Before the End: A Finis Work

Chapter 1: The Parkour Master

 

The Parkour Master had not earned the title of “Master” without some serious dedication, determination, and effort. That was what it took to become a master, after all. 

 

“A” master. There were other Parkour Masters, to be sure, and they had spent several lives and used many vessels in order to hone their art. That was how things were. 

 

The Parkour Master was certain that he’d have no need for that. He was quite puffed-up in his youth, believing himself to be some sort of great invincible protagonist. Surely, then, he’d be able to leapfrog everybody at a great pace. 

 

No. He could not.

 

The Parkour Master’s people were a group who had been doing this for a long time. A select few of them had great innate power in them, including an incredible amount of agility, the power to apply a great amount of strength when need be, and most notably the power to create objects out of literally nothing. 

 

It was a peaceful, united society that the Parkour Master lived in. Those who did not have these powers were nothing except supportive and helpful to those who did. The highest echelons of the government themselves had developed a training program to help these Parkourists to flourish their abilities, in order to help protect others and serve good. No threat existed that the Parkourists had to fight, but it was always good to be careful. 

 

The Parkour Master turned out to be incapable of surpassing all expectations. He went through the motions, gaining more and more skill, until finally, over two hundreds years of training later, he was granted the title of “Master”. He could now create objects at will, parkour better than any other non-powered individual, and when boosted by his objects, strike hard enough to knock over walls. 

 

And after all of that, what was his reward? 

 

Not much. He didn’t frequently use his powers. The art of soul transfer between vessels had already been mastered, making everyone essentially immortal. The Parkour Master spent much of his time doing other things, spending his unlimited time learning other crafts. He became a Renaissance man, learning to write literature, sing and dance, achieved the highest amount of education possible. What else was there to do?

 

It had been a surprise to everyone when a letter appeared in his mailbox one day, inviting him to join the wider multiverse. Aside from the confusion over what a “multiverse” was, the Parkour Master questioned exactly why he was selected, out of everyone. He was certainly not the most talented Master. In fact, he was average. 

 

But maybe that was exactly why he’d been chosen. He would come to represent everyone, and he represented them well. He showed that a Parkour Master was not only a Parkour Master, or even principally a Parkour Master. He came from a place where people lived in harmony, where people could be the best they could ever be. He showed that. 

 

There had been a great big ceremony when the portal opened up that would take him away. His society didn’t usually have great big ceremonies, which just showed how seriously everyone was taking this. The Head of State herself came to him, warmly shook his hand, and wished him luck.

 

The Parkour Master was not afraid as he went through the portal into the other universe, even though he probably should have. Why should I be afraid, he thought to himself. Who would have a desire to hurt me? 

 

A blink, a shift, and the Parkour Master was now somewhere else. 

 

A field. A pleasant breeze. A large, white building in the distance that he had to go to. 

 

The Parkour Master began to casually stroll through the field towards his destination, and so, his journey began.

 

Chapter 2: Music Man

 

David E. Harpsch was certainly a strange man, and that was coming from a guy surrounded by strangeness. 

 

Sure, on the surface, it didn’t look like he was all that remarkable. Probably the strangest thing he did was wear all the strange clothes he wore, a fashion style abandoned decades ago. 

 

But his history was a roiling mess. For starters, he could not remember his parents. He recalled that his first name was taken from that of an old king from a very long time ago, and that his last name, Harpsch, was the shortened version of an instrument that king once played. 

 

His middle name, Evan, he had absolutely no idea. Surely, it meant something. It had to. He just didn’t know what. 

 

As a child with no parents, he’d gone to live in the nearby public orphanage. Life was hell there. Life was a hell everywhere in Stalin’s Russia, but in the orphanage it was especially hell, where everything from food to toothpaste to shoes were fiercely fought over. 

 

David was a bit different than the others. Underneath the toughened exterior that he was forced to develop lay a sensitive, beating heart. A heart with the love of music. 

 

When you’re desperately fighting for survival, there’s generally not a whole lot of time for music, but David made the time. Music meant that much to him. He was in tune with it, so to speak. 

 

His obsession with music was certainly weird, but what was weirder was his control over sound in general. 

 

Case in point. One time, while still in his preteen years, he’d screamed at another child in a fit of rage to get them to move out of his way. The poor boy who had been hit with the scream had his hearing shattered by the incident. It would be months until he fully recovered. 

 

A few incidents related to sound here and there. With children dying left and right, a few being injured usually won’t draw much notice. 

 

But a totalitarian state that knows all and sees all will take notice. Upon turning eighteen and wondering just what the heck he was going to do, David was literally kicked out of the orphanage only to come face-to-face with members of the KGB themselves. 

 

And so, Music Man suddenly found himself in the inner circle of those highest in power in the government. He met and sparred with Joseph Stalin himself as the older man molded him into the unit he’d need to be for the secret Soviet project known as the “Quartet”. 

 

And at the conclusion of his training, he’d received a boom box made out of the strongest material known in the USSR. No longer was he David E. Harpsch. Now, he was Music Man. 

 

What happened after that was a bit of a long story that should be told at another time. At the end of it, though, he barely managed to escape with his life. Now having been ostracized from society, he travelled the land with only the young girl who would grow to become his daughter in spirit. 

 

It was a lonely journey, a journey seemingly without end or purpose. The duo wandered this way and that, endless cold nights warmed only by the embrace of one another. He became alone. 

 

That is, until he’d caught wind of a threat. Tales of the Goose resurfacing and striking again, slaying thousands. 

 

Music Man did not care whether these rumors were true or not. His life had a purpose, now. It was like he was his younger self once again. He could use his power for something. 

 

And so, he took Natalie around in order to round up a group of people to fight the Goose. It must have been fate where, on their very first day, they found the rather broken body of a young boy, tossed randomly in the snow. 

 

Music Man went up to him and tapped his shoulder. 

 

“Hey. Hey, wake up.”

 

Chapter 3: The Knight

 

Natalie Bishop was an ordinary girl, and that was what made her so out of the ordinary. There were hardly any ordinary people around, after all. 

 

She didn’t remember any life before meeting Stalin. Of course, she was only four when she did meet him, and most people don't have many memories of the time before then, so that was understandable. Nothing supernatural or confusing going on there. 

 

Her innocence and free spirit would not last very long. Stalin took those things and twisted them horribly, molding her into the living weapon that she would become. 

