Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If you had to take a guess, you’d say it took around fifty minutes to dig yourself out of the snow.

It sunk into you with each movement, your arms flailing, thumping, sinking; crevices caving in until you were covered and covered and covered in it. Each time you tried to dig yourself out more would pile atop you. Each time you managed to pat down the powder, you’d sink deeper trying to pull yourself up. You took desperate, heaving breaths only to suck in ice through your teeth.

The powder tasted like nothing and melted in your mouth.

By the time you’d reached the surface of the snow the world had grown dim and gray—time was indiscernible, each inch of the sky suffocated by heavy, flat clouds that hung low nearly brushing the bare, bristled treetops above you. Light was dull and flat, absent of shadow, and the white snowscape curled around you before crawling up a jagged snowscape of a nearby cliff face.

You just kneel there and try to breathe. Puffs of air surround your face but you realize distantly that you can’t feel a single sensation. Everything buzzes numbly, as though the world exists beyond a white-tinged, murky film. 

You stare down at your fingertips, caked and snow and barely poking out of your bulky coat sleeves.

They’re pitch black.

“Shit,” You hiss to yourself, curling them into fists. They move, but with ample tremors, and you can’t close your hands all the way. “Fuck.” 

Your clothes are practically frozen to you. They creak and crunch as you move and you worry briefly that they’ll shatter.

“Hello?” you rasp into the eerie quiet. Snow dusts all around you, white branches reaching into the blank sky, shedding snowflakes that drift into the piles around your feet. “Hello..?” 

Your voice sounds gravelly and low, as though you haven't spoken for years.

..But that can’t be right. 

“Anyone?” you mumble. Your voice has a comforting weight to it, but it’s a mere warbling whine in this emptiness. The forest is quiet, save for the occasional huff of snow tumbling off a stringy branch.

Your head feels light yet heavy. You blink. When you close your hands together they creak and clink. What happened just before this? The only thing you can remember is..

Is..

..Nothing. You can’t remember anything. Your mind is as empty as this snowscape all around you.

You stare into the distance to distract yourself. You don’t remember the birch trees being this massive, sprawling around you as though reaching their scraggly limbs to soak up all of the emptiness. And the cliff-face didn’t always look so ragged. Or did it? You’re not entirely sure.

You shoot forward, stumble frantically through the snow and collapse up to your hips in it. Fuck, it’s deep. Bear-crawling it is. You sprawl your body out for surface tension, stick your hand into the snow, and the powder goes straight through your palm.

“Wha—?!” You garble out, falling forward, arm sinking up to your shoulder. The sudden shift sends you unceremoniously tipping face-first into the snow. Luckily you don’t sink any deeper.

You inhale a mouthful of powder and choke; you’re close enough to spot individual flecks of ice, speckled like shimmery sugar.

“Fuck,” You say again, muffled.

You quiver and try to brace yourself to pull your arm out. It flies up with a pop that nearly has you tumbling backwards. You rock on your knees, then sit back on your heels and wheeze a sigh, briefly light-headed. Your hand, still stuffed with powder, tremors like a leaf.

You roll back your sleeve, shake it out, and stare at it. A yellow-tinged cracked piece of solid bone.

You blink, turning it this way and that, watching it move, watching the invisible knuckles hover and shift together. It does not seem or feel unnatural, yet there is a part of you deep inside that writhes at the sight of it—something collapsing. Something unstable.

An avalanche, you think, but tip your head to pour the thought out of it.

You wonder briefly what your name is.

Well, it doesn’t matter much, does it? You stumble forward, tumbling face-first back into the snow. Your ribs shake from the force of your breath as you push yourself up, snow falling from your shoulders as you sputter and laugh at your own absurdity. Trudging, stumbling, falling, sputtering, laughing.

“Hello!” you shout to mountains, your crackling voice returning in a resounding echo. Hello!

Your laughter fades. The snow continues to fall, gentle yet relentless, suffocating everything on the horizon.

You’re not sure how long you walk for. You find an abandoned shack at one point in your wandering, then steal a pair of snowshoes from behind its crooked door—though both of shoes are weather-worn and one is nearly broken in half with a hole in its netting.

Regardless, they work better than nothing. They help you trudge faster through the snow; though you’re nearly tumbling into trees as you go.

After much time, you stumble across a road.

You remove the shoes and sling them across your back. Your bulky, steel-tipped snow boots keep you from slipping, but there are a few close calls as you walk along the icy tarmac. Your scarf whips into your face and you keep your eye-sockets trained into the grayness ahead.

The blizzard only gets worse, and the road continues to lead you nowhere. 

You have too much time to think, and you find that there’s not much to think about. The part of your brain focused on survival seems to offset your shock, but you find that your memory is hauntingly empty, like a long roll of film with burnt holes and faded, blurry faces.

You remember two things, two places. First, there is a strikingly blue room and a form in a white coat. Then a hole in the ground dripping with dew.

Neither of these memories help you.

You have no idea how you got to this mountainous region in the first place. You still cannot remember your name. Only the shoes on your feet are familiar: worn and molded to your feet. The sting of snow reminds you of a faint, somber feeling. These vague thoughts push you forward as you wander further into the silent dark. 

The blizzard howls like an estranged mother. Wind whips at your limbs and though you can no longer feel the cold, you feel the sharp, buffeting bite of it. Frost covers every inch of you until it becomes hard to move, let alone breathe. Mountains lumber past like distant, hulking shadows as you venture deeper into the curling cliff face.

Hours pass. Maybe days. You begin talking to yourself, after a while.

“I’d chill for a cup of coffee.” You mumble, tucking a hand into your pocket, then pulling it out again. The wind nearly drowns you out, pushing against you, infuriated by your mere presence. You teeter against its pressure and keep stepping forward. “A latte, maybe..that’d be ice.”

The pointed shapes of pine trees line the road, bending away with the wind, as though urging you to turn back. You keep stepping forward. “A latte with sugar and cinnamon and spice. Ice,” you correct yourself, giggling. “..Ice.”

You pause. You turn your head. The empty road greets you, your footsteps an erratic pattern, emerging from the billowing, snowy haze.

There is, of course, no one there.

You turn back around and continue forward.

Ice cracks beneath your boots. Your ribs ache. The whiteness beyond you seems to muffle everything, all sensation and noise. You can’t feel the cold, only the slight pressure of the wind as you stumble on and on.

Then your eyes adjust to a blinking, bright light. A wisp of something darker and smokier than snow.

You break into a run.

Your snowshoes slam against your back. You wheeze at the pressure thudding through your ribs, each thump of your feet on the ice-covered asphalt sending a sharp ripple of pain shooting through you, but you’re running, and you won’t stop. The light gets brighter. 

You shout but it’s lost to the storm, and stumble and slide to a stop as a large, hulking shape emerges from the fog.

You look up and meet eyes with a human man. His eyelashes are dusted with ice, shadowed by his large winter cap. He leans against the side of his pickup and exhales a stream of gray smoke from his mouth.

There is a moment where you both stare at each other. Then he blinks, shrieks at the top of his lungs, and drops his sloppy joint with a garbled “Holy—SHIT!”

“Hey, uh,” You manage, still out of breath—which is strange considering you do not have anything resembling lungs. Right, that’s why he’s so startled. There’s a skeleton standing in front of him. You’re not at all cheery or cute-looking like a Snowdrake.

..What the hell is a Snowdrake?

“Sorry. Uh, didn’t mean to rattle your bones. Hah.” You make an awkward coughing sound. The guy squeaks as you gesture around you vaguely and the motion reveals your black-tipped claws. “I’m a bit lost. Think you could help me out?”

The guy makes a strangled noise as his joint, still smoking, sinks into the ice at his feet.

You shove one hand deep in your coat pocket and slouch as a peace offering. You don’t stop with the jokes, though. “Hey, listen, I’m not a grim reaper or anything. Just the walking dead. Hah!” Your laugh makes the guy flinch. “Get it?” You wiggle your black-tipped phalanges. “The walking dead.”

“Are—Are you a monster?” He asks, his voice reduced to a strangled wheeze.

“Huh? Monster?” You shrug. The term seems apropos and it sounds very familiar. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“I,” the man murmurs to himself, running a mittened hand down his face. “I am so high right now.”

You’re not really sure how to respond to that. Given the circumstances, you can’t say you blame him.

“Hey, listen,” you placate, smiling at him kindly. The expression somehow spooks him again, though, so you drop your chin and bury the smile in your scarf. “I’m not gonna hurt you or anything. I just need a ride to the nearest town, anywhere’s fine. You can just drop me off on the side of the road.”

The guy groans fearfully as you ramble on and the joint on the road fizzles out.

“I don’t got nothin’ on me but my snowshoes and they’re busted, but if there’s a phone in town I can wire you something, scout’s honor.” You cross your heart where your heart probably is. If you have one. “I’m gonna rot out here if I don’t get help. Please, man. You can drop me off wherever there’s a—”

“Fine,” he hisses, though if he’s trying to be menacing he’s failed by the way his voice shakes. “Just—get in the car. If you lay one goddamn..” He glances nervously at your exposed phalanges, “..hand on me you’re dust, got it?”

“You got it, boss,” you send him a sharp salute and he flinches again.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, then goes to unlock his car.

