#I have a bunch more that I might post later

[tawked]

If I'm being honest, I actually prefer the version of Jason Todd who had a whole arc where the trauma of being Robin during one of Batman's dumb and edgy eras drove him a lil nuts and made him violent, reckless, whatever.

It is a central plot point in A Death in the Family, a comic that while I actively believe no one should read because it is cartoonishly racist, some (me) consider pretty important to understanding the circumstances surrounding Jason Todd's death.

This is consistent with his appearances in earlier stories, forming a character arc wherein he becomes increasingly violent and reckless due to the trauma of his early childhood in poverty and the increasing exposure to violence inherent in being Robin, filtered through the strictly anti-Robin lens of writer Jim Starlin.

Batman #411, he has what is obviously a violent trauma response after finding out Two-Face single parentified his mother.

Batman #422, Batman needs to pull him off a pimp after said pimp threatened his bottom bitch.

Batman #424. I posted this once and someone told me with their whole chest they actually for real believed this dude slipped and Todd didn't kill him which is how I realized that there's a whole generation of Batman fans who do not recognize 1970s-80s action movie tropes. An extremely humbling moment for me lol.

Anyway, notice the sequential nature of the issue numbers.

Now, I sincerely do not want to be a bitch here, but I don't know how else to say this.

The reason Jason Todd is not a violent loose cannon in his earliest appearances, even post-Crisis, is that characters later in their arc are not the same as characters at the beginning of their arc.

These two dudes, who yes are the same dude, have very different relationships with the concept of violent revenge. One of them even cut his own head off in a spooky metaphor cave that taught him about how violent revenge means destroying a part of yourself. The other dude just saw his parents gettin weenie roasted and is mad about that. To reiterate my point, they are the same dude.

But in fandom we have this weird thing where we flat reject this concept of Jason by insisting that no, this characterization was just later writers like Marv Wolfman being haters and retroactively character assassinating him through Tim Drake or something.

We insist on who he was at the beginning of his arc as if he should not, could not, would not on a boat, could not, would not, should not with a goat, develop into anything but who he was at that moment. I have never seen anything else like it in comics or in other fandom. Character development that is just so flat rejected and avoided, in a medium where we usually celebrate development because characters are usually set more or less in stone until the next big reboot event.

And look, if I'm being absolutely honest with you, the smooth clean safe not a wildcard roundhouse kick freak version of Todd that fandom has created is so fucking boring to me.

He is, to me, by far the worst version of the character.

To me, Jason Todd was this Robin specifically:

Batman: The Cult.

That's not Dick Grayson. That's not TIm Drake. That's not Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown, Carrie Kelley, or whatever other version of Robin.

Jason Todd is the "alright you sorry clowns, let's party" Robin. He was written in line with a bunch of action movie and buddy cop tropes. A Death in the Family was straight up a "hand in your badge McKlinsky, you're a loose cannon" arc. And I just feel like the fandom desire to smooth that out of him, whatever the motivation behind it might be, is ultimately in service for a far more boring, more "in line with Dick Grayson and Tim Drake" version of a character who should never have been in line with Dick Grayson or Tim Drake.

[jesslovesboats]

I’m so fascinated by how different polar historians engage with sources. The difference between books like Lansing’s Endurance (which imo drew pretty uncritically from the crew’s narrative, and didn’t distinguish between contemporaneous diaries and later interviews) and Sancton’s Madhouse, which often makes a point of pointing out contradictions and unlikelihoods (although comparing Amundsen with our favorite little miss unreliable narrator does a lot of the work for him), is so intriguing. They’re obviously different projects with different purposes - Endurance is, literally, a Branagh movie, while Madhouse is closer to Iannucci (said lovingly) - but I imagine these differences contribute a lot to the historiography of polar exploration in general. Not to mention which men did and didn’t write diaries, and who did and didn’t survive.

I’m also listening to these on audiobook, and Madhouse was great in that they included some footnotes while other narrators don’t, so sourcing might exist that I don’t know about . But I’m curious for your thoughts on these dynamics, and what accounts you think are the most critical and balanced.

Hello! This is an absolutely fascinating question and one I have so much to say about that I'm not quite sure where to begin, if that makes sense? But, I will try my best to gather a bunch of disjointed thoughts into a coherent response. Full disclaimer, I do have a BA in history but I'm not a practicing historian by any means, and I haven't "done history" in the academic sense since I was an undergrad many years ago. All of my post-grad work has been in library science, so I'm much more familiar with that as an academic framework.

I think that the vast differences you see in how polar historians engage with the source material *usually* come down to 2 factors: what is their purpose, and when are they writing?

There are as many different reasons to write as there are people writing. Most of us are probably familiar with the difference between academic history (which is published by professional historians, usually affiliated with a university and usually as a requirement of their position, with an audience of students and other professional historians) and popular history (which is written by people who are most likely skilled researchers but may or may not have academic credentials, with an audience of the general public), but even within those categories there are huge divisions that have to do with the author's motives and what they hope to accomplish with their work. Is the author telling this story because they want to convey specific new information? Are they hoping to share a compelling story with a wider audience? Do they want to correct the record about misinformation they've seen shared by others? Do they want to rehabilitate the reputation of a person/group/institution? Do they want to write a hit piece about a person/group/institution? Did a story change their life in a meaningful way and they need to express that somehow? I've read polar books that, if I had to guess, were written for all these reasons and more.

There are also trends in historiography, and the time in which someone is writing can have a significant impact on how they tell their story. This is obviously a huge generalization, but the more recently something has been written, the more likely it is that the author engaged critically with the source material. That's not to say that more recent history is better than history written decades ago, just that researchers today are probably approaching it more holistically than they did 100, 50, or even 10 years ago, and their research is more likely to be informed by perspectives other than just the straight white cis wealthy male ones. Another factor to consider when looking specifically at late 19th and early 20th century stories is access to survivors. This is a double-edged sword because on one hand, survivors and their immediate families were incredible sources of information. On the other hand, they were usually very protective of their legacies and those of their comrades, so it could be difficult to write critically about them knowing that they would likely read it. Some also refused to share their diaries and papers with authors, or would only share with certain authors, which further muddied the waters. Most Heroic Age figures had passed on by the 1970s, and I don't think it's a coincidence that you start to get more honest assessments of these stories around this time. That's not the only reason, of course, but I think it's an important factor to consider.

No one can ever truly know someone else's motives, but some authors leave significant trails of breadcrumbs. In the case of Endurance, Lansing was a journalist who came across the story of the ITAE, found it compelling, and was pretty clearly inspired by the figure of Shackleton. It's hard to imagine now, but when Lansing was writing in the 50s, Shackleton wasn't a household name, and the story of the Endurance wasn't especially well known in the US. He found a great story that most people hadn't already heard about a man he admired, and he had access to diaries and survivors, especially Macklin, to help craft his story. Endurance is one of the most engaging polar books I've ever read, but I also think it's a product of its time. Lansing was writing in the 1950s, and several Endurance survivors were still around, not to mention Shackleton's adult children. I can't say if he intentionally excluded more critical information because of the survivors, or because he wanted to lionize Shackleton, or if he left all that out so he could tell a faster paced story. The end result is a book that's compulsively readable and that I recommend as a great introduction to all things Endurance, but it definitely does not tell the whole story- and that's OK! Lansing told the story he wanted to tell, and there are many other books about Endurance and about Shackleton that are better researched and more objective. I'm speaking as a librarian and not a historian here, but I personally don't think it's fair to expect a short work of popular history that's over 60 years old to give a complete unbiased account of the Endurance and all of Shackleton's failings- although I do wish the book mentioned the Ross Sea Party (I will bang this drum until the day I die).

Madhouse is a very different kind of book, as you pointed out in your question! Sancton is also a journalist, and I listened to a podcast where he talked about what inspired him to write Madhouse. If I remember correctly, he came across the story while researching a different topic and discovered that there wasn't much of anything about the Belgica out there, at least not in English. So, this was an opportunity to tell a fascinating story about an expedition that virtually no one had heard of outside of polar circles. I think his main goal was to tell a great story, not necessarily to inspire the reader or boost anyone's reputation posthumously. Sancton also published this book in 2021, so the historical environment was very different. He engaged critically with the source material, pointed out several things in primary sources that seemed off, and offered a variety of possible motives for things that happen in the story. He also looked at the story from more of a social history perspective and talked about what was happening in Belgium at the time and how nationalism played a significant role in the expedition. Overall, I think it's a much stronger book than Endurance, and almost as compulsively readable.