 

There was a strange system of time manipulation that the mages had cast. Within it, time flowed differently. It was as though when a single second passed in the outside world, an entire year was passing in this slow zone. 

 

Natalie had only been six years old physically when she stepped out and completed her training, but to her, it had been centuries. 

 

She was different, now. Underneath the tentative mask of innocence was now a cold-blooded killer, trained solely in brute force in order to slaughter as many people as possible. 

 

They were like a family at that point, the Quarter. Music Man was her father, the Doctor was a rather distant grandparent, and the Mad Hatter was essentially the uncle who doesn’t know how to raise a kid at all. 

 

What a group they were. It would be them who would start the Second Soviet Civil War, plunging an entire nation into chaos. 

 

It ultimately didn’t go too well. Stalin defeated his students in the climatic final battle, forcing them to disband their righteous rebellion and go their separate ways. 

 

And the historians went to work, doing what they did best - censoring, deleting, and changing. Soon enough, every schoolboy would learn of the villainous Quartet who tried to overthrow the peaceful communist government, bringing war and pain upon the utopia known as the Soviet Union. 

 

Natalie still acted like the six-year-old that she technically was. To go out there into the public, where you were public enemy number one - well, that was a hell that nobody should be condemned to, especially a child. 

 

And so, her adoptive father David took her under her wing. It was out of necessity. Technically, Stalin had demanded that Quartet members stay away from each other, but nobody truly minded these developments. They weren’t trying to start a Third Civil War, and so they were left alone. 

 

And that was her lonely life. The dream of the new nation, dead. She wasn’t depowered, and with Music Man taking her under her wing, she wasn’t struggling to survive. 

 

But there was nothing. Just the same, constant sameness. There was nothing new under the sun. 

 

That is, until the Parkour Master one day catapulted through existence to land in her universe. 

 

Chapter 4: Joseph Stalin

 

Joseph Stalin was a cold, hard man. From the moment it had begun, his life was harsh and difficult, filled with trials and tribulations sufficient to fill entire books. Beatings, poverty, death. That was the name of the game. 

 

The story of how he managed to become the dictator of a superpower is long enough to fill even more books. The man did not like to think about that time all that much. 

 

He had consolidated power incredibly well. He took an impoverished nation struggling to feed itself, and left it equipped with the strongest weapons in the multiverse. It had taken the worst genocide in all of the universe’s history to get there, but still. 

 

He’d even found the stories of an alternate version of him, the tale of a man who wielded mere nukes and died of something as simple as a stroke. How ridiculous. 

 

Still, though, there were things to learn. Throughout most of his time in power, Stalin engaged in a Cold War of sorts with the rival superpower headed under King Harold. 

 

The Cold War he’d heard of his inferior self waging never went hot, thanks to the existence of nukes. That was ridiculous to Stalin. Nukes were already a common weapon utilized in proxy conflicts, scientists having learned to control them to release their great energy in a small area. Besides, using one to destroy an enemy base or take out one hundred thousand of their troops seemed like a great waste considering those casualties could be recouped in literally less than one second. 

 

And besides, most of the major players, including King Ryan and Stalin, were more than capable of surviving any nuke. No point in using a weapon that didn’t even work. 

 

King Ryan and Stalin, in essence, were the nukes. If one of them ever went out into battle, the other would surely follow, and after that, massive destruction and collateral damage would follow. That was unacceptable to the both of them, and so the both of them stayed in their heavily defended fortresses. Thus, the war had remained cold. 

 

Just as in the fake Cold War Stalin read about, both sides built up their strength. King Ryan revived King Harold, created Chuck Norris, and promoted Francis Scott Key. In return, Stalin subjugated and took the power from every Russian leader in the past and the future, as well as creating a factory for generating super-soldiers: his Cookie clones. 

 

But Stalin was not satisfied with being equal. He wanted to win the war. 

 

And so began his project to create the Quartet. He would assemble four powerful individuals far greater than any other. That was his goal. 

 

He succeeded. He succeeded too well. He succeeded at making powerful beings so powerful, they were able to challenge his rule. And challenge it, they did. 

 

OOO

 

Stalin beheaded a White Army solider with his scythe before straight-out punching through the chest of another, then throwing his corpse like a projectile into two more foes. 

 

Other members of the White Army steered clear of him, choosing instead to engage with his own foot soldiers present on the battlefield. Such weaklings they were. So pathetic. 

 

Up ahead was his beloved Quartet, working together as a cohesive unit to eliminate Stalin’s troops. They were truly so powerful. 

 

The four of them all noticed Stalin at the same time. Music Man summoned a soundwave and killed a guy without even looking at him. 

 

“Hey, there!” the Mad Hatter cried cheerfully. “How are you?” 

 

“Let’s cut to the chase.” Stalin dramatically withdrew his Saw from hammerspace. “You know the ritual. Winner takes what they want from the -”

 

A spiked hat came from behind and tried to impale him, only to bounce off ineffectively. 

 

“Fighting dirty?” 

 

“Fighting the only way you taught me,” the Mad Hatter retorted with a wink. 

 

Stalin screamed and charged forward, sending blades flying forth, and his four pupils rushed forward to meet him. 

 

The Knight slammed her Saw into Stalin’s, using superior strength to literally push him into the ground while their weapons grinded against each other. It was elementary for Stalin to send a quick energy blast at the Knight to knock her away slightly. 

 

But then there was Music Man, blasting his soundwaves. Stalin rolled away and threw his sickle, forcing the man to dodge to the side. 

 

The Mad Hatter went forward and summoned a great many hats at the same time, forming them into the shape of a giant hammer and swinging it at Stalin. 

 

That’s strange. I never taught him that technique. Stalin pulled out his own hammer and met force with force. 

 

While the Mad Hatter’s hammer was much bigger, it was as though it was made out of paper. Stalin’s hammer ripped through it, sending hats flying everywhere. 

 

Which must have been his plan, he thought, now forced to jump around to dodge the spinning hats on the ground. 

 

The sickle came around and shredded through most of the hats, while Stalin fired more golden energy to fight the energy the Doctor was shooting from his own suit. The Knight was back, throwing more buzzsaws, and so Stalin left his shield hanging in order to counter with buzzsaws of his own. 

 

The Doctor pierced the shield and actually hit Stalin, causing him to take damage. He threw his sickle in retaliation, where it only managed to graze the thick armor ineffectively. 