You’re on the road in minutes. Driving’s a lot quicker than your mindless trudging. The guy’s massive truck—he’d introduced himself as Mike, you think—shoots across the icy roads and barrels through the blizzard with an alarming ferocity. Mike himself isn’t a terrible driver, despite navigating a snowstorm while high out of his mind.

You briefly wonder why he was out in the middle of the road, alone, but decide not to ask. A good twenty minutes is spent in silence as Mike sometimes mumbles to himself and paws at the radio.

“Hey, bud,” You pipe up, “What year is it?”

“2030,” Mike blurts without so much of a pause. “Year of the Dog. I was supposed to have good luck this year.” He slams his hand on the steering wheel, groaning about something unknown. “Fuck.”

You stare blankly at the blizzard roaring beyond the dashboard. Mike’s headlights cut through the dim, enough to see individual snowflakes curling away from your path, as though making room for you. The car is quiet. It’s all so quiet. 

“..I wonder how old I am,” you murmur into the silence. The year sounds right to you, but at the same time achingly wrong. You wonder where you came from. Why were you buried under the snow? How long have you been out here?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mike laughs loudly, spittle flying from his cracked lips. He reaches over to poke at the radio knob with a shaking hand, then says, more to himself: “I knew this batch was bad.”

The song that crackles on is not one you recognize. Lots of synth, a warbling, high overtone that nearly makes you cringe. The melody itself is low, strung-out and haunting, but the lyrics aren’t audible, muffled by slight static.

“Fucking Shyren,” Mike grumbles, slamming at the knob and changing the channel.

You’re briefly stunned by the ease in which he does so. “..You’re getting a signal out here?”

“Of course,” He informs you snidely, sounding somewhat proud. His voice rings nasally against the techno pop wavering over the radio. He slaps, heavy-handed, at the dirt-covered dashboard. “New model. Got that Core tech built in that you monsters are so fond of. Some say you could still get a signal even if we shoved you all back underground.”

“Core..?” Your head spins. Shimmery rivulets of water trickle down into a dark, pitted place, your blank eyes wavering toward a pulsating blue room. Your footsteps stammer. The horizon warps with heat. Underground?

Mike cackles loudly. You stare into the empty white road ahead. You feel his eyes on you, red and crackling and wide. “What, have you been living under a rock?” He barks another loud laugh. You watch more flecks of his snot speckle the dashboard. “‘ Dead’ guy.”

Dead guy? Rude. In retaliation you snag his discarded mittens and slip them on. They’re as cozy as they look. Mike’s still laughing to himself and doesn’t even notice.

You peer into the blizzard ahead and notice a glimmer of lights beyond the roaring downpour of snow. “Oh—there, that’s a town, right? You can drop me off—”

You don’t even get through your sentence before Mike slams on the brakes. The momentum has you shooting forward and nearly cracking your skull against the dash. You wheeze as the seat belt digs into your abused ribs but Mike, uncaring, swerves into a dip off the side of the road.

“Out, get out,” He snarls, sounding a bit like he’s talking to himself. He grapples for his door handle but takes a few tries to get it open. You shift his car into park for him as he practically falls out of his own seat.

After a stunted, painful moment, you get out of the passenger side and step back out into the snow.

Your hearing is momentarily clogged by wind pressure and roaring sound. You blink into the spiraling whiteness to see Mike hobbling about in a deep pile of untouched snow near the edge of a dense, shadowy forest. He seems to notice you again as he wades toward you, nearly falling twice.

“Good luck with this one, skeleton,” He says, head nodding downward. He’s barely able to stay upright in the uneven snow. You realize it’s a miracle you made it here in one piece. “This town isn’t friendly. Mt. Ebott folk have been at the monsters’ throats since the Surfacing—ya’know, since the ‘Storm.’” 

He waves a hand as though gesturing to the snow all around him. You can’t comprehend a word he’s saying.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You blink distantly at—what was his name again? Milly? Stars, your ribs hurt. “Thanks for the ride, Milly.”

“My name’s Mike,” Mike snarls to one of the many trees lining the clearing. “..I’m gonna throw up.”

You wince as he whirls around to violently hack up his guts. He coughs then recovers jarringly quickly, humming a recognizable tune: Shyren’s song from the car. You watch him gurgle and wipe some frozen bile off his face before you promptly turn around and head toward the warm glow beyond the scraggly horizon.

The lights brighten and then dim as snow rushes around you, flickering like oil lanterns in the dark. It’s a while before you reach the town’s main road.

It seems..dilapidated. If the year is 2030 as Mill—Mike said, the future didn’t reach this place. Old, brick-and-mortar homes sit in discarded piles on crooked foundations, and low lights slink out of thick-paned windows, covered in icicles and snow. Creaking porches filled with holes whistle in the unforgiving wind as you stomp through the unshoveled streets. You see the shadow of a figure in the window, before they abruptly close the blinds.

Strips of ice crawl across the streets and you thank the Stars for your big clunky snow boots. You pull your scarf up to your eyes to keep snow from blowing into your nasal cavity. You can’t feel the cold, but it tickles something awful. 

You erupt into a pitchy, huffing sneeze that surprises you so bad you skid to a complete stop for a moment. You didn’t know you could do that.

“No bones about it,” you say to yourself, feeling briefly hysterical.

You wander along the main road for what seems like hours, but besides a few curious shadows in the windows, it doesn’t look like anyone’s home.

Defeated, you trudge to the outskirts of the settlement. The trees grow wide and scraggly as you stumble into the deeper snow. You sit beneath one, sinking slightly, and are content to watch the blizzard roar around you, deciding you’ll knock on some doors when it clears up.

Then you hear footsteps.

You look up from where you’d been tracing nonsense into the snow with a shaking thumb. A large man stands a few feet in front of you, his beard dusted with snow, a large rifle strapped to his back. His snowshoes keep him from sinking much more than a few inches.

You stumble to your feet, empty eye-sockets wide.

“Hey!” You greet, feeling hope bubble within you: a warmth in your sunken chest. “Do you live in this town? I’m sorry to bother. I’m just passing through...”

The man slowly reaches for the rifle on his back. 

You freeze, lifting your mittened hands, your smile beginning to shake. “Hey, hey now, bud. I know I look strange but I promise I don’t mean any harm,” 

He continues to stare at you, his eyes beady and wide like an animal’s. You gesture placatingly with your mittens, putting on your best pleasant grin. With your teeth as sharp as they are, you doubt it works much, but at least your black-tipped claws are covered. “I just need some food, maybe a bit of water if you can spare it. I can probably pay if you get me a phone—“

You lower your hands and in the same moment the man slings the massive rifle off his back and points it between your eyes. 

“Your kind isn’t welcome here.” He states slowly, voice low and scratchy, barely audible over the whistling wind.

Your smile slides like goo off your face.

“I said, get out.” The man hefts his rifle higher. It gleams in the lights of the distant windows, gold streaking across slick black. You raise your hands high at the empty, glossy look on his face. “Now.”

“Hey—”

His gun goes off with a deafening crack.

You shriek and fall back; you feel a rush of air as your ears ring and the man lifts his gun to shoot again. “Stars!” You yell at him, shocked. “Stop—!”

He misses again as you duck your skull, crying out. Then he snarls and stomps forward as you stumble back and babble, “I just, please, I need some help, please stop, don’t—!”

He lifts the barrel of his gun up and smacks you straight in the jaw; your skull whips sideways with a crack.

Something smooth like powder trickles off your face.

You hunch sideways from the recoil as he lifts the barrel of the gun to rest directly on your skull.

His eyes are wide and murky. They are all you can see as you stand there, as dust sizzles and streams off the edge of your chin. You lift your claws and grip at the barrel of his gun; the metal creases so easily beneath your hands, soft and oddly malleable.

“Stop,” you tell him, your smile widening at the sound of creaking, crunching metal.

He stops.

The wind howls. Something wracks your body with a shiver that travels from your blank, empty sockets down your cracked spine. The snow whirls on, but you feel it whirling within you—coming closer, brushing, a chill, a cold, an emptiness so achingly familiar.

You lift your hand and the cold follows. You touch him and the cold shoots through his chest.

He gurgles. You breathe and breathe and do it again. The cold follows your every move. Again. Again. The cold is everywhere, now, filling you then seeping through you like sand in a sieve. Your ribs ache. Your jaw aches. The man gags blood and tips backwards into the snow with a muffled thump that’s swallowed by the wind.

You stare down at his chest, where three jagged icicles have impaled him straight through. He vomits with a sickening gurgle and chokes on it.

“..What?” you ask. He makes a strangled noise and reaches to tug at one of the icicles. His stomach leaks a goopy, bubbling thing; the air smells like raw meat and sulfur. 

He begins to weep. His eyes are fluttering shut but tears manage to spill forth, freezing almost instantly. His blood sinks into the snow, bright red to pale pink, yellowish pus seeping into a mirage of ghastly color.

The man sobs. You stare at him, and realize you have killed him, that he will die.

You want to go home. You want your name. You want warmth, you want something you can’t even remember. Your body is wracked with sharpness and shudders as you tip forward and sniffle like a child.

It’s so cold. You’re so cold.

“Cold,” you whimper.

