#Forged Levers

[iqsengineering]

Unveiling the Strength: The Science Behind Forged Levers

Forged levers are the unsung heroes of heavy machinery. They bear immense loads, withstand rigorous conditions, and ensure the smooth operation of countless industrial applications. But what makes them so exceptional? Let's delve into the science behind these robust components.

The Forging Process: A Foundation of Strength

Forging is a metalworking process that involves shaping metal by hammering or pressing it into the desired form. Unlike casting, which pours molten metal into a mold, forging manipulates solid metal, resulting in a denser, more uniform microstructure.

This process imparts several key properties to the lever:

Increased Strength: The forging process aligns the metal grains, creating a material with superior tensile strength and resistance to fatigue.

Improved Durability: Forged levers are less prone to cracks and fractures, making them highly reliable in demanding environments.

Enhanced Toughness: The forging process enhances the lever's ability to absorb impact energy without breaking.

Material Selection: The Crucial Ingredient

The choice of material is paramount in determining the performance of a forged lever. High-strength steel alloys are commonly used due to their excellent combination of strength, toughness, and durability. These alloys are carefully selected based on the specific application and the loads the lever will encounter.

Design Optimization: Tailoring for Performance

Lever design is a critical aspect of ensuring optimal performance. Engineers carefully consider factors such as load distribution, stress points, and lever arm length to maximize efficiency and durability. Finite element analysis (FEA) is often employed to simulate real-world conditions and refine the design.

Heat Treatment: Fine-Tuning the Properties

Heat treatment is a crucial step in the forging process. It involves subjecting the lever to controlled heating and cooling cycles to achieve desired properties such as hardness, toughness, and ductility. This process enhances the lever's resistance to wear and tear while maintaining its structural integrity.

Quality Control: Ensuring Excellence

Rigorous quality control measures are essential to guarantee the performance and reliability of forged levers. Non-destructive testing techniques, such as ultrasonic inspection and magnetic particle testing, are employed to detect any flaws or defects.

IQS Engineering Solutions: Your Partner in Forged Levers

At IQS Engineering Solutions, we specialize in designing and manufacturing high-quality forged levers tailored to the specific needs of our clients. Our expertise in material science, forging processes, and design optimization allows us to deliver products that exceed expectations.

Conclusion

Forged levers are engineering marvels that play a vital role in countless industries. By understanding the science behind their creation, we can appreciate their exceptional strength, durability, and reliability. IQS Engineering Solutions is committed to providing our customers with the highest quality forged levers, backed by our expertise and dedication to excellence.

[raintides]

thinking about that one grymforge boss fight

[apricote]

lads help i'm in the shadowcursed lands yet again

[attackcopterblog]

FULL FORGE GEAR RELEASES NEW EXTREME LITE LEVEL 3A PLATES

Full Forge Gear has released their latest offering with the new Extreme-Lite Lever 3A plates. Full Forge Gear states “MKS Supply and Full Forge Gear proudly presents the latest innovation in personal protection: the Full Forge Gear 10×12 shooter style cut Extreme-Lite NIJ Rated 3A Body Armor Plate. Engineered to provide unparalleled protection without compromising on weight or affordability,…

[wucrnos]

Front Yard - Porch Mid-sized elegant concrete paver front porch photo with a roof extension

[petit-etoile]

Enemies to Lovers scenario with Astarion; The two are close enough to be friends, Tav accidentally calls him starlight, you decide how Astarion reacts to their little slip up.

ours are  untidy souls

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount:  1,126 content warnings:  no fighting but the aftermath,  minor mentions of injuries but no-indepth descriptions other tags:canon compliant, canon-typical violence, introspection, character study, hurt/comfort, whump, pre-relationship, gender neutral tav, human!tav archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, be added to the taglist here

summary:

‘It is bitter,’ he says. ‘It will heal,’ you tell him. ‘It might hold a grudge,’ he says. ‘It will survive,’ you insist.

The Grymforge Guardian falls with little regard to its creator. Steam billows from the cool metal, and the Forge has broken pieces off of it that may never be repaired. You sag against the lever for but a moment to catch your breath. You wait for the ground to cool and the red-hot metal to return to a more natural color before tentatively touching your the toe of your boot to it. You decide it's cooled enough.

You race over to the second lever. Shadowheart is quick to make it to the center to check on Karlach who is lying next to the Guardian in a bundled heap, but you race to Astarion’s side and kneel next to him on the smoking platform. He’s resting against the other lever, head forward, and everywhere you touch is bruised and sweaty. You push his curls back from his forehead and cup his jaw so that he’s forced to look at you, and although the flickering of his eyelashes makes your stomach ache, he’s breathing and that’s good enough for you for now.

You push your hand against his shoulder and feel the heat leave his body to meld into yours. Astarion’s lungs fill with air in relief, and when he opens his eyes, he meets your gaze unevenly.

‘Don’t rush, starlight,’ you say cautiously. ‘Take it easy until Shadowheart can come to you.’

Astarion’s eyes soften and he closes them quickly to hide the betrayal. All around him lay the bodies of the imps he fought. Honestly, the team you put together handled it pretty well with little to no practice, navigating as one despite the  strange levers and a gargantuan thing swinging at them. You thank the gods for giving you Karlach, because the thought of you potentially having to go head to head with the Guardian by yourself almost makes you wish the worm would finish eating your memories.

You take in all of Astarion’s wounds. Little bites and nail scratches, a bruise on his cheekbone, but mostly, the heat has made him malleable and exhausted in your hands. You take it upon yourself to heal some of the more minor injuries he has. He doesn’t seem to breathe as you pour a drop of your potion into a bite on his shoulder or a nasty burn on his thigh, but he does stop you before you can take a better look at his cheek.

‘I’m fine,’ he says shortly.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to tend to this?’ you ask.

You do touch his bruise then, and Astarion hisses at you like a wild beast. Before, you might have flinched away from his scary display but after these last few weeks, you know better. He’s scared of your kindness. He doesn’t know what to expect even though your hand is delicate. You press your thumb against a tender purple knot, and you can tell that it takes all of Astarion’s willpower to not snap at you.

‘Maybe I will let Shadowheart take care of this one,’ you say nervously. ‘It seems tender.’

Astarion’s jaw clenches. He thinks.

‘No,’ he says with finality. ‘I think  —  I think I would prefer it if you did it.’ 

You watch the pretty curve of his neck bobble when he swallows. He turns his chin towards you and refuses to look at you. He’s being brave. He’s being willing. Slowly, you touch the bruise again with shaking fingers.

In a move that reminds you all too much of Scratch and the Owlbear, Astarion leans his head into your touch. You’re captivated by the tremble in his eyelashes, the slope of his eyebrows as he fights a scowl, and the sad way he frowns. You feel his cheek for any sign of the unordinary, but there’s nothing but a bruise.

‘I don’t think a potion will help with this one, unfortunately,’ you whisper. ‘There’s nothing  —  There’s nothing wrong with it.’

‘It is bitter,’ he says.

‘It will heal,’ you tell him.

‘It might hold a grudge,’ he says.

‘It will survive,’ you insist.

Astarion says nothing. If the bruise is hurting him, he doesn’t acknowledge it. All he does is rest in your hands as if lifting his head on his own is too much effort. You allow him this touch. It’s the first time he’s allowed you to initiate anything even remotely affectionate. It makes your eyes water a little to think about it. You decide to say nothing lest it embarrasses him. You cherish this moment and slowly, you ease him into your arms more so that he’s leaning against your upper body, his ear at your heart.

Quietly, Astarion says, ‘Say it again.’

At first, you aren’t sure what it is that he wants. You want to tell him that he will heal, that he will survive, that he may not forgive or forget, but that he will overcome. Instead, you pet his hair as carefully as you can to avoid jostling him and press a tentative kiss to the top of his head. He burrows deeper into your arms and sighs like a weight has been lifted off his chest. In some ways, you think it has. You hold him as gently as you can.

‘You’re going to be fine, starlight,’ you say  —  and you’re partially shocked at how easily it rolls off the tip of your tongue. You’re almost certain that Astarion huffs at it, but he isn’t upset. No, it’s something entirely else.

You’re holding something delicate in your hands. Astarion would not be like this with anyone else but you. He trusts you, and honestly, the thought terrifies you. It’s not that you have to be careful. It’s not that you have to be cognizant. It’s that there is something so genuine about the bond he is offering you on his own terms. He is choosing to be vulnerable with you. It makes your throat close up.

You would cry if you weren’t so worried about everyone. Astarion eventually pulls away from the safety of your arms and appraises you himself. He smudges smoky residue away from underneath one of your eyes and takes a look at a nasty cut you received to your scalp, but all it takes is a little drop of the potion shared between you to get it to where it doesn’t need stitches. You two sit facing one another, your hands meekly in your lap, Astarion sagging forward as though his only desire is to find a bed. Eventually, he looks up at you and with faint exhaustion clouding the openness of his features, and chews on his bottom lip.

‘You can say it again,’ he says.

You smile for the first time in hours. ‘Alright, starlight.’

[txttletale]

You've spoken at length about how the Lancer setting is just wildly incongruent with what the authors think it is at length, and I agree wholeheartedly. My question is, largely for the purpose of if I ever want to run a game of it again, how would you make the setting carry that tone the authors think it has without too terribly much rewriting? Say, from the point of 'there was a revolution to overthrow seccom'? I love the 'gallant warriors of liberation in giant robots' and would like it if the game actually was that.

But the more the bureaucratic apparatus is “redistributed” among the various bourgeois and petty-bourgeois parties , the more keenly aware the oppressed classes, and the proletariat at their head, become of their irreconcilable hostility to the whole of bourgeois society. Hence the need for all bourgeois parties, even for the most democratic and "revolutionary-democratic" among them, to intensify repressive measures against the revolutionary proletariat, to strengthen the apparatus of coercion, i.e., the state machine. This course of events compels the revolution "to concentrate all its forces of destruction" against the state power, and to set itself the aim, not of improving the state machine, but of smashing and destroying it.

-- Vladimir Lenin, The State & Revolution

In the heady days after the revolution, the air buzzed with potential. The future was today. Hazy, gaseous dreams of liberation patiently awaited their turn to be forged into something you could touch. But those days didn't last for long. The coalition was already a fragile thing during the revolution, and now that it was faced with the levers of Union's imperial machine each hairline crack became a chasm. The corporate armies, who had marched under the banner of the enormous profits locked away behind Harrison Armory's legal monopolies, had reached their personal horizons and refused to move an inch further. The moderates and high-class intellectuals saw the wealth that Union funneled from its edges being distributed generously to the citizens of the Core Worlds and declared a new economic paradigm of post-scarcity and mutual wealth. The anarchist cells with their mysterious reality-hacking mechs were the first to come to the only inevitable conclusion: the revolution was not over.