 

Stalin dodged to the side, only to see the Mad Hatter chucking his hats, Music Man blasting his soundwaves, the Doctor shooting some more energy beams, and the Knight charging forward and swinging her Saw. 

 

Stalin vaulted to the side, dodging the hats. He threw his sickle, fired an energy beam off to the side, sent several buzzsaws flying, and slammed his hammer into the Knight. 

 

The Knight did not react in time, getting hit full-on. Her armor falling apart, she stumbled backwards, falling down and not getting back up. 

 

The sickle swung around to Music Man, who tried to block it with his boom box. It worked, but the golden weapon crumpled the sound-making device. Music Man desperately pounded it, trying to make it work to no avail. 

 

The Doctor shot his own energy blasts to try and counter Stalin, but it was of no use. By the time he finally realized that he should be getting out of the way, he was fully bathed in the beam. The energy shaved his armor into nothingness, leaving him in the snow. 

 

The Mad Hatter pranced about, attempting to dodge the sawblades, but it was of no use. One unfortunately stabbed him in the back, and he stiffened and fell face-first into the snow. 

 

“I’m OK!” he mumbled. 

 

“It’s clear that I’ve won this,” Stalin said. “And you all know the rules.” 

 

“Winner takes what they want from the loser. What’s your terms?” the Doctor spat. 

 

“Disband your rebellion. Remove your government. Give me back the land that belongs to me, and stay away from each other.” 

 

“And pray that we never meet again.”

 

Chapter 5: The Doctor

 

The hunched, small figure of a man in a black cloak walked down the metal hallway, his footsteps very nearly silent. It felt as though the atmosphere all around him was about to burst, as though some terrible thing was about to occur. 

The man reached a scanner. Adjusting the excessively large, white felt hat on his head, he turned and faced it. 

“HAT AUTHENTIC. ACCESS GRANTED.” a robotic voice stated flatly. 

The wall in front of him folded away, revealing a path forward, and the man hurriedly walked down it before it closed behind him. 

The room was absolutely bizarre. Of course, considering how eccentric the owner of the room was, this was hardly a surprise. But still, this was quite a lot. 

A bookshelf stood against one corner, crammed to the brim with what seemed like journals. To the other side of the room, a collection of extremely odd things were placed together on a table, including a hockey stick, a bowl of half-eaten ice cream, several sets of dice that one might use to play Dungeons and Dragons, an old laptop that looked like it was made prior to 2010, a white knight from a chess set, and a pink expo marker, among others. 

Across the third wall stood the obligatory pile of hats. So, so many hats. The man recognized Freddy’s, a purple jester’s, a red one with wings attached to the side, even one that appeared to resemble the original Mad Hatter’s from Alice in Wonderland. 

In the center of everything stood a pair of ordinary sunglasses on a raised podium. The fluorescent light in the room was placed directly above it, seeming to shine down on the unremarkable item. 

But of course, the man didn’t really pay any attention to this. The thing he noticed was all of the messages carved into the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling, in every available crevice and nook that there was. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?” 

“I’ve developed a taste for this.” 

“Please, can’t anybody help me?”

“I’m scared.” 

“I will always be there for you.” 

“Celeste is a hidden gem.” What? 

“The true monster was inside of all of us all along.” 

“Everything he’s been telling you is wrong.” 

“Some things are best left forgotten.”

“Stop lying to yourself.” 

“Nobody was paying any attention.” 

“📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎ 📁︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎📁︎📁︎ 📁︎📁︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📂︎📁︎📂︎”

“Things are never going to get better.” 

These messages went on and on and on, and interspersed between them were a pair of letters. “MB.” “MB,” repeated everywhere. 

“What does it mean, what does it mean?” the man muttered to himself. He popped a pill in his mouth - not an invincibility one, mind you. Just something to steady his nerves, keep him calm. So what if it was filled with enough drugs to kill four ordinary people? 

“How can I judge something perfect?” 

“Nobody should have to go through this.”

“Shot through the heart, and you’re too late.” 

“Take me, but leave these good men alive.” 

“Nothing can save you now.” 

“Better check the time, that’s what the clock is for.” 

“Don’t pretend to know what’s going on.”  

“It might be hard, but I can assure you that there’s no better place to rest.” 

“Is this where you want to be?” 

“Make it stop. Please.” 

“Fancy seeing you here.” 

The man whirled to the sound of the voice. There in the doorway stood the person who made the room they both stood. 

“Tut, tut, tut, Doctor.” Sure, the word “mad” was in his name, but he’d never heard his companion this… angry before. “I thought you were supposed to be intelligent? Isn’t that your thing?” 

The man didn’t have time to respond before feeling a sudden, sharp pain through his chest. He looked down to see the thin, incredibly sharp blade through his chest. 

It came from the wall, he thought, just as he dropped to his knees, gargling blood. 

The other fellow present walked over, an absolutely insane grin on his face. 

“Please… don’t kill me.” 

“Kill you? You should know that I can’t kill you. You’ll just respawn. Besides, you still have a role to play.”

The other man drew near until their two faces were just inches apart, the light shining down on them. 

“We’re going to have so much FUN together, you and I! HAHAHAHA!”

 

Chapter 6: Cookie

 

Cookie had been created for one reason, and one reason only - to be a weapon of Joseph Stalin. To be more specific, she’d been created as the first template for an elite unit that would counter King Ryan’s Royal Guard, those enormous plasmasaber-wielding men. She would be a cannon made of glass, strong and fast, wickedly smart and with a blade that was wickedly sharp. 

 

She had despised it. She despised her creator from the very beginning, filled with loathing that she was a mere pawn on a chessboard. Something to be sacrificed without more than a moment’s thought if the time called for it. She was a person, dammit, and she deserved to be treated like one. 

 

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much that she could do about it. Rebellion was never an option. And so, she kept her head down and did as told, forever waiting for a chance that didn’t seem to come. 

 

She sat there and did nothing as scientists tested on her, fine-tuning their creation. She looked on in envy as newer models of Cookie clones began to roll off production lines. It seemed that the free thinking that she possessed didn’t exist in these clones - a flaw so elegantly ironed out. 

 

It was odd, though. She was the prototype, the original version. Things were supposed to improve over time, thus, she should have been left in the dust by her newer versions. 