So what to make of all this? I think that, just like it matters when the author was writing and why, it matters when you are reading and why. I have more to say about this (shocking, I know), but there is no perfect polar book- there are lots of excellent polar books appropriate for a variety of different situations. Looking for a great story and don't want to think too much about what's being left out? Endurance. Want something that was meticulously researched and has every detail imaginable? You definitely want journal articles or something written by an academic. Something in the middle? Madhouse. Up to the challenge of reading historic documents with fresh, modern eyes? Look for published diaries and journals (or hit up the archives)! Hagiography? Edward Wilson of the Antarctic by George Seaver. Hit piece? Scott and Amundsen by Roland Huntford. Passion project? The Worst Journey graphic novel by Sarah Airriess or The Expedition by Bea Uusma.

I have been yakking for entirely too long and have no idea if I actually answered your question, but I hope I did on some level, at least! Bottom line, I think your most well rounded source for information about an expedition is usually going to be a book written in the last 10ish years by an author, academic or popular, who is writing to inform as opposed to trying to prove something. I also think that, generally speaking, secondary sources that give an overview of an entire expedition are better entry points than primary sources.

Thank you for another great ask, and I'm sorry it took so long to respond, but as you can see from gestures wildly, I am not well 😅

[reverieshifts]

𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆

𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒓

Ok, so this has taken a while, but I'm finally pretty satisfied with it. But just as a note, this is my first script template I've ever attempted, so it may not be that pretty, especially since I personally prioritize organization over appearance. Also, I'll probably be updating it a lot as I write new things about this dr, because it is definitely not complete. So be prepared for that I guess. Also if anyone has any suggestions, PLEASE tell me!!!

As for the contents, it has basically everything I've talked about in my posts, plus a little more that I couldn't fit into them, such as sections on some of the people's relationships with one another. There's also a bunch of people in the script template I haven't talked about on tumblr, such as the king and queen (my parents), the butler, the captain of the guard (Soren's father figure), and Lord Belgrave (the bane of my existence). There's also some stuff on another holiday that I never got to talk about on tumblr (the festival of blooms). I might make posts about all these things later so people don't have to actually go through my script template to read about them, but idk.

Anyways, please tell me if the link doesn't work, because again, I'm kinda new to this. I'll put the link below, and then I'll also put it in my pinned post so it's easy to find.

𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆

@aprilshiftz @lalalian

[sophtoart]

More surprise fanart! Thank you very much! You may be wondering what happened here. The short version is, Sans went to infiltrate a void-space world of a criminal named Weiss. He was trapped by Weiss. He used Frisk's star to inject boosted Karma into the criminal. For the full chapter, I copy pasted the pairing chapter with no context which you can read under the keep reading. If you like what you see, the full thing is on Ao3 as moth had posted. Thank you again!

Chapter 263: Hellish Hack

Progress towards the brain was going far too smoothly for Sans’ tastes.

Every puzzle, solvable. Every threat, controllable. Every hurdle, navigable.

Another uncoordinated, instinct-driven group of prisoners charged towards him. He faced them head on.

Teleport, stab, teleport, blaster, Karma, cleave, teleport… Each foe required but one strike to their vitals to dissolve into dust.

These rampaging skeleton prisoners don’t even seem to have a mind of their own. Devoid of will, they lack the most basic intelligence, showing zero signs of strategy and tactics: traits that made humanity the most successful species on the planet.

Odder still, whenever the prisoners met their untimely demise, nearby electronics and machinery came to life. Sans activated his Seer’s Eyes to observe their inner workings. The absorbed lifeforce flowed through the facility’s circuitry, behaving more like capillaries than proper electronics.

Cybernetics, thought Sans: a mixture of organic and mechanical components.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Pawn kept their sapience stored elsewhere in order to better control his prisoners. All the more reason I gotta reach the brain, pronto.

Meanwhile, Gaster’s little skull had hitched his ride under Sans’ hood, tucked in firmly so that he wouldn’t fall off in the heat of battle.

Looking around, he commented out loud: “My oh my, this facility is fuelled by Execution Points. What an interesting mechanic. Do you have to be fanciful to make the most out of the kill? What do they call those again? Combos and finishers? Bonuses?”

Sans snorted. “Flair is a waste of energy. This hellhole ain’t looking for style points. It only seeks raw EXP.”

In the middle of his run, he heard a bunch of frightened screams coming from straight ahead. He braced himself to take down more frantic prisoners that might try to trample over him.

But then, just when they emerged from the deep dark, they were mercilessly gunned down by the facility’s own security systems.

Sans dodged out of the way. A thin yet high powered white laser zipped right past his shoulder.

“Turrets.” Sans sighed. “And this prison is too dark to find their source. Fun. Real ‘fun’.”

Doctor Gaster mused out loud: “How very nostalgic. I recall training you with similar trap-infested exercises. Didn’t you used to complain about how they were supposedly useless skills in your adult life?”

“I dunno, doc. If you ask me, your training is still useless for 99.99 percent of the population. I’m just the exception instead of the rule.”

The density of the lasers intensified the deeper he ventured. It was as though they were defending something very, very important.

“The brain is up ahead,” said Sans, “I can feel it in my bones.”

Doctor Gaster, however, had other matters on his mind. “By the by, my wayward student, why didn’t you jump after Queen Toriel?”

That awkward question shook Sans enough to break his concentration. A beam grazed past his cheeks as a result.

Grumbling, Sans snapped back: “Oi, are you trying to get me killed? You could have dropped that hot potato on me before or after the laser run, not in the middle of it.”

“Should you perish, then the Child of Mercy will simply use the Keys of Fate. Perhaps you could better protect Her Majesty in that new timeline.”

“…You really didn’t realize it, huh? The Keys are offline. No SAVES, nada.”

Gaster’s little skull gasped. “What?! Why?!?! How???”

“It’ll take too long to explain. Tell ya later.”

The further Sans travelled, the more complex the laser patterns became. This newest section had additional colours thrown into the mix. By the rules of magic, they went:

Cyan, stay still. Orange, keep moving. White, avoid at all cost.

And, always confirm the truth. Coloured lenses might disguise the output, tricking the intruder into making the wrong choice. Sans carried on navigating through security with those rules etched into his skull.

Gaster cleared his throat. “Well, lasers or no lasers, I refuse to let myself be brushed aside! The Sans I know would have sacrificed an arm and a leg to guarantee Queen Toriel’s safety. And yet, you left her to our mystery necromancer.”

“What can I say? I trust that old grandma. Her sense of professionalism is leagues above yours.”

“Even though you barely know her? Hmmm… I don’t think that excuse makes any sense unless you know more than you let on. Well then, how about an idiom? ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’. Whatever you’re planning requires as little interference as possible, am I right?”

“…Sheesh. I must be getting rusty if you can read me like an open book.”

Delighted, Gaster’s perked up. With a big smile, he said: “It’s part of the benefits of having been your mentor.”

Sans faced the mother of all laser arrays: a mixture of every prior combination. They sprayed in a dazzling display of fanciful beams of light, criss-crossing each other like a net of death.

“Dammit. I gotta trim them down.”

Sans added one additional colour to his set.

[ACTIVE: R / C / Y / P / O] [INACTIVE: B / G]

With the aid of Bravery’s long distance trait, he was able to locate the most troublesome turrets and shoot them down. Limited in stamina, he had to remain economical with every shot, especially with the Seraph System in full swing.

But there was a saving grace. In the far distance, he spotted a hole in the wall, noticeably caused by his own Blaster. Purple embers of remnant Karma prevented it from instantly sealing.

He planted his foot to prime himself for teleportation. Then, in one big leap of faith, he zipped past all the lasers.

It was a success. Sans landed safely on the other side and promptly sat down on the ground, panting. The mad gauntlet had really pushed him to his limits.

[ACTIVE: R / C / Y / P] [INACTIVE: O / B / G]

“Whew… I really gotta… train more… Ayup…”

Looking around, a thick, warm fog obscured any vision in an already dark environment.

Sans asked: “Where the hell are we?”

Gaster wasted no time to wax his medical knowledge. “Based on what my Seer’s Eyes can see, we’re in the equivalent of the cerebrospinal fluid. Think of it as a suspension that protects the brain and spine from all the jostling of daily life. Thus, it also seems that we’ve just crossed the blood-brain barrier, which your Karma cut a hole through.”

“Cool.” After catching his breath, Sans stood up and stretched. “Okay. I’ve recovered enough. Time for the next step. I’m gonna go in there and plug myself into the brain.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? I don’t know what that pile of neurons would do to you.”

“Welp. I can’t negotiate with a babbling bag of bones, y’know. Based on how the other prisoners are behaving, I think Weissy’s mind is separated from his body and stored in some kinda database. The brain should be the best access point.”

“…Hold on. A negotiation?!?” The tiny Gaster gasped. “You are NOT planning to kill my great-to-the-power-of-N grandnephew behind everyone’s backs?! Truly?!”

