February 20, 2021.

Six days after the big jape on Flowey the Flower…

Dust slept face down on his desk, where piles of papers served as an unwilling pillow. His consciousness ebbed to and fro, snoozing from his fatigued bones but stirring from the uncomfortable position.

Need to sleep, yet need to work. It was a never-ending cycle of conflict.

Then, he heard someone knocking on the door. The Phantom immediately hovered over his skull, trying to wake him up like his brother would do.

“Saaaaaaaaaans! You have visitors! Now stop being such a lazybone and get to it!”

Groaning, Dust muttered: “Okay, okay. I’m up.”

The pencil rolled out of his grip. It had shortened to an inch from use. They’re hard to come by in this post-apocalyptic world. Like everything else, every bit was precious.

Sketches of his schematics came out better than expected. They were understandable, unlike his garbage handwriting. Though, he definitely needed a longer ruler and a proper compass.

Then there was the salvaged machine. It will continue to take up space in his bedroom until he can properly dispose of it.

Crossing his hands, The Phantom floated towards the window. “It’s that woman again, isn’t it? I missed the times when we chased out unwanted guests. Since when have you become so soft that a lady lowers your guard?”

“A contract is a contract. Anya Willowherb is the only official member of the guild-military alliance that I will deal with.”

“Hmph! It always starts with ‘just business’.” The Phantom emphasised his displeasure by using his fingers to make quotation marks in the air. “Next thing you know, a forbidden romance blooms between questionable colleagues!”

“Nice string of jokes, but you’re totally overestimating me here, bro. Fiction may be based in reality, but not all reality matches fiction. Just hide if you don’t want to meet her.”

“And hide, I will! Good morning to you.” The apparition vanished after a big aggravated huff.

Observing his own clothes, Dust thought there was perhaps a reason why The Phantom suspected a growing fondness. He wore the same military garb for the past six days. The enchanted cloak was handy for the cold winter nights as well.

But that choice was only out of practicality. Dust didn’t have any spare clothing other than the ones on his back.

“Silly brother.” Dust chuckled to himself and shook his head. “There’s only one woman I dare to love, and her name is Toriel.”

He caught himself speaking as though she’s still alive. A slight sting pricked his heart.

“Welp. Kept Anya waiting long enough.”

He went down, opened the door, and let the masked necromancer inside.

A villager made a simple pot of soup to go along with some day-old bread. Dust had stopped wondering about the meals. They were provided as per agreement, and the Willowherb were willing to accept it as a necessary expense. It would be rude to turn down their generosity.

After warming the pot by the fire, they had breakfast together. The staleness didn’t matter anymore now that the bread had been soaked.

Dust thought he would test Anya by staying silent for as long as he wished during the meal. Would she get perturbed by the silence and try to strike a friendly chat?

Time ticked by and nothing was exchanged. If the guest was Stephan, he would be bubbling away with all sorts of tales within the first minute.

It was a nice change of pace. This meant that she’s prioritizing his comfort over friendliness.

“You alright?” Dust asked. “Meeting your old crewmates again and all.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she replied. “Have you made any progress on your research?”

“Yup. I did. And that’s why you’re here. To give an expert opinion on curses.”

As per Dust’s military contract, Stephan was sent to install a fax machine in the farmhouse two days ago. It’s meant to send letters to the corresponding receiver at the Willowherb’s village.

For the man’s own safety, Dust intentionally stayed out of sight while the farmer did his work. The Phantom won’t shut up about taking his juicy Red Soul after all. Whatever vague benefit it might bring, he was too lazy to try.

After the brief reminiscence, the skeleton asked: “How’s Stephan and his family?”

For that, Anya giggled. “His wife was rather annoyed that they’re on potatoes again. Given the choice, she prefers wheat.”

“Heh, I knew he was going to get in trouble with the missus. No worries. I saved the last box of pasta as a peace offering to her. Trade ‘em with spuds if you want. I’m not a picky eater.”

Jests aside, it seemed that the previous year’s wheat crop didn’t do so well. Winter had yet to pass, and they still had to get through Spring as well. Winter wheat ripens during the Summer, while spring wheat will only be ready during the Fall.

Can the world wait any longer? Dust did not know.

With breakfast finished, he showed Anya the mysterious machine and explained what he had discovered so far. How he found the scrap, what he saw, the bits of his past…

…And yet, they still have a lot more to do. Showing his sketches, Dust said: “I tried my best to understand the machine, but I’m afraid I lack experience. There’s a lot of stuff that’s not translatable with the Book of Curses. That’s where you come in.”

Anya began reading through the copied diagrams. “I think I see the problem. These are all custom-made curses written in a code. In turn, that code is a cypher of modern English.”

“Is it a closer match to the Willowherb craft?”

“No, I’m afraid. It’s very much its own thing. Whoever built this machine must be quite an inventor.”

Knowing who she referred to, Dust muttered, “The mysterious entity in my memories…”

Although he had already anticipated another roadblock, a sense of frustration lingered. He needed the machine remade in order to research the past, yet there was nobody alive who could properly understand it. No wonder he didn’t bother to repair that trash heap.