Now that the old order had been surgically deposed, the new order was finding itself fitting comfortably in its throne. Humbled and stripped of its previous privileges, Harrison Armory was welcomed back into the halls of power under the smiling auspices of free enterprise. Groundbreaking legislation was still being written in the halls of ThirdComm--guaranteeing the right of worlds to self-determination, the rights of clones to live freely, even radical and heretofore-unthinkable proposals laying the groundwork for an end to NHP-shackling. But the old revolutionaries had grown weary and cautious (and, of course, had begun to personally experience the economic benefits of Union's vast hegemony). To enforce this legislation, they argued, would be a de facto redeclaration of war against the corpostates, a disaster for the trade networks on which our wealth depends. To those who still harboued the hopes of revolutionary change, this was a loud and clear signal: the war had not ended. The revolution was not over.

The All-Galaxy Revolutionary Front as it exists now is a set of strange bedfellows. The disciplined combat battalions of the Communist Party fly in perfect harmony, distinguishable by their red battle flags, mass-produced in collectivized forges with reverse-engineered corpo tech. The motley individual oddities that the anarchists call their mechs, their open-source physics-bending HORUS peculiarities, strike unpredictably, in and out of ThirdComm's sight. But the one thing which binds them all, as they fight for the liberation of the peripheral worlds, for the wealth of mines and factories to enrich the people of the planets they're built on instead of fueling ever-replenishing consumption in the distant Core, is that they still have those old revolutionary dreams.

This is what it means to be a Lancer: to be willing to struggle. To acknowledge that the revolution is not over.

[thydungeongal]

What are different things the PBTA system cares about vs. FITD? I'm trying to decide which system fits better for an idea I have.

While this is not necessarily the case across all PbtA and FitD (Forged in the Dark, games utilizing the framework of Blades in the Dark for those not in the know) games, there are a few generalities I think apply:

FitD games tend to run more like traditional adventure games, down to having a very clear division between downtime and the adventure (called the Score or Mission or whatever depending on the specific game), whereas PbtAs rarely make any explicit divisions between modes of play. In a funny way I think it reflects their designers' backgrounds, with the Bakers coming from a more freeform RP background and Harper having more of a trad design pedigree.

FitD games tend to be more mechanically granular, with larger lists of action ratings than PbtA stats. Usually, there are usually more ways to model mechanical consequences in FitD, often with a division between Stress and Harm, whereas PbtA games often opt for simpler, more abstract representations of harm.

FitD games very much have a philosophy of one core mechanic that is then adjudicated appropriate to each action and situation using alone framework, but with the players having levers like Position and Effect to fiddle with, and that's before one gets to trading position for effect and so on. PbtA games on the other hand often rely on a custom set of moves, each of which is basically a unique mechanical interaction.

FitD games often have a separate level of play where in addition to controlling individual characters players also cooperate in running a shared playbook, often representing something like their Gang, Warband, Ship, etc. PbtA games can often have different levels of play, but they are rarely cooperative.

Of course there will always be exceptions to these rules: Most Trusted Advisors by @thehorizonmachine is superficially more like a FitD game than a PbtA game but lacks the cooperative structure and shared playbook, while FIST is a PbtA game that lacks moves and plays more like a cooperative adventure game.

Anyway, besides those things, I also feel that FitD games tend to be more crunchy: while having fewer unique mechanics they usually feature a lot of levers to get the most out of those mechanics, while PbtA games often rely more on abstraction.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OOOH BABY THIS ONE WAS A LONG TIME COMING. NIGHTMARE NIGHTMARE NIGHTMARE!!

YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER. A DAY OF ADVENTURE WITH YOUR CLOSEST FRIENDS. OH HOW TIGHTLY YOU HOLD THEM TO YOUR CHEST, AND OH HOW TERRIFYING IT IS TO WATCH THEM GET EVISCERATED BY SOMETHING YOU DONT UNDERSTAND. MAYBE IF YOU JUST LISTENED A BIT MORE, IF YOU LET THE SMART ONE LEAD THE CHARGE, THIS WOULDNT HAVE HAPPENED. ONCE AGAIN YOUR IMPULSIVENESS LEADS TO DISASTER. HEAR ME NOW, YOUNG TIDESTRIDER, YOUR STUPIDITY WILL BRING THE DEMISE OF EVERYTHING YOU WERE BORN AND FORGED TO PROTECT. HOW COULD THE PROPHECY HAVE CHOSEN SOMEONE SO USELESS? I BET YOU WISH YOU CHOSE THE RIGHT LEVER. FAILURE.

[bg-brainrot]

Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 2: After Fighting Grym

Chapter 2: After Fighting Grym

Each chapter can be read as a standalone hug.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Rogue!Tav)

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Act 1, Canon-typical violence

WC: 1.3k words, 2/18 chapters

Summary: Their second hug takes place after a tough battle. A painful hug, but comforting nonetheless. Rogue!Tav has begun to catch feelings, Astarion is none the wiser.

Ao3 | [Hug1][Hug3] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

You don't think you've ever been this sticky– sweat is dripping from pores you didn't even know you possessed. The Grymforge needs to be this hot to operate, but any hotter and you may cease to function.

As if the oppressive heat isn't enough to protect this deathtrap, the forge's guardian is currently looming over you. Its giant back obscures your view of the rest of your team, but if all is going to plan, they should be in position. A wave of lava gushes out around you, surrounding the platform that you’re on and splashing onto the metal monster in front of you– Karlach has turned the valve.

Now you just need to complete your task: be bait.

"Come and get me, you piece of junk!" you yell, as if this mechanical construct could understand what you say.

"A bard you are not, darling," comes a verbal jab from Astarion. He's positioned opposite you as the two of you have been kiting this behemoth back and forth in a clunky, messy dance. It hasn't been your best work, but you can see sparks emitting from the creature's joints, starting to wear down.

"Yes, well," you start, quickly surveying your surroundings. "At least I'm good at stabbing." You jerk an arm forward, piercing the glowing superheated carapace of the guardian with one of your daggers. It emits a sharp keening before refocusing its entire attention on you, turning toward you in pre-programmed aggression. Job done, you move to leap onto the platform behind you.

The metal monster has other ideas, reaching a gargantuan hand out to swipe at you. “Argh,” you grunt, as a searing hot claw makes contact with your side. It feels as though you’ve been hit by a cart and you stumble back, barely catching yourself before you hit hot, molten lava. You may still be reeling from the blow, but you know that you’re in a world of pain if you don’t get off this platform now.

Taking advantage of the creature’s slow swing, you finish your leap from before, scrambling onto one of the platforms on the edge of the forge. “NOW!” you yell so that Shadowheart can hear you across the cavernous room.

She doesn’t respond, but the satisfying ‘click’ of a lever and the impressively loud ‘KA-CHUNK’ of the forge’s hammer are a clear indicator that she heard. You watch as the massive construct in front of you is flattened, steam hissing off of it as its body cools.

It lays there motionless for a moment, and the hammer shoots back up into the forge. You vaguely register an adamantine piece of armor shooting out of the contraption– the forge’s instructions finally completed.

You feel a sense of vast relief, the grueling battle finally won. Your team is safe now, carefully avoiding the remaining lava flows to make it to your platform. But underneath that feeling of relaxation, you feel a much more annoying, much more urgent, sense of pain.

It’s always a drag when the adrenaline dies off. Between the heat of the forge continuing to wear down on your tired body and the blistering wound at your side from the forge’s guardian, your legs begin to wobble against your will. “Ah hells,” you mutter, placing a sweaty palm to your forehead. “Is this what it feels like to get a hug from Karlach?”

The large woman laughs, almost having made it to your platform. “I think you’d be a puddle if you attempted that.” Then, with some concern to her voice, “Are you alright, soldier?”

“I’m…” your voice trails off and, as your vision begins to blur, your follow up comes out as more of a question, “Fine?”

Your team is quick to answer your question, all picking up their pace to reach you. Astarion, moving with the speed of a practiced predator, is the first to make it. Just in time too, because you’re teetering precariously off the edge of your platform, inches away from molten death.

“Easy there, darling,” he says, an arm wrapping around your torso. He pulls you toward him, away from the lava. However, as he pulls, he tugs along the side where you got swiped, eliciting a sharp, pained breath from you.

“Astarion,” you gasp, seeing spots of white in your vision from the pain. “It hurts.”

He looks momentarily flustered, “What hurts?”

“My side,” you manage, eyes dropping down to see a massive burn mark across your leather armor where the construct struck you.

“Oh,” Astarion says in surprise, releasing you immediately. Your body sways at the sudden loss of his arm and he’s back on you again in a panic. One arm wraps around your shoulders and pulls you to him tightly, the other presses a surprisingly gentle hand on your forehead. “What do you say we get you some healing and a nice flask of water?”

You nod into his hand gratefully. It’s somehow several degrees cooler than everything else and you don’t think you’ll be able to leave its cooling touch until you’re out of this damned forge.

For his part, Astarion doesn’t seem to mind, holding you and his hand in place while Shadowheart arrives. He doesn't say anything while Shadowheart inspects the wound and calls upon her divine healing, just continues to hold you, steady. This is the closest you’ve been since that night after the tiefling party and, as the fog of pain lifts, you suddenly become incredibly self-aware.

I’m quite possibly the sweatiest person in Faerun right now, how badly must I smell, you think. The heat is most certainly getting to you, because you feel a sudden urge to jump into the lava to avoid finding out. You resist the temptation, thanking Shadowheart as the pain subsides, “Thank you, now let’s get out of this hells hole.”

“I happen to think it’s quite agreeable,” Karlach says from your side. “Though a bit toasty for you all, I’d imagine.”

Astarion, who has not let you go yet, chimes in, “If you so much as breathe on me, I may burst into flames, Karlach. Please stay far, far away.”

“Oh fine,” she says, taking a step back from you both. “But I am the one carrying the water.”

Astarion gives an annoyed click with his tongue, and removes his hand from your forehead to hold it out expectantly toward Karlach. You try not to let your disappointment show at the loss of its chill balm. “Very well, as long as you don’t throw it at us this time.”

The tielfing moves to hand him the flask, but you can see the mischief in her eyes before she makes her decision. One loud shattering of glass later and both you and Astarion are drenched from head to toe in water. “Shouldn’t have reminded me, Fangs.”