You are lying at the bottom of the cliff. Snow has buried you. It tastes like nothing. Here, nothing will hurt you. You will not hurt anyone.

You groan and shove your skull into the snow. It crinkles around you but you can’t feel it. You can’t feel anything anymore. 

“No,” You croak. “No, no,”

Your ribs are broken, you think. Not that you can feel them regardless. The snow’s a distant chill against your face. Your breathing shudders, slowing, slowing. Inhales tasting of ice. You’re so cold. You’re so tired. You just want to sleep.

You just want to sleep.

“No. Tired. Tired. I don’t want..I don’t want to..”

It’s cold. You just want to sleep.

Awareness comes to you slowly. Your limbs are shaking so much you hear a hollow, clunking, clinking noise coming from your ribs—your bones are rattling, so much you hear them snapping in your skull. 

“No, no,” You’re muttering to yourself. “Stop,”

And the noises stop. Your body shakes, your breath grows louder and louder in your ears until it’s all you can hear. 

“Stop,” you murmur uselessly to the silence.

You slowly lift your skull from the snow, heaving, nothing but wisps puffing from your mouth. You stare into the powder below you. A perfectly circular indent remains, all that your forehead left behind. Your aching jaw sheds some shimmering dust that trickles down and disappears into the snow.

You turn, slightly, to see the man bleeding out. He’s stopped gurgling and crying, and his blood has soaked purple splotches that crawl toward you ever-so slowly. The ice soaks up the color and stains its own whiteness.

You crawl toward him, straining. His face is as gray as the sky above. His eyes are open, glossy, staring blankly up into the world, ignorant of the emptiness all around him.

You stare at the icicles in his chest, and slowly reach towards him. You avoid the blood in the snow as you move to touch the icicles in his abdomen and stomach.

You poke them with a shaking phalange and they dissipate into a sparkling puff.

You stare at the grisly holes they’d left behind. Bits of bone poke out from unidentifiable lumps of innards.

“..Sorry, pal,” You tell him. “No hard feelings, right?”

He doesn’t answer, so you reach out and start rifling through his pockets.

You peel through his bloodied, frost-crusted jacket, finding a few crumpled receipts, a small, leather-bound notebook and pen, a handheld radio, a wad of lint, and a thin, light phone. You toss the lint into the snow, frantically turning the phone between your mittens, enamored by its big, blank screen and its silvery, glinting shine. 

You tap at its buttonless front and nearly drop it when it blinks to life.

You squint warily at its brightness. A warbling, neon shape blinks at you on the screen, before an automated voice warbles through its tiny speakers:

“Face ID Not Recognized.”

“Huh—!“ You flinch and shake the phone a little. “Who’re you?” You bring it closer to your face. Is it also a monster? Some sort of robot-monster?

Your questions go unanswered as the voice does not speak any longer. The neon shape disappears and a panel of numbered buttons takes its place, with a caption reading: ‘enter keycode.’

Keycode? Keycode..

You pick up the leather-bound pocketbook you’d discarded into the snow, and brush some powder off its front. It takes you a few tries to get it open, mittens bulky, hands ever-shaking.

Grocery list, reads the first page. It’s spattered with blood.

Useless, useless. You flip through with a sudden fever, the man’s body sinking slowly into the powder. Susan needs…today’s hunt…channel forty down…No passcode. No passcode.

The snow audibly crinkles. You startle and watch as the man sinks lower and lower. His blood sinks with him, bleeding away into a pale purple-pink.  

You should probably get away from here before someone else finds you.

You shove the notebook, pen, radio, and phone into your coat pockets. You take the man’s rifle, too, slinging it over your back as you straighten to stand, though it’s useless now that you’d crumpled the barrel with your bare hands.

How did you do that? It’s the same as the chill inside of you, licking up into your ribs, coaxing you to call for it.

You use the tingly feeling to will yourself to be lighter, and somehow it works. It works like muscle memory, like it’s something you’ve always known. Your footprints are barely centimeters deep as you stride forward, nearly hovering above the snow.

You manage to pull off the dead man’s snowshoes before he sinks too far. They’re the perfect replacement for your broken ones, but they’re much too big for you and you have to spend a good amount of time tightening the straps.

You spare the hunter one last look. His lashes and hair are snow-frosted, his beard now a bushel of serrated strings of white. His hands are large and swollen, and his lips are a pale blue. The hole in his chest is slowly being filled with snow as he stares up into the sky, gazing at the puffy, empty clouds.

You hope the snow doesn’t cover him too quickly. Even if he tried to kill you, he still deserves to be found.

“Good morning everyone! Do I have some news for you!”

The bouncy, cheerful announcer's voice crackles through the handheld radio, and startles you enough you nick yourself with your knife.

“Today’s special guest will tell you all about—”

You huff noiselessly at the new crack in your right thumb-bone, weeping dust, as you reach over and turn the volume down.

The radio’s been working quite well with minor hiccups. It makes for good company after you’ve gone hunting, and fills your cave with a soothing, crackling voice as you prepare your meats and pelts.

“Today marks the event of the much-anticipated solar eclipse! Today the sun, moon, and earth are in complete syzygy—you know what that means, dear listeners..?”

You pick up your knife again and continue scraping away at your bear pelt. The light of the fire flickers dull and warm, shadows dancing across the shiny, frozen rock all around you.

“Our three most important celestial bodies will be in perfect alignment! The moon will completely cover the sun! Now, folks, please take care in viewing the eclipse, as whether you’re human or monster, staring directly into the sun can hurt your eyes—”

Monster. You keep hearing that word. It doesn’t sound like an insult—rather, a title. You think it is an acknowledgement of something ‘other than,’ and you know it is a term meant for you. You wonder what the other monsters are like. Have they also lost their memories?

You think you are a bit of an outlier. A hermit living in a cave in the woods, nothing left of you but bones.

“Check out our website to see when the eclipse will hit your area! Depending on your location, you may be able to witness the rare, incredible, total eclipse! Stay tuned for more–more–more—”

You grumble as the radio once again fizzles into static, the announcers’ voice growing more and more distorted.

“More—mo—”

You reach over again and turn the radio’s dial. After a nauseating scratching sound, a sharp, sizzling shriek, the radio rights itself to another station. A gentle piano fills the hollow cave, warbling eerie and distant. The sound quality is poor, but it’s better than silence.

You stand, your bones creaking wearily, and hang up the finished pelt to dry. Soon it will join the rest in your makeshift bed; though you can’t feel the cold, a bed is comforting, even if it’s a simple, crafted cot on the ground.

The dull grayish light outside has grown brighter. Morning, then. You’ve climbed deep enough into the mountain range that the sun never peers through the infinite, suffocating clouds. Eclipse your boney ass, you likely won’t see anything but a short absence of light.

Snow is falling again. You watch it trickle in through the mouth of your cave as you plop onto a rock to strap on your snowshoes. It’s wispy, floating shimmer is comforting, almost. 

You’re once again craving something warm to drink.

You shake the thought out of your head, reaching over to flick off the radio. Your snowshoes click onto the stone then crunch into the snow outside.

It’s eerily silent, as always. You crane your head back and let a few snowflakes float into your empty eye-sockets. The winter wind greets you by whispering against your coat.

“G’morning,” you tell it. “Winterful weather today.”

The trees around you rattle with a sudden gusty gale.

“Yup,” you respond, staring dutifully ahead. “That was bad. Sorry.”

You trudge off into the snow.

You’re not sure how long it’s been now. Tasks seem endless and long-suffering. Days and nights meld together into the endless stretches of gray. The flat, white horizon never changes. The radio plays the same songs. Each day you get up, hunt, bathe, and prepare your pelts and smoked meats. Sometimes you’re forced to kill the occasional human hunter who tries to kill you, but eventually, even the humans stop coming. 

Eventually, you are achingly alone.

You practice your tingling. Your chilly, chest-cold dying-snowflake. The thing pulsing inside you that fills the world with snow and ice that sings and dances beneath your black fingertips. Magic, the radio announcer had mentioned once. You fling it around you in fits of rage and retreat inside it when the world becomes too quiet.

Too quiet.

Soon you reach the lake, shucking your clothes and coat as you go. You wade into the water, entertaining yourself by pushing through slushy patches of ice and crunching bits of floating snow between your phalanges. You spot your reflection rippling on the surface: pointed teeth, empty eye-sockets.

A fox watches you play by the shoreline, her eyes boring into you across the water, wide and yellow as a desert sky. She stands there, frozen, as you dip your skull into the freezing lake, droplets slinking into your eye sockets, pooling into cracked, yellowing crevices along your spine.

With one last glance your way, she turns her eerie gaze into the bushes, and leaps into the snow, out of sight.

The wind picks up, whistling through you. You tug at your exposed ribs, at the cracks that still haven’t gone away, and they pang distantly as though muffled by a film of quiet. The aching quiet.

“You’re ribbin’ me,” You giggle to yourself.

The water sloshes as you tip in place, mud beneath the water squelching in your feet. You’re humming again: Shyren’s song. High and low melody, a distinct chorus; there might be words, but you don’t remember them. Shyren. Shyren from the car. She has a taste for music, you think. You want to hear her again, you think—you want to hear someone, anyone.