There was but one path he could take. Being on The Surface provided opportunities that didn’t originally exist in The Underground.

“Hey,” said Dust, “You guys have an R&D, right? If they’re willing to share their knowledge, I might be able to crack this nut open.”

Anya chuckled. “I don’t think they could turn down The Lone Defender’s personal request. Expect the fax machine to work overtime by the evening.”

“Sweet.” Dust breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s nice to have something sailing smoothly for once.”

“There… is one detail that I’ve gleaned from my observation. It’s not the most pleasant either.”

“Oh? Tell me anyway. That’s why we’re here at all.”

“Whoever designed this machine was prepared to entomb someone inside its steel coffin. Forever.”

There goes Dust’s little happy moment, replaced with sombre concern. “Go on…”

The necromancer pointed her finger at the inner edges of the mechanisms. “See this centralization of circuitry around the shape of a person? It’s a common feature on sacrificial spells from the 15th century onwards. Either their lifeforce flows outwards to power a larger object, or an external power source keeps their soul artificially alive.”

“…Huh.” Dust referred back to his sketch. “So my first step is finding out if I’m looking at an input or an output.”

“It can always be both. All it takes is the flip of a switch.” Turning her attention to Dust, she asked: “Are you sure you want to use this machine on yourself? With such a dangerous circuit as its core, there’s a chance that using it could be fatal.”

Shrugging, he nonchalantly replied: “Eh. Not like there’s a choice. It won’t work for a human for sure. I’ve found strings of code that demand magical eyes. Similar to mine.”

“I see…”

Her disappointment rang rather soundly to Dust’s ears. “‘Sup? Thought of using the machine instead?”

The human woman stared at the person-shaped hole. “There are many humans out there who could replace me. Meanwhile, you’re the last of monsterkind. If anything happens to you, I don’t think I can answer to my superiors.”

“Welp. Tell them this: I’ll take responsibility for my own decisions. You ain’t got a say on what I do. So, nobody should blame you for anything.”

“Thank you. I’m truly grateful.”

Anya took his statements as words of encouragement. Not what Dust intended, but he accepted that result.

* * *

March 9, 2021.

Spring was around the corner. Judging from Flowey’s past habits, his next attempt may happen right after the snow completely melts.

Meanwhile, the machine’s reconstruction plodded at a slow and steady pace. Between the calm moments of peaceful science, there were moments of bloody violence.

On some days, it’s yet another bandit gang. Typically looters. Most ran away upon the first recognition of their mistake. Those that dared to fight back were sent to an early grave.

On other days, it’s deer, boars, and assorted wildlife. Rumbles of another Celestial Calamity frightened the beasts, pushing them away from their usual feeding grounds and closer to the farm. Those that encroached on his property became free dinner whenever possible.

Despite everything, the hero raids stopped happening. The military must have issued a statement that this mysterious skeleton out in the fields belonged to their side. Therefore, no one was allowed to touch him.

Dust focused on his soldering work on an additional table in the living room. The machine needed a ton of electronics as its foundation. Forget about applying curses before the base was complete.

Groaning out of boredom, The Phantom lingered at the windowsill. “Saaaaans… Take up some assassination contracts already. I’m bored out of my skull!”

“Hey, we just decapitated a deer yesterday. Since we got a working freezer, we now have more meat than we know what to do with.”

“A deer is nothing compared to a human, and you know that.”

“If you want a higher difficulty, how about a boar?”

“No, no, no! A smart beast is still a beast! I’m talking about strong humans that would make our bones rattle in fear! I’m sure the Hero’s Guild knows some. Yet, we’re stuck here with the boring technical stuff…”

“Heh. That’s work for you.”

After a pause, Dust said: “Y’know, Papyrus loved to create. His handicraft was out of this world. It didn’t matter if it involved metalworking, carpentry, painting, or puzzle-making. Everything creative was his jam.”

“He… did?” asked The Phantom. “I thought he-- I would find those things boring.”

“Why so?”

“Well, I’m athletic… And athletic people don’t like to sit around fiddling with fine crafting! Indeed!”

Dust wondered if he was thinking too much, but he heard a sense of inferiority and embarrassment. It was as though… The Phantom had been caught making a mistake.

Could hallucinations make mistakes? Dust didn’t know, and didn’t care enough to ask.

* * *

March 29, 2021

Dust crushed the last of Flowey’s reanimated dead under his boot. Just as he predicted, The Celestial Calamity activated again once the snow had completely melted.

Again, Undyne stood before him.
Again, she accused him of murder.
Again, she wailed from grief.

Same old, same old.

His military fatigues had shown serious signs of wear and tear. Frays. Unmended cuts. Stains of various kinds. Half of it was probably due to Dust’s own neglect.

Once he made sure his job had been done, Dust returned to the farmhouse, wrote a report, and submitted it to the fax machine.

