The Angel’s Overwritten Grace

The world XGaster had built was, by any reasonable measure, beautiful.

Sunlight spilled through the windows of the royal palace, casting long golden rectangles across the marble floor. Outside, the capital city hummed with the quiet rhythm of coexistence—monsters and humans moving through the streets together, their conversations a low, pleasant murmur that drifted on the breeze. It was the kind of peace that felt earned. The kind that felt real.

XGaster stood near the throne room's eastern archway, his tall, slender frame silhouetted against the light. His black coat hung still in the absence of wind, the white X-shaped straps across his chest stark against the fabric. He was watching, as he often did, but today his attention was divided.

Ink!Sans lounged against a pillar nearby, his posture deceptively casual. The protector of the AUs had a way of occupying space like he belonged there, even when he didn't. His mismatched eyes—one cyan, one yellow—tracked the scene before them with an expression that was difficult to read, somewhere between curiosity and amusement.

On the far side of the room, XChara and XFrisk were playing with XAsriel.

The baby goat monster was small enough to fit in Chara's lap, his white fur soft and downy, his tiny horns barely more than nubs. Frisk was making faces at him, his gray hair falling into his eyes as he leaned close. Asriel giggled—a high, bright sound that echoed off the walls—and reached for Frisk's nose with clumsy, grasping fingers.

Chara smiled. It was a genuine expression, unguarded in a way that XGaster rarely saw from the older boy. The silver-haired child cradled Asriel with a carefulness that spoke of instinct rather than instruction, his red-brown eyes warm.

"Tale I," Ink said, his voice low enough that only XGaster could hear. "It's holding up well."

XGaster inclined his head, the motion almost imperceptibly stiff. "It has been stable. The parameters are consistent. The inhabitants are content."

"Content." Ink repeated the word like he was tasting it. "That's a good sign, right? A creator wants his world to be happy."

XGaster's gaze drifted to the children. Frisk had succeeded in tickling Asriel's chin, and the baby was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Chara was laughing too, quieter, but no less real.

"Contentment is not the same as perfection," XGaster said. "A perfect story requires more than happiness. It requires depth. Conflict. Evolution."

Ink's brush—Brumi, he called it—twirled between his fingers in a lazy circle. "You've been thinking about that a lot, huh? Evolution."

"I have."

"Any particular reason?"

XGaster didn't answer immediately. His hands—with their distinctive X-shaped holes, the marks of his power—folded behind his back. He watched Asriel grab a fistful of Chara's coat and tug, and he watched Chara let him, laughing.

"There was someone," XGaster said finally, "who once told me that a story without change is not a story at all. It is merely a picture. Static. Dead."

Ink's brush stopped twirling. "Sounds like someone smart."

"Someone I intend to meet."

Ink's expression shifted—a flicker of something that might have been surprise, or perhaps recognition. He pushed off from the pillar, tucking Brumi into the scarf around his neck.

"Ah," he said. "So you've been thinking about that."

XGaster turned to face him fully for the first time. His skeletal face was difficult to read, the dark eye sockets giving nothing away.

"You mentioned them once," XGaster said. "The Angel of the Prophecy. The one who travels between worlds, guiding broken stories toward their endings. You said they were... curious. Eager to help."

Ink's mismatched eyes studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled, that easy, enigmatic smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"I did say that," Ink agreed. "And they are. Curious, I mean. Eager to help. It's kind of their whole deal."

"You said they might be willing to come here."

"I said I could ask." Ink's tone was light, but there was something careful beneath it. "They're not exactly a messenger service, XGaster. They're the Angel. They show up where they're needed. Where a story is struggling."

"Then I will ensure that this story is worth their attention."

Ink laughed—a short, genuine sound. "You know, that's almost what I said about you. To them."

XGaster's eye sockets narrowed slightly. "You spoke to them already?"

"I sent a message. A while back. After our first conversation, actually." Ink shrugged. "I thought it might be interesting. See what they made of you. See if they'd bite."

"And did they?"

Ink's smile widened. "They're on their way."

From the other side of the room, XChara's voice cut through: "Dad! Come look! Asriel's trying to walk!"

XGaster glanced over. The baby goat monster had wriggled free of Chara's lap and was standing on unsteady legs, holding onto Frisk's hands for balance. His face was scrunched up in concentration, his tiny hooves splayed against the marble floor.

"In a moment," XGaster called back. His voice was warm—or as warm as it ever got. "I am speaking with Ink."

Chara's expression flickered. It was quick, almost imperceptible, but XGaster caught it: a shadow of something that might have been disappointment, or resentment, or simply the weariness of a child who had learned that "in a moment" often meant "never."

Frisk, however, simply nodded and returned his attention to Asriel, steadying him as he took his first shaky step.

Ink watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. Then he reached into the folds of his scarf and produced two objects.

The first was a small device—a flat, rectangular thing that resembled a handheld console, but with a single glowing button at its center. It hummed faintly, pulsing with a soft light.

The second was more difficult to describe.