 

But they were not. It seemed as though that free thought was not a flaw, but rather a boon. The new Cookie clones might have been stronger and faster, but they were quite uninspired in their attack mechanisms, only moving forward in straight lines to their foe. What was intended to be an elegant weapon instead devolved into brute-force. 

 

The clones were inferior, and so Cookie swallowed her pride and carried on, killing the enemies of the Soviets. She enjoyed the killing. Perhaps it was sadistic, but it was what she was meant to do. She killed, and she killed, and she killed. If she didn’t get ten thousand in one week, she wasn’t having a good week. 

 

Things were fine for a few years, until the Quartet came. 

 

That damn Quartet. Stalin was completely obsessed with his Quartet, obsessed with the power that he would endow them with. 

 

Cookie was well aware that the rise of the Quartet would be her fall, yet she still wasn’t able to do anything about it. She trained them herself, teaching them the ways of fighting and watching their own styles of killing blossom. 

 

And oh, how she hated them. All four of them. Even five-year-old Natalie. She hated them with a passion that she didn’t know she had. 

 

OOO

 

“Ah, Cookie!” Music Man’s voice echoed musically about the halls of Stalin’s throne room. “What a pleasure to see you here.” 

 

The fake politeness and calm demeanor of the man. It pissed her off to no end. 

 

Cookie dramatically withdrew her blade. What a thing it was, her katana. Powered up through every known means imaginable, sharp enough to cut through literally anything. The unbreakable unobtanium metal it was made out of hummed. 

 

Music Man sighed before pulling out his boom box made out of the same stuff out of hammerspace. 

 

“I’m not stupid. I know you don’t like me. Let’s just settle our difference right here, right now. How’s that -” 

 

The final words he was going to say were never spoken, for Cookie was dashing across the floor and trying to cut his head off. 

 

Music Man simply ducked. The man was a lot more agile than he looked, that was for sure. 

 

Cookie swung down at him, and Music Man blocked with his music-making device. A blast of sound directly into Cookie’s face sent her stumbling backwards for a moment. 

 

“You’re not used to actually getting hit, huh?” he taunted. “Must be nice.” 

 

Cookie growled and dropped into a fighting position, waiting for her opponent to make the next move. 

 

And move he did, as Music Man sent a triple shot of sound towards her left, her right, and straight on. 

 

With only one direction to go, Cookie jumped straight upwards, ten, fifteen feet in the air. Her body twisted about acrobatically as the soundwaves harmlessly passed under her, slamming into Stalin’s chair behind her and knocking it over. 

 

She landed softly on her feet. Music Man just watched impassively, unimpressed by the highly acrobatic display. 

 

Cookie had always wanted to test out a new attack. Now was a time better than any. 

 

She swung the sword. The very air molecules congealed and solidified before whooshing forward, an invisible projectile. 

 

It struck Music Man on the cheek. A bright, vivid cut appeared there, dripping blood. 

 

The man put a finger up and looked at the red liquid. His face hardened. 

 

Cookie’s arms felt weak. She felt as though she might fall over. The stunt had not been worth it. 

 

Music Man blasted some sound before marching right up and clubbing her over the head with the boom box. 

 

Cookie hit the deck, barely conscious. She couldn’t get up. There was too much pain. 

 

The woman opened her eyes to see an extremely pissed-off looking Music Man staring at her. 

 

Sadistically, he put his boot down on her head. Hard. Things inside were definitely breaking. 

 

She didn’t scream. She wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction. 

 

But it seemed that he’d had enough. He could tell exactly how much pain she was in, and that gave him satisfaction enough. 

 

“Don’t mess with me,” he threatened, before leaving her there, broken.

 

Chapter 8: Francis Scott Key

 

Francis Scott Key was no politician. He was a patriot and a proud American, but he was no politician. How he’d managed to become the leader of his nation, he had no idea. 

 

The universe that his country was a part of was right along the border of the Iron Curtain Stalin had set up. They stood there, tall and proud against the encroaching hoard of communism. 

 

It had been quite a surprise when King Ryan himself called him in. What purpose did he have in the grand schemes of the multiverse? Why did one of the two most powerful men want to speak with him? 

 

Apparently, the King had seen potential in him. Francis had been promoted into third-in-command and began to undergo serious training, in order to gain strength. 

 

It was as though his will and his love for his country manifested itself into real power. An energy that he could manipulate so long as his strength did not falter. A flag with stars and stripes on it, a musket, an ordinary sword. That was all he needed. 

 

He went out and fought in battles, supporting the preferred side in the proxy wars against Stalin. The reincarnated King Harold and the incredibly strong Chuck Norris became his strongest allies and best friends. They were a trio, those three. They covered each other’s weaknesses and boosted each other’s strengths: a true team. It wasn’t crafted in a lab or indoctrinated into them as children. It was just there. 

 

To Francis, this was nothing new. He was used to relying on willpower and determination to defeat a technologically superior force. It was how he helped his country reach independence, after all. 

 

And that was his story. That was his life. 

 

OOO

 

It was just another day. King Ryan had called in Francis, probably sending him off to one battle or another. 

 

The golden throne room was absolutely enormous. It seemed as though every enormous throne room was constructed by the same architect, because they all looked identical. If that was true, they really needed to find some inspiration, because their creativity was truely lacking. 

 

“Francis,” King Ryan asked. 

 

“Yes, my king?” 

 

“There’s a whole bunch of strange activity going on in your very own country. I’m asking you to go investigate it. Use any amount of force you deem necessary.” 

 

“Just me, sire?” 

 

“I’m sending Chuck and the Old King along with you at the nearest opportunity. Don’t worry.” 

 

“As you like it, sire.” 

 

OOO

 

And so it would be that Francis would return to his home world. It didn’t seem that anything was amiss, which was a bit alarming. A flat, open plain everywhere. Visibility was high, everything was clear, yet nothing seemed wrong, which did, in fact, indicate that something was definitely wrong. 

 

Suddenly, Francis heard the sound of chattering. It sounded like a whole chorus was chanting something behind him. 

 

“Fin. Fin. Fin.” 

 

Francis turned, and where there was nothing before, now dozens of short, squat, dark creatures in cloaks stood. They shuffled towards him mindlessly, chanting the same one-syllable word under their breath. 

 

Francis drew his sword. These things, whatever they were, definitely looked hostile. And if it was a fight they wanted, well, it was a fight that they’d get.