Honestly, you don’t mind it. It’s quite refreshing in the otherwise hellish heat. But from the way that Astarion’s arm around you tightens, you can tell he doesn’t quite share your mindset. “Karlach,” he says, slowly, his tone deadly. His eyes are narrowed, leveled at Karlach under a mop of wet curls. “Have you ever wondered if you could withstand lava?”

He releases you, and his absence brings you a sudden pang of sadness. Luckily, you don’t have much time to consider why that is because Astarion is quickly stalking after Karlach, murderous intent rolling off of him.

“Well, that was… fun,” Shadowheart says walking up to you, her face looking anything but.

“Yeah,” you respond, stretching out your side carefully. “I guess we should stop them from killing each other?”

The cleric shrugs, looking at your companions. “It’s up to you, really. I wasn’t the one melting in Astarion’s arms.”

You hold back a surprised cough. “I was not melting. It’s just hot in here.”

She gives you a knowing look. “Sure it is.”

You ignore her remark before setting off– you have enough problems. You don’t feel like adding ‘the comforting feeling of Astarion’s arms around you’ to the list.

[riftfic]

14. Human

Who will save you now?

Warnings: strong language, referenced suicide, violence

Featured Characters: Sans, Chara/Frisk (Reader), Flowey/Asriel, Wingdings Gaster, Asgore Dreemurr

Note: If you haven't read the previous chapters recently (maybe even if you have outside the past few days), I recommend giving it another read. It's definitely not a requirement, but I added some extra details throughout the story and a few more scenes, most notably in Chapters 3 & 9, that should help the ending feel even more satisfying.

Several years later . . . here's the next chapter.

< Load | RESET | Continue >

From a single strip at the Underground’s heart, Waterfall tunneled away into a boneyard mess of caves. In one direction, the passage to Hotland sprawled in mushroom-light mazes and a boulder choke disguising Tem Village. In the other, a quiet bubble harbored a simple mouse, neck deep in plans to retrieve a wedge of crystallized cheese. Between them, from a silver door that had only been there sometimes, Sans stepped out into a flood of bioluminescence.

Though a door latched shut behind him, dark, damp stone replaced the surface he reclined against now. Its cold, unyielding texture met his fingertips, a reminder that there would be no second visit. 

He clutched the spindly metal bars of that unnaturally gray birdcage. He tucked his chin over the iron rung at its peak, hardly dousing the light of the small monster soul trapped inside. 

The task set before him was unconscionable. Even if he managed to survive . . .

“i can’t do that,” he had resisted. “i can’t kill Frisk!”

“They shouldn’t even be alive,” said Wingdings.

The words took Sans by surprise. He set his heels despite the encroaching void and a minute hand nearing his final stroke of midnight.

“oh, but ya want me to take this soul all the way back to asriel, huh?” he said. “make sure he survives? double standard, if y’ask me.”

"I didn't say it was fair,” Wingdings hardly breathed. His eyes gained urgency. “The human . . . might survive, if they're determined enough. But after you pull the lever . . .”

At that, Sans’ anger siphoned away, leaving behind a fear much broader than the fate of one human child. Their mistake had set so many events into motion. Lives had been built and destroyed, paths forged and buried. The machine could rewrite the course of everything as easily as it could leave the butterfly effect intact. They could remain here in the present or be sucked back to the day it all began. With a phenomenon this unpredictable, just about anything could happen . . . but whatever world they left behind, at least it might survive.

“if i do use their soul to run the machine,” Sans said more calmly, “what’ll happen to asriel, then? to me? to the underground? heck, what’ll happen to you?”

It was clear to Sans by the frown on Wingdings’ face that his brother had already considered this question. Despite his ingenuity, the once royal scientist only shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I do know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

In the present, Sans beat his fist against the rock behind him. Why did it have to be so fucking twisted? Why his Frisk? And why did he have to be the one to do it? Maybe it didn’t have to work out like this. Maybe there was more time than Dings thought. Maybe he could find another way. 

His phone buzzed rhythmically at his waist. He pulled it from his coat pocket and looked at the screen. The image of Papyrus illuminated those shadowy cavern walls below several missed call notifications. Sans took a deep, shaking breath, then another, and answered.

“pup . . .”

“SANS!” Papyrus shouted. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR HOURS!”

“oh.”

“I’M NEARLY TO NEW HOME. A FRIEND HAS INFORMED ME THAT THE HUMAN IS IN TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE DANGER! IS THAT TRUE?!”

Sans nearly broke down then and there. Though seeing Wingdings again had restored many of the deeper cracks in his soul, it still felt fragile, even more when considering the path ahead of him. 

“more than true,” he whispered.

A patch of silence followed. Sans dropped his cheek to rest on birdcage bars. 

“tell me it’s gonna be all right,” he murmured into the receiver.

“Sans . . . where are you?” Papyrus asked, more gently than was typical. 

“just tell me, please.”

“It’s . . .” Papyrus sighed. “It is going to be all right. Now, WHERE ARE YOU?”

Hearing the words in his brother’s voice quelled Sans’ fear, enough to return strength to his limbs. He lingered on the phone a moment longer, as if the connection truly placed him at Papyrus’ side.

“meet you there,” he said.

You followed in Asgore’s shadow, watching the folds of his cape sway and collide like cattails in the wind. His silhouette consumed yours. He could hold all of you in one hand, let alone the tiny red soul he sought to claim.

Past the end of that long hallway mirror of the Ruins, the barrier undulated with powerful magic. Its waves of golden white licked the crackled stone as if in search of escapees. It contoured Asgore’s silhouette in a crisp white line as he turned to face you. 

That all-too-familiar smile prickled the fur along his muzzle. Looking up into his apologetic eyes, you remembered his hands on your shoulders, his all-encompassing embrace that threatened to lose you in his fur. The macaroni pictures, the crayon drawings, the sweaters . . . the buttercup pie. You shuddered. 

“Human,” said the king of all monsters. His powerful voice trembled, and the earth trembled with it. “It was nice meeting you. . . . Goodbye.” 

He held his trident firmly in both hands and lowered his head . . . but a stoplight glow kept his chin from falling too far. There you stood, hands outstretched, red soul hovering above your palms. 

“I’m the last one,” you said.

Asgore stared at the heart-shaped spirit as if entranced. Its warmth illuminated your fingers with ruby firelight. It was in the crimson glint of your eyes, however, that he became lost, captured in the clutch of a ghost from years long gone.

“Do I . . . know you?” he asked, bewildered both by the situation and the question itself. 

“Please, take it,” you said. Tears fell down your face. “It’s no good for anything else.”

Asgore’s eyes widened with recognition. “Chara . . . ?”

Intense heat flared in the hallway behind you. Before Asgore could say anything more, a brilliant ball of flame had launched him into the cavern wall. Flecks of gray stone spat out among a field of clouds. 

You swung to face the spellcaster. Toriel stood framed in the doorway, her face scrunched in a scowl like a snarling lion. One smoking arm remained outstretched, clenched in a fist. 

“What a miserable creature,” she growled, “torturing such a poor, innocent youth.”

You hadn’t known what path the timeline had taken or whether your friends would convene . . . yet Toriel had arrived, exactly the same as before. Though you may have jokingly called her “mom,” the name now rang through your head with the purity of a windchime in the breeze. 

Undyne, Alphys, and Papyrus appeared after her, along with a swath of others you had met along the way. You wanted to tell them to turn back, that you did not deserve them, that if they had known the demon you truly were, they never would have wanted to be your friend. 

Your color drained. As they approached, a web of vines crawled after them along the dark ceiling and cavern floors. 

You ran to Asgore, who sat slumped amid rubble and a brand new hallway door in the shape of his back. He grumbled in discomfort. A layer of dust coated his royal robes and golden mane, which he shook like a dog. You slid to your knees beside him.

“Hurry, please!” you blubbered to the stunned monster king. You proffered your soul as if it were on fire. “There isn’t a lot of time . . . !”

Toriel snatched you back by the shoulders. 

“What has come over you, my child?” she demanded. “Do you not know what he means to do with it?” 

“Mom, I . . .” 

“Frisk.” Her eyes had begun scanning the room in fright. “Where is Sans?”

The path to the barrier gave Sans more difficulty than expected. The last time he had attempted these roads with fewer than two shortcuts, he had been a century younger and taking his time, mushroom hunting with young Papyrus. His limbs lagged behind his will. His breath rattled in his chest. Though his fingers slipped against that birdcage no one remembered, he refused to release its colorless patina bars. Everything depended on this.

He took what natural shortcuts he could—river ferries and elevators—but even then, the trip cost more time than he had bargained. At long last, he had reached the innards of Asgore’s home in the capital. He ran, huffing and puffing, down the golden tiles of the Last Hallway. 

Even as he sped past, his heart ached to remember your meeting here. The flare of sunlight on your head, the even brighter smile on your face, the secret passwords on your tongue. . . . The memory of that pure soul compared to the corrupted one he had read beside the rift overwhelmed him, and he paused. He touched a hand to the white pillar that once occluded him.

Who were you now? Frisk? Chara? Both? If Chara truly were your forgotten name, if everything he knew about the tragedy of Asgore’s children had happened to you, such terrible memories weighed down on your tiny shoulders. It did not surprise him, then, that your violence had escalated to remember those horrors. Ferocious thorns had been hiding in the soft petal corona of your soul, and neither of you had known it.

Clinging tightly to the forgotten prison in his hands, he buried his sentiments and tore through vine-swathed hallways into a dark passage. He skidded to a halt just past the silvery stone archway to the barrier, where his bones clattered with shock.

The cavern pulsed in radiant waves like the steady spin of a lighthouse beacon. Twisting, thorny roots filled the cavern like a briar patch, and their position changed with every flash of light. Among the vicious mess of chloroplast, monster figures had been tangled, their souls nearly devoured. 

The dimming pinpoints of Sans’ eyes could not peel away from your small form, crumpled on the floor before a yellow flower. Your red soul snapped among his vines, barely shimmering in a ruby remnant before splitting apart into nothing.

Sans could not stifle the horror that clawed its way out his mouth. He nearly dropped the cage. 

Flowey turned to grin at him. “Trash day already?” he asked, spinning his head in a full circle. 

Sans shook. No. This couldn’t have happened. You couldn’t have fallen to that little heathen daisy so quickly. You couldn’t have lost your determination. If only he hadn’t lingered in the hallway. If only he had kept running . . . !

You blinked at the human soul still hovering in your outstretched hands. It glowed red, though not as brightly as it once did. Still alive. Still yours to give. Not torn to bits by a nihilistic plant.