You want to hear someone say your name. Perhaps everything will return to you with those sounds, those syllables. If only you could remember it. It’s been so long, yet you’ve recalled nothing but the simple, dull tones of this song.

The warbling melody slips out between your teeth as you slink out of the lake and back into the snow. You dunk your clothes in the water, wringing them out as they quickly start to freeze, and sling them over your shoulder, not bothering to dress. Strapping on your snowshoes, you trudge away from the shore.

You use the tingling sensation to make yourself lighter until you’re basically hovering, footprints mere scratches in the white blankets below. Birch branches brush at you as you pass, as bare as they’ve been since forever. You briefly wonder how uncanny you must look, but the thought is brushed aside by your ravenous hunger. Your last meal was ages ago. 

Shyren’s song sounds sad, without all the techno-beat. It fills the snowy forest in lue of your soundless footsteps. Like keeling, crying, low and nearly noiseless. Holding something in, letting something out. 

“Too introspective,” you interrupt yourself. Then you shake your head with a sigh. Perhaps you’re going a bit crazy.

In little time, you make it to the Cave, which greets you with its wide, gaping smile: a half-crescent hole in the mountainous rock. You shuffle into it and hang your clothes to dry by the fire, which flickers a bit brighter when you toss another jagged log into its flames.

You begin preparing a pathetic, smoked bear meat meal, seasoned with pine-needles that smell like nothing—barely masking the gamey taste of the meat. It’s a process you somehow know how to do. You don’t think you’ve ever hunted before—your initial attempts clumsy and unsuccessful—but you definitely cooked.

You chew though another tough bite and sigh. Even if you had your memories, you think your culinary skills would be lackluster at best.

Your clothes dry quickly by the light of the fire, and when you shrug them back on they smell faintly of pine needles and smoke. You bury your nasal ridge into your large, worn scarf and briefly pause while pulling on your mittens to switch on the radio.“—lipse is nearly upon us! Put on your safety glasses and step outside for a truly gorgeous sight! I’ll be doing so myself in just a moment—!” 

As though in a trance, you trudge to the entrance of your cave, leaving even your rifle behind. Something in your chest pulses, two quick beats. A pressure grows inside you, sharp, aching, and constant.

The world remains white-tinged, the sky remains gray. You stare listlessly up into the clouds, rubbing at the pressure in your ribs. The announcer’s voice echoes dully from the cave behind you, warping with static.

You feel as though you’ve forgotten something important.

“—utside right now—Stars, it’s gorgeous, do you see that—?!” Muffled, scratching. The dullness grows. Shadows spring from nowhere, the mountains sink into slow, crawling darkness. “—The umb—perfec–”

You blink slowly. Snow creeps into your nasal ridge and makes your face twitch. “—Beautiful!” Shouts the announcer behind you.

You take one step forward. Then another. Without your snowshoes, you begin sinking deeper and deeper into the snow. The darkness grows. The wind howls at your back. The thud in your chest starts up again, charged, heavy, pressure building, like the tingle of energy before a lightning strike—

“—the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”  

Then the pressure inside you snaps.

You blink and you are inside a beeping, bright room.

There’s a man standing a small ways away from you, staring at the snow you’ve brought with you: whispy, white piles of powder sweep across the tile floor, sprawling out around you in the shape of a warped, shadowed star. Something behind you keeps beeping at a constant interval. You stare at the man’s face, his—his skull.

He opens his jaw to speak at the same time as the next high-pitched beep. “Shit. The machine just—”

“Oh No,” There’s a muffled sound of horror to your left but you don’t turn to look, too busy staring at his face.

He’s got a skull. He’s a skeleton, a skeleton like you, with a skull like you. He looks like you.

“Woah.” You grin broadly, teeth bared, distantly enamored by the small blinking lights in his eye-sockets—the same orange as his lumpy hoodie. “Sorry, bud. Ice didn’t see you there.”

Orange Hoodie seemed to come to a horrifying realization at your words. His eyes drift from your blue snow-coat to your boots then back to your face again.

“He’s a classic type,” Orange Hoodie said with an exasperated bark of a laugh. He doesn’t sound amused in the slightest. “Don’t we have enough of those?”

“You, My Friend, Are Enough Of A Classic Type To Make Your Complaint Invalid.”

You turn to stare as another beep sounds from the wall behind you. There’s another skeleton, taller than anyone you’ve ever seen in your life, with limbs as stringy and lanky as branches on a birch tree. Unlike Orange Hoodie, his eye-lights are a dull, pale white, but he does have a big pair of colorful glasses and shiny, bulky braces on his teeth to make up for them.

Orange Hoodie sends a glare to his taller counterpart, though there is no real heat. “Shut up, Jupiter.”

Classic type? What’s that mean? Were they referring to you? You shuffle your feet; strips of snow crinkled off your boots, like sheets of shaved sugar. You feel slow, and sluggish, and your chest still hurts from the sudden pop of pressure. “Hey—”

“Ugh,” Orange hoodie huffs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he strides past. He taps on a keyboard and the big monitors on the walls blink to life, shadowing his skull in dull blues. Another beep. “Only one of ‘em, too. I mean, it’s a good thing if the machine’s pullin’ less of us over—last time was over four months ago, so—”

“Stretch,” ‘Jupiter’ sends ‘Stretch’ a look over the thick rims of his glasses. They’ve been taped with colorful washi tape to the sides of his skull. You notice he’s got a crack near the bridge of his nose hole, not unlike the ones on your ribs. “You Are Leaving Our Poor Guest At A Loss.”

“Why do I always have to do the explaining?” Stretch grumbles, glancing at you with a wary, indignant frown. You bury your nasal ridge deeper into your scarf. “Where’s Vanilla?”

“Classic Is At Work. He Has Been Collaborating With The Humans To Work On The Core. You Know This, Stretch.”

Core. There’s that word again. You look back down at your boots. The snow piled around your feet sluggishly melts, creating puddles on the shiny tiled floor. Blue, square reflections from the monitors speckle the water with a checkered pattern. You step on one of the squares; ice crinkles underneath your heel, squelching into slush.

Jupiter brightens as he stares at the bored look on your face. “He Does Not Seem Hostile, At Least!”

‘He?’ You raise a brow-bone.

“Fantastic,” Stretch deadpans, his eyes on the screens as he begins typing rapidly. “That’s the bare fuckin’ minimum.”

Jupiter sends his counterpart a debilitating look over the ridiculously high collar of his turtleneck. “Stretch! You Are Being Rude!” 

Stretch grumbles something unintelligible in response which causes Jupiter to sigh. You blink and hear another beep. He then turns back to you, skull creasing with an indulgent smile; his big, bulky braces reflect some of the blue light. He’s chosen red and orange as the band colors. “Hello, New Friend! I Am Jupiter. Welcome To Scenic Our Basement!”

You open your mouth, and quickly close it. Shifting your weight makes the melted mush crackle beneath your feet. It’s an awkward sound. 

“You Must Be Confused! But Do Not Worry, Friend. You Are Safe Here!” 

You stare at him. “..Where is ‘here?’”

“Our Basement, Of Course! Oh, But..” Jupiter considers his next words, tapping his phalange to his chin with a dull clicking sound. Then a metaphorical light-bulb turns on in his skull, and the strange lights in his eyes get momentarily brighter. How is he doing that? “..What Is The Name You Would Like To Be Called, New Friend? Unfortunately It Cannot Be Your Real Name, As There Are Many Of You!”

What the hell does that mean? 

You open your mouth to ask—also how in  Star’s name  did you end up in his basement—before Stretch cuts you off again. “Alright, enough chit chat. Jupiter, could you please take ‘im upstairs?”

“Oh, I’m Afraid I Can’t..Classic Was Adamant In My New Role Watching Over The Machine..”

“Fine,” Stretch huffs, hopping down from his swivel chair. You notice he’s wearing scuffed orange trainers that match his hoodie, and he pointedly avoids dampening them in the sprawling icy puddle you’ve left on the floor. 

“C’mon, new guy. Up we go.” He gestures to the crooked stairway a few feet in front of you, and raises a brow bone at your uncomprehending look. “What? Don’t just stair at me.”

..Was that a joke?

You wade your way through the slush and send a sidelong glance to the ever-beeping, eerily large machine that you’d appeared in front of. Stretch doesn’t seem to mind that you’re lingering, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it with the grace of a seasoned smoker. Reminds you of Mike, a bit. Or was it ‘Milly?’

You started up the staircase, each step accompanied by a plip, squelch, and plop. You leave a trail of melted ice on each stair. 

You glance black behind you. Stretch isn’t following.

“I’ll be up in a bit.” Stretch answers your unspoken query, his little orange eyelights cutting through a cloud of smoke. Like neon high beams, eerily bright in the dark; the light from the room behind him shades his silhouette into shadow. Eclipse. “Go introduce yourself or something.”

With that, the basement door squeaks shut and all that remains is a trail of smog that follows you up into the living room. It takes you a moment to gain your bearings but ultimately you emerge into the Upstairs.

It’s beautiful and wide. A room with big, sweeping curtains, beige and brown, covering floor-to-ceiling windows. Couches and plush chairs are strewn about around a mahogany coffee table and ginormous high-tech television under a framed painting of a single bone. The screen is playing something—a show with a strange looking robot character that you don’t recognize—but the volume’s been muted. Your soft footsteps are the only sounds. 