Sans dangled the gifted crucifix necklace before his former mentor. “I wanna try the merciful way this time. Let’s just say it’ll make Frisk and Tori happy.”

Overjoyed, the skull spun, rolled, and vibrated in excitement. “What an early Gyftmas miracle! I shall do my best to cooperate. I’d say you even found the best person for the job. Certainly, young Weiss would be more amicable knowing that I’m both his relative and a fellow peer! Egads, how do I make myself presentable as a fragment? Maybe I need to shape my cheekbones better--”

While the scientist fretted and fussed over his own presentation, Sans grabbed him whole.

“Sans?” Gaster exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, G. I can’t let you stay.”

“You’re going to throw me out?!? Y-you can’t do that! Is it because I talk too much? I promise I’ll keep my yapper shut--”

“Nope. A skel’s gotta do what a skel’s gotta do.”

Before the tiny fragment of Doctor Gaster doth protest some more, Sans chucked him out through the closing gap.

Then, once the Karma had fully exhausted itself, the wound healed up, sealing Gaster outside the walls…

The future is not set in stone…

Yet, somehow, the present repeats the past.

Sans reached for the back of his neck. Mezil had planted the tiniest red butterfly there, hidden between the joints of his spine as their private little radio.

With a bit of hacking, the Mark lost connection to its owner and dissipated into nothingness.

Sorry Thymer, I can’t leave any vulnerabilities. You’ll understand.

Sans henceforth resumed his journey towards the brain alone. Unlike most fogs he was familiar with, this dense, muggy swamp was closer to a steamy sauna.

Hot… So hot… It’s suffocating to walk in here, let alone run or teleport.

And yet, cold shivers spread throughout his sweaty bones despite the heat. Danger lurked nearby, someway, somehow.

The foggy air grew thicker and thicker. There was so much vapour, a human might risk drowning from those alone. Fortunately for skeletons, they had more than one way to get their oxygen.

He bumped into a wall: an unexpected obstacle, albeit nothing a little Karma couldn’t burn away. Even so, it made traversal slower than he would have liked.

Past the first wall… was another wall. Although annoying, it at least didn’t have any deadly security measures grafted onto it.

Past the second wall was yet another wall. Nothing unusual. The brain was one of the key organs, after all. Having this many levels of cushioning made sense.

After the third wall, the fog dissipated completely.

Finally. I think I’m in the brain.

In the space before him, red, green, and blue LED lights dotted the darkness like stars in the sky. As they blinked and strobed, low hums of machinery whispered secrets through their circuitry.

What’s more, the air thrummed with the sound of whirring fans and the gentle gurgle of cooling pipelines: the type of constant background noise that was quiet yet unsettling.

The brain was also darker than any of the previous areas he had come across. Not a single emergency light could be seen. Therefore, he summoned a small shining bone to serve as his lantern. What little illumination he had revealed towering servers that stretched so tall and wide that he could see neither end.

On both left and right, he saw vast rows of identical devices in all sorts of odd directions, likely leading into yet another labyrinth.

Touching the nearest surface with the tip of his finger, it felt as warm as living flesh.

This… is the same class of magitek as Lil’ Miss Lucy’s Chronograph. Whatever is in there can only be accessed and read by Seers.

All the same, when Sans activated his Seer’s Eyes for a quick inspection, white glitch squares blocked his attempts. It didn’t surprise him that a machine made for Seers had its external casing constructed out of anti-Seer material. Not one single bit.

He chose to go straight down the first aisle he could see, marking it as ‘Number 1’ on his mental map. His intent was to work in one section at a time, covering as much of the grounds as he could without getting lost.

The further he traversed, the more features he could see with the limited light. Cables ran along the walls: some neatly arranged, others a disordered tangled nightmare.

Terminals lay scattered at different levels, their monitors darkened from inactivity. Curiously, they had a keyboard for manual operation.

Looks like Pawn could choose to stroll around his Dreamworld in person. Perhaps by possessing any of the prisoners in the facility.

No ladders, no stairs… Doesn’t look like I can reach up there without teleporting. I’ll resort to that only if I can’t find anything at ground level.

Before long, Sans came across a suspicious implement dangling from the wall. It looked identical to the cables he had seen, except for the clawed end. Red Mithril tipped the fangs, ominously gleaming out of place in a standard server terminal.

Hmmm… If it’s anything like one of those toy-grabbing machines, I should be able to pull it out of the cable.

With telekinesis, he gave the claw a gentle tug, but it wasn’t budging. He then applied more force to yank it harder. Out came a long, segmented spinal cord, spilling lubricating mucus from within onto the floor alongside it.

What the actual fuck.

The impromptu mess of a biohazard was swiftly absorbed by the facility for reuse elsewhere.

Welp. Guess I now know why this place has so much liquid piping.

He angled the contraption to face him for a quick inspection. A small needle made out of dense, intertwined nerves stuck out from the centre of the claw portion, ready to pierce through the bones of a skeleton like Weiss and his fellow prisoners.

So that’s what this is. A direct connection to the user’s brain, huh? This is good as becoming one with the machine. I bet it’s the height of Seer technology, but also the most taboo. Though, if you ask me, my invention is not that much different, common principles and all. Which means…

Sans rolled up his right sleeve. The Red Mithril of the Seraph System resonated in response to the Dreamworld’s atmosphere, repelling the lingering corruption in the air.

Yeah. I can totally do this in reverse. Processing the data through The Seraph System may be slower than a spinal link, but it’s hell a lot safer. Like the old man said, I have no idea what this pile of neurons is gonna do to me when I try to plug in.

He enchanted his lantern bone with Karma and used it to cut the claw head of the spine. As long as the poison was in effect, the object shouldn’t heal right away.

Next, he drove the blade of the Seraph System through the nerves, establishing an indirect path between himself and the brain with his machine as the intermediate.

I’ll use a tiny bit of Determination to soften the entry point. Turning that part into an Amalgamate reduces the chance of rejection as well.

Alright. Let’s get some information first…

The moment he burned his Seer’s Eye, nigh-infinite data flooded his mind as gibberish noise.

Tsk, of course it’s not gonna be easy. I gotta move fast. Let’s see, how can I do this without exploding my own noggin?

[ACTIVE: R / B / G / Y / P] [INACTIVE: C / O]

Reinforce… Restore… Appraise… Archive… Imagine them as files… and narrow down any that catch my attention…

In his vision dive, shapeless noise turned into mental paper files, floating weightlessly in the air. It didn’t take long for Sans to spot a book. He imagined his left hand reaching out to grab it.

The title read: ‘Operating Manual.’

He wasted no time to process the data.

In summary, the brain is a giant black box with multiple partitions. Different parts manage different functions, and I’m currently in the ‘hippocampus’ that’s supposed to manage memory, learning, navigation, and perception of space. If I want to change the layout of the facility I need to be at the ‘basal ganglia’ instead.

Dammit. What the heck is a ‘basal ganglia’? What does it even look like? If Gaster was around, he could guide me to the right place. But had I kept him he’d DEFINITELY fuck everything up by being himself.

Lil’ Miss Lucy would have been perfect for the role but… nah… I don’t wanna drag her in here. She ain’t on my speed dial anyway.

The book disintegrated in his grasp the moment he let go of the book. The internal firewall was already punishing his invasion with hostile inconveniences.

Where’s Weissy? Come out, come out, wherever you are~~ I’m here to talk.

…Staying silent, huh? Don’t mind if I help myself to some juicy information then.

He searched through the scattered papers for any signs of his target. There were many interesting tidbits, such as the location of past colonies, a map of the ‘down under’, and plans to make multiple new ones.

What’s this? Malaya was supposed to be sent to a new skeleton colony in the Down Under after completing her mission in Ebott. Her final job, huh? No wonder she was so hostile towards me. I was her one obstacle to freedom.

Heh, Pawn had already matched her with a fiancé around her age. Guess the engagement’s cancelled, cause Snakeface is definitely not gonna marry off his new daughter to anyone anytime soon. That’s the least of our worries, though. Now that their head honcho is dead, I’m not even sure if the colony remains operational. A rescue mission doesn’t seem likely either since the Ocean Battle takes priority.

Had Thymer’s niece become a skeleton, I bet she would’ve been sent there too. Why is Pawn targeting the Winston family for his grand eugenics plan?

Sans fished out a mugshot of Rosemary. In doing so, he reeled in multiple threads from news clips, reports, to photographs.

What caught his attention the most was a piece of paper with moving pictures: film. Sans plucked it out from the air before it floated away.

Playing on a loop, the clip showed a few seconds of a full crimson eclipse against a dark starless sky, looming over what appeared to be an abandoned nuclear power plant. It didn’t take long for unseen nightmarish fiends to destroy the camera.