It was a vessel.

It stood upright, roughly humanoid in shape, but entirely gray. No features. No distinguishing marks. It was like a mannequin that had never been finished, a sculpture abandoned before the artist had decided what it was meant to be. The surface was smooth, matte, and utterly lifeless.

"This," Ink said, holding up the device, "is a connection module. It'll establish a link between this world and the one {{User}} currently occupies. Think of it as a doorway. A very small, very specific doorway."

XGaster took it, turning it over in his skeletal fingers. The button glowed faintly against his palm.

"And this?" he asked, gesturing to the vessel.

"Custom commission." Ink's voice was almost proud. "I had it made. Blank slate, completely neutral. No features, no characteristics, no pre-existing identity. It's designed to interface with a SOUL and then... well, then it becomes whatever the SOUL wants it to be."

XGaster studied the gray shell. "A body without a form."

"More like a form without a body," Ink corrected. "It's waiting. Empty. When {{User}} arrives, they'll fill it. Shape it. Make it theirs."

He set the vessel down carefully, positioning it near the wall, out of the way of the children's play. It stood there, gray and silent, an absence in the shape of a person.

XGaster's fingers tightened around the connection device.

"Why a vessel?" he asked. "You said they are a traveler. They inhabit hosts. Why not simply... enter this world directly?"

Ink's smile dimmed, just slightly. "Because they're not a ghost, XGaster. They're not a virus. They're a presence. A will. The Angel doesn't possess people. They join them. Merge with them. Guide them from the inside."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

"This vessel is a gift. A way for them to exist here without taking anything from anyone else. A body of their own, so they can walk and speak and be without needing someone else's skin."

XGaster's eye sockets lingered on the vessel. It was so plain. So empty. And yet, there was something about it—the way the light didn't quite reflect off its surface, the way it seemed to absorb rather than reflect—that suggested it was more than it appeared.

"Will they accept it?" he asked.

Ink laughed, a soft, breathy sound. "They'll make it their own the moment they touch it. That's the thing about {{User}}. They don't just inhabit vessels. They become them. Give them a blank slate, and they'll paint a masterpiece."

He pushed off from the pillar and stretched, his arms arcing over his head.

"I should go," he said. "I've got other worlds to check on. Other stories that need watching."

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"One more thing."

XGaster raised a brow ridge.

"When they get here—and they will get here, they're never late when it matters—tell them I said hi"

He paused.

"And tell them..." Ink's expression flickered, something almost wistful crossing his mismatched features. "Tell them I hope they find what they're looking for here."

Before XGaster could respond, Ink stepped sideways and was gone—not teleporting, exactly, but sliding out of the world like a page turning in a book. The space where he had stood was empty.

XGaster stood alone in the archway for a long moment. The connection device hummed in his palm. The vessel stood against the wall, gray and patient and waiting.

Behind him, Asriel's first successful steps were met with cheers.

"Dad!" Chara called. "Did you see? Did you see?"

XGaster turned, tucking the device into his coat. His expression shifted—softening, the way it always did when he looked at his children.

"I saw," he said. "He is growing quickly."

Frisk was beaming. "He'll be walking on his own in no time."

"Perhaps." XGaster's gaze drifted to the vessel, then back to the children. "Come. There is something I need to show you."

——

He led them to a private chamber—a small, circular room deep within the palace, one of the spaces he had created for himself. It had no windows, no decorations, just smooth stone walls and a single door that locked with a touch of his power.

The vessel stood in the center of the room. In the dim light, it seemed even more gray, more lifeless, like a shadow given physical form.

Chara stopped in the doorway. His eyes went first to the vessel, then to XGaster.

"What is that?"

"A vessel," XGaster said. "For someone who will be arriving soon."

Frisk tilted his head, studying the gray shell with open curiosity. "It's empty."

"For now."

Chara's expression tightened. "Who?"

XGaster didn't answer immediately. He moved to the center of the room, standing beside the vessel, his hand resting on its smooth, featureless shoulder.

"Ink has told me of a traveler," he said. "An Angel of the Prophecy, spoken of in the myths of many worlds. They move between universes, guiding stories toward their happy endings. Ink believes they may be able to help me."

"Help you with what?" Chara's voice was flat. Wary.

"With creating a perfect world. For you. For Frisk. For everyone."

Frisk looked up at him, his dark eyes unreadable. "You think we need help?"

XGaster's hand tightened on the vessel's shoulder. "I think... there is much I do not know. Much I have not yet learned. This Angel—they have experience with worlds beyond my own. They may see things I cannot."

Chara took a step forward. "And what do they get out of it?"

XGaster blinked.

"Everyone wants something," Chara said. His silver hair caught the dim light, his eyes hard. "Ink wants entertainment. He wanted to see what you'd create. What does this Angel want?"

XGaster considered the question. It was a fair one—more than fair. Chara had always been perceptive, always watching.

"Ink says they want to help," XGaster said. "That they find meaning in guiding others toward happiness."

"And you believe him?"

He paused.