You step dutifully onto a plush, ornate rug, padding about wearily like a disgruntled mountain cat. There’s nobody in the room. Your footfalls leave puddles of water that soak dark spots into the carpeting.

“Hey, uh, who’re you?”

There’s a guy standing in the doorway of the kitchen. You notice a very gaudy, sparkly chandelier hanging above him, which freckles his skull in speckles of warm shadow and light.

“Uh, I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here,” he says, pausing to cough into his fist. A smoking dog treat hangs from his limp phalanges, and a steady stream of purple smoke weeps from his nasal cavity and mouth. He glances at your blank face, down to your snow-dusted coat, then down to the puddle you’d soaked into the carpeting.

“..M’lord’s not gonna be too happy ‘bout that,” he murmurs distantly, almost to himself. He leans against the counter and takes another long drag of his bone-shaped cigarette. You’ve never seen anything like that before. You kind of want one.

You take a moment to observe this new monster. He wears a large..collar, you believe, and a jacket with purple accents and a fur hood. His facial structure remarkably resembles Stretch from downstairs, though his teeth are much sharper, and he sports a large, shimmery gold canine. 

“What’re ya starin’ for?” Edgy Stretch grumbles, growing peeved as he blows a plume of smoke your way. “Fuck off.”

Also like Stretch, he is less than friendly. You hold back a sigh then pause when you hear a faint thumping sound, heavy, like repetitive stomping growing closer behind you. Then someone shrieks so loud you nearly jump out of your bones.

“WHO IS LEAVING THIS INFERNAL TRAIL OF WATER ALL OVER MY CARPETING?!”

You whirl around. Not unlike Edgy Stretch, this shorter, furious skeleton is clad head to toe in black and brilliant violet. His neon eye-lights land on you and he genuinely growls as though he’s a prissy little bear cub and you’ve encroached on his territory.

“He’s got snow all over ‘im,” Edgy Stretch notes, tapping the ash out of his cig.

“Snow?” Commander Carpet hisses, baffled.

“New arrival, I’d guess,” Edgey Stretch gestures to the basement stairs with his dog treat, smoke seeping up to the chandelier above. “The trail leads to the basement.”

The angry little skeleton follows his taller counterpart’s gaze to the veritable river you’d left running along the carpeting.

“..It’s The Middle Of Summer,” States Commander Carpet. His expression’s scrunched like he’s not sure he likes the flavor of a new food. 

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” you state bluntly. His dumbfounded expression twists right back into infuriated. Edgy Stretch looks elated, suddenly.

You don’t have a second to question this before a door slams open and a neon-blue blur launches right into your face.

“HI! Hi! Did You Come From Snowdin?!” This new skeleton is short and exceedingly round. His teeth are notably not sharp; rather, they’re perfectly square and split in an enthusiastic grin. You hear his gloves creak as he pumps his fists with excessive force, blurting, “So Did We!”

“Huh,” You chuckle. Snowdin? Is that a pun? You shift your weight and send him a quirk of a smile which he probably does not see since your skull is still buried in your scarf. “I was definitely snowed-in.”

The round guy’s smile drops so fast it gives you whiplash. He has big stars in his sockets in place of normal round eye-lights that whirl furiously at your apparent social faux-pas. “NO! Do Not Mention The Pun! You Are Just As Bad As Papy!”

You blink at him, still stunned. “Then what—?”

A new voice drawls over the foyer. “Could ya’ll stop shouting at what-ever-o’-fuck in the mornin’?”

You huff at the interruption, tilting your head toward the voice, searching the indoor balcony above.

“..It’s twelve p.m.,” notes Edgy Stretch. He is ignored.

Heavy footfalls thud down the spiral staircase. Another skeleton appears in your peripheral, resembling a short, squat Edgy Stretch dressed in red. These comparisons are getting ridiculous. Where are these skeletons even coming from? It’s nice to know you’re not the only skeleton monster around, but this is just excessive.

The new guy grins at you, humorously, as though sensing your thoughts. His big crimson hoodie dwarfs him, but what really gets your attention is his smell.

Along with him wafts the sour odor of..horseradish? Mustard? Whatever it is, it’s awful, and the look on his face even worse. His red eyes laser into you and he lumbers across the puddle you made on the floor, shoes squelching into the damp rug. “Hey, who’s this?”

“A New Friend!” Starry-Eyes bursts.

“The Machine’s Most Recent Menace,” Commander Carpet growls, tightly folding his arms across his chest. When you look closely, you see he’s wearing some sort of prim and proper uniform beneath his violet purple bandana. “He Is Evidently A Classic Type.”

Again, what does that even mean? You don’t have a chance to ask before Red Hoodie shuffles even closer. You feel your nasal ridge crinkling at his pungent odor. Now that he’s up in your face you detect a waft of laundry detergent with sweaty overtones. Gross. At least you’re a good head taller than him; it makes you feel better as you take a step back.

“Heh..really? he’s kinda..different.” Red Hoodie raised his brow at you, a big, gold tooth in his mouth reflecting light from the ridiculous chandelier. “Too thin and tall to be a Sans, but too short for a Papyrus..”

He circles round you like a predator stalking his prey. You wisely do not react, buried to your nasal cavity in your scarf. 

“Weird outfit.” He notes, eyes raking up and down your figure, lingering on your big boots and snow coat. “..Dressed like a human hiker.” He lowers his voice to murmur quietly near your skull: “Ya look a bit like..?” Then he sweats and shakes his head.

You do not particularly enjoy being sized-up by this big lump of lard. Especially because you still have no idea what he’s talking about. 

“‘Scuse me,” you state neutrally, “who the hell are you?”

Red Hoodie pauses at the sound of your voice, before his eyes flash dangerously. “Snowflake has some bite to ‘im,” he snickers. 

“Sure, let’s go with that,” you mutter tiredly, brushing the remaining snow off your scarf, which dampens the soft rug beneath your feet. Commander Carpet’s violet glare sears into you, teeth contorting into a snarl.

Your gaze trails from the big lumpy couch to the obnoxious chandelier and then to the water you’d trailed onto the plywood as you attempt to ignore him. On autopilot, your mouth moves, voice a near murmur. “..Why do skeletons hate the cold?”

“Why?” Emerges the ragged, gravely voice of Edgy Stretch. 

“They don’t.” You answer vaguely, voice muffled by your scarf. “It goes right through ‘em.”

A big, awful grin spreads across Edgy Stretch’s face. Your blackened fingers tremble in your pockets.

“Heh. That was bad,” he notes. It was, but as smoke spills out of his mouth you kind of doubt his credibility regardless. “Nice to meet you, new guy. The name’s Rus. Don’t wear it out.”

You blink at him. “My name is—”

“I Am The Maleficent Black.” Commander Carpet interrupts, still glaring at you as though you’d murdered a bunch of puppies in cold blood. “If You Must Refer To Me, Call Me Lord. I Expect You To Clean Up Your Mess, ‘New Guy.’”

Okay, your name is not ‘New Guy,’ nor are you male. You don’t think. Well, maybe. Stars, okay, you don’t know your gender or your name but you wish they would let you speak at least. They won’t even let you get a word in. 

“’M Red.” Mutters Red Hoodie. Then he shuffles past you to collapse onto the couch, his interest seemingly lost. You hear snoring shortly after.

“I’m Blue!” Shouts Starry-Eyes. “And You Are..? Oh! What Should His Name Be?”

You feel a pinch growing between your brow bones. “I already have a na–”

“I say Snowflake,” interrupts Red, who’s conveniently woken up. 

“Icicle!” Blue suggests.

“Absolutely Not.” ‘Lord’ Black huffs.

Blue’s star-shaped eye-lights spin as he comes up with a new brilliant idea. “Then—!”

You watch them blurt names and argue with each other as you stand there like a newly-adopted dog.

Rus sidles up close to you and looms over like a hanging specter. His smile does not look friendly.

“How about..Snowy,” He suggests, grin widening at the twitching grimace on your face. 

The other skeletons erupt into snickering jeers, save for Blue, who simply looks elated. 

“Snowy! That’s Perfect!”

You open your mouth to try to tell them, again, that you probably already have a name but you are ignored, and there is no tall, imposing Jupiter with silly glasses to defend you. No, he is still in Scenic His Basement. 

“It Seems Apropos,” Black sneers bitingly, gesturing to your entirety with a sharp, gloved hand. He seems happy that you have been named similarly to a tiny, fuzzy white dog. You resist the urge to point out you are nearly a foot taller than him and could easily icicle him to a pulp—you have a feeling that wouldn’t go over well.

“Snowy it is!” Red cackles, nearly gleeful. 

“My name is not Snowy,” You mutter into your scarf.

“Sorry, bud.” Red says, looking positively ecstatic. “You’re not ‘Sans’ anymore. Only Vanilla has rights to the name.”

You can’t take this anymore. You glare Red right in the face as he lounges, idly, on the couch. “Who the hell is ‘Sans?’”

He blinks, tensing up. “Huh?”

Blue stops in his tracks, the stars in his sockets spinning to a slow stop. “Sorry?”

A heavy silence as everyone, dumbfounded, stares at you. 