Only moments ago, you had fallen to a flower, the same flower weaving his way into this chamber of darkness and light. Toriel’s hands rested heavily on your shoulders. Papyrus chattered away, as Asgore pleaded with Toriel to give him a second chance. While they were distracted, Flowey dug his way out of the earth, grinning deviously, ready to spring all over again.

Confusion waltzed with your mind, spinning you gently. You had experienced this rush backward a thousand times before. Just a short step in reverse to let you continue after falling or if you disliked the outcome . . . but you did not have the determination to do it now. You had intended to die. You had meant for one of two creatures to take your power and be done with it. 

It hadn’t been you. 

The world shifted. Time rushed away like the tide, back into the ocean depths. Darkness bled away into golden sunlit tiles and stained glass windows. Birds chirped among a distant rustle of leaves. The air danced with prisms for a fleeting moment before the world reappeared as it had only moments before.

Sans realized suddenly that he stood in the Last Hallway all over again. A glittering pocket of magic danced like a handheld star beside him, where he had touched the pillar and remembered you. It had not been there before.

Air filled his ribcage in jagged gasps. His soul burned as it usually did when you reset time, though somewhat gentler. His hands shook around the bars of that monochrome birdcage with fear, confusion, and exhilaration. 

He had just turned back time. He could feel it. And if that were the case . . .

He ran. He sprinted faster than ever to reach you, but you lay still on the floor again. Though uncertain how, and though it hurt him, he turned back the clock a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Every time, the flower tore apart your soul like a horror movie on repeat, until finally, Sans arrived one split second earlier. Your soul spun a circle above you as if hanging from a string, and a ring of white pellets had only begun readying itself to deliver the killing blow.

Before Sans knew what he was doing, he was charging Flowey through a rough shortcut, foot extended to drop-kick the weed down into his roots. That cursed dandelion’s shriek had never sounded so satisfying. Sans’ dragon skulls had already manifested over his shoulders, jaws aflame—but when they blasted blue-hot magic out their mouths, Flowey had already disappeared into the earth.

A whip of green struck the ground where Sans had stood. He skipped out of the way in the nick of time, then again, and again, and again. He punched his free hand to the ground, and a wave of long, white magic bones crashed down through the air like meteorites. They speared into the cave floor with enough force to run cracks through the ceiling. Clouds of rock sprinkled down onto his shoulders. Flowey’s grip on his friends and family slackened just an inch.

Flowey surfaced again, undamaged beyond a few frayed petals. 

Sans panted, his adrenaline quickly plunging. His bones began aching again, though his raging soul burned brightly through its seams. Sweat slipped down his skull into the neck of his shirt. He didn’t know if he could withstand this much longer. He did not know if his soul could survive another time jump.

“Ha,” chirped the little flower. “Looking pretty rough, there, old pal." His eyes glinted red within the skull-like hollows of his face. "Poor, flimsy little monster souls. Why bother trying? Even Chara was no match for me, and they were a million times stronger than you’ll ever be!”

Sans knew he was right. He did not have the full resilience of a purebred human. Even you had to try several times before making it past this bitter herb. Who in their right mind would bet on him: half blind, right arm nearly useless, only one HP? Just like every moment in his life, he would find a way to fuck this up. Just like every other time before, he would be useless to help. 

His hope dwindled down, as did the fire in his soul. He could not find the strength to evade the string of bullets shooting toward him, but they were serendipitously blocked by a fence of small white bones.

“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM, SANS!” said Papyrus through clenched teeth. “YOU. CAN. WIN!”

“We are here to help you,” said Toriel. “No matter what happens.”

“Statistically it’s impossible,” said Alphys, “b-but you’ve beaten the odds before! I know you can do it!”

“Fuck you, Sans,” said Undyne. 

Everyone looked at her. She shrugged.

“Sans,” said Asgore. “Listen to me.”

Sans clung to the bars of the birdcage more tightly, eyes glued to the smirking flower afar. 

“You are not just your father’s son,” said the king of the Underground. “You have more than magic running through your veins. Remember that . . . and stay determined!”

Sans’ white pupils snapped to Asgore’s blue and brown at once. The statement had struck him somewhere deep beyond the monster white shell of his soul, and still more words passed between them unspoken. Sans then dragged his gaze across all his friends, who looked back with steadfast confidence, even Undyne.

Flowey coiled down on himself, pretending to be scared. “Urgh, no!” he whimpered. “Unbelievable! This can’t be happening! I can’t possibly withstand all of you . . . you . . . !” His face contorted into his evilest grin. “Idiots.”

His vines snapped taut around every monster, and yet another thorny coil snatched Sans from the ground as well. Through ropes of green and brown, Sans watched your red soul go down the flower’s throat, sealed behind hungry white fangs within a golden crown. Then, everything became lost in a flash of white. 

Clang.

Sans moaned. Between that blitz of light and now, he had dropped to his hands and knees. His palms felt scorched—and dreadfully empty. Ahead of him, the last withering wisp of gray silver bars dissipated into the air as if made of smoke. Seeing it clawed the magic away from his bones with every mounting breath. His eyes became hollow. 

The cage was gone—really, truly gone. Not even a step backward in time could bring it back, and with it, Asriel’s soul. Sans felt the world bottom out. Had he really failed, after everything?

A voice cackled overhead. “Finally,” it said. “I was so tired of being a flower.” 

Sans looked upward and blanched. Aside from a few drawings you had scribbled out as a child, he had never witnessed this ungodly creature of countless souls. Sans had only been consumed by him, a coal block among many to fuel his hate. Now, Asriel Dreemurr hovered overhead in all his glory, raging with deathly power in a kaleidoscope of energy. No wonder you had nightmares.

Past the wreckage of their earlier fight, your body still lay heaped on the floor among stone and dead vines, seemingly asleep. As Sans crawled close, tears threatened to form. 

He bit them back. No. He needed to hope. He needed to dream. He needed to be determined that he could call you out from the darkness, just as you had done for him a hundred times. It was his turn, now. Everyone would make it to the other side . . . including Asriel. 

“Huh?” Asriel grunted as he caught wind of Sans below. “What are you still doing here? I ate your soul, you dirty lawn bag!”

“grass not,” said Sans as he stood, dusting the dirt from his jacket with his left hand.

“Ugh.” Asriel pinched his muzzle exasperatedly. “So annoying. How many times have you died now? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?” He thrust a rocket’s flare at Sans with a wicked smile. “Thirty-seven?!”

Sans gathered your body into his arms and stepped into a last-minute shortcut, safely away from that raw magical surge. After hiding your figure inside an Asgore-shaped wall hole, he flitted through the blue light of a portal once again. He reappeared in the air, directly in Hyperdeath’s path, only inches from his head. 

“bone apétit, fucker,” he said and threw a handful of small bones at Asriel’s face. Though they caused no significant damage, they certainly got his attention.

Sans landed on all fours and scrambled. Bullets, fireballs, shooting stars, and lightning strikes raged after him. They left craters in the ground and drove deeper cracks into the ceiling overhead. Stalactites fell and shattered. Sans dodged every one of them. His body thoughtlessly followed the part of him that knew how to survive but had no time to ask permission, so begged forgiveness instead. 

As Asriel Dreemurr took a moment to lift his hands, Sans struggled to catch his breath. His hood smelled of smoldering keratin. Holes had been burned through his sleeves. His body felt slick and ashen against his jacket’s cotton interior. The bones he had tossed like a scoop of dog biscuits into Asriel’s face had been the last magic he could muster. Whatever great power the prince of the Underground gathered now, Sans doubted he could survive it.

The world darkened. Sans could no longer see Asriel or the barrier, not even his hands if he raised them. Everything had become silent except the paddle of his own breath. 

A skull three times his size suddenly materialized from the shadow. In appearance, it reminded him of those he and his siblings had mastered, though its horns and features mirrored Asriel instead. It laughed in his face—a grim, bone-chilling sound like grating rocks—but Sans stood firm. Brilliant red rage and determination surfaced among the cracks of his soul. How dare Asriel steal from Papyrus? How dare he turn Sans’ own family magic against him?

Waves of light drew into the open bowels of its snakelike gullet. Debris ran past his ankles, recalling images of a lab in shambles, a brother consumed by a beast of timeless indifference. He braced himself, ready to dive into the darkness as he did then and save the ones that mattered most.

A flash of brightness burst over him once more. This time, it ripped the soul from inside him and shattered it into pieces.

His mind floated through an abyss, bursting with the fireworks of everything at stake. He thought of Papyrus, never seeing sunrise; Toriel, never knowing the love of a new family; Alphys, never seeing the true greatness inside herself; Undyne, never free to explore the world; Asgore, failing his people. He thought of you, swallowed in the belly of the very thing you had sought to save. He thought of the entire world, destroyed by the god of hyperdeath, eaten alive by a hungry rift in time. The pieces of his soul quivered in a glow of crimson, ready to disperse. 

*But it refused.

The shards sewed back together. A burst of bright red coursed through him like a new flame that had waited a lifetime to be struck. He had to live. He needed to live. He wanted to live! The darkness faded away, and soon the pulsing light of the barrier greeted his eyes once again.

He gaped at his shaking hands, eye sockets wide with confusion and amazement and, more than anything, determination. His soul felt aflame with a ruby-red blaze that forged the bleeding cracks of every pain, every hardship, and every sorrow into an armor stronger than the thickest alloy.

Asriel’s final form hovered ahead of him. Giant wings had sprouted from his back, flaring with blues, reds, greens, and purples. His teeth bared in needle points to rival Undyne’s, seething with fury and frustration. 

“YOU . . . GARBAGE BIN SKELETAL FREAK!” he screamed. “WHY? WHY CAN’T YOU DIE?!”

Sans realized very suddenly he couldn’t move. Asriel’s true power had run rampant through the air, cocooning him in a chrysalis of magic he could not escape. He struggled with no result. With no way to resist, Asriel’s attacks barreled into him again, and again, and again. Every time his brightly burning soul rebuilt itself, a little was lost along the way. 

“I can feel it,” Asriel growled with relish. “Every time you die, your grip on this world slips away. Every time you die, your friends forget you a little more. Your life will end here, in a world where no one remembers you.”

Sans thought of Windings, lost in a hell of the same description. He recalled how determined his brother had been to hold that same world together in one piece, forgotten or not. Sans could not fail him again, not here, not now, not after how hard Dings had tried, not when all his hopes were so invested in his success. His brother’s words rang through Sans' head, the last he would speak before the ghost of a gray door had separated them.

