Monster Age

by GR Griffin

  Haze limped forward and pointed with his cane. If anything, her measly explanation fuelled his annoyance. “Error? Get down from there!” he shouted, and she complied without question. Haze looked upon the workings he made over the years, all tarnished with fresh lines which stood out from the dull ones. The taller skeleton obviously had not heard him. “Get away from that, right now!”

  Papyrus, finally noticing, scooted back to reveal his addition to the complicated columns of sums: a sketch of himself. The proportions were correct, featuring his trademark grin, except he sported a pair on sunglasses and had bulky biceps and a six-pack. The drawing of himself was also drawing a sketch of himself, who in turn was also drawing a stick figure who vaguely resembled himself.

  “My contribution,” Papyrus said proudly while rising, “is easily the most encapsulating thing on this board. You’re welcome.”

  Haze opened his mouth, prepared to let loose another angry remark when the lenses of his spectacles focus on the altered calculations, damming the words in his throat.

  Papyrus interpreted his astonishment wrongly. “My finest work yet.”

  The Professor read the first line, summed it up in his head, and realised that it was correct.

  “…Oh no…” Haze read the next line, and then the next, and then the next. “No…” After reaching the bottom, where the total equated to, he discovered it to be wrong. “No…!”

  Hastily, he rubbed out the total and scribbled what it really added up to. After which, he stumbled back, dropping his chalk to the ground alongside the doctor’s.

  “Ah, yes,” Sans remarked, “the dramatically dropping stuff trope never gets old.” He glimpsed at the writing pieces lined up on the holder, then shrugged. “Why not?” He grabbed a piece and nonchalantly tossed it on the floor.

  Barb looked worried. “What’s up, Haze?”

  Professor Haze faced the ground, holding the back of his head with his free hand. “…I miscalculated…” His breathing was funny. The walking stick trembled. “I miscalculated. We don’t have weeks left… or days for that matter.”

  Shocked gasps and scared mumbling echoed throughout the audience. Monsters turned to one another, turned to anything they suspected of having more answers to the growing list of questions and quells to their rising fears.

  “Then…” Rickard dared to ask. “How long do we have?”

  Haze faced them all. His eyes were empty. “Hours.”

  The audience exploded into full panic. Barb rushed over and attempted to pacify them, hoping that her reputation as one of the meanest bruisers in the Outerworld would make them fall in line regardless of the little time to live all of them apparently had. If that did not work, then she had a stun dart for every single one.

  This added more guilt to Doctor Alphys’s poor confidence. “I’m… I’m sorry, I…”

  “Don’t be sorry,” interrupted Haze. “You did the right thing; it’s what you do as a doctor.”

  Sans folded his arms in dissatisfaction. “Sure, give her all the credit,” he whispered under his breath while glancing at his corrections on his side of the chalkboard. “It’s not like someone else helped or anything.”

  Papyrus waved wildly. “Hello!” he hollered, pointing at his masterpiece. “Awesomely cool drawing of an awesomely skeleton by an awesomely cool skeleton over here!” But, alas, nobody paid him any attention, dismissing his calls as those of a needy child in an adult’s body.

  Sans gave his brother a much needed pat on the back. “Hey, I think it’s awesome, bro.”

  “Y-yes, I am a doctor.” Alphys shared quick glances at the brothers, as if they would do something drastic upon pulling her look away. “My name’s Alphys.” She gestured to the two skeletons. “These are—”

  The professor interrupted again. “I know who you are. You three mugs came up on the Empire’s watch list not too long ago.” Hundreds of years the Outerworld has remained intact, and these idiots arrived in its final hours. Haze pursed his lips. None of this could be a coincidence. “Since you’re here, you might as well make yourselves useful.”

  “Make ourselves useful?” Alphys asked, feeling the familiar tingle on her brow. “How?”

  Her gaze fell upon the room, upon all these machines. Would she be asked to use any of these? With a little direction, the doctor was confident that she could quickly learn the ropes.