Then the door slams open so hard it ricochets with a crack off its hinges. “RED! You LAZY MONGREL!”

Red full-body flinches and scrambles to launch himself off the couch. He fails to get much farther than half-hanging over the armrest before another tall skeleton storms into the room.

You have never seen someone dressed in so much leather. He’s covered in it, head to toe, from his shiny, jet-black jacket to his heeled bright-red leather boots. You find him rather incredible until he opens his mouth.

“You Skipped Work AGAIN!” Edgelord shrieks. “Do You Know How Many Times I’ve Had To Make WHINEY, PLEADING Calls To Your Boss Simply So You Can Keep Your PATHETIC Desk Job?!”

“Sorry Boss,” Red garbles, suddenly looking a lot less confident.

Edgelord makes an awful screeching noise akin to grinding nails on a chalkboard, waving around his massive flared red gloves as though he may grasp some semblance of stability by clawing at the air. You’re distracted by the spikes on his epic jacket; they extend a full five inches out of his shoulder pads and make them look a lot more menacing than he actually is. Damn, that’s an awesome outfit.

“I CANNOT KEEP DOING THIS FOR YOU!” He bellows, “I Have Tolerated This For Far Too Long And I REFUSE To Tolerate It ANY LONGER—!”

“I like your outfit.” you interrupt.

“—WHAT?!” Edgelord fumes, whirling around to glare daggers into your impromptu huddle with Rus and Blue. “Who DARES Interrupt Me—?!”

“Your outfit,” you repeat, “I like it.”

“You—What?!” He snarls and eases and seems to register your compliment, straightening up while oozing pride and folding his arms across his chest. “Ah—Ahem. I Suppose I Can Let This Interruption Slide, As You Have Noticed My Terrible Greatness..Though, Rus, This Is A Uniform, Not An Outfit. ‘Outfit’ Makes It Sound Frivolous, Which It Is Not.”

Your grin grows larger against your will as this new guy basically regurgitates a monologue into the silent, stunned house. Somewhere behind you, ‘Lord’ Black inhales a deep, long breath and sighs.

“This Is A Replica Of My Esteemed Royal Guard Uniform, The Original Of Which Was Bestowed Upon Me By The King To Show My ‘Lieutenant’ Rank—I’m Sure You Understand The Significance Of This, If You Are Anything Like My Pathetic Mongrel Of A Brother.

“I Digress,” He digresses, “This Uniform Is Made Of Only The Finest Locally-Sourced Leathers, Perfect For My Great And Terrible Self..” 

You snicker. He trails off and stares at you. 

“..You Are Not Rus.” You watch as he narrows his brow bones and glares, giving you a long, infuriated once-over. “Who Are You?! And Why Is There So Much Water On The Floor?!” 

“His name’s Snowy,” Red introduces for you, sounding a bit strangled.

Edgelord snarls. “I Was Not Asking You, You Pathetic Whelp.”

Red sweats and gulps audibly. You hide your widening grin under your scarf.

You’ve got no sympathy for the guy, if first impressions serve you right. You’re glad he’s getting scolded after leering at you like a creep. Plus, who makes someone else call in absent from work for them? Red’s managed to lower your already rock-bottom opinion of him.

“My name’s..Snowy.” You introduce. Edgelord seems to notice your beat of hesitation as he raises a brow bone. “I just got here.”

Wherever ‘here’ is. You’re still unclear on that front.

“From Snowdin, I Presume?” Edgelord tilts his head; you notice three, deep long scratches over his right eye-socket, eerily similar to ‘Lord’ Black, who still stands somewhere behind you. ‘There Are Many Of You,’ Jupiter had said. Does that mean..?

“Did You Come From Snowdin.” Edgelord repeats, scowl creasing as he crosses his arms. “Answer And Do Not Make Me Repeat Myself Again.”

You try to search your spiraling mind for a response, squinting at him, trying to convey your confusion with your big empty eye-sockets and only half your face. “Ah..where’s Snow—?”

“STOP MAKING THE PUN!” Blue shrieks and slams into your side, hard enough that your ribs ache. You stumble, stunned, and stare at Blue as he fumes and pumps his fists in a playful tantrum.

“Oh.” Edgelord’s expression quickly turns sour. “He’s A Classic Type.”

“Sorry, boss,” Red whimpers again; he’s close to merging into the couch cushions, for as hard as he’s pressed himself into them.

..You are very close to bashing your skull into a wall.

“I Am The Great And Terrible Edge!” Edgelord proclaims abruptly as his tattered red scarf billows behind him in a nonexistent wind; he does not seem to notice your inner turmoil. “And You Will Refer To Me As The Great And Terrible Edge Unless I State Otherwise!”

“Please explain what is going on.” You ask Rus, who seems like the safest bet at this point.

“Nah,” Rus states, exhaling a cloud of smoke into your face.

It’s a struggle to keep your expression flat, but you manage, staring at him with the air of someone watching their items get scanned in a checkout line. Rus looks oddly disappointed by your lack of reaction.

“Did Stretch Slack Off Again,” Black cuts in with no intonation. He rubs between his brow bones; he’s wearing flared violet gloves that resemble Blue’s cyan ones. “Of Course He Did,” He grumbles.

“We’re Alternate Versions Of Each Other!” Says Blue, gesturing between himself and you. “Like Cousins!”

“‘Cousins’ Is The Lie We Came Up With To Diffuse Pandemonium.” Black states. Blue seems to all but barrel over his edgy counterpart’s general grumpiness as he exclaims: “WE’RE LIKE A FAMILY!”

“I Am No One’s Cousin.” Edge growls. Then he turns to you, and, surprisingly patiently, explains: “Snowy. You Are A Version Of My Brother, Sans, From An Alternate Universe. You Have Been Brought Here By This Universe’s Sans, Also Known As ‘Classic,’ Who Has Been Meddling With A Dangerous Machine. As You Are Now Stuck Here, You Will Be Staying With Us Until The Machine Is Fixed.”

You nod slowly. This sounds like a load of shit to you, but at the same time, it adds up—them all looking the same, or somewhat similar—pairs of brothers, are they? You’re pretty sure you can connect the dots. One short, one tall…Rus and Black. Red and Edge. Blue and..Jupiter or Stretch, maybe? Though, you’re not sure why they keep saying your name is ‘Sans.’ That name doesn’t ring a bell whatsoever.

“..Got it, Bossman.” Edge seems to straighten up, surprised by your impromptu nickname. No way you’re calling him ‘The Great and Terrible Edge’ lest you burst out laughing. “Anything else I need to know?”

Edge clears his throat, seeming endeared by your title of respect. He has no idea you’re making fun of him. “Not At This Moment. I, Being As Magnificent and Magnanimous As I Am, Will Explain House Rules Tomorrow As Right Now I Must Make A Masterful Dinner.

“Do Not Misunderstand,” His blood-red eye-lights meet your lack of ones. “I Am Not Doing This Out Of The Kindness Of My Heart. You Are Small And Stupid, And Will Get Yourself Killed Otherwise, Causing Great Trouble To Me.”

“‘Kay,” you respond blandly. He, like Rus, seems briefly startled by your lack of reaction.

The room seems to hold a collective breath in their metaphorical lungs as you proceed to ignore them and stare distantly at the painting of a bone hanging over the television. 

You internally check yourself over. The pressure in your chest is completely gone, leaving you feeling much better than before, if still a bit light-headed. You have a migraine, but that’s not abnormal. Your hands still fucking suck at working as you curl and uncurl them in your empty pockets. You have nothing on you but the clothes on your back. 

You have no idea where you are, but you are no longer in the Cave. You are now Somewhere Else. These skeletons believe you are an alternate version of someone named ‘Sans,’ even though you’ve never heard that name in your life. Would it be bad if you reveal you aren’t ‘Sans?’ That you can’t remember anything before waking up in a blizzard all those weeks ago? Wait—since you were brought here by that machine, are you actually one of them—?

Who even are you?

..This is much more complicated than your life in the woods.

Whatever, you could care less. you’ve realized by now that you have no control over this insane situation. But at least you’re not starving alone in the woods anymore. And apparently no one here is going to kill you for no good reason, like the hunters back ‘home.’

As Stretch so wisely said, it’s the bare fucking minimum.

Your empty eyes trail over the group, which have been watching you stand silently thinking to yourself. “..May I have some food?”

“Yes. Tonight We Are Having Lasagne.” Edge folds his arms, the wide flares of his red gloves creasing like spines out of his chest. “If You Don’t Like That, Feel Free To Go Starve In The Woods. See If I Care.”

Wow, had he been reading your mind? He doesn’t give you a chance to respond as he whirls on his platform heel and clip-clop-clip-clops his way into the kitchen. Red relaxes immediately once he’s gone and drags a large, clawed hand down his face as he sweats.

“Well, Ah-Hem! Welcome To Scenic Our House!” Blue greets incredibly belatedly. “Do You Want A Tour?!”

You stare at him uncomprehendingly.

“..You’d Best Accept.” Black advises you off to your right. He snickers at you, though you’re unsure of what he finds funny. “Do Not Enter My Room, Or One Of My Puzzles Will Kill You.”

What the hell? Rus must catch the slight twitch to your brow because he stifles a snort.