“I want you to know,” Wingdings had said, “I believe in you more than I believe in anyone else.”

“heh, yer jus’ tuggin’ my tibia . . .”

“For Tesla’s sake, Sans,” Dings snipped. “Can you just, for a second, let me spoon-feed your imperceptibly minuscule single-cell petri dish of a trait you call your self-esteem?” He took a deep breath and steadied. “I know it might seem like you’re my only option,” he said, “but you’re the best option I could have ever hoped for. My big brother. The one who sticks it out through thick and thin. The one I could always rely on to come through for me. You can do this. You can save everyone. I know you can. So, please . . . 

“. . . don’t give up.”

Sans closed his eyes and reached his heart out to Asriel’s amalgamation of souls. His friends and family were there somewhere. He could save them. They believed in him. Dings believed in him. His determination to save everyone bled through the confines of Asriel’s magic, and deep inside that monstrosity, something began to stir.

Darkness closed in and images of his friends materialized, though their faces could not be seen behind swimming, fragmented blurs of pitch. Toriel, Papyrus, Asgore, Alphys, and Undyne stood like statues in a ring around him. Under their breaths, they mumbled their deepest wounds aloud: loss, rejection, loneliness, guilt, and captivity. 

Sans stared up at his little brother’s towering silhouette, shaken to see him so reduced. 

“hey, puppy . . .” he began. He inched nearer. “‘member me?”

Papyrus did not acknowledge him beyond summoning a few bones, which promptly flew in his direction. They were nothing compared to what Asriel had been punting his way. Sans stood perfectly still to allow a large blue femur to pass harmlessly through his forehead, then teleported behind him. He wrapped his arms around his waist until his face lay cradled in the lower curve of his spine, as if it were fashioned to hold his head.

“is that any way to treat your big bro?” he asked quietly. He searched his head for his worst possible joke and turned to the remaining souls. “uh . . . w-whatcha all starin’ at?”  He whipped out a finger gun as nonchalantly as possible. “never metacarpal of skeletons before?”

A long, silent moment passed. Then, Papyrus groaned. So did Undyne. Toriel giggled alongside Alphys with a snort. Asgore only sighed. 

Sans beamed, then dodged what he saw as a well-deserved barrage of attacks from all five of his monster friends.

“hey, undies,” he said to Undyne past the quick flash of a blue spear. “i liked the tuna your piano. think you can teach me some scales?”

A similar response. Another wave of dangerous magic. 

“knock, knock,” Sans said to Toriel. A hand of fire tried and failed to snatch him off the ground. He brushed off the heat. “i’ll take that as a ‘who’s there’. it’s yer local sentry, sans gaster!”

Toriel mumbled incoherently, but her last words sounded clear: “. . . Sans Gaster who?”

“yeesh,” Sans said, tugging at the neck of his shirt. “and i thought we were friends!”

Toriel laughed, then, revealing her face in a glorious burst of joy. Papyrus groaned more loudly than ever into existence. 

“THAT’S ENOUGH BOONDOGGLING, SANS!” he shouted.

“i think you mean bone-doggling.”

“I DO NOT!” Papyrus stomped his foot.

With that, the rest of his friends returned to themselves, holding their stomachs or their heads in laughter. Sans wiped a joyful tear from his eye. By then, Papyrus had swept him off his feet into the tightest hug he could muster, which might have broken a rib were they more than specters. The remaining crew piled in: Toriel, Alphys, Asgore, even Undyne. In that one gesture, Sans’ soul swelled with hopes and dreams and burned brighter than ever.

“You’re d-d-doing great!”

“We’ve got your back, punk.”

“We believe in you.”

“heh . . . i’m rootin’ for me too, i guess,” Sans agreed bashfully.

“THAT’S THE SPIRIT,” Papyrus said, then lifted his eyes over Sans’ shoulder. “ONLY ONE MORE TO GO.”

As he said it, their images dissipated. Sans turned to follow Papyrus’ gaze. Another figure stepped from the shadow, eyes burning red through a shifting black cloud. A blood-red knife glinted in your hand. Your ruby soul quivered in the pit of your chest, a beacon through the dark. 

“kiddo,” Sans breathed.

You shambled forward and blindly slashed for his neck. He side-stepped the sloppy cut. Your blade lodged into the unseen ground, so deeply it took a few tries to pry it out. Like a marionette, you lolled about to face him.

“It’s all my fault,” you murmured. “All my fault.”

“that ain’t true,” said Sans. He grimaced and ducked another swing. “you’re a good kid. you’ve always been a good kid.”

“I'm sorry,” you mumbled.

“why?” he asked. “you saved us. you saved me. you gave up your resets for it!”

Your razor-edged swipes and stabs began to falter. “My fault . . .”

“the only thing you’re at fault for is trying too bleedin’ hard.”

Though shaking, you continued to jab and swing your dagger with reckless abandon, and he continued to evade its path with infuriating precision. Whipping air and shuffling feet echoed through the dark as if you fought in an empty chapel.

“c’mon, bud!” Sans panted. Sweat had begun to gather on his forehead. “it’s me, sans!”

“Sans?” you replied in a fog. “Sans is dead. I killed him. It’s my fault.”

“i’m not dead. i’m right here.” 

He came close, a breath away. Your knife grazed his cheekbone, revealing a stripe of red that trickled down into his shirt collar. As your arm passed his shoulder, he caught you around the chest and held on tight. He buried his face into your neck. 

“i’m right here.”

At this, you froze. You held your knife shakily over his head, prepared to strike down into his back—but you didn’t. Though the black, jagged strokes of paint shifting about your head did not cease, the red of your eyes had dimmed. 

“frisk. chara.” 

He cradled your hiding face between his hands and looked into your eyes a long, long time. You could feel him reaching through your soul, judging you, reading you from cover to cover like an unlocked diary.

“it’s not your fault.”

As the words sank in, tears sprinkled down from that stormcloud between you, raining over your shoes and his. That dreadful, bloody knife clattered to the ground, and soon you followed. You sat seiza at his feet and clung to his coat, your face no longer shrouded. You sobbed into his t-shirt, broken, yet overjoyed to see him alive. 

He hesitated, then slipped his fingers down into the deep brown thatches of your hair.

“You’re really here,” you said, looking up into his face. 

Sans crouched down to your level and shrugged. “think so.”

“Am I dead?”

“uh.” He scratched the back of his skull and winced. “ya ain’t in yer body, that much is for sure. hopin’ you might join me on the way back, though . . . if you’d do me the honor.”

You hugged him again, even more tightly than before. Conflicted by memories old and new, shame hooked onto your soul with claws sharper than the dagger at his feet. His hand in your hair was all that kept you solid.

“I’m sorry.” Your tears fell faster as you considered the road leading you here. “I made you fall into the rift . . .”

“that one’s on me,” Sans said. “i knew what i might find down there.”

Your face sombered. “Did you find . . . him?”

Newfound brightness ignited his eyesockets. “he’s . . . alive,” he said quietly. He could scarcely believe the words. “trapped between time and space. it’s just like i thought.”

You were never more relieved to be proven wrong. Still, questions encircled your head like stars. Where was his brother, now? If Sans had gone to that place, how had he returned? How had he survived the rift, and Flowey no less? Was he the one turning back the clock? That should have been impossible. 

As you extended a hand to smear the streak of red you had carved into his face, a terrifying thought occurred to you. 

“Determination,” you breathed. “Sans, you didn’t—!”

“no,” he said.

“Monsters don’t bleed,” you said firmly in an attempt to call out his bullshit.

“not full-blooded monsters, no,” he agreed.

Several moments passed in which you digested these words, and what they implied. 

His smile slowly fell into a grimace, a mix of regret and weary sadness. He sat down in the darkness across you. Here, the two of you were truly alone. He breathed in, breathed out. 

“skeletons are kinda hard to come by,” he began hesitantly, “if ya hadn’t noticed. we’re only born under certain circumstances . . . with . . . certain parents.”

He lifted his head to the darkness above as if he might see the sky. A piece of him drifted away into nostalgia on Noctis wings. Bittersweet was the only word you could surface for his expression now.

“hardly look nothing like dad,” he began with a half-hearted shrug. “he was like . . . a dragon made of blue stars, a constellation in a nebula. huge, bigger than asgore. gast clan always was, compared to the dreems. i see him in my magic, though, sometimes. his face in my blasters, even if just the skull.”

You couldn’t find words. Surely he didn’t mean what you thought.

“don’ hardly look like mom, neither,” he said with a partial smile, “but we got her bones. we got her structure. i got some of her determination.”

“You’re half human.”

“i’m all me, thanks,” Sans snipped. Talking about it seemed to crawl over his bones like a spider bake sale. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, genuinely hurt.

He paused and picked at the healing cut on his cheek. He rubbed the red fluid pensively between his thumb and forefingers. “everyone down here knows what it means to be a skeleton,” he said quietly. “i thought you knew too, at first. we all did. a lot of folks thought it was why you shacked up with us instead of tori.”

Your shoulders relaxed.

“by the time i realized it . . . honestly, i didn’t know how to tell ya, kid. it's a sensitive subject.” He drew his coat around himself more tightly. “we’re the only ones left, y’know; me and puppy-dog. and dings. when the war started, humans went for families like ours first. papyrus was a bean, dings was just the right age for it to hit him later, and i . . . i remember everything, as always.” 

Your guilt ascended all over again. 

“we were just kids," he went on, "but nothin’ scared those purist humans more than a fuckin’ mule.”

“i’m sorry,” you said.

“don’t be,” he murmured. “not your fault.”

“But it is,” you insisted. Your tears began rising again. "I’m human. I’m responsible. After everything humans have done—after everything I’ve done—I don’t deserve any of you. I don’t deserve to be here. You shouldn’t have saved me . . .”

Sans gently wiped your face with his sleeve. “lemme finish, kid,” he said quietly. He heaved a long, drawn-out sigh, as if releasing a toxin trapped inside his ribcage. “i got a reason to hate humans, sure. they drove us down here. they blocked us in. hell, even monsters gave us a hard time for that half of us. papyrus was so bent on catching a human just to prove what side he was on. thought people might like him more.”

You felt sick.

“but,” Sans said, forcing you to meet his eyes, “my human parent sacrificed everything to save us. she stayed behind so we could get away. so many of us are alive because of her. you wanna tell me that was wrong? you wanna tell me she was responsible for everything that happened to us, just for being human?”

Your tears continued to fall. 

“you can’t help where ya came from,” said Sans, “but you can choose where ya go. and boy have you gone to some good places.” 