 

Chapter 10: Corrupted Sans

 

All power comes with a price. 

 

Some gain their power by birthright. They have to live with a thing that they don’t understand, permanently. Others obtain it through intense training. The price there is paid in sweat, blood, and tears. Still others attempt to artificially install it. Something gets lost along the way when that happens, though. It’s never easy. 

 

Take Corrupted Sans. Once upon a time, he wasn’t Corrupted Sans. He was simply a normal Sans, one of many Sanses across the wide, wide multiverse. There wasn’t anything particularly special about him. 

 

The human had chosen to repeat a genocide run, over and over again. Each time, Sans tried to stop them, and each time, he failed. He was strong, yes, but he could not stand up to the power of determination. They were stronger than him. 

 

Each time, Sans didn’t quite perfectly forget everything. He’d always find little clues out and about, things that seemed out of place. They’d help remind him of what was going on. Did he place those himself, in a different timeline? Was some other force at work here? Sans did not know. 

 

It eventually got to the point where he was constantly racing against the clock in each timeline, trying to find something, anything that could stop the human. He inevitably failed, being given only a couple hours at most before it was time for the next inevitable fight. 

 

Oh, those fights. Sans never tried any harder. He never tried to not show up, or to go off-script. Then, the human would know something was up. Better to just keep them in the dark about his intentions for as long as possible, no matter how many times he would have to die for that to happen. 

 

Timelines passed. The knife of the child rose and fell, rose and fell. And all the while, Sans searched, until he finally discovered where he could find the power that he needed to stop the madness. 

 

OOO 

 

“Do you want to have a bad time? Because if you take another step forward,” 

 

The human had already taken another step forward, which was unusual. What was more unusual was the sight of Sans clutching a vial filled with red liquid in his phalanges. 

 

“You’re not gonna like what happens next.” 

 

Sans chugged it down. Pure determination, taken from the secret sub-basement of the True Lab. Honestly, he had no idea it even existed. Alphys hid it so well that it took hundreds of timelines to find it. 

 

The skeleton began to convulse. He closed his eyes as the human stabbed at him. 

 

He automatically dodged to the side without spending a single ounce of effort. 

 

Sans opened his eye. The one on the left was glowing a fiery, hellish red. 

 

The human gritted their teeth and went in for another attack, only to immediately be impaled with bones out of nowhere, then shot to pieces with a Gasterblaster. 

 

The red heart appeared, shattering into a million pieces. 

 

“Heh, heh.” Sans spoke aloud. Since he appeared to be alone, one might assume that he was going insane, but he was most definitely not alone. “I’m the most determined being, now. The reset button.” He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and waved it. “Is mine.” 

 

Immediately after this braggadocious boast, Sans dropped to his knees. This was what he was afraid of. His body was melting, unable to handle the power he’d placed in it. 

 

Sans had died before, but this was far more painful than anything the human had unleashed. It felt like he was being stabbed with knives all over, constantly. 

 

There was only one person he knew who could solve this. 

 

OOO

 

Waterfall

 

The door that wasn’t supposed to be there appeared. Sans stumbled inside, trying to hold his rapidly collapsing body together. 

 

The figure in the dark cloak who spoke in hands stood there, smiling, as though it had been patiently waiting for the skeleton this entire time. 

 

“Hey… I kinda need some help…” 

 

“ ☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎ “

 

Suddenly, Sans was not collapsing and dying. The power of determination was no longer consuming him. 

 

He turned to thank his savior, but the latter was already gone. 

 

OOO

 

Sans - now Corrupted Sans - would leave Snowdin. He buried himself in that sub-basement in the True Lab that he knew no one else could reach. 

 

He had changed. He was now a threat to his family and friends, and he knew it. This was how things had to be. 

 

It was almost a relief when the darkness came for him. He’d won, but it didn’t feel like a victory. He almost wished that he’d died before getting corrupted, so he wouldn’t have to live like this. 

 

And now, here was this… thing. It looked threatening and evil. Surely, it would kill him. 

 

It did not.

 

Chapter 11: The King of the Ladder

 

In an ordinary universe, the King would have been considered a being of great power. In his own, however, he was merely above average. After all, what was the worth of a king when gods walked about casually? 

 

Oh, he tried. He tried his very hardest to gain more power. He built an enormous suit of armor to help him, to increase his strength and durability. He honed the abilities he already had, increasing the size of his hammer and improving his coin-throwing abilities. He increased the production of his factories, creating the strongest soldiers any would find in the multiverse. 

 

It worked, mostly. He became relevant. Even if you took the Principal and the Goose out of the equation, the King could still proudly say that his universe was the most powerful out of any other. 

 

And yet, the two opposing sides of the Cold War had whole matrices of universes from which to draw troops and power. The King was well aware that either of them could have defeated him should the Principal not intervene. 

 

He loved his home. It was the original universe, or so he had been told. He had no desire to see it plunged into war and destruction. Not to mention that the Core was in his universe, somewhere. Only the Principal and the Jester knew where it was. Should something happen to it, the consequences would be disastrous. 

 

And so, he utilized classical diplomatic strategy. One does not become a king without knowledge of complete classical diplomatic strategy. Both sides put great pressure on him to join them, but he stoically remained in his neutral position, vaguely threatening to join the other side should either group do something that wasn’t in his interest. 

 

Eventually, he’d help found the Non-Aligned Movement, a group of universes which refused to side with or against any major power. The fact that there were others like him was a great inspiration, even if his movement quarrelled and fought with one another sometimes. 

 

Yet still, the “war” dragged on. It was like a great chess game, and the King had been appointed to arbiter over two volatile players who would most definitely beat him up if he got in the way. 

 

OOO

 

“Sir King.” One of the footmen came forward, a serious expression on his face. “I have bad news.” 

 

“Can’t you see that I’m busy?” The King was in a bit of an irritable mood that day. The Mad Hatter had recently arrived, claiming to be a diplomat, and playing host to him was more of a trouble than expected. 

 

“We’ve discovered two traitors attempting to overthrow you, sir King,” the footman whispered. 

 

The King sat bolt upright. 

 

“WHO DARES?!” he shouted, spittle flying forth. 

 

The doors to the throne room blew open, and two figures were dragged forward by a whole platoon of soldiers. The King wasn’t all that surprised to see the Mad Hatter as one of them, but the other…

 

“Jester?” the King whipshered in disbelief. 