“I’ll Tell You Where All The Puzzles Are!” Blue elaborates, which still doesn’t explain anything.

“..Sure,” you agree slowly, struggling not to punch yourself in the face. “Why not.”

“Let’s Go, Snowy!”

He proceeds to drag you up the mansion’s three-odd flights of stairs, leaving chuckling Commander Carpet behind.

This house is larger than you can even fathom. Blue shoves you into so many open doors your head begins to spin and you have to hold onto the walls for support.

The little skeleton doesn’t notice, though, rambling about his brother, ‘Papy,’ who apparently will get along ‘Great With You, You’re Lazy Just Like Him, Snowy!’ You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re not lazy, rather, you’re so hungry you feel like you’re going to collapse.

Finally you stumble upon a room with a red-painted door, with a sign that says ‘THE GREAT PAPYRUS’  in papyrus font, respectfully, and a smaller sign that reads ‘AND THE MAGNIFICENT BLUE!’ in comic sans.

“And THIS,” Blue pushes past you and swings open the door with a flourish, “Is Where You Will Stay!”

You pause in the entryway and glance at him. “Uh—”

“Clem And I Have The Biggest Room!” Blue proclaims with a grin, hands on his hip bones as his bandanna flutters in an invisible wind. “No One Else Wanted To Share With You. But Do Not Fret! The Magnificent Blue Will Share His Room With You! Certainly Clem Will Want To As Well!”

The room is certainly large, with big windows and a whole set of shelving full of car models and action figurines. On the wall adjacent to you is a framed photo of a piece of cheese.

You barely have time to process this before Blue whirls around to stare at you, big eye-lights glowing with a sudden intensity. “Snowy! Do You Like Race Cars?”

“Sure,” you say with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been repeatedly smacked in the face.

“PERFECT!” Blue exclaims. “Papyrus And I Have Race Car Beds. I Am So Glad You Like Them! Anyway, New Friend, You Will Be Sleeping Here!”

He crosses the room and opens the door to the closet.

You stare at him. Then back into the closet. To be fair, it is a walk-in closet, so it’s larger than the average closet—but this does not distract from the fact that it is a closet. At least it has been neatly cleared out for you and there are only a few empty coat hangers left on the racks.

“I Had Papy Set It Up For You While We Were Touring!” Blue is saying. “Do You Like It?”

You step inside and stare blankly at the cream, chipped walls. There is a mattress on the floor, and the room has been made more homey with a single lamp that’s unplugged and knocked over on the carpet. It has a cute, starry-themed lampshade.

“Ah, I See You’ve Noticed My Lamp!” Blue exclaims, kneeling down to righten it. The carpet does not support it properly so it immediately tips over again. Blue does not notice. “I Picked It Out With Clem At the Amazing ‘Eye-Kea!’ Unfortunately There Are No Outlets In The Closet, So You Cannot Plug It In!”

“..Why?” The word comes out breathy and exhausted.

Blue grins. “A Gift For You, As A Welcome To Scenic Our House!”

“Thanks, Blue.” Your voice sounds weak to your own ears. Blue doesn’t seem to care, though, puffing up with pride. 

“You Are VERY Welcome, My Dear New Friend Snowy!” He abruptly turns on his heel. “I Will Give You Some Time To Bask In The Wonder Of Your New Room! Edge Will Have Dinner Ready At 6pm Sharp! Do Not Be Late!”

He slams the closet door shut behind him. Someone has written the words ‘rus was here’ on the doorframe in sharpie. Rus, most likely.

You stare at his horrible handwriting and slowly collapse to the floor. It’s carpeted and soft—much better than your Cave in the woods. You lay down and throw your arm over your face.

It is a very long time before you get up again.

“SNOWY!” A slamming noise so sudden you jolt awake and fling yourself upright, glancing about wildly. This is not your Cave. This is not your home. No snow. No trees. No—

“Snowy..?”

A pregnant pause. You exhale heavily and stare up at Blue from your spot on the floor.

“Were You Asleep On The Carpet..?” Blue asks, his voice suddenly low and quiet, and you blink at him; he must see the confusion on your face because he immediately peps back up again. “Snowy! Don’t Be Silly! That’s What The Mattress Is For!”

“Right.” You feel strangely embarrassed, enough to apologize. “..Sorry, Blue. Must’ve rolled right off of it.”

Neither you nor Blue elect to mention that the mattress is a good four feet away.

“Do Not Worry!” Blue placates kindly. “We’ll Get You A Bedframe Soon Enough!” You tilt your head at him. Really? They’re gonna buy you stuff? “I Came To Tell You That Dinner Is Ready! And You Have MAIL!”

In a flourish, he shoves a piece of paper into your face. It startles you enough that you hurry to stand, teetering on your feet. You hadn’t even taken your boots off before falling asleep.

“It’s From Sans!” Blue exclaims, then seems to realize something. “Classic,” He clarifies. The ‘Classic-Type’ everyone’s been talking about.

You stare at the paper in his hand. You’ve been faxed a message, it seems, which stuck out as a sudden oddity; you’d think fax machines would be out of style in 2030. Blue blinks questioningly at you, ink smearing under his gloves as he holds the page a little higher, gesturing for you to take it.

You pluck it carefully from his grip. The paper is still warm.

“Classic Is Working For The Humans In This Universe!” Blue is saying. “They Peacefully Share Knowledge and Coexist! Isn’t That Amazing?!”

“Yeah,” you agree, not really paying attention.

The message’s written entirely in comic sans, and..well, you’re not sure what else you expected. It contains a slew of typos, too, which isn’t a great sign. You bring it up to your skull and squint at the slightly-smeared letters on the page.

newbie,

sorry avout the sudden trip. machine still acting up smometimes. dont touch the machine, it may breakk again. cant be there to greet u but blue says he’ll take care of it. feel free to fax him any questions u have. 

thanks,

snas

The elusive Sans, then. Or ‘snas.’ It was nice of him to at least send you a letter but the pun he included kind of diminished the effect.

Plus, you’re no less confused than before.

“Classic Is Very Smart, Just Like Papy!” Blue explains to you as you lower the paper and refocus on his face. “I’m Sure They’ll Get The Machine Working In No Time, And Send Us Back Home! But For Now,” The smile he sends you is polite but strangely unnerving; his eye-lights are simple, cyan circles in his sockets. “Let’s All Try To Get Along, Okay?”

You nod in agreement. Blue grins even wider, and a tension you hadn’t noticed suddenly dissipates. You watch mildly as he turns on his heel and starts out of the room.

You follow him and adjust your scarf as you start down the stairs. “Blue..?” 

“Yes, New Friend Snowy?”

“Who is ‘Papy?’” You’d seen that ‘Papyrus’ name-plate on the door.

“OH!” Blue exclaims. You hear noises coming from the kitchen as you draw closer. Clattering, shouting, sizzling—and an indescribable smell wafts into the hallway as you come to a halt near a long dining-room table. You notice the choice in wallpaper: a soft tan with brown stripes and printed baskets of lush flowers and fruits. “I Forgot To Explain! We Are ‘Sans.’ Our Brothers Are ‘Papyrus!’ That—Is What Your Brother’s Name Is, Correct?”

Like before, he gives you no time to respond. “Papy Is My Brother. You May Know Him As ‘Stretch!’ His Real Name Is Papyrus. I Have A Habit Of Calling Him ‘Papy.’ I Apologize If I Confused You!”

“..It’s no trouble,” you say calmly. “Thank you for explaining. And for the tour.”

“Of Course!” Blue exclaims, stopping to stare at you, seeming surprised by something. “..You Are So Polite!”

He stands there, decisively watching you, seeming to search for something else to say—but you don’t really want to talk to him anymore. You’re so hungry you might start eating the fruit-covered wallpaper. It’s gorgeous and ornate, but probably has the texture of a chip if you peel it off the wall, and you have a feeling you’ll be killed if you try.

Edge struts into a room with four absolutely heaping plates of food with the air of a king granting mercy to his subjects. Bits of vegetables and noodles flop off the plates and onto the table as he slams them down.  

“Dinner START!” He shrieks into the echoing house.

The smell wafts closer. You’re pretty sure you’re drooling.

Regardless, you can’t sit without knowing where to sit. You need your host. Blue, however, has abandoned you to help Edge set the plates of food on the table. You step closer and hold your mittens out in offering.

“..Can I help?” you ask Edge.

“Sit. Down.” He growls at you. You hold your hands up and back off. 

“Edge!” Blue scolds. “Don’t Be Rude!”

They start to squabble but your eyes are on the feast being laid out before you. It takes everything in you to continue standing there instead of launching yourself onto the table and scooping food into your mouth like a feral dog.

“Need some help there, Snowy?”

Rus, suddenly behind you, sidles up to bump roughly into your side. “I’ll get ya a chair. I can tell you’re feeling scrambled.”

At his emphasis you notice that Edge has topped his lasagne with scrambled egg. There are shells poking out of it en-mass. A chair squeaks as it’s pushed over to the table; one of the legs is broken and has been hastily fixed with a strip of scrap metal.

You watch as Rus scoots the chair very deliberately next to a massive lounger with one missing armrest. “Good luck,” he says to you ominously, patting your shoulder and crossing the dining room to sit elsewhere.