  The weathered professor cut straight to the point. “As we speak, monsters are getting ready to launch an attack on Castle Highkeep. While that is happening, I need to get in there and reach the Obelisk, which is located at its midpoint. I could do with as much assistance as possible.”

  “W-w-wait…” Sweat dripped down Alphys’s temple. “An attack is happening? Here? N-now?”

  “Oh? We get to storm the castle?” Papyrus asked.

  “Hold on a sec there, pal.” Sans raised his hands in protest. “This ain’t our fight.”

  “I’m not asking any of you to fight,” Haze explained, “only to accompany me to the Obelisk. There, I will attempt to unlock its secrets with everything I’ve got, and stop this entire world from dying.”

  Sans, Papyrus, and Alphys shared a look with one another, weighing their options. The three of them had spent the last hours darting from place to place, attempting to find the best lead possible. They probably were not going to get a lead better than this one.

  Haze grumbled at their silence, figuring his reason alone would draw more concern than what they exhibited. “Or you can wait it out here.” He gestured at them with the cane. “It makes no difference to me…”

  “But what ‘bout Fleck?” Sam interjected. “Don’t we need ‘em for that whole unlocking magic thingamajig?”

  Hazed faced the mummy man in the country getup. “There’s not much time. Our only hope is for me to decipher the secret myself – I still have a few ideas. And there may be a chance that Fleck could be on their way there right now…”

  That confirmed it: this was the best lead they had to go on. Almost immediately after hearing that statement, Alphys said, “In t-that case, we will gladly help… if it means finding Fleck.”

  “Very well then, but I must warn you all: getting into the castle will be no easy feat,” Haze began. “Fortunately, I’ve been working on a secret entrance for years; however, it will require patience and perfect timing.”

  Sans stepped forward. “Or—” he tried to speak, raising a hand.

  Haze continued over him, “First, we’ll take the pipes to the outskirts of the Forest, hoping the transport still works, otherwise we could be looking at a long, gruelling trip.”

  “Or—” Sans still had his hand raised.

  “Once we reach the outskirts—”

  “Or—”

  “—the attack will be well underway.”

  “Or—” Sans wished he had an oar in his pocket.

  “We need to skirt around the enclave’s perimeter—”

  “Or…” Suddenly, Haze gave Sans a sharp glare, not liking being interrupted one bit. Nevertheless, San had his moment to talk. “You can follow me” – he pointed his thumb over to a lonely door across the room – “through that door.”

  Professor Haze shook his head. The door mentioned was the utility closet; nothing except a mop, bucket, vacuum, several cans of spray, and detergent was in there.

  “Anyone else got any useless ideas?” he asked to the crowd’s silence. “Didn’t think so. Now, as I was saying…”

  Sans urged out a sigh and then went through the door himself, slamming it behind him.

  “We can use the terrain as cover to reach the eastern wall, where the moat is at its shallowest and gentlest. The two hundredth and fiftieth brick on the fourth row up is a fake, which is step one of our entrance. And then—”

  All of a sudden, the utility door swung ajar and out crashed a suit of armour. Everyone went silent with bewilderment. The helmet rolled across the floor and wobbled to a stop at the professor’s feet.

  Sans appeared she
epish. “Sorry for the mess. It was the closest thing I could nab while I was in there.”

  * * *

  Fleck breathed heavily, even though they tried not to. The uneven ground and gangly roots did not make their movements easy. Much of the empty space around the trunks was where the garbage accumulated the most. The dicey spots underneath the colossal trees would be the easiest to traverse had Fleck been ignorant to the tonnes of weight over them, ready to come crashing down at any minute.

  Fleck tried sticking to the outskirts, between the garbage and the tree trunks; however, the thick and thin roots as strong as titanium made it difficult. The light shone over the gangling limbs cast unnerving shadows. Each root would reach out and snag at the loose folds of their shirt and shorts as if trying to entangle them in a web.

  Did Fleck hear a noise just now? They held their sword and shield close.