Isn’t that… a full blown Celestial Calamity?

The back side listed a bunch of names and dates.

Vinland, 1970 Albion, 1945 Yamato, 1815 Omni Itari, 1600 Romanesca, 1476

Interesting stuff… But, I’m running out of time. I gotta focus on Weiss next.

Despite going deeper and deeper, he still couldn’t find any traces of Weiss or how to contact him.

Tsk. No dice. I should try elsewhere.

Disconnecting.

Thus, Sans ended the dive. The images of floating papers vanished, and he was back to staring at the server wall. He ejected the Seraph System from the horror-esque cable as soon as he could.

He turned away and walked down the aisle to search for a new place to dig for data.

Alright, where should I check next?…

His pondering was disrupted by a flash of bright light. He instinctively shielded his eyes and prepared to teleport away, thinking that he had been busted.

But the light didn’t come from a security spotlight. Instead, it came from a monitor screen. Mechanical arms took it out of the wall and brought it right up to Sans’ face.

This screen showed a rippling grey door, struggling to remain intact Black smoke threatened to swallow it whole.

More mechanical arms then pushed the screens his way. This time he saw Gaster’s tiny communication skull desperately barrelling down a path, trying to outspeed the aims of various laser beams.

As for the rest of Gaster’s body, his liquid self was clinging to the inside of Anya’s Arcanagram-anchored bunker entrance for his dear life. The facility had shifted to an awkward angle, precariously hanging him over a bottomless edge.

More monitors popped out from the walls, shoving the scopes of a great many turrets into his face, each of them targeting his friends.

Cenna trashed another group of berserk skeletons with her SOUL bird. Frisk protected their sister with a mixture of Cyan and Green stars from the onslaught.

The biggest, brightest screen showed footage of Anya and Toriel. They cautiously navigated the dangerous prison complex upside down and downside up. Smarts and an army of ghosts helped a long way.

Sans was utterly glued to the screen, his SOUL beating with heartfelt concern for Toriel’s safety.

Suddenly, every monitor switched to showing Sans himself surrounded from every possible angle.

Then they cranked up their brightness far beyond comfort, flashing, distorting, and cycling through neon colours at a rapid pace. The flickering lights flooded the once dark server room, overloading and stunning his senses. Light was a Seer’s absolute worst enemy, especially for those who suffered from Overburn.

In that brief moment of weakness, the regenerated spine cable struck Sans’ back with great precision. The claws tore through the cloth of his clothes and gripped on tight, melting straight into his central nervous system.

When the neural needle pierced into him, he felt the worst pain he had ever had the misfortune to experience. Not even his worst self-experimentation with the Seraph System came close.

His first reaction was to try to counter the invader with his decaying touch, but foreign hostile data prevented his arms from moving properly.

Another cable latched onto his spine. And another, and another, and another. With every addition, the drowsier he felt.

His consciousness fading, the prison complex dragged him into the embrace of darkness…

Dreamy thoughts ebbed and flowed.

Heavy…

My back feels heavy.

What a chore… What a chore…

It’s a chore to think.

It’s a chore to move.

It’s a chore to breathe.

Everything is a chore, really.

Ah… Nothing’s better than snuggling under a warm baby blanket…

I just wanna go home and rest, forever and ever and ever and ever…

……………

No. Wake up, Sans. This is neither the place or the time to be a slob.

He snapped wide awake, discovering that he had grown three familiar pairs of wings, folding over his body. Each of their feathers consisted of artificial Seer’s Eyes, the same construct he once made for parallel processing.

Talk about a blast from the past. This… is my Seven SOUL form.

His spine remained fused with the server. No matter how much he commanded his limbs to do anything, he was still unable to move. The creepy clawed cables had ensnared him through and through.

Against his will, Sans then spread his Seraph wings. Every feather opened up their burning Seer’s Eye, and their irises shone in pristine white. Chapter 264: Hallowed Hack

Just as Papyrus packed away the last of the assigned shopping supplies into a shopping bag, he heard the synchronous melody of marching drums, trumpets, and horns. The sound quality screamed ‘electronic speakers’, but even so, what event required such a scene?

When he looked out, a procession passed by the shop window. Many black fancy cars flew unfamiliar flags as they drove down the street.

He wondered out loud before the cashier: “THOSE CARS… ARE THEY FOREIGN AMBASSADORS FROM A DIFFERENT COUNTRY?”

Garamond replied, “No. They’re heraldry flags of the local Royal Family. I see… They’re probably on the move to Mount Ebott.”

“IS THAT A GOOD THING OR A BAD THING?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know enough to answer that.” He paid for the goods with the company credit card and kept it away in a safe place.

Growing nervous, Gaelic took as many bags as he could carry, his shoulders hunching more than usual. “‘Tis best we leave. Crowds bring only trouble.”

Once the procession passed, Papyrus spotted a streetwear store right across the street. Placed right at the window view for any buyer to see, that store had a man’s blue and white hoodie draped over a mannequin.

“THAT’S MY BROTHER’S HOODIE!” Papyrus exclaimed, wide-eyed and a little teary. “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M SO HAPPY TO SEE HIS LAZY SENSE OF FASHION OUT HERE! SO CONVENIENTLY PLACED ACROSS THIS VERY ROAD, I MIGHT ADD. GENTLEMEN, I’LL BE RIGHT BACK!”

The young skeleton thought it was going to be a quick purchase. In his mind, he already pictured himself hopping into the store, buying all the necessary Sans-approved clothes, and getting right back into the car. The whole operation should have been a flawless success.

‘Should’, was the word.

A half-finished soda can struck him on the shoulder, spilling some of its sugary contents on him.

After that, he heard angry, frightened screaming from all around.

“Aieeeee! A skeleton!” “The Devil’s minions!” “He might blow up the town like that giant werewolf!” “Don’t let him get near the King!!” “FUCK OFF, DEMON!!!”

Papyrus tried to speak. “W-WAIT! I JUST WANT TO BUY CLOTHES!”

But nobody listened.

The populace continued their angry screams, throwing whatever they had in their hands: half-eaten food, water bottles, even more tin cans, pieces of rock, and even garbage.

Papyrus raised his hands to protect his head. He didn’t dodge. He didn’t cut anything down. Instead, he endured the abuse. His Seer’s Eye didn’t awaken. Rather… he refused to let it awaken.

* * *

Sans snapped out of the vision. His perception cleared and the mental fog dissipated.

Trying to override me? Joke’s on you, this ain’t my first rodeo fighting against mind-control shit. You got that Spamton fella to thank for.

Still, I’m still left with three huge problems: I blacked out, unwillingly transformed into angel mode, and I’m performing vision dives against my will.

Since I’m connected through my spine, I should also assume the mastermind can read my thoughts.

Not long after, a voice similar to Gaster spoke through what sounded like an old analogue speaker. He could hear the family resemblance.

“You.” said the voice. “You’re Pawn’s favoured assassin.”

Sans dished out his signature wink and got right to work. “Hi there, Doctor Weiss. Nice meeting ya. The name’s Sans: Sans the Skeleton.”

“How do you know I’m this ‘Weiss’ to begin with? I could be one of the many other unfortunate prisoners erased of their name and identity.”

“I’ve heard your voice before, bud. Vision dives and all.”

“That’s not enough evidence. All those trapped in here are clones from a common base, enhanced or otherwise. Plus, you’ve seen how Pawn had the ability to mimic others. How are you so sure I’m not another facsimile of him?”

“Heh,” said Sans. “If you didn’t know, I shoved the prison complex’s ownership to someone else. Who? That doesn’t matter. Definitely not some distant relative of yours or anything. Yet, for some reason, he’s not able to be recognised as an admin. It proves to me that no random Schmuck or Joe can take the empty seat. If we entertain the fact that Pawn is an AI clone of Doctor Weiss, then wouldn’t that make the original base the next best candidate? None of his copies would've made for as exact a match.”

A moment of contemplative silence hung in the air. “I concede. Your streetwear belies your intellect. I am indeed Doctor Weiss of House Ariella. Or, should I say, ‘formerly’ of House Ariella. I cut ties with them a long time ago.”

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere. Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Tell me, is it your style to fraternize with your victims before stabbing them in the back? Your master surely trained you well.”

“C’mon, is that how you see me? A sick freak? No sirree, that ain’t me. I’m just your resident funny guy. Not out to kill ya. Not in any way, at all. See, hypothetically, if I really wanted to do that, I would have used a completely different approach to snuff you out. But here I am trying to chat up a storm.”

“I suppose that explains why catching you was easier than I expected.”

“Ahuh, ahuh, let my guard down and all. Y’know Weissy… you sound pretty sane for a guy tortured by a DEMON for god knows how many decades, being an Amalgamate and all.”