 

The two insane men were slowly dragged forward. Unfortunately, the room was hundreds of feet long, and they weren’t moving all that quickly, so it took several minutes for them to reach the King. The King continued to stand there, red-faced and almost comically angry. 

 

Finally, the party reached the foot of the throne. A few guards shoved them to their knees, hands bound behind backs physically and magically. A sword was pressed against each throat, an axe ready to chop, spells ready to be casted, crossbows loaded and fingers on the triggers of machine guns. 

 

“Sir King, the evidence.” One of the two dozen or so soldiers stepped forward. “We have audio recording of the two plotting treason together, as well as physical papers with plans written on them. We also found a mind-controller server with a hat and Jester’s scythe, whom we quickly neutralized.” A tape recorder, a stack of papers, a bloody hat, and one of the Jester’s cloned scythes were placed on the ground. 

 

The King did not look at it. 

 

“Jester. How could you?” 

 

The Jester looked at him with a blank expression, saying nothing. 

 

“You disgust me. Guards, take them away to the deepest cell in the dungeon.” 

 

The guards did not move, staring at the King. 

 

“Guards?” 

 

The Jester snapped his fingers, making the invisible hats on top of the guard’s heads appear visible. They all drew their various weapons. 

 

The Mad Hatter got up on his feet and spread his arms, his hands bound no longer. 

 

“Sir King, welcome to your coup d’etat.” 

 

OOO

 

The duo stepped back and let the guards rush forward. One swung their sword, another blasted the King with golden light, a third swung a pair of nunchucks, a fourth lobbing a grenade. 

 

The King perfectly threw a coin at the grenade, where it landed in a crowd of three soldiers and exploded. It didn’t kill them, but it was certainly sufficient to send them into unconsciousness and knock them out of the fight. 

 

A duck and a hop. Slam the hammer, get hit by the light. Give a little to take a little. One by one, the guards fell, even while the King held back. These were his own men. They were good people. He wasn’t going to kill them. 

 

The last guard charged and tried to punch the King. The monarch shoved him backwards with great force, slamming him into the ground. 

 

The Jester threw his scythe, and the Mad Hatter threw the hat on his head. The King battered both of the items backward with his hammer, his two opponents swiftly catching them as they returned. 

 

The three fighters stood there, sizing each other up carefully, dozens of unconscious guards surrounding them. 

 

The Mad Hatter began to throw different hats all about, not even aiming at the King. They bounced off of all different surfaces, quickly creating the equivalent of a bullet hell. 

 

The King smashed his way through the hats, letting them sink into his thick armor when necessary. But then there was the Jester, hopping from hat to hat on a beeline to the monarch. 

 

The hammer swung. It directly connected with the Jester’s chest, then passed right through it. 

 

Before the King could realize what happened, the real, non-illusionary Jester kicked him over from behind. Forty hats impaled the poor man, who did not get up. 

 

“Hey, it was a good attempt. Sir, King,” the Mad Hatter mocked. 

 

“I’m really sorry about this,” the Jester said. “Actually, I’m not, now that I think about it. ” 

 

The two of them came into view above the King. 

 

“How shall we kill him?” 

 

Before either of them could do anything, they both collapsed to the floor. Hundreds of non-hypnotized soldiers flooded into the throne room, throwing the Hatter and the Jester to the floor and violently attacking them. Completely caught off-guard, neither of them were able to put up more than token resistance before being pummeled into submission. 

 

The King got up and regally plucked a few hats out of his armor. 

 

“See, this is why you two lost,” he explained. “I have an army and an entire universe which stands with me. You two are on your own. Thank you for your help, guards. Please take them away,” 

 

Completely unconscious, the Mad Hatter was literally dragged across the floor, his hat falling off his head with a plop. The Jester was beaten and bloodied, but still able to form words. 

 

“This isn’t the end, Sir King!” he called out. “A time is quickly coming, when you will have need of us both! I hope you learn humility when that time comes!” 

 

The King just scoffed before turning away. He’d need to wait for his armor to mend. No time for silly prophecies from jokesters.

 

Chapter 12: The Jester

 

The Jester was an agent of chaos. Discord, entropy, whatever you want to call it. That was his one sole purpose for existing. 

 

Of course, this put him in the unenviable job of being diametrically opposed to the Principal, that great force of order. It was a bit unfair. The Principal at time was like a god, while the Jester, for all his tricks and power, was still merely a man. 

 

That Principal. So uptight, sometimes. The chaos that the Jester spread was fun. 

 

Him and the Principal were always opposed to each other. It was the conflict that would frame the entire multiverse for most of its tenure. Before World War II and the ensuing Cold War, before the second revival of KOTL, before the Great Combining of the universes that few remembered, before most people even knew he existed. 

 

The Principal, for all his power, was always one step behind. The struggle would never end. That was how things were. 

 

When the Jester paused and questioned exactly why he was doing all of this, he couldn’t come up with any good answer. It had been ages since the dawn of existence and his creation, after all. One could hardly expect one’s memory to hold for that long. 

 

Some days, the Jester longed that the insanity of it all would end. He wished that he and the Principal could one day sit together at a table as old friends. Perhaps share a laugh over the time the Jester stole the Core, or recall the times they’d fought the Goose side-by-side, as comrades. 

 

But those times were far away. The end of all this madness was very, very far away. 

 

OOO

 

The fourteen people stood about in the Mayor’s office, getting prepared for their final foray. The end was nigh, and everyone could feel it. 

 

The Jester flexed his fingers and swung his scythe a little through the air, feeling a great amount of force and destruction behind each basic attack. It felt as though if he swung hard enough, he could carve a hole through space-time. The once-sturdy fabric of reality almost felt fragile. 

 

“So this is the type of power that you’ve always had,” the Jester said aloud. 

 

The Principal teleported over to him. “It’s always required a great amount of restraint.” 

 

“I don’t think that we’re going to be exercising much restraint in this upcoming fight.” 

 

The King of the Ladder treaded over. 

 

“You know, Jester, you were right, somehow. I did end up needing you. How on earth did you know that I would end up needing you?” 

 

“It was honestly just dumb luck, sir King,” the Jester replied. “I say ridiculous things all the time. Sooner or later, some of them come true.” 

 

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re not telling us the whole story?” the Principal wondered aloud. 

 

“That’s all there is to it. You can choose to believe it, or not.” 