  Something was out there. Fleck knew it. Eyes were watching, following their every move. They span the light in all directions for the eleventh time and still uncovered nothing: no spies tracking their movements or hermits from the deep seeking better morsels than what was tossed down on a regular basis. Garbage, dust piles and roots. Roots, dust piles and garbage.

  Fleck kept moving.

  Garbage, roots and dust piles. Dust piles, roots and garbage.

  Fleck ducked below an opening.

  Roots, garbage and roots. Dust piles, garbage and garbage.

  Suddenly, Fleck stopped. Their flashlight hovered over a thick root, and for one moment, Fleck thought they saw something other than the three aforementioned entities. After refocusing the beam, there were a marking carved into the fake bark. A single word.

  Why

  Why? Such a good question at a time like this. That exact same word headed all the thoughts that intruded Fleck’s young, naïve mind. Why did this have to happen? Why was this happening? Why them? Why were they here? Why can’t they just go home? Why their friends? Why Flowey?

  Why, Asriel, why?

  Fleck pondered on how old the carving looked. It appeared ancient, probably made hundreds of years ago, give or take. Could the one who did this still be here, or could their remains be found somewhere in the forsaken grounds in which Fleck walked?

  Regardless, it confirmed one thing: Fleck wasn’t the first person to be down here.

  A few steps later, Fleck halted again. Sheer feet from the first carving lay a second.

  can’t

  Why and can’t. Why can’t? Why can’t what? Why can’t Fleck find an exit.

  Fleck shuffled forth, actively shining the light on the nearby roots. It did not take long to find another word. The next word.

  I

  Why can’t I? Fleck had a bad feeling that they did not want to know the rest.

  And then Fleck found it, and knew immediately that this was the final word in the question. It was like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place, and contained the same powerful force as a kick to the head.

  die?

  Fleck closed their eyes, and all four words lined up in the blackness behind her eyelids.

  Why can’t I die?

  Fleck swallowed a mouthful of saliva down their dry throat.

  From behind them, Fleck heard a noise. Small and soft, but clear and coupled with garbage rattling. It was coming from behind the roots and approaching slow and heavy. Each step sounded as if they sank into the ground.

  “We wonder…” The raspiest, most abrasive voice weaved its way through the gaps and into the human’s ears. Every syllable sounded agonising to say. It hurt like nails scratching on their own eardrums. “Which soul… has come to join us…?”

  Fleck briefly caught the shape of a head upon shoulders before diving for cover against the foot of the thickest nearby root. The double lights would give them away. Fleck buried them into the belly of their sweater in an attempt to suffocate the light. The result was an aura that illuminated them like a lightbulb. They whispered lights off and, to their amazement, they went out instantly. Haze really did think of everything.

  As Fleck’s vision went completely black and they hoped whatever was out there had not seen them. Call it a hunch, but after their meeting with the amalgamates in the true laboratory, Fleck knew they were not ready for what awaited with those grainy steps and rough voice.

  Their back was against the wood and knees to their chest. Pulse racing. They breathed as slowly as possible, allowing the littlest squeaks in through the nose and samples of shaky gasps out the mouth, which may have well been alarm bells ringing. There was no human child here, nothing but a pile of trash: a broken television; a misused sowing machine; they could be anything as long as it was left alone. It held all the quaking, unnerving terror of playing hide-and-seek, but with none of the thrill.

  The stranger drew closer, moving at an impressive speed in an area which was so difficult to navigate. Nothing seemed to slow his messy movements, not the roots or garbage or piles of dust.

  He stopped, and all went quiet.

  Fleck held their breath and waited. They waited in complete silence for as long as their lungs could hold. When no follow-up sounds, they exhaled as slowly and quietly as possible.

  A sandy substance leaked onto their shoulder.

  Someone spoke from behind their hiding spot. “What… is that sound… you are making?” But it was not the same person from earlier. This voice had the same unbearable scratchiness in his tone, but it was softer, younger even. “It is… familiar. Where… have we heard it before…?”