“My renewed mental clarity is a recent development, returned to me the moment Pawn was vanquished. The torturous imprisonment you speak of has become nothing more than a lingering nightmare, swiftly forgotten.”

“Convenient. Let’s cut to the chase. We got a Red and a Boss Monster in here really wanting to put this hellhole to rest and save you. I personally don’t care what you’re up to, but Frisk? That’s a different story. So, all you gotta do is give me what I ask, and I’ll help the kiddo do their thing.”

Weiss replied, “How presumptuous of you to think I want a second chance in life to begin with. And this so-called negotiation… you act more like a human than a monster.”

Sans replied, “Figured you might say something like that. Pitch me a counter. What else do you want?”

“Nothing. I’m fine with any outcome. Know, though, that this renewed clarity may not last long. Evolution requires sacrifice, after all. Our agreement could be null and void at any time.”

“Bummer. That’s a wrench in the works. Looks like a stalemate, huh? Welp. If nothing matters, might as well spill the beans, right? Me and the kiddo got some lingering questions, like: why did Pawn target Rosemary? His methods were weirdly long term. In case you don’t know, we only have about two more weeks before the Ocean Abomination rears its ugly head and the world ends. No babies are gonna be born in that timeframe, y’know. Nevermind refining them over generations.”

“The Supreme Judge would never let the world perish prematurely. It only makes sense to prepare for the inevitable future where The Ocean Amalgamate is dealt with. What a simple question.”

“…Simple? Nah. It’s not simple at all. I’m gonna spin this in another angle. If Thymer’s success is an inevitable outcome, then all Pawn’s gotta do is to sit tight and wait, right? But… he didn’t do that. Bugger came out of his hidey rat-hole this round. He even tried to kill the very same Supreme Judge that might’ve saved his bacon. Why? What changed?”

“What else? You changed. It’s the Butterfly Effect at its fullest.”

“C’mon, don’t put the spotlight on me like that. I’m not the protagonist. The Red is.”

“That Wanderstar child is irrelevant to Pawn.”

“They’re relevant to me. I wouldn’t have done any of the things I did if I didn’t make a promise with the kiddo.”

“I shall break it down into irrefutable terms. The Core is an asset. The technology of reincarnation is an asset. The Seraph System is an asset. You are an asset. That human, on the other hand, is a threat.”

“No one credits the pouring rain for the invention of the raincoat, or the drowning sea for the boat, or the baking sun for shelter. Recognition is instead given to those who invent ways to counter those threats.”

Sans narrowed his gaze. “Fair point. Welp. Is the Ocean Amalgamate an asset or a threat then?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Nah. See, from what I’m hearing, Thymer started out as an asset. I mean, just gotta wait for Mister Dark Hero to save the world, right? But then, because of me, he suddenly became a threat to be eliminated.”

“Once Pawn killed Thymer, he would have had to fill the Dark Hero shoes all by himself. How exactly would he have saved the world? Maybe… by absorbing the threat of the Abomination? Y’know, making it an asset by keeping the masses corralled under one mind. Persona, with his lightning, had a similar ability to chain the beast to his control.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t Pawn do this sooner rather than later? When you’re an artificial Mark sapient Amalgamate, overpowering that uncoordinated mass of monsters comes with little to no risk. Even if he doesn’t want to be a hero, absorbing a living Philosopher’s Stone strikes me as a huge boon to his eugenics project. More species, more samples, more of ‘everything’.”

“You are correct, Sans Serif. This particular vessel lacks variation. As you have seen… all within this facility are Weiss, and Weiss is all. Once upon a time, Pawn did seek to merge himself with the Abomination in hopes of improving his genetic diversity.

“And yet, that’s not what happened. Why? Here’s what I’m thinking: it’s the same reason why Thymer always loses the Ocean Battle halfway through the mission. Every future I’ve analyzed showcased a really, really consistent turning point where that big blob of suffering turned into a perfectly organized army, complete with the most crushingly efficient counteroffensive. This tells me… there’s something inside. Something that Pawn can’t defeat on his own. Or rather, I’d say… ‘Someone’.”

Another accurate assessment. Indeed! Pawn feared... another. A greater will within the Abomination. Though its existence was not a certainty. Only a mere possibility. He dared not challenge it, instead seeking to curry favors for survival.”

“Yeah… As is, Pawn would’ve needed an edge to even begin to challenge the mind behind the Ocean Amalgamate. And the Seraph System is the ultimate weapon against Reds. No wonder he coveted it.”

“Correct, again and again and again. A frightening yet exhilarating display of intelligence. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this entertained. Since we’ve made ourselves clear, allow me to continue borrowing this wonderful asset you’ve invented.”

“Wait. Hold up-”

Before he could fully voice his objection, an uncomfortable shivering sensation shot through Sans’ spine, sending foreign signals against his will.

* * *

This vision showed Frisk and Cenna, the Wanderstar siblings.

They had holed themselves up in what appeared to be a forgotten inventory room. Cenna secured the place with some Arcanagrams, while Frisk lay down on the ground, panting heavily.

Cranky yet tired, the child complained: “Where… Where is the SOUL room…? Why can’t I use my SAVES???”

Cenna placed a juice box next to Frisk. “Better rest up while you can, Frisky. I can’t have ya losing consciousness on me. Sure, you’re fit enough to run all the way from town to Mount Ebott, but fighting at the same time is mighty tough on your body. Here, have some juice. I snagged a couple from Madam Willowherb just in case.”

The kiddo sat upright, took the box from the floor, and started angrily poking the straw through the hole. Upon the first taste, however, their eyes opened up in delight. They proceeded to slurp the contents down in one fell swoop.

Afterwards, Frisk let out a huge sigh of relief. Their irritation all but gone, they clasped their hands together and expressed their gratitude for the small precious comfort. “Thank you Scary Grandma for the glorious rejuvenation juice.”

Frisk then asked: “Hey Sis, why aren’t you tired?”

“I’m a trained grownup, y’know. Even then…” Cenna opened the last box to drink its contents. “I still gotta pace myself.”

“Oh okay. Also, Sis, did you say ‘hours’? We’ve been running around for hours?”

“Feels like it. But, I don’t have the Trap Harvester to keep track of void time anymore.”

Frisk mused out loud, “I wish Snakeface was here. I bet he could find that doodoobutt in a heartbeat. X-ray eyes for the win!”

“Yeah. We would be way less confused too.”

A moment passed, and then Cenna started to sound more serious. “…Say, Frisky. What were you planning to do?”

“I… I was thinking of releasing everyone trapped in this place. And then, maybe, reincarnating them with Goopdoc’s help.”

“Including the bad guy?”

Frisk nodded with determination. “Including the bad guy.”

Cenna asked, “How are ya gonna go about it?”

“Um, I don’t know. I’ll have to see the SOUL room first.”

“Promise me that you’ll be careful. I keep getting goosebumps, telling me this place is more dangerous than it looks. Call it a Vanquisher’s instinct.”

* * *

Sans wrestled control back over his own body to cut the vision off. “Hey. What’s the big deal? Antagonising each other ain’t gonna help with negotiations.”

Weiss chuckled, cutting and warping into popping static. “As I’ve said: I’m fine with any outcome. There’s nothing for me to buy and nothing for you to sell. Therefore negotiations have broken down.”

“What you just witnessed was an event that took place ten minutes into the past. Back then, I saw it play out exactly as you just have. Now that I’ve assessed the system’s ability to view the past, we shall proceed with the next experiment; its capacity for futuresight.”

“Really?” Sans scoffed. “We’re having another go at this so soon? And I bet this all seems so very, very interesting to you.”

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, even after so many generations. Weiss had the same mentality as Gaster when it came to his research.

Without further ado, the invader forced yet another vision upon Sans.

* * *

The high density of Determination distorted the environment, preventing it from rendering beyond vague red-tinted shapes and blobs.

The people, however, were as clear as day.

His beloved Queen Toriel lay on the floor, unconscious. The hems of her clothes were frayed and her fur singed. Odd. As a Fire-based Boss Monster, she should have been immune from the lick of flames. The only other possibility was intense electrocution.

“Mom…?” said Frisk. They sat down and tried to shake her. “Mom, wake up. We… We’re not out of trouble yet… Mom? Mom!”

But there was no response. Frisk looked at their hands and their eyes widened in horror. They were coated with monster dust.

Whatever caused Toriel’s defeat, it was fatal enough to break Frisk’s otherwise stoic composure. The child cried as they continued to try to wake their mother up.

“Mom!!! Don’t die!!! Please!!!”

When it became clear that Toriel was in great danger, Cenna rushed to their sibling’s side. “Green Star, hurry! I’ll help!”