Then, he took a break, lying down on the floor in front of the fireplace.

The wood popped and cracked against the silence. It reminded him of the good old Snowdin days, when King Asgore placed gifts under the Gyftmas tree. However, those memories had started to yellow and fade from age.

The Phantom, a constant love-hate figure, floated around with great curiosity.

“Golly,” said the aberration. “You look bored. Listless. Maybe I’d dare say… wistful? What’s going on?”

Dust replied, “I’m just thinking about something.”

“And…? Oh, don’t tell me you think you’ll ever be free to travel beyond our little base.”

Grunting, Dust snapped back. “Dude. If you can read my mind, why bother asking?”

Offended by the harsh tone, The Phantom retorted: “B-because I want to show that I care, silly brother! Is that a crime?”

Perhaps his response was a bit sharp for no reason. Dust sighed, replying: “…Nah. You didn’t do anything wrong. Sorry.”

* * *

April 1, 2021.

Stephan had tagged along with Anya for this check-up visit. The moment he walked through the door, he presented Dust a brown parcel tied with a red ribbon.

The jolly farmer exclaimed: “Happy birthday, Mister Sans!”

Instead of lighting up with joy, the skeleton blinked back in mild confusion. “Uh, are you sure you don’t mean ‘April Fools’?”

Ever since Dust was provided with a calendar, he made sure to tally the dates. The pre-printed markers for festivals and holidays indicated that today was April Fools: a human tradition of jokes and pranks.

“W-whaa?” Stephan exclaimed. “Maybe I read the dates wrong. Is it the fourth of January then?”

“That’s Papyrus’ birthday. How did you know?”

“Back when my daughter kept Mister Papyrus’ belongings, I found some dates marked down in his wallet. It was a card that said, ‘P 4 / 1’ and ‘S 1 / 4’. So…”

Puzzle solved, it seemed. Embarrassed, Dust glanced to the side. “Oh. Huh. I guess today really is my birthday. Thanks.”

He accepted the parcel and started to open it. He half-expected a prank of sorts. Maybe a whoopie cushion. Some sort of dud item. Or a parcel in a parcel in a parcel.

But… It was a real gift. Folded neatly within the bundle he discovered a fresh, new hoodie.

Dust unfolded the item and spread it out. It’s made out of wool, tailored to his size. Though there were some differences compared to his original getup. The blue leaned closer to indigo, further darkened by the prominent presence of light grey.

“Whoa. I’m impressed. Who made this?”

Stephan puffed his chest, proudly announcing: “The local tailors! This outfit is a hundred percent sourced from the village. Our sheep, our flax, and even our own dyes! Which is also why it took several weeks to make.”

Such was the nature of manual labour. It was slow, tedious, and time consuming. He could sense the meticulous care that went into this woolen hoodie. Gratefulness, perhaps?

“Pass my thanks, will ya? I can finally get out of this old garb. The militant style is getting stale.”

Just when he said that, Anya presented a plain ribbonless box. “Are you sure about that?” she asked. There was a hint of playfulness in her tone.

Inside that box sat a fresh set of military fatigues and some light grey sleeveless shirts. This time, it came with a bill.

A tab.
A price tag.
A receipt.

He had not dealt with any debt for the past five years. It dawned on him that he was as broke as a pauper.

Dust started to sweat profusely. “Uh… um… I… don’t have a single penny. Do… do you want some deer meat as compensation? Or, maybe I could pick up some hunting jobs for you? What about lab work? Hell, I’ll even do farmwork. No babysitting or childminding, though. I gotta turn those down.”

Stephan almost couldn’t hold his laughter. Even Anya, the ever calm and collected lady, resisted a giggle beneath her lips.

“Flip the bill,” said Anya.

When Dust flipped the paper around, he found a crayon note reading: ‘April Fools!’

Realising that he got pranked, Dust let out a single ‘heh’. Two. And then he burst into a full guffaw.

Unable to keep it in any more, both Stephan and Anya joined the merriness. Their laughter reached far and wide into the quiet nature surrounding the farmhouse.

Dust praised, “That was great! Damn, I can’t remember when was the last time I sweated that much over a debt. Who’s the jokester that thought this up?”

Stephan pointed to Anya. “It’s all her idea, I swear!”

“Learned it in the army,” she added. “And that’s rather tame by their standards. You should have seen the cheeky ones try to tape their mate to a jeep’s bumper.”

“Here I thought everyone there were super serious no-nonsense fellows with brooms up their asses.”

The tales of mischief and comedy continued for the rest of their visit. They even had a pun-battle session, although that quickly became a stand-up recital.

Dust hadn’t had this much fun since forever. Here he thought that he had completely lost touch with the world of comedy, doomed to be a stone-cold humourless Edgebag. Yet it was there all the while, waiting for the right spark.

Since it was his birthday, he treated himself to an early snooze in the bed.

For once, he slept with a happy, contented heart. This day itself was the best birthday gift he had in a long, long time.

Meanwhile, The Phantom was nowhere to be seen.