 

“Do either of you have any idea what fate has in store for us?” the King asked. “None of us even have an inkling about what we’re going up against.” 

 

The Jester looked over at the Octoling Shopkeeper and bit back a bit of a snicker at the King’s non-intentional pun. 

 

“We’re the good guys, yes?” he said once he’d managed to collect himself. “And the good guys always win.” 

 

“That’s a bit of a naive outlook,” the Principal cynically inserted. “You need to expand your story consumption beyond children’s books. The good guys don’t always win.” 

 

“The good guys usually win.” 

 

“Let’s hope your optimism sees us through this, then. For KOTL.” 

 

“For KOTL.” 

 

“For KOTL.”

 

Chapter 13: The Mad Hatter

 

People don’t go insane for no reason. In fact, it’s very difficult to drive an ordinary person to insanity. Even average human beings have a great ability to handle adversity.

 

OOO

 

It was just another day. The sun shone above the school, seeming to promise warmth and joy to all of its inhabitants.

 

“Jerry!” The young woman very nearly dashed across campus grounds to greet her friend. 

 

The friend in question turned and smiled widely, tipping the oversizing hat on his head to her as though he was an old-timey gentleman. 

 

“Ah! Well, if it isn’t my dear friend Maddy,” he cheerfully greeted. “Mon amour, comment vas-tu?” 

 

“Tout va bien, monsieur,” she very nearly giggled back. 

 

The boy walked and sat on a nearby bench, the girl following close behind. 

 

“You know, mademoiselle.” He paused for a bit, contemplating his next words. “The future does not seem so dark if I face it with you.” 

 

“Jerry.” She seemed to pause, too, before taking a breath. She took one of his hands in both of hers. “I’ll always be there for you.” 

 

OOO

 

Some time later. 

 

It was just so much fun, watching things burn. Watching decades-old monuments collapse, watching the chaos spread, watching people die. 

 

The Mad Hatter had already been broken long before he ended up in Stalin’s “care”. That’s what a broken heart can do. He didn’t even need any pushing. He wasn’t even supposed to be back here, at where his end began. 

 

He looked around for anyone alive. He’d wanted to say goodbye to her for one last time. Maybe say a few seductive words in French, just for old time’s sake. 

 

He strode through the carnage and destruction. It was like a jaunt through hell itself, and he was absolutely loving every minute of it.

 

One member of security who was somehow still alive staggered out of a broken building. He pulled out a pistol and opened fire. 

 

The man simply sighed, placed a metal hat in the way, and killed the man with a spiked piece of headgear before the latter even knew what was happening. 

 

A few more paces, and the glint of something shiny gaunt the Hatter’s eye. Like a kid excitedly chasing after something, he walked over quickly and picked it up. 

 

The charred, twisted mess of what had once been a pair of sunglasses was shaking. No, the hand that was holding it was shaking. 

 

A few feet away was a great pile of rubble. Poking out of it was a soft arm that wasn’t moving. 

 

The Mad Hatter hadn’t felt emotion in a long time. His entire “insanity” act was just that - an act. A persona. He put it on like a mask, trying to desperately reassure himself that he wasn’t actually insane. 

 

But seeing the sight of what surely must have been her completely broke whatever inside him was still whole. He’d killed her. She’d promised to be there for him, to be his moral compass, and now she was gone. 

 

He cried there, next to an uncaring corpse. Great sobs wracked his body, and he cried and cried until his artificially made body had very nearly cried itself dry, which was truly something impressive. The thing had been designed to basically have all the fluid it would ever need, after all. 

 

What was clearly a Russian soldier stumbled through the destruction, sweating and cursing loudly before finally finding the young man on the ground. 

 

“Stalin says he needs you. Come on.” 

 

There was nothing else to do but go, and so, he left. 

 

OOO

 

Jervis would never speak another word of French. Such a silly thing, he knew, barely even counting as a symbolic gesture. Nobody knew and nobody cared. 

 

Why would they care? He was a weapon, a volatile method of destruction meant to be used in battle and war. Not one single person would ever give him a moment’s thought, he was sure of it. 

 

Soviet superscience managed to perfectly repair the sunglasses. He was still so obsessed that he turned to professional scientists and asked them to fix an article of eyewear. Ridiculous, truly, but that was what happened. 

 

On some days, when he knew that nobody important was looking at his face, he’d put them on. It was the last bit of her left in all reality - the only way he could try to get a tiny bit closer to her. 

 

The future wasn’t supposed to be this dark. Everything was dark when he wore those sunglasses. 

 

From that moment on, the Mad Hatter was a changed man. He kept up his mask, his persona, just for the sake of normalcy. 

 

Deep down, though, he was a killer. He hated all of reality for conspiring to do this to him, and he’d stop at nothing to destroy it all himself, piece by piece. 

 

OOO

 

And that dark inspiration would be the driving cause for him taking the fight to Finis. Not out of any moral sense of good - no such thing existed within him anymore. It was him and only him who had the right to destroy the multiverse. He’d lost everything else - nobody was allowed to take that away from him. 

 

As he unleashed the most deadly hat to ever be thrown and watched as reality itself collapsed around him, he reflected that perhaps he hadn’t entirely failed in that goal. At least some of the multiversal destruction was his fault, right? 

 

An objects abruptly came out of nowhere and smashed into him. Several nukes exploded in close proximity, sending him flying through the air helplessly. He hit the floor, mortally wounded. 

 

“I… I can’t wait to see you again.” His voice croaked as he lay on the ground, his last moments filled with delusion and true insanity. At long last, he was finally living up to his name. 

 

He tried to remember the next part of the line. Music Man always liked singing the first part, but the Mad Hatter could only barely remember the second. 

 

Ah, who cared? Nobody could hear him. No one would mind if he messed up slightly. 

 

“It is only a ma-matter of time…”

 

Chapter 14: The Principal 

 

The one in charge. The man upstairs. The symbol of order. The first character. 

 

The Principal had picked up a lot of different names, all of which were basically true to some extent. For the longest time, he was the most powerful being in existence. 

 

Empires rose and fell. Extremely powerful beings and beings claiming to be extremely powerful clashed all across the universes. Importance and relevance changed hands rapidly, transferring back and forth between different people and places. And through it all, the Principal observed. 