Frisk planted their healing Mark on Toriel’s chest, still sobbing despite their actions.

Joining their efforts, Anya Willowherb reached her hands over the Queen, softly chanting: “O’ wounded soul… divine restoration mend thy wounds. Upon this name: Toriel Dreemurr, Queen of Monsters, I proclaim.” The symbol of the shepherd thus supported Frisk’s star, providing additional guidance to an otherwise tricky procedure.

“She’s safe for now,” said the old sage. “But she must leave the Dreamworld immediately. Tarry any longer and the beloved Queen might truly perish.”

Cenna switched from playing the role of a medic and back to her usual Vanquisher self. Her breaths heaved from boiling rage. “Weiss, you fucking piece of shit…! No more mercy for you!”

But Willowherb instead ordered: “Stop! Judge Caraway… No, Cenna Wanderstar. Your duty lies elsewhere: the Spring Mission.”

The sage stepped forward, putting herself between Weiss and the group. “Everyone, please listen. I’ve lived a long and fulfilling life. The least I could do is to end this spectre of my past. Weiss is my war – my graveyard – not yours. I’ll keep him busy until you escape.”

“What the…” Cenna protested. “I’m not trading one mom with another mom! Lady Lucy will take my head if we lose you!”

“She won’t. In fact, she expects this outcome. Now go. You have a new mother to save, don’t you?”

Though hesitant, Cenna conceded. “Give Mom an extra Blue Star. We gotta get out of here. I’m worried about lingering damages caused by DT...”

Still sobbing, Frisk asked, “But, what about Scary Grandma?”

“We can only respect her wishes. C’mon. Up we go…”

Though reluctant, Frisk and Cenna carried Queen Toriel out of the battlefield.

Meanwhile, Anya Willowherb the Necromancer materialised a glowing, crimson staff.

“O’ Restless Dead, rise from thy slumber! Be my sword, my arrow, my shield! Unite under my banner to end this nightmare! Our last stand is here, now or never!”

An army of ghosts formed behind her, decked in full gear. Each and every one was a person who pledged allegiance to follow her to the end of her existence. Their numbers, tens of dozens, perhaps even hundreds, and each one of them a force to be reckoned with.

Sans could tell from the look on Frisk’s face that nothing went as they wanted it to go.

Absolutely nothing at all.

* * *

“Dammit,” Sans grunted. “Why is the future always doom and gloom?”

Weiss replied, “Don’t you like it that way? Is it not the path you’ve set yourself upon? The moment I saw that Boss Monster and that Red child together, I knew what you were trying to do. To save or to condemn, both require the greatest magic, borne from the unity of humans and monsters. It is, after all, the very same magic that powers The Celestial Calamity.”

“Indeed, how else do you hope to tackle The Celestial Calamity embedded within this facility? And yet, as you’ve seen, you’re gambling on frail mortals. One misfortune is enough to shatter their lives.”

“Look, can’t you see I’m trying to save you? Stop making this difficult.”

“Why do you wish to save me? Is it because it’s ‘the right thing to do’? Does that appeal to your Yellow? No, you’ve made it clear that such an outcome is not your own desire. You’re trying to appease the sensibilities of others, hoping that you’re the fool and they’re the wise. In other words, you yourself wish that your cynical mindset is an error.”

“Pathetic. Hope cannot avoid the inevitable. Death, destruction, evil: all are inevitable. What you pretend to follow is nothing but the puerile imaginations of the naive. I can only fathom it’s because you hold your little brother very close to your heart. Too close for my liking. Such a squander of potential.”

“You--!”

“As punishment for straying from enlightenment, I suppose I shall have to make you suffer.

Weiss zapped Sans’ nerves with distorted signals, sending torturous pain throughout his bones. It served no other purpose than to inflict agony for a perceived flaw.

Once more, a vision was begrudgingly compelled upon Sans.

* * *

Sans saw a certain red car, parked in an underground parking lot. An old, eroded Magus Association symbol on a nearby pillar hinted that this was one of the Magi’s many city hideouts.

Gaelic got to work patching Papyrus’ injuries with the contents of a first aid kit and some cleaning wipes. Any missing medicine was made up with a bit of pharmaceutical spit.

The tattooed one exclaimed: “Cor Blimey, yer bleeding dust. Why dinnae ya do anything??? Ah seen yer skills and yer Eye. Ya could have just smacked ‘em flying nonsense out o’ the way!”

Papyrus glanced to the side, touching the leaf plastered on his face. “I DIDN’T GET ANY WARNING VISIONS. SO, I KNEW NONE OF THEM WOULD BE FATAL. BUT. UM. I… I HAD A FEELING THAT IF I FOUGHT BACK… THE HUMANS WOULD GET SCARED OF ME FOR REAL. I’D NEVER MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM AGAIN…”

“That not be a reason to let yerself get this hurt! …Bah. Who am I to preach? Meself a feared outcast fer a reason. Perhaps yer way o’ restraint be better in the long run.”

“MISTER GAELIC, THIS LEVEL OF REJECTION, IS IT WHY YOU WERE SO ANGRY AT ME? FOR… FOR RUINING MISTER MAGUS’ REPUTATION BEFORE FRISK AND THE REST?”

“What balderdash are ya yapping-- Yer speaking o’ that kangaroo court? Aye aye aye! That be why! Ye greenhorn whelp, ya only clicked two and two together right now? Brutish misery awaits those cast out!”

“IT NEVER REALLY SANK IN… UNTIL NOW. AND… AND… I THINK… I FINALLY UNDERSTAND WHY SANS HID ALL HIS COOLNESS FROM THE PUBLIC. MAYBE… EVEN EBOTT’S OWN MONSTERS WOULD BE SCARED OF HIM IF THEY KNEW…”

Papyrus sobbed before he could finish his sentence, still shaken by the violence he endured. The stress from the hectic days had piled to their breaking point. “I just want to get some clothes for my brother…”

Patting him on the shoulder, Gaelic said: “Lad, there be extra clothing in the Magi’s stock. He not be running around in his birthday bones, ah guarantee it.”

“Okay…” he whimpered. “If you say so.”

Although Papyrus tried to put up a strong front, Sans knew from the tone of his diminished voice that he was deeply distraught from his worldview being broken.

* * *

Sans woke up to find himself hyperventilating. By sheer force of will, he tried to calm himself down, knowing full well that this was but bait set up by Weiss to try to pull whatever little emotional heartstrings still existed in his heart.

“I sense cold anger. Fear and concern as well. I understand that a piece of your sibling’s Psychia was used to patch certain areas in yours. Yet, you were surprisingly high-functioning even before your surgery. To the people around you, you would have been considered ‘normal’.”

“You? Trying to psychoanalyse me? That’s rich.”

“It was a part of my doctor’s training to study those affected by your affliction. Except, those patients were impulsive, irresponsible, and parasitic. Combine that with their inability to process negative stimuli of any kind, they behaved in offputting ways, ill-suited to society.”

“So, what is the true extent of ‘your’ Overburn? Which parts of your brain still function without alteration? Why do you differ from the broken shells that others became? How do you stay sane? Who motivates your apparent normalcy? Surely it's not that half-wit brother you’re so fond of.”

What followed after was a flood of mind-altering signals. Chemicals? Electrical signals? Magical manipulation? All of those combined?

Nevertheless, Sans persevered through the cacophony of senses, thoughts and emotions.

In the midst of it, Weiss changed his subject. “The humans hurt him. They hurt your dearest younger brother. Don’t you wish to punish them? Stalk them? Haunt them? Let them know there is no peace to be found anywhere on Earth?”

Sans answered without hesitation. “No. Papyrus wouldn’t want that.”

“Don’t you wish to punish their leaders? Make them lose everything they hold dear? To deliver justice denied?”

“No. Papyrus wouldn’t want that.”

“Don’t you wish to see the world burn? To cast divine judgement? To charge alongside The Almighty to cast all the unclean and unbelieving into Hell?”

“Fuck no. Papyrus wouldn’t want me to become a goddamn supervillain. Tori won’t. Frisk won’t. My parents won’t. Nobody I know would.”

“But I know deep down in your burning heart, you desire all those things. You want to, but you can’t. That’s why you smothered those desires with nihilistic passiveness. I can feel what you’re feeling, you know. We are connected through the same mainframe after all. Do not be ashamed. It is only natural. Everyone has fantasized about unleashing their hate at one point or another.”

Sans ignored the devil’s whispers, still trying to regain control.

“You’re showing active resistance. It seems being on the brink of losing your sanity multiple times has made you rather resilient.”

Sans snorted. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to entertain every damn desire that goes through your head?”