“Like the dump,” you quipped with a faint smile.

“heh, yeah,” he said. “like the dump.” He hung an arm over your shoulder. “so maybe you’ve made some big mistakes . . . but your heart was never in the wrong place. you want to make up for it. you want to be good. that’s what really matters, right?”

You sniffled and nodded. You had said the same to Alphys. Were you really beneath your own advice?

He gathered you into his arms again. After a long time kneeling there, faces in shoulders, he helped you back to your feet. 

“gonna need you to step in from here on out,” said Sans. “the chances hyperdoofus listens to me are about a million to negative one.” He smirked. “think you can handle it?” 

You took his hand and squeezed. 

“Only if you stand there with me,” you said.

His heart swelled in his chest. “i can do that."

Holding onto one another tightly, you stepped out from the darkness into a rainbow of light.

Notes:

And thus we have arrived at my third and final head-cannon: skeletons are what happen when a monster loves a human. I think my nervousness about dropping that bomb contributed to the delay in a latent sense, haha. Sorry for that again.

The idea of skeleton monsters always puzzled me, because in most folklore and fantasy contexts they have a direct tie to humans. Undead, more specifically. But in the context of the Undertale universe, undead didn't sit right with me. Skeleton monsters that conveniently mimic human anatomy didn't either. Then I had this thought. It explained several things for me: the blood from Sans' cut in the no mercy run, the reason he's so powerful, that "fourth wall" breaking tendency he and Papyrus both share... I massaged things some for the narrative here, but yeah.

I had been building to this a little bit as a possible reveal, then considered sidestepping it, but then as I really hammered out my ending it became an essential fact. I added more scenes and details in earlier chapters to get a little more traction on it, hence why I recommended rereading. :) Either way, I hope you find it at least interesting.

Thank you again to everyone who held on until now. Only three chapters left!

Next Up! Chapter 15: Determination.

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[chickadee-djarin]

Breathe

Fandom: The Mandalorian (Star Wars) Pairing: Din Djarin x wife!reader

Summary: Months after their escape from Nevarro, Din and the child finally return in the hopes of settling things with the Guild - and finding you.

[takes place within S1E8: Redemption]

Word count: 2.2k Warnings: mention of injury and implied canon typical violence

masterlist

Din’s ears are ringing, each step a loud drum beating in his head as they make their way through the tunnels. Most of his weight is carried by Cara, but his feet continue to falter and his thoughts are on distant memories and Karga has to grip the arm not thrown around the shocktrooper’s shoulders to keep him upright. Din tries to lead them, direct them through the tunnels but they’re as much a maze to him as they ever were – he’d always entered through the bazaar, and he never bothered to learn an alternate route. You had always teased him for that-

‘Best in the parsec, huh?’ Din could see your smile but it was blurred, the searing pain in his head only just beginning to numb. He tried to focus on you - on the memory of you - as his feet continued to drag; but his mind was betraying him. He knew you’d teased him further, scolded him for not knowing his way around the covert in case of emergency. But the memory faded as quickly as it came, your laugh barely an echo in the empty tunnels.

They took another turn and still, no Mandalorians. Still, no trace of you.

Since taking the child, every quiet moment was spent thinking of you – wondering if you’d made it off Navarro alive. Hoping. He had last seen you with the armorer; you’d stood by his side as she crafted him new armor. You’d helped him put it on, piece by piece, unaware that as you worked the armorer was crafting something for you as well. He’d set two beskar ingots aside, his request of vambraces having been made prior to your arrival at the forge. Din thought you would object – you were a healer, not a warrior – and you were not a Mandalorian by Creed. But when you’d finished setting the final piece of his armor in place and the armorer had stepped out, Din had presented you with the unpainted vambraces and you’d silently accepted them. He hadn’t told you of the job that resulted in such a pay, but he didn’t need to. High reward meant high risk, and if wearing the armor meant easing his conscious regarding your safety then you’d hold your tongue.

But he hadn’t seen you since then. He’d meant to take another job, return to the covert with more credits and supplies before finally finding rest in your shared bed. He hadn’t anticipated the gnawing guilt, the little silver ball sitting atop a simple lever to send his world upside down. And he certainly hadn’t anticipated the covert revealing themselves, forcing them to relocate after he made his escape with the child - without you.

Paz Vizsla had assured him you would be safe, though. The tribe would protect you, as they had throughout the five years since you’d been brought before them. You were their healer, the former outsider that tended to their wounded and their foundlings. You’d readily sacrificed your freedom to live among Navarro’s shadows, only leaving the safe confines of the tunnel system to gather supplies when Din was off world. And although not sworn to the Creed, you were sworn to him – you were a part of the tribe by marriage, and they would treat you as one of their own. This was the Way.

“Stop,” Din reached for the light on the side of his helmet. They’d finally reached a juncture he recognized – the memory of you standing there with a foundling on your hip crashing into him as they’d rounded the corner – and he pulled his other arm from Cara’s shoulders. “I can stand. I’ll try to find tracks.”

Again, he fiddled with the settings on his helmet. But as his visor began scanning, it returned only faint traces. Boot prints of various sizes, adult and child alike, appeared to have rushed down one of the corridors weeks ago. Din knew it was futile, but he couldn’t help wondering which set was yours.

He led them through the tunnels now, the possibility of finding you safely hidden away with the covert propelling him forward. A few more turns, another dozen sets of prints lighting Din’s visor-

And Mandalorian armor, cracked and chipped and dented, in a pile on the floor.

There little quintet stopped short in the tunnel. For a moment, they forgot about the Imperials above ground. For a moment, all eyes followed Din as he stepped forward and fell to his knees. He picked up the nearest helmet, it’s dark and empty visor offering no comfort: he recognized it, the shades of blue and gold owning to only one among the covert.

As he turned it over in his hands, Cara moved gingerly to his side. He heard her say- “We should go.”

But Din still held the helmet in his hands. He wondered if he dug, would he find your vambraces amid the pile? Or the carefully crafted diadem – the beskar braided to rest just above your brow – that he’d given you upon exchanging vows? It’d been forged from a piece of his own armor, the only thing he could gift you in place of a signet he did not yet possess.

“You go.” His voice came from a distance. “Take the ship. I can’t leave it this way.”

‘I can’t leave not knowing if she’s still alive.’

Cara made to protest, to remind him of the Imperials that would surely be closing and the little green child that needed him – but before she could speak, Din had stood and turned on Karga. The guilt he had carried since leaving Navarro; the fear of losing you that he’d carefully hidden away; it all morphed into an ugly rage and he could no longer contain the storm that was whirling within him. His hand fell to the blaster at his hip when a voice cut through the tunnels-

It was the armorer, her helmet glinting in the tunnels low lighting. She was picking pieces of armor from the floor, salvaging what she could as she spoke. Din had been a member of her covert long before she rose to lead them, and she reassured him that he was not to blame for their fate. “We knew what could happen if we left the covert.”

And she retailed exactly what had happened: the immediate arrival of Imperials, the possibility that some escaped. But she did not mention your fate and Din found he could not speak the question. Instead, they merely followed as she returned to her forge.

Karga watched with great interest as the armorer began melting down what remained of a breast plate. Neither he nor Cara, who began to move about inspecting the room, interjected as the armorer asked of the child. They heard the truth of how it came to be in Din’s care, of what it was. Still sitting in the nurse droid’s arms, the child’s ears drooped as the armorer spoke of ancient tales and Mandalore The Great and battles fought eons past. It’s big eyes followed her as she scooped the now liquid beskar from the forge, only breaking from her as she reminded Din of their creed.

Din met the child’s gaze. The armorer, with her back to them, picked up a hammer and began to craft. And with every impact she made, Din could only flinch under his helmet. He needed to find you. He needed to know whether you were safe, to return you to his side not search the galaxy for this creatures home-

‘This is the Way.’

The armorer’s words echoed in his mind, and he found himself- for the first time- at odds with them.

So distracted by his thoughts of you and of the child, he did not hear as Cara reminded them of the Imperials searching for them or as the armorer detailed an exit route. Nor did he hear as footsteps began approaching, echoing off the walls of the tunnels at a sprint.

Karga and Cara immediately moved to either side of the entryway, their blasters in hand and Din, finally, registered what was happening. He still stood behind the droid, which had turned to shield the child from view – but the armorer continued her work, barely pausing to say, “Lower your blasters.”

Cara shot a questioning look at her, but her back was still to them.

The footsteps grew louder; Cara and Karga kept their blasters raised; Din’s hand hovered over his own-

And you came rushing into the room, your breath ragged and your hair disheveled. “They’re coming, Alor, from the south entrance-”

The sight of the man in beskar – the unpainted steel covered in blaster residue and scorch marks – stole whatever remaining breath you had and you immediately moved towards him, a choked ‘ner ka’rta’ on your lips. He heard you, gripped you as you clung to him.

At the sight before her, Cara finally lowered her blaster. She motioned for Karga to do the same, recognizing now who you were – you were the Mandalorian’s wife, the one he had mentioned on Sorgan. When they had driven out the village raiders and found rest and spoken of the future, Cara had inquired of the rules surrounding his helmet. She had asked why he wouldn’t remove it, why he wouldn’t settle down on the swampy planet with the widow and her daughter.

‘I’m married,’ he had said.

Cara had asked- ‘Where is she?’

And after a beat, ‘I don’t know.’

Cara had heard the pain in his voice, read the defensiveness in his body language. She hadn’t pushed the topic further.

Now she watched as you pressed your forehead to his, heard as you spoke quietly in a language she didn’t know. But time was against you, and the armorer had nearly finished her work.

“You must go,” she said. “A foundling is in your care.”

In your relief at seeing your husband alive, you hadn’t noticed the others. Now, as Din took in your own appearance – the beskar diadem still upon your forehead, your clothes and cloak dirtied and your medical bag slung over your shoulder – you saw the others. The man you recognized immediately – you’d seen him around the cantina, seen him as he spoke with Din. He was Guild, and the grip you had on Din’s arms tightened. The other was a woman, one whose eyes met yours with an expression you couldn’t read. But the armorer’s words quickly drew your gaze away, to the droid and the small green creature in its arms.

“By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father,” she continued. “And its mother. This is the Way.”

Your gaze again found Din’s: you had so many questions, so many concerns. Months had passed since you last saw him and so much had happened- so many lives had been lost. But you knew, among these people, now was not the time. Not when you had only spotted the approaching Imperials minutes ago. And Din’s gaze had never left you, one arm still holding you tightly to him.