  As the presence of a large being hunched around the twisted timbers, Fleck turned their head up and to the left. Their eyes had barely adjusted to make out fingers around the edge, followed by a head. Except it was too large and deformed to be considered such.

  “You… we do not recognise…” A woman’s voice now, like that of a wicked witch. The figure was motionless. “In fact…”

  Fleck drew in one big breath, reviving their lungs and adding further surprise to the stranger present.

  …Lights on…

  Both the sword hilt and shield flicked on, casting two cones of light that were quickly focused on the stranger.

  “You… appear intact…” the strangers finished, unfazed by the light. “Unlike us…”

  Fleck almost died right there from the shock. Grey, ashy fingers clenched the wood inches away, leaking grains the colour of steel.

  From the back of Fleck’s mind, Sam spoke to them in his rustic accent. “It’s the pillar,” the mummy monster explained.

  Fleck raised the flashlight.

  “Its magic sustains everything…”

  The monster’s deformed heads got showered in the beam, all four of them. All made entirely out of dust. Every eye locked on the human child.

  “Includin’ us.”

  Chapter 29: Ashes to Ashes

  As light from Fleck’s holstered weapons refracted off their faces, the dust – the glue to which held them together – shivered and waved as if at any moment it would collapse into lifelessness. All four heads, despite conjoined to a single body, all displayed different emotions upon discovering this small creature.

  The head poking out from the upmost point and slightly to the right, a long snouted being – a dog? A wolf? A horse? Donkey, perhaps? It was hard to tell – looked upon Fleck with curiosity. “This one… wears an odd skin,” he said.

  The head beneath his – an unidentifiable mass – had dust flaking from prominent cheekbones. Well, cheeks anyways; the bones were not there. “What is it…?” she asked, squinting eyes that appeared as drawings made in the sand. “I simply cannot tell. I misplaced my spectacles… if only I could remember where…”

  Slowly, ever so slowly, as not to provoke such an unnatural being, Fleck stood up and took two steps away from their lousy hiding spot, moving into the clearing to allow these grouping to better see them. They kept the lights on the dust monsters, struggling to remain on a single face before being pulled to another; all of them acting
in such odd and unordinary ways.

  Fleck said hello. Hopefully these monsters were of the friendly sort. Although this would not be the first time a friendly monster, or monsters, turned aggressive on this human child.

  The lowest head, as smooth and featureless as the underside of a bowl – a cauldron? – widened his etched eyelids and bared flaky teeth. “It’s… it’s…” The terror built in the back of his non-existent throat. “A human!”

  The faces glanced at one another, whispering that word over and over, exchanging information with themselves. The smacking of lips shook away layers, only to be replaced by more layers. Dust seeped and escaped, building in an almost endless supply on the trash scattered ground.

  The monster beside the cauldron – shaped like a sock puppet – said, “Those creatures… Dunmore?” He sounded half-asleep, having never slept in a thousand years. “They walk… amongst us…? Or do we… walk amongst them?”

  The monsters took one step forward, moving its ashen leg straight through a root. The thigh crumbled as it collided with the obstacle, and, from both ends of the leg, it reconnected instantly.

  Dust dripped from the caldron’s head like sweat. “This cannot be,” he continued to cry, with an accent a thousand years in the making. “Their scouts have infiltrated our camp; they know where we hide!” The other heads were drawn to Dunmore, all encapsulated in sudden terror. “We have children and elderly here, who the humans deem easy targets. If this scout escapes, their armies will find us, and leave none of us alive!”

  Fleck tried to plead their innocence before stepping back and tripped on a root, landing on a black trash bag full of many broken objects, now shattered under them.

  “The human is attempting to get away!” Dunmore yelled. “The humans will discover the location of our camp! It must not be allowed to escape!” His shrill, nails-on-chalkboard voice reached its greatest pitch. “To arms, men! Kill this human before it is too late!”

  The four heads looked at each other, and then, suddenly, they all faced Fleck in perfect unison.