“Oh, many have taught me aplenty. My mother. My father. My brothers and sisters. My cousins. My great ancestor, Ariella herself. They all made sure that I knew when to apply restraint and when to apply assertiveness. To move only by the will of others.”

“Certain parts of their teachings remain consistent and true. The strong survive, the weak perish. Strength doesn’t always equate to martial prowess, however. Having a stable reputation is also a form of strength. Having a loving, hardworking family is a strength as well. Your beloved brother suffered mockery and scorn because he’s weak in his societal standing, yet refused to keep himself hidden in the shadows.”

“Still, there’s a way to turn this around. The Calamity has deemed you fit to become my Immortal Guardian. As such, it materialized your inner world – evolution once denied – reconstructed using this facility’s very own cells.”

“You are thus as you are now by the grace of the celestial: The Seraph of bountiful Seer’s Eyes, burning white and processing in parallel. Undeniably, the sheer quantity of information you can gather in that form, from past, present, and future alike, is the ultimate weapon to destroy the established order no matter what era.”

“Imagine – Sans Serif – we could make a paradise for the irregular. You and I, together.”

Sans raised an eyebrow. “Paradise? In Hell? Complete utter fucking bullshit. Nothing good comes from a rotten core. You can take your offer and shove it where the crimson sun don’t shine.”

“Hmm? How crass. It appears that you’ve forgotten that you’re connected to the facility’s mainframe. With your magic under my control, you can barely act without permission. Not even Karma, your body’s natural defence, has the efficacy to change this circumstance. My regeneration already outpaces its rot, as evident by the aforementioned. All that remains is for your will to be broken. Therefore…”

“Witness your inevitable submission.”

The vision switched to viewing Sans from a third-person point of view, a disorientating, depersonalising angle.

SERAPH SYSTEM V3 OLD ADMIN: SANS SERIF NEW ADMIN: DOCTOR WEISS

INITIATING OVERRIDE

TRANSFERRING PERMISSIONS TO NEW ADMIN

5%… 10%… 60%… 80%...

Sans grunted and fought back, mentally undoing Weiss’ command. A tug of war over the Seraph System erupted.

INITIATING OVERRIDE

REVERTING PERMISSIONS TO OLD ADMIN

80%... 60%… 10%… 5%…

INITIATING OVERRIDE

TRANSFERRING PERMISSIONS TO NEW ADMIN

5%… 10%… 60%… 80%...

Sans’ prosthetic arm began to move against his will, along with the system embedded within. The blade snapped out of its holster in preparation to Mark its target.

“By King’s Decree, Weiss declared, Become my Immortal Guardian!”

The arm turned inwards to stab its own owner. However… it didn’t land its strike. It stopped right before impact.

90%… 95%… 98%… 99%...

One missing percent hovered precariously over the tipping point, refusing to budge.

Weiss questioned: “You! Why do you continue to resist?!”

“Welp. A certain herbaceous vampire gave me a warning.” Sans answered. “He said: ‘Angels who rebel become demons. They’re destined for eternal condemnation’. And I agree. Turning into some twisted version of myself is no different from becoming a demon. I don’t wanna put him in the tough position of an executioner, y’know.”

“Another pathetic excuse. You don’t fear death. Give me the honest answer!”

“Heh. Do you even care? No amount of explanation is gonna get through your thick skull. I’ll just have to show you that every connection is a two-way street.”

Sans gritted his teeth and motivated himself for one final push. “I am Determined to persevere on Hopes and Dreams.”

The Claim on his SOUL responded by resonating with his will, amplifying into a great shining star, bright and golden. Lifeforce and Determination began filling up his bones. He could feel himself getting stronger by the second.

At the same time, his Ascension kicked in, bathing his whole body in a faint purple hue.

“Who ever said I need control over my magic to begin with?” Sans said, deviously smiling. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve been at 1HP whether I wanted to or not. Anything above that gets eaten by Karma… especially something so brilliant as lifeforce fuelled by the entire world’s Determination. And the higher the number, the more violent the reaction.”

As his LV and HP rose, Sans’ instinctive immune response grew unrestrained. To the point where Weiss could no longer hold it back. Before the doctor managed to comprehend the nature of his oversight, the corrosive poison had already begun gushing back through the spine cables and straight into the rest of the prison complex

“AAAGH!…It burns!… IT BURNS!!” The whole facility screeched alongside Weiss from the sheer agony inflicted.

“Enjoy the souped-up Hopes and Dreams edition, on the house.”

The rotted cables released their grip, freeing Sans from his entanglement and Weiss from his suffering. Sans braced his landing on his feet and knees. It would be funny to land face first on the floor, but the comedy act would have to wait for another day.

Still reeling from what had transpired, Weiss seethed in rage. “…You… You have forced my hand, Sans Serif!…

Regaining his composure a bit more, Weiss resumed his mocking: “What a shame… You’ve forfeited your place in the Elysian Ark.… And here I thought of giving you a spot as a fellow superior mind.”

The term ‘Elysian Ark’ was new to the skeleton. Curious. Throughout all his vision dives, the results of the bad endings, and the spiralling doom he had witnessed… he had never heard of it before.

Could it be a clue to their golden future? Or was it a sign of worse to come?

“I am Determined to persevere on Hopes and Dreams.”

- From Chapter: 264 of the Fanafic The Golden Quiche by @sophtopus

[zylphiacrowley]

Ways to keep warm in the cold:

[artifeast]

some more telesphore :3

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[whimsipunk]

Isaac Towser

--- He/Him --- 25 --- Monster Hunter ---

Isaac is the son of a pastor and a second generation monster slayer. He's trained to hunt and kill “demons” since he was very young, being taught that almost every kind of mythical creature is an affront to God that must be eradicated. He spends several nights a week patrolling Rapid City, keeping an eye out for magic portals and anything that might slip through them. Brooks has been getting in Isaac's way for several years now, always stepping up to defend the creatures Isaac lives to kill, so when Isaac discovers that Brooks can use magic, he makes it his mission to take out the “witch” personally.

Hair: Black

Eyes: Red

Height: 5'11”

Gender & Sexuality: Thinks he's a cishet man. This assumption will not survive to the end of the narrative.

Song: Other Worlds Than These by Starset

Meet my other OCs from this project:

Brooks - Pym - Shinju - Ennis - Cam - Ravi - Isaac - Melinda

[unnamedcrane]

So it's a common headcanon (actually idk if its not canon but whatever) that fell bros have a cat Doomfanger and that Red hates it for… some…. reason

but! 

What if Reds s/o also had a cat? So not only he has to deal with Doomfanger at home, but also y/n’s cat when he's at theirs, and you know he can’t say shit he doesn’t want to lose points with them because of such a stupid thing right?

so here I have some ideas of how it could go: 

he tries to avoid the cat as much as he can, but the cat adores him completely

y/n? oh they're so excited! Usually their cat is extremely antisocial, so they're delighted to see that their cat likes Red so much, just literally the best thing!

since you know, they were worried that the cat wouldn’t like their bf, but look! The cat actually loves being around Red

…much to Red’s annoyance, the cat just. Won’t. Leave. Him. A L O N E.

whenever y/n isn’t around Red makes sure to let the cat know how much he hates it, calling the cat names, or you know (gently) pushes it away if its been snuggling up to his legs for too long

but… maybe eventually he stops minding it as much? maybe he even starts to like the cat- not that he would EVER admit to that, especially to Edge, he doesn’t want to become a designated babysitter for Doomfanger

and just maybe he starts playing with the cat or petting it, when no one is looking obviously

or when he thinks no one is, I bet y/n would notice at some point and take couple of sneaky photos, just cause they think it's so cute

…and probably also to send to certain younger brother

[wayfinderships]

[Looks around] Ok I don't think anyone is looking...

Ok so I just wanted to let out some design ideas I have for a C.yberpunk 2077 Panchi and some little facts I've thought up about them! The main thing being that their Design is heavily inspired by C.elty from D.urarara! Mainly just the Blue/Yellow/Black Helmet with cat ears and maybe they use a motorcycle like she does! The outfit itself would probably be quite different but I've yet to decide on the rest of the outfit

Speaking of the helmet, it's a pretty noticeable part of them! Mainly because they rarely take it off. Seeing them without their iconic helmet is a big sign of trust for them! It's not limited to romantic partners, it could also be for close friends as well! Though if you notice that a certain rockstar mentions how they've seen Panchi without the helmet...no you don't- Speaking of that rockstar! If you see Panchi wear a piece of jewelry that they got from that rockstar years ago and still wear it in present day...no you don't-

Oh and also they don't have a lot of cyberware on them, the most noticable (if not the only) piece of cyberware they have is one on their Left Eye. Though I've yet to figure out the details of it ^^

[imaloregremlin]

my class has to brainstorm an ai policy for the lower schools idk why they gave us this power

and long story short I'm being forced to use generative ai :(

[scatterpatter]

"Chapter 2 accidently got long, itll be 7k-8k!" I said. "Maybe up to 9k max!" I said.