With no hesitation you plop into the crooked chair as the other skeletons begin to file into the room. 

Blue passes you a plate and spoon with a smile. You smile back, a hesitant, teensy thing still hidden by your scarf. You look forward and Red is suddenly sitting in the seat right across from you.

“So,” Red drawls as an opener, “where are your eye-lights, Snowflake?”

You stare at him. You love how he’s continuing to call you the most demeaning, cutesy nickname possible. What a nice guy. You’d kick his ass if he had one.

You convey your disinterest with complete monotone, looking longingly toward the scrambled-egg lasagne. “Don’t have ‘em.”

“Huh? You blind, then?”

You side-eye his sweaty face. “..Wish I was.” 

“Wha—The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“RED! Stop TERRORIZING Snowflake!” Edge booms across the table. “Start Eating Before I Make You!”

Ugh, Stars, now his brother’s calling you that too.

Whereas before everyone had been treating you like a new toy, once food gets passed around, you are immediately forgotten and ignored. Indignant shrieking fills the room as food flies about estranged-family style; a few scattered drips of marinara sauce land on your plate, which you scoop up and bite off your spoon.

A few heavy, lumbering steps sound behind you. The massive lounge chair beside you groans and squeaks as a large, hulking shadow falls over the table. The chaos never halts, and you continue side-eyeing the rapidly diminished lasagne as the plate is passed around deliberately out of your reach.

No one seems to give a shit about table manners so you grab a whole handful of green beans when the plate appears nearby and immediately shove them, stems and all, into your open, gaping maw. You feel the gaze of Hulking Shadow and turn to stare at him, a green bean stuck in your tooth.

Big Guy, next to you, stares at you with one large, pulsing eye-light.  “You’re the new guy.”

“Snowy,” You introduce, picking a stem out of your pointed canine.

“‘M Mars.” He slurs. You notice suddenly that his plate is already piled with food; he slowly spoons a serving-size scoop of lasagna into his massive jaw and doesn’t seem to notice as he drools excess marinara sauce all over his hole-filled hoodie. How the hell did he get such a large portion?

Many of the other members of the table are avoiding him like the plague, never batting his hands away when he goes in for more, so his sheer size might explain it. You’re not going to risk snatching something off his plate either. He could palm your skull like a basketball. 

You discreetly eye him as he slurps up a half-cooked lasagne noodle. The hole in his head looks like it would've killed a normal monster. The thought brings a sharp grin to your face. Perhaps your dead-jokes will go over better with a good audience.

“Hey Mars,” You state, just loud enough to be heard by him over the chaos. “What did one skeleton say to the other?”

Mars pauses, interest piqued, as he raises a massive brow-bone over his empty eye. “What?”

“You’re dead to me.”

Mars erupts with an awful, gurgling cackle, the sound causing a tremor that slightly shakes the table and makes Edge and Black glare. His grin splits wider than the hole in his head, and he stares at you, eye-sockets wide, as if he’s never seen you before. After a beat of hesitation, he reaches toward the center of the table to spoon a portion of lasagne onto your plate with a loud splat.  

“..You should eat more,” he suggests slowly. His low voice seems to carry over the table and stuns the arguing and shouting into silence.

You stare down at the food on your plate and are stunned by the sight of it. It’s wafting steam, still warm. Warm food. Someone gave you food.

Emboldened, you snatch your spoon and shovel lasagne into your mouth with the ferocity of someone who hasn’t tasted anything but pine nuts and smoked meat for years, ripping your mittens off to get a better grip on your utensil. You fling them somewhere behind you and tear through your meal, only pausing to nip excess bits off your black-tipped phalanges. 

The big guy stares at you as you nearly choke on your last mouthful and doesn’t even hesitate before scooping you another portion. Jupiter, sitting next to Red across from you, watches you eat—more so devour—with something akin to growing horror. 

“Ah, Snowy—” He’s interrupted by your loud slurping and smacking. “Snowy?”

Marinara sauce drips off your jutting jawbone. You barely pause to swallow. “Hm—What.”

“Would You—Would You Like Dessert?”

Your grin peels into something that feels wide and manic. You must be quite a sight, sharp-toothed black-clawed skeleton covered in red sauce. “You’ve got dessert?”

Dessert ends up being a large, honey-drenched pecan pie that has Stretch drooling weird orange liquid from where he sits a few seats away. Jupiter serves you first, which has everyone making strange muffled noises of surprise, and then Mars second—by process of elimination you deduce Mars is Jupiter’s brother. He gets nearly half the pie.

Your next few minutes are a haze of butter and sugar goodness as you shove everything on your plate into your face. Suddenly Jupiter is once again sitting in front of you and Red is laughing behind his—is he drinking a bottle of mustard?

“I’m Glad You’re Enjoying Your Meal, Snowy!”

“It’s fantastic,” you tell him genuinely. “Thank you.”

Jupiter blinks at you behind his thick glasses. “Blue Was Right!” He says, sounding excited but somewhat confused. “You Are Polite!” 

You’re not sure what to say to that so you just tip your head toward your empty plate. Jupiter grins at you; you notice his braces again. Why would a skeleton need braces?

“Your hands are shaking,” says Mars, staring pointedly at your black, crooked phalanges. “You can’t handle this meal, huh?”

Then the door slams open for the second time in two hours. “HELLO! I, THE GREAT CLEMENTINE, HAVE RETURNED!”

“CLEM!” Blue screeches in delight. 

“BLUE!” Comes the second, much louder shriek from the doorway. 

Blue rockets from his chair in a frantic attempt to greet whoever is at the door. Another skeleton steps inside, clad in outrageous amounts of shiny armor, and picks Blue up clear off the ground. He pulls him into a swinging hug and begins spinning so rapidly you’re surprised Blue isn’t flung straight out a window and into orbit. 

“BLUE!” 

“CLEM!”

They cheer and squeal at each other as they spin so hard and so fast they become one amalgamate blob of shrieking laughter. 

Black pinches the bridge of his nasal cavity from where he sits at the opposite head of the table. “Must You Two Do This Every Time?”

This did not stop the pinwheel of destruction, which is wavering dangerously close to a fancy-looking glass trophy case on the wall.

“Blue, Clem!” Jupiter calls. “We Have A Guest!”

A curious pair of pale eyelights swivel to you as their owner’s big red boots skid to a stop. Blue giggles in the bulky confines of Clem’s arms.

“His Name Is Snowy!” Blue proclaims. “He likes Race Cars Also!”

“There Is Marinara Sauce All Over Him!” The Great Clementine gasps.

Blue nods frantically, skull knocking against Clem’s chestplate. “He Is Incredibly Enthusiastic About Culinary Wonders!”

“Just Like Us!” Clem squeals. Are his eye-lights stars? “Oh, This Is Fantastic! We Will Be Fast Friends!”

“Pleased to meet you,” you say, not bothering to wipe the crusted marinara sauce off your face. 

“Snowy is a classic type,” Stretch discourages, motioning to your messy face and bulky jacket with a honey-dunked slice of pie, “I doubt he’ll click well with you two—”

“NONSENSE!” Blue booms. Clem finally sets him down so he could prop his gloved hands on his hip bones. “Despite His Love Of Puns He Is Friendly And Full Of Energy!”

The fact that he could look at your exhausted form and find you energetic brings another manic smile to your face. Blue sweeps a sharp hand toward your marinara-covered expression, shouting, “See!”

“He looks like he’s going to eat someone,” Stretch mutters dully.

“Hey now,” said Mars, his grin nearly mirroring yours. “That’s in poor taste.”

Red barks a laugh and Stretch flushes orange—because apparently flushing orange is a thing he can do.

“How are you doing that?” You ask him, genuinely baffled by the color on his cheekbones. You lean closer over the table, trying to get a better look.

He sends you a fiery glare, and you immediately lean back. “Shut up.”

Okay then.

Jupiter sends you another beatific smile, gesturing to your sauce-covered plate with his pie-cutter; there’s still a bit of pie left, it looks like. “Snowy, Would You Like More Dessert?”

You grip at the table, trying and failing not to look too eager. “I would like more dessert, please and thank you.”

“At Least He’s Polite,” Edge grumbles from the head of the table next to Black, uncaring that you can easily overhear. 

“His Politeness Does Not Excuse What He Did To My Carpet,” Black seethes. 

You ignore them as you pick up your next slice of pie and swallow it whole. 

“You’re disgusting,” Red cackles at you, squirting another shot of mustard into his pointy mouth. 

“‘Ou’ve got mustard on your shirt,” You slur through a mouthful of pecan-flavored buttery-crusted delicacy. 

Red flushes red, respectively. He pulls at his turtleneck, spotting the creased splotch of yellow near the hem. “Wha—shit!”

Stretch is laughing at Red, now, but the orange blush from his apparent social faux-pas hasn’t gone away. Clem and Blue launch into a fast conversation and everyone seems content to, again, pretend like you don’t exist. 

With one last futile wipe at your crumb-covered face, you lean slightly toward the massive skeleton on your right, who’s still working through the leftover lasagne. 

“If I was a color, what color would I be?” You ask him airily.

Mars grunts noncommittally and continues shoveling long-cold dinner into his mouth. 

“..Yeah, I dunno either,” you answer for him.