Her work now complete, the armorer turned to fully face you and Din. “You have earned your Signet,” she said to him.

As she approached, Din’s grip on you finally loosened and you stepped away. But you didn’t go far, standing before him and watching with a mixture of confusion and pride as the armorer welded a figure onto his right pauldron. When she finished, she pressed something into his hands and said- “You are a clan of three.”

This should have been a momentous occasion, one marked by celebration as was typical of a Mandalorian earning their Signet. You should have been proud of your husband – and you were – but an explosion was heard and the unmistakable sound of boots followed and there was no time for traditions.

“It’s a scouting party,” you said, finding your voice again. “They found the south entrance, they come from the bazaar.”

The armorer turned to the droid and it immediately passed the foundling off to the nearest person – the woman- before making its way down the hall. She seemed to struggle for a moment, but the armorer had continued talking to Din and the Guild man guarded the door and no one seemed to know what to do with the foundling. So you stepped forward, your focus shifting entirely to the small creature as you lifted him from her arms and held him to your chest. The movement caused the light from the forge to bounce off your vambraces, and you missed how the woman seemed to assess you.

And as you quietly cooed at the foundling, his large eyes fixed on you and his little green claws reaching for your face, you missed the way your husband watched you. How his hands tightened around the set of pauldrons the armorer had given him, unpainted and bearing a matching mudhorn. How, after months of torment, he could finally breath again.

**

A/N: Hello 👋🏻 I’m gonna preface this by saying: this is not a guaranteed return. Life got a little crazy and busy and next thing I knew two whole years had passed since I’d been active on here and writing. And work took a turn recently and I found myself restarting The Mandalorian, turning to my old comfort show while the boyfriend was at work. Maybe it was rewatching the show; maybe it’s me craving an escape from work. But I remembered this sitting somewhere among my drafts and thought ‘what the hell?’ Hope y’all enjoyed it. We’ll see if this gets me back into writing. Be pretty cool if it did, I’ve missed it. And I’ve missed y’all<3

Taglist: It’s been so long, I don’t yet know who all is still active on here - so no tags today. But as always, comments, inbox, and messages are open should you like to be added!

[anonymousewrites]

Clan of Three Christmas Special 2023

Father Figure! Mandalorian/Din Djarin x Teen! Reader

Mouse Note: Happy holidays! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season and like this little moment for Mando and Ginger and Grogu

            “What are gifts traditional for apprentices?” asked Mando.

            The Armorer turned from the Forge to face him. “Why do you ask?”

            “It is the anniversary of when I found Grogu and (Y/N). I want to commemorate it,” said Mando simply.

            The Armorer nodded approvingly. “You have a strong bond with your Clan. That is good.” She placed her hammer down and fully focused on Mando. “So, you wish for gifts.”

            “Yes,” said Mando. “I’ve given Grogu chainmail to protect him, and (Y/N) has their remade Ushti dagger. I have not had a Clan of my own or apprentices before, so I don’t know what I should give them next.”

            The Armorer considered carefully. “Grogu is still quite young for more armor. Perhaps a game for him.”

            Mando nodded. “He would enjoy that.” He paused. “Grogu, uh, likes the silver topper of one of the levers from my old ship. It’s a simple sphere, but he’d like that.”

            The Armorer nodded. “Very well. And for (Y/N)?”

            “They have a blaster and dagger, and I don’t feel comfortable arming them more,” said Mando.

            “Their tendency to run into danger worries you,” said the Armorer in amusement.

            Mando sighed. “Yes.”

            “Then how about something to protect them?” suggested the Armorer. “A piece of armor would guard against some injuries.” She looked at the Mythosaur emblem on the wall. It reminded her that Mandalore the Great had chosen (Y/N) to guide. That was significant. “And it is time for them to start obtaining armor. They have more than earned their first piece.”

            Mando brightened but kept calm. “Yes. That would be good. I’d enjoy the honor of giving (Y/N) their first bit of Mandalorian armor.”

            The Armorer turned back to her tools. “What piece shall I craft?”

            “A gauntlet for their wrist or forearm,” said Mando. “To protect their dominant arm while they fight.”

            The Armorer nodded in approval. “This is the Way.”

            “This is the Way,” said Mando.

l

            “You’re supposed to throw it back to me, Grogu,” said (Y/N), hands on their hips as they looked at their brother.

            Grogu babbled happily, still levitating the stone in front of him. (Y/N) rolled their eyes, lifted a hand, and pulled the stone to them. Grogu squawked indignantly.

            “Relax, I’m going to toss it right back,” said (Y/N), flicking their ring and letting the rock float back to Grogu, who smiled widely upon getting to levitate it again. (Y/N) grinned but rolled their eyes. “I need practice, too.”

            “You’re supposed to be resting after our last mission,” said Mando, walking up behind them and crossing his arms.

            Grogu let the rock drop, and (Y/N) turned around without any embarrassment or guilt.

            They shrugged. “I feel fine.”

            “The last time you said that, you slept for an entire day when I finally got you to rest,” said Mando.

            “That was one time, Buir,” said (Y/N).

            “Ad’ika, we both know it was more than that,” said Mando.

            “Okay, fine, maybe it was,” said (Y/N). “Sorry.”

            “You’re not, but I’m going to accept your apology because I’m going to make you rest,” said Mando.

            “Whatever you say,” said (Y/N). They noticed the little parcels he was carrying. “What’re those?”

            Mando suddenly shifted, getting shyer. He still wasn’t used to being so soft, even if it was with his kids. And he wanted to do this right since it was an important moment.

            “They’re gifts. For you and Grogu,” said Mando. “It’s the day that I found you two first.”

            Grogu and (Y/N) were both silent.

            “Is this alright?” asked Mando.

            “You actually…You remember those things?” said (Y/N).

            “Of course. You’re the most important parts of my life,” said Mando.

            (Y/N) moved forward and hugged him tightly, and Grogu chirped and jumped up to hug him. Mando was surprised and balanced the presents before hugging them back.

            “Thank you,” said (Y/N), and Grogu babbled in agreement.

            “You haven’t even seen what I got you,” said Mando.

            “Yeah, but you care about that. What you got us doesn’t matter,” said (Y/N).

            Mando smiled beneath his helmet. “Thank you, Ad’ika.”

            (Y/N) shrugged. ���Doesn’t mean I don’t still want the gift, though.”

            “I know,” said Mando with a light laugh. He held up the presents. “This one is yours, and this one is Grogu’s.”

            Before Mando could even hand them over, the parcels levitated and flew to their recipients as the force moved for them. Grogu eagerly opened his first and babbled with a grin as he held up the silver ball.

            (Y/N) smiled. “He’ll be levitating and throwing that around the whole ship.”

            Mando sighed. “I know, but it makes him happy.”

            (Y/N) opened theirs then, and their eyes widened as they lifted up the beskar gauntlet. “Is this Mandalorian armor?”

            “You’re a Mandalorian,” said Mando simply. “And you’ve risked your life for us so many times that you have earned it, Ad’ika.”

            (Y/N) grinned, closed the gauntlet around their forearm, and hugged Mando again. “Thank you so much, Buir.” They were a Mandalorian. More than that though, they were Mando’s child. And that’s what meant the most.

            “Of course, Ad’ika,” said Mando, holding them close. He had his kids. That was all he needed.

Taglist:

@im-making-an-effort

@gr33n-d00dles

@alexpangender

@painstakingly-juno

@treehouse-mouse

@theurbannoodle

@pedropascalsidechick

@dmitrytherat

@dilfsaremyfavourite

[kaurwreck]

If you want can you post your skk hcs? I was rereading you fanfic snippets of them and just wanted to know what you try to add in when writing them?

ty for asking about my skk headcanons! i'll share the ones that you can nearly always presume to be "canon" in the fics I write.

Chuuya has a vulva + internal reproductive organs, but with so few memories prior to the Sheep, he doesn't recall having an assigned gender divergent from his own and has always known himself to be a boychild. He's rarely been prompted to think anything of it: the Sheep didn't make a fuss when he started menstruating, although Shirase did defer to Yuan to teach him how to manage it once they realized; Mori educated him on his options once Mori became aware but was otherwise unfazed and had forged Chuuya's koseki anyway; etc., etc. Which isn't to say Chuuya doesn't pursue and receive gender affirming care, only that he's both self-assured in his own and rather naive regarding matters of gender and sexuality. (i.e., insofar as trans is a useful framework here, he's trans.)

Dazai is ashamed of his sexual attraction. Not in his sexuality (as in preferences), but he thinks his sexual attraction is, generally, an imposition and a vulgar burden he thrusts onto others. This doesn't stop him from feeling it and pursuing others. It's just one of the many contours of his self-loathing.

Dazai and Chuuya weren't completely no-contact for those four years, but they talk about it as if they were.

Chuuya has a Port Mafia-subsidized penthouse with an aboveground wine cellar. He still frequents the Agency dorms; he doesn't like Dazai snooping around and making messes in his penthouse. Or stealing his wine and wine paraphernalia for wine fraud, which happens sometimes and has, previously, fucked with the integrity of Chuuya's cache of Romanée Conti vintages.

Chuuya is a workaholic and very driven in his commitment to his organization. Dazai cherishes and serves at the leisure of the hand that feeds him but isn't. Quite as career oriented as Chuuya.

Both are polyamorous more or less. But exceedingly possessive of the other in hyperspecific, sometimes toxic ways.

Chuuya has extensive irezumi beneath his clothes, much of which memorializes his loved ones. (Including Dazai, but most everyone knows better than to acknowledge those pieces.) Dazai, meanwhile, doesn't have any tattoos; he can't tolerate the needles (whether hand or electric). Dazai will join Chuuya during his sessions, though, if only to bother him in ways Chuuya can't do anything about while being tattooed.

They don't negotiate anything, which is usually fine. They work it out one way or another when it's not.

They have several intricate rituals to navigate around each other's severe intimacy issues.

While they were both in the Port Mafia, there was a strict mandate against Dazai riding passenger on Chuuya's motorcycle. Enforceable by any member of the organization regardless of rank.

They're technically legally married under Dazai's birth identity (Shuuji Tsushima); that's also the identity with which Chuuya has a joint bank account and multiple tax fraud schemes (in which Akutagawa and Gin are also implicated as dependents), among other things. (Note: I've unilaterally decided Japan recognizes same sex marriage in bsd-verse, especially given the plethora of anachronistic, fictitious, and quirky policies, ministries, levers of governance, etc. canonical to bsd-verse that preclude the canonical existence of several of Japan's current irl legal institutions, including its constitution as amended.)