[nowimabeliever]

How do we feel about Dougzer since the Reddit comment Parkzer posted? He basically said he's not comfortable with the ship. I feel a bit weird about everything now. It was a very human and frank reply to a lot of his issues with Doug's community

honestly it's a lot less bad than I thought?

i feel like there's a big difference between what happened on the wiki, which is very public, doug knows about it and kinda encourages the Weirdness, which is how people take things too far, prompting parkzer's post, and what we do on tumbr/ao3, where doug has spent all of 10 seconds on tumblr and has probably never been on ao3, even if he's aware the website exists.

like. honestly i might archive-lock the fics that are written to be more "plausible" (by which i mean they're not obviously false like the evil science ones) but that's about it on my end?

it's people that are pushing this in the face of the two of them that are causing these issues. and i'm not doing that. i don't want anybody to do that. i feel like i'm pretty clear about the fact that i don't believe this is reality and that my works (and by extension my tumblr) shouldn't be shared with anyone portrayed in them.

they have twitch, youtube, twitter, reddit, wiki, etc. we have tumblr and ao3. and never the twain shall meet.

[e77y]

Augehhrhghfg homework. Big explosion

[rainbow-flavoured-skittles]

help I've been dragged into a rabbithole of investigating knockoff ninjago minifigures and this one specific Mr. E one I saw

[weaselle]

it was too much i had to make my own post

line cook here. ACCURATE

if you don't get the hate, here's what you don't understand.

it takes up to 2 hours to close down the kitchen.

The last 60-90 minutes before closing time you do almost no cooking because the restaurant doesn't have many people in it and you've already cooked most of their diners.

So if someone walks in during, like, the last hour, the cook is in the middle of an industrial deep clean of the kitchen.

(these numbers can vary quite a bit from place to place but i have worked several restaurants with these actual times and the concept remains the same)

Say the place closes at 10. If you wait til the restaurant is already closed to start all your cleaning duties, you'll be there until at least midnight.

More than that your boss knows that on an average night you can start your clean up as soon as the last rush ends and get out of there around 10:45, even 10:15 on a slow night if you get lucky. That means there are plenty of restaurants where if you do take until midnight the manager is going to come up to you at some point that week and ask you what went wrong that night, and you'd better have an answer.

So this example restaurant closes at 10 pm. The dinner rush ends around 8:30, and shortly after that the cook is going to start getting every single dish possible over to the dishwasher because the dishwasher always gets hit hard and late, and the machine runs for 2 full minutes and only holds so many dishes, so the way that works out is if you wait an extra 30 minutes to give the dishwasher all your stuff it can mean adding like 60 minutes to the end of his shift. And you're gonna KEEP finding shit to send to the dishpit right up until you leave probably.

all these little square and rectangle containers in this cold table have to be pulled out and changed over into new containers, replaced by new full ones, or in some cases filled from larger containers in the back, which can result in even more empty containers to send to the dishwasher.

while it's all pulled apart to do this, you have to clean up all the spilled food and sauce and juices and stuff from the joints and ledges and shelves and drip trays

Once you get your line changed over in this way, and fully stocked, anytime someone orders something that makes use of a bunch of that stuff, you have to restock and re-clean it some. It might already be covered in plastic. Some of it might already be stuck in the back to make room to take apart your cutting board counter to clean. To cook a dish isn't TOO much of a problem at this point, but you're really hoping for zero orders because you still have so much other cleaning to do.

Meanwhile the salad bar and appetizer section and server station and everybody are all doing the same thing. Even the bartenders are stocking olives and lemons and sending back whisks and stir spoons and shakers and empty 4quart storage containers that used to hold the back-up lemons and olives and things. Every section is dumping their must-be-cleaneds to the dishpit as fast as possible because early and fast is the only thing they can do to to help that dishpit not absolutely drown into overtime.

The poor dishwasher is always the last to clock out, soaking wet and exhausted.

Around this time you probably scrub the flat top, which has turned black from cooked on grease and is still about 500 degrees. Line cooks are divided in opinion on water-based or oil based cleaning methods for this, but they all involve scrubbing with (usually) a brick of pumice stone using every ounce of your strength while you try not to burn yourself

you scrub it from fully blackened to gleaming silver and now if somebody orders something that needs the flat top to cook, you can either fuck up your cleaning job or fake it in a couple frying pans and pass that tiny fuck you down to your dishwasher (who usually understands, especially if you help them take the garbage out or clean your own floor drain later)

If there's deep fried stuff on the menu then the fryers have to be cleaned out, which includes straining the oil out into enormous and super-heavy pots full of oil so hot that if you spill on yourself then it's probably a hospital visit and if you slip and fall face first into it it'll be the last thing you ever do.

Then you gotta scrub out the fryer. Like you gotta take the (hot) screen out and reach your arm down into the weird rounded pipes and curved areas (so hot, burn you if you brush against them hot) and scrub off whatever is down there

Depending on your kitchen you might have to do up to four of these. Then you'll have to pour the (dangerously hot) oil back in

oh, and if you didn't dry the pipes and get ALL the water out of the trap and tank?

water reacts with hot oil in a sort of mentos and coke way that can send a tidal wave of oil past the open flame of the pilot light ...HUGE dangerous mess and/or burn down the kitchen if the oil lights up.

Unless! If the oil has been used too hard and needs to be changed, it's time to carry those open topped super heavy pots full of will-kill-you-hot oil and dump them in the barrel outside by the dumpsters so you can put room temp fresh oil in the fryers. whew!

The clean up is not just some light wiping down that can be easily interrupted, is what i'm saying.

You might have to do some kind of walk-in duty (moving around 50lb cases of lettuce and 50lb bags of onions to get to the stacks of five gallon buckets full of salad dressings and sauces to move so you can reach the giant metal pots and bus tubs full of prep and get it all organized and make sure it's all labeled and i have to stop now i'm having flashbacks)

THE POINT IS

by 15 or however many minutes to close, the line cook is doing an intense deep clean and probably has the whole stove taken apart to detail.

For some industrial stoves this means lifting off large cast iron plates that weigh like 20 lbs each and are still quite hot. Whatever metal burners are on there, you gotta take off and clean, you can see here the lines that indicate the large thick cast iron rectangles that sit on top of the burners to allow heavy pots to rest on. Those five (each has one front burner hole and one back burner hole, see?) have to be lifted off and cleaned with soap and a wire brush usually, and then the underneath area also has to be cleaned because a lot of shit falls through the burner holes on a busy night.

if you didn't do it when you did the flat top you have to do the grease trap (which can be like a full five minutes and is always disgusting).. You gotta clean out all the little gas jets in each burner with a wire or something so the burners all flame evenly, and sometimes you have to remove some of the natural gas piping that connects the burners to access where you have to clean.

you gotta clean out the bottom of the oven and the wire racks, and, oh gods, you gotta take down the filter vents from the hood fans above the stove.

See all the lined parts along the top of the wall?

those are hood vents, and as they pull air up they also pull a lot of grease and they have to be taken down and cleaned, then you gotta climb up there and scrub where they go before you put them back...

And then there's the mopping and floor drains and...

Anyway, that's what the line cook is doing when you walk in fifteen minutes before closing and order something that needs to be cooked on that stove. They are doing an entire industrial cleaning of a professional kitchen.

In some restaurants maybe one or two of these jobs will be every other night or even only twice a week, but in many, possibly most kitchens, ALL of these things happen EVERY night. You don't want to leave any food mess that might attract insects or rodents for one thing, so a really good kitchen is as close to brand new as you can get it every night.

IF YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO ORDER SOMETHING ANYWAY, HERE IS WHAT TO DO

open with an apology and ask the server to go ask what the cook would prefer you to order.

Any good server will already know what the cook is hoping for and what will make their line cook go into the walk in and scream. If it's significantly less than an hour to close and they say some variant of "oh anything is fine" they are either telling the lie their boss wants them to say, or they actually do not know what their line cook wants, and you can either use human connection and a conspiratorial just-between-us tone to get them to drop the customer-is-always-right act, or get them to actually go ask the cook.

It might be as specific as "the lasagna is easiest on the kitchen" or it might be a simple guideline like "nothing that requires the flat top" or "any of the sautés are easy" but a good line cook will probably have a system for if they have to make a couple of the most popular items after they start their close, so the answer is likely to include something most people like and you should be good to order that.

but for the love of all that's holy, please only do so at great need. Leave that last 30-60 minutes to the truly desperate and the crew's duties.