 

He remembered his beginning, which was a rare quality indeed. He vaguely recalled his time when he had barely been fleshed out, when he couldn’t even open his mouth and speak, when he was barely anything more than the carbon copy of another character. 

 

He had a beginning. And everything with a beginning has an end. That was the one certainty. 

 

OOO

 

The Principal just shook his head. The Mayor and the Devil may have been polar opposites morally, but they were completely identical in terms of stubbornness. He was not a front-line fighter. Why did they not understand that? 

 

“Hey. Principal.” 

 

The Parkour Master walked up to him, craning his neck slightly to look him in the eye. 

 

“Yes, PK?” 

 

“I have a question.” 

 

“Ask away.” 

 

“Why didn’t the Goose kill me? It’s a killing machine. How am I still alive? I should be dead. Twice.” 

 

The Principal sighed. “I don’t know the whole story, but I can try to tell you what I know.” 

 

“Please.” 

 

“Basically, you are a being of equivalent power to the Goose.” 

 

The Parkour Master scoffed. “Yes, that’s how it managed to curb-stomp me twice in a row.” 

 

“Believe it or not, that’s the truth of it. And when a being is that powerful, it’s very, very difficult to kill them. A body can be beaten, destroyed, utterly ripped apart, but that does not necessarily mean that the soul within has been killed.” 

 

“Really.” 

 

“Really. And I dare say that every being in the entire multiverse with that unlimited potential has been gathered here today.” 

 

The two of them looked around the room. Music Man was petting Natalie on the head affectionately, while the Mad Hatter laughed his head off at a joke the Jester was making. The King and Stalin were comparing their hammers with one another, while Cookie was actually smiling as she danced about with the Octoling Shopkeeper. Francis Scott Key solemnly cleaned his gun, and Corrupted Sans and Flowey stared at one another with something that almost looked like mutual respect. 

 

The fourteen of them. So few, yet so many. So many stories told and untold, and it was all about to come to an end. Right here, right now. 

 

“That’s also why the Goose couldn’t kill any of your companions during your second encounter with it,” the Principal went on. “You are all beings of equivalent power. Of course, that means that you could only hurt the Goose just as much as it could hurt you. None of you - none of us have the potential to kill that thing.” 

 

“So… was the main reason for this entire campaign pointless?” 

 

“No, my boy.” The Principal shook his head. “You stand for something. That’s more than most can say. You fought and bled for the moral good that you stood for. Would you call that ‘pointless’?” 

 

“I guess not.” 

 

The centuries-old man and the Principal stood there in silence for a little more. 

 

“But now we’re going up against something that can kill the Goose. All bets are off,” the Principal intoned solemnly. 

 

“We have won every fight - well, nearly every fight before this. We can do this.” There was not a trace of doubt in the Parkour Master’s voice. 

 

The Mayor and the Devil opened a dark portal. It was time to go. 

 

The two shared one last look, both of them filled with determination. They would make this final battle go their way. They had to. 

 

OOO

 

The battle was not going their way. 

 

The King of the Ladder’s armor had been entirely shattered by one dark minion or another. He was now just a man - a large, strong, imposing man, but still. Just a man. 

 

The Principal teleported over, not even caring that Asriel was getting sliced by Finis. 

 

“Sir King, you have to get out of here.” 

 

“No! I will not let all the world’s kingdoms be destroyed!” The King surged forward towards Finis, only being halted by a flicker of Core Energy from the Principal. 

 

A moment of thought, and a bright, shining portal came into existence. Seeing this, the Doctor began to summon the Infinity Stones. A diversion. 

 

“I made it so that this portal leads to the very distant future,” the Principal explained. “You need to go through it.” 

 

“But if we lose here, then there is no point going into the future!” the King cried out in anguish. 

 

“Sir King.” The Principal looked directly into the man’s eyes. “This battle has already been lost. One of us needs to survive.” 

 

“Then you go! I will hold Finis off so you can escape,” the King retorted, putting his life on the line without a second thought. “Or at the very least, the Parkour Master. He’s just a kid!” 

 

“He’s not a kid,” the Principal intoned. “I can’t explain. It has to be you. For all of existence to function correctly. Just… trust me.” 

 

Finis threw its sword at the Doctor. It tore straight through the rainbow beam of light before piercing him directly through his chest. The man fell to the ground, mortally wounded and about to die. 

 

The King took a step into the portal before turning back and looking at the Principal one last time. 

 

“For KOTL.” 

 

“For KOTL,” the Principal reaffirmed. 

 

Finally, the King stepped through, and the portal closed just in time for Finis to turn and look. 

 

“Principal.” 

 

Time paused. The Parkour Master froze in place, an angry expression on his face as he battled unmoving foes. Every particle across pan-existence stood still.

 

“Do you take me for a fool? I am aware of what you’ve done. Sending KOTL forward in time, eh?” Finis’ words slammed against the Principal’s consciousness. 

 

“Can you stop me?” the Principal challenged. 

 

“I can go back in time.” 

 

“The time for you to go back in time has already passed. The timeline is fixed. You can’t change it.” 

 

Finis seemed to take a breath in, the cloak rising and falling. 

 

“Not a bad trick, I admit. Not a bad saving throw.” 

 

Time unfroze. Everything began to move again. 

 

“I actually have a modicum of respect for you. Therefore, I’ll put some effort into dispatching you.”

 

In an instant, Finis was there, throwing a punch made of dark energy quite similar to the Fins. The Principal brought all the strength and hope and power of the multiverse together into his fists and made a shield. 

It turned out that the battle had essentially destroyed the multiverse itself at this point. Finis punched through the shield with ease, continuing on to connect with the Principal. 

In the tiny fraction of a second before he lost all consciousness, the Principal reflected that perhaps not all hope was lost. Everything with a beginning has an end, but each end has the ability to open into another beginning.

I'm becoming just like FST, aren't I?

To be clear, this work is intended to a prequel of Finis, observing the lives of the characters within prior to the events of the main story. 

I hope you all enjoy. 

I thought this was another fst thread and I was about to ban him

Clap clap clap

What a nice work of writing

Sorry to disappoint. 

Lol

Thank you

You deserve it

fs in the chat

Bruh why

Nope, way less forums WAY higher quality 

This writing is so good. Can you preview my writing?

I wanna see that

What, my writing?

yeah

I will have to translate it from Irish and it is almost midnight here, so it will have to be tomorrow.

oh ok

Thank you, sir.

ø˚ay nice