[poisonheartfrog]

Here's my piece for the Limited Life edition of @trafficzine, about Pearl, Big B, and Grian dying outside the border in the finale:

The rules of the game can’t be broken, but they can be bent. 

That’s what brings Pearl, Big B, and Grian to a barren hilltop in the middle of the night as Grian explains his trick for getting across the world border. 

Pearl is exhausted after their many trips up to, down from, and across Skynet, and she can tell her allies feel the same. They’re all covered in dirt, blood, and scrapes. Big B is restless, constantly checking over his shoulder and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Seeing him so nervous only makes the pit in her own stomach worse.

Grian is better at hiding his anxiety, but it’s still there in the ways his hands twitch as he sets down a dispenser.

She’s hanging a lot of hope on Grian being able to pull this off, that there really is a way beyond the border.

Pearl reaches her hand out towards the barrier in question. There’s no surface there, nothing to actually touch, except maybe a slight buzz of magical energy. She still feels air under her fingertips, but it’s as unyielding as a solid slab of stone. Diagonal bands of teal light inch along the border, casting eerie shadows across her hand.

Cleo’s blood is under her fingernails. She wants more.

The click of the dispenser going off snaps her attention back to Grian’s contraption. A dark oak boat sits on a puddle of water, split in half by the border. Grian climbs in and rows through like it’s nothing.

Pearl gasps. “That’s so cheaty. I love it.”

Big B laughs, a look of slight confusion on his face. “So wait, what?”

Pearl guesses it’s her turn now. 

She drops a boat in its condensed item form into the dispenser. She flicks the lever. Nothing happens. Did she already make a mistake? No, she flicks it again and the dispenser does its magic, conjuring a whole boat in front of her.

She lowers herself down into the boat and her left shoulder passes through the border without her even trying. She feels that slight current of energy again, a little stronger this time.

She pushes off the ground with one oar and pulls forward with the other, with the usual gracelessness of rowing a boat on dry land. The border is closer and closer and then with a shock of static electricity throughout her whole body, she’s on the other side.

Once out of her boat, she swings her axe down to break it back into an item. The diamond blade bounces off the wood without even leaving a mark.

Grian goes back to get Big B and the pair row through triumphantly.

Once they’re all on the other side, Grian lets them in on a wonderful secret. “Here’s the thing about being beyond the veil,” he says, “we’re already dead.” There’s a glint of mischief in his dark eyes.

Grian does always have a flair for the dramatic, but when he swings a sword at her to demonstrate, it hits her with about as much force as a feather. She attempts an axe swing back at him and then Big B. It similarly fails to connect. Her whole body feels a bit numb, now that she thinks about it.

Her time is still ticking away, but she feels like she can finally breathe instead of thinking how much she wants to rip someone’s throat out with her teeth.

As Grian demonstrates that they can still break blocks and damage mobs inside the border, she gives Big B a conspiratorial smile.

He grins back, his face lighting up under his war paint.

They’re here. They’re really here, where even her standing on this grass should be an impossibility.

Maybe being the last ones standing isn’t so impossible either.

Grian forges ahead. Pearl follows behind him, with Big B after her. 

Grian swerves too far from the border and winces like he’s been punched, despite there being nothing around. 

Pearl can’t blame him because she immediately makes the same mistake. There’s no way to know when you’ve gone too far, only the sudden phantom pain. Why would there be? They’ve already ignored the universe’s equivalent of a giant flashing sign that says “Don’t go here!”. If you die from going farther out, that’s just paying the price.

So Pearl hugs the border. She reaches her hand towards it and from this side her fingers pass through it as easily as if it really was just air.

She draws her hand back and slings her axe over her shoulder.

This might be one of the best ideas Grian has ever had.

It really does feel like cheating. The play is almost over and they’re sneaking around backstage instead of finishing their scene. It’s invigorating, the feeling of a trick well played, of breaking the world apart at the seams.

The trio keeps on walking. As they leave a spruce forest for a rocky plateau, Pearl watches two spiders climb the border, each of their eight legs waving as if they were swimming in mid air. There’s something almost hypnotic to the motion.

“We obviously can’t spend the next few hours here, but-” Grian breaks off in surprise when he sees the spiders.

“I don't know about you, but I could spend the next few hours here.” Pearl replies.

Grian laughs at the spiders and Big B lets out an uncertain “oh”. 

Grian runs ahead. Big B stays back with her. One hand grips the hilt of his sword.

His red eyes meet hers with a pained smile and he says “Well you know, Pearl, I can't- I can't.” 

She can’t acknowledge the seriousness in his voice because that would mean breaking the spell. Big B can’t be almost out of time. They can’t be anything other than safe here.

So she laughs and runs on ahead.

“That’s true.” She admits quietly.

A little while later Pearl and her allies reach the ocean. She dives in, now leading the charge ahead of Grian. Big B still hangs towards the back with very reasonable caution. 

Swimming in full plate armor is about as easy as rowing a boat on land, but Pearl makes do. She spots a school of tropical fish and kills one with her axe only for its body to drift out of reach in the current. 

It probably would have tasted terrible anyway.

She pops her head back above the surface. Behind all the bamboo and sugarcane, the Mean Gills’ base is deserted. The beach house has certainly seen better days. Half of the foundation is scarred and splintered from TNT blasts and the porch is littered with broken glass.

Scott and Martyn are probably still up on Skynet, which means their crops are free for the taking.

Stealing from them one more time can’t hurt, right?

Pearl tears wheat and carrots from the soil. Most of them go flying out of reach farther inside the border, but she manages to keep hold of a few.

The group briefly discusses where the Mean Gills might be and then all get a good laugh when Grian drops his loaf of bread in the ocean.

As they approach the corner of the world, Grian points towards the TIES base. “Scott’s clocked us.”

The Mean Gills and what’s left of TIES are spread out behind the squat base of the stone tower and its defaced bowtie. Etho sits on a horse, watching them from the path. Martyn and Impulse charge down the steps towards the beach while Scott cuts across the hill.

Pearl swims on ahead, watching as their enemies take position on top of dirt and stone eyesore of Etho’s mob farm. She can’t can’t wait to see the look on Scott’s face when he realizes they’re invincible.

Scott stands right at the edge and peers down at them, his bow in hand. His clothes are tattered and a bit singed. There’s grim determination in his eyes as he nocks an arrow and pulls back the bowstring.

“Hello!” Pearl smiles up at him as cheerfully as if they were meeting up for lunch rather than trying to kill each other. 

“Hi!” Scott fires. The arrow misses as Big B echoes her hello.

“How’s it going?” Pearl says, just as brightly.

Scott responds with another arrow.

It hits, piercing her armor and lodging just above her heart.

The pain is even worse because it’s unexpected. Grian was wrong. You can try to bend the rules as much as you want, but they will snap back into place like a rubber band. 

“Ow! What? They can get us!” She cries out.

They barely even had a plan, just a naive hope that they could hurt their enemies without getting hurt themselves.

The fight breaks out in earnest, arrows and shouts flying with abandon.

Pearl dives towards the seafloor and grabs fistfuls of the arrows that miss, barely noticing the ones that find purchase in her body.

“Oh no, I’m dead.” Big B says matter of factly.

Pearl lets out a horrified gasp as she sees his body dissolve into smoke.

Adrenaline propels her through the water. Scott and Impulse congratulate Martyn on his kill. If she could she’d strike them all down right then and there to avenge him.

But Scott and Impulse keep shooting at her and she has no way to fight back. She can barely pay attention to what’s going on through the pain.

Where did Etho go?

Where did Grian go?

If only she could just swim a little farther.

The seawater turns pink with her blood. The armor that failed to protect her is now dragging her towards the bottom. She tries to breathe but her lungs only fill with water and sand. 

In the dark seconds before respawn she reminds herself that she still has time.

Before the light comes pouring back in she remembers that Big B doesn’t.

[drakeanddice]

After eight sessions of Burning Wheel, we decided that it wasn’t clicking for our table. It had a bunch of neat tech baked in, but wielding the system was not a joy for us. It felt like we could either dedicate ourselves absolutely to the infinite Swiss watch design or else abstract down toward the core resolution forever without ever doing more than scratch the surface and in general neither of those felt…y’know, good. So we decided to drop it.

Which kind of sucks. I feel a little defeated by the book. Like, I spent a not inconsiderable amount of time plumbing through the obtuse and confusing self-referential and esoteric prose, trying to get to the heart of why so many of my favorite designers cite it as a seminal work in the TTRPG field, but all I got was the feeling that the inheritors of its ideas did a lot to clean them up, sharpen them, and make them infinitely more fun to engage with.

I’m left with a feeling I’m getting pretty used to. I missed that moment when this thing was “cool.” I missed the Forge, I missed G+, and I missed Burning Wheel.

But also, I’m given to understand the Forge, like Burning Wheel, had problems, so I’m not taking it too hard.

We decided to play Mausritter this Friday. In a complete 180 from the rule-heavy interlocking gears and levers of Burning Wheel, the 300 pages of character creation, we decided to roll 3d6 3 times, and then 1d6 twice and take our little adventurer mice into the great big world to face danger and find treasure.

I’ve been having a recent problem where I play games for the wrong reasons. I’m looking for inspiration, for pilferable game design thoughts, for experiences outside of my comfort zone. I’m running games as work, as research. I’m slavishly adherent to the rules as written because I feel as though I owe that to the designer, because they clearly knew what they were doing and were doing it for a purpose. It’s a mental weight.

So I am attacking Mausritter from an entirely different angle. It’s an OSR game, very light and fast and abstracted. The rules are loose and few. It’s very minimal mental overhead. So I don’t have a lot to worry about getting “wrong” in the way that I’ve been secretly fearing I’ve been doing for Burning Wheel these past eight weeks. I’m playing this one for fun.

I’ve told my table that I need them to keep me honest. This is not work. My Friday night table is often abused as a play test group, often treated as an extension of my job as a game designer. I design games so I must play them. But this one’s just for fun. Don’t let me think to hard about it. Because I’m not in a mental state to do that right now.

We’re going to be mice. It’s going to be fun.

Anyway. I’ve done a thing I haven’t done in forever and prepped for a game. I’ve got a cool hexmap (adorable), have created some factions out in the world (portentous), named some NPCs (wholesome), and home brewed up some interesting spells and items to sprinkle around (fun as hell). I have not sat and just played DM by myself in a while. Still not something I want to do every time, but a welcome break from conducting atop a surfboard in front of a disaster wave.

I’m excited about this game. Can’t wait to report back.