulling scalps from her inventory, adding to the already impressive pile. She hands over the last set to a guard.

“That makes 34, sir.”

“Impressive.” Says the Commander. “You’re undoubtedly the best of the group. Count on your rank being one, Undyne.”

She grins a toothy smile. “Thank you, sir.”

The Commander gestures to one of the guards. “Have her eye seen to.”

“Right away.”

The guard escorts Undyne away. She makes eye contact with Papyrus, briefly. He makes sure to telegraph his disdain.

The Commander steps around Undyne’s pile of scalps, and peers down at Papyrus.

“Now what do you have for me, on the heels of that excellent display?”

Papyrus pulls the three scalps from his inventory, and tosses them at the Commander’s feet. The Commander nudges what was once the top of Tully’s head with the tip of his boot.

“These are not rabbits.”

“No, sir.”

“And am I to assume there are no rabbits in your inventory, either?”

“That is correct, sir.” He’d felt nothing as he carved off the scalps of the dead recruits. But he did dig a massive grave for the rabbits Tully, Loto, and Byron had desecrated. Burying the unfortunate souls was the least he could do. “But if I may—”

“You may not.”

“You asked for scalps, sir,” Papyrus speaks quickly. “You did not qualify what species of monster you required.”

Papyrus’ soul thuds in his chest as the Commander mulls over his words. The royal guards are watching him, too, hands on the hilts of their blades.

“You pass, strictly on a technicality. Thus you will have the pleasure of being the lowest rank of your class.”

“…Thank you, sir.”

The Commander moves on to the next recruit in line.

#another two parter #i've looked at this chapter for too long idk if its any good anymore #my fic #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #underfell gaster #royalfell #king papyrus #queen sans

themanicmagician