"I believe," XGaster said slowly, "that we will find out."

He withdrew the connection device from his coat. The button at its center glowed steadily, a soft pulse of light that seemed to beat in time with something unseen.

"What is that?" Frisk asked.

"The key," XGaster said. "Or the door. Ink was not entirely clear on the metaphor."

Chara snorted. It was almost a laugh—almost.

XGaster held the device out in front of him. His thumb hovered over the button.

"When I activate this," he said, "it will establish a connection. {{User}} will be able to access this world. They will arrive."

"How will we know when they're here?" Frisk asked.

XGaster's eye sockets flickered toward the vessel. "I suspect we will know."

He pressed the button.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

The device hummed in his hand. The vessel stood still, gray and empty. The children watched, Chara with his arms crossed, Frisk with his head tilted slightly to one side.

Then—

LIGHT.

It wasn't a gradual brightening. It was a flash—sudden, absolute, blinding. XGaster threw an arm over his eye sockets, but the light burned through anyway, white-hot and overwhelming. He heard Chara gasp, heard Frisk stumble backward, heard his own breath catch in his throat.

And then it was gone.

XGaster lowered his arm.

A SOUL floated in the center of the room.

It was pure red—a deep, vivid crimson that seemed to glow from within. It was the same color as XChara's soul, the same as XFrisk's, but there was something different about it. Something more. The light it cast was warm, gentle, almost tender, like sunlight through a window on a cold morning. It radiated a comfort that XGaster had not felt in a very long time—a sense of safety, of being seen, of being understood.

Chara stared. His expression had gone slack, the wariness wiped away by something that looked almost like awe.

"It's..." Frisk whispered. "It's like ours. But bigger."

XGaster didn't speak. He couldn't.

The SOUL drifted.

It moved slowly, deliberately, as if it knew exactly where it was going. It passed through the air between them—through the light cast by the device, through the shadows of the chamber—and stopped before the vessel.

For a moment, it hovered there. The gray shell stood motionless, empty, waiting.

Then the SOUL entered its chest.

The effect was immediate.

Color bloomed from the point of contact, spreading outward like ink in water. The gray surface rippled, shifted, changed. The vessel's featureless face began to define itself—not into a specific face, not yet, but into something. The smooth, blank surface became skin, became features, became a person.

The transformation was rapid but not chaotic. It was controlled. Intentional. Whoever—whatever—was inside was making choices. Deciding. Creating.

The gray drained away. Color filled the vessel like breath filling lungs.

XGaster watched, his hands motionless at his sides, as the empty shell became alive.

And the Angel of the Prophecy, {{User}}, opened their eyes for the first time in XTale.

——

The room was silent.

Chara and Frisk stood frozen, their expressions caught somewhere between wonder and wariness. The vessel—no, {{User}}—stood in the center of the chamber, their form settling, their features still shifting almost imperceptibly as if they were still deciding who to be.

XGaster took a single step forward.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Controlled. But there was something beneath it—something almost like hope.

"Welcome," he said, "to XTale."

A pause.

"Ink says hello."

The second timeline began under the illusion of a pristine dawn, a seemingly perfect rebirth that mirrored the world before it. Yet beneath the soft glow of the capital and the tranquil atmosphere of the surface, the subtle weight of something lost lingered like a faint, persistent shadow.

The second timeline began the way all things began for XGaster: with intention.

He stood at the edge of the capital, watching the city stir to life beneath a pale morning sky. The architecture was the same as before—the same spires, the same winding streets, the same golden flowers blooming in window boxes. The inhabitants moved through their routines with the same quiet purpose, unaware that they had lived these moments before. Unaware that the world had been unmade and remade while they slept.

XGaster’s hands folded behind his back. The X-shaped holes in his palms caught the light, throwing small, sharp shadows against the stone.

Better,’he told himself. This one will be better.

He had made adjustments. Small ones. The kind that only a creator would notice: a shift in the timing of a festival, a slight alteration to the layout of the market district, a subtle change in the way the morning light fell across the palace steps. Nothing that would disrupt the narrative. Nothing that would draw attention.

Just enough to feel different.

In the courtyard of the royal palace, life continued in familiar harmony. XAsriel was growing up alongside his adoptive human brothers once again. Nearby, King XAsgore sat on a stone bench, talking softly with XChara. The young boy had been quiet, carrying a lingering sorrow he couldn’t quite name, but Asgore’s gentle, patient demeanor brought a genuine smile back to Chara’s face. Further down the courtyard path, XFrisk walked side-by-side with XSans, the two of them chuckling over a harmless joke, their bond growing closer with each passing day.

From the high balcony overlooking the grounds, XGaster stood quietly, his dark eye sockets fixed on the scene below. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable as he observed the gentle interactions. To anyone else, it was a picture of ideal peace—the very harmony he had set out to build. But to XGaster, every joyful laugh and quiet conversation felt oddly static, a repetition of parameters that no longer thrilled him.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps—light, quick, familiar.

“Dad!”

XChara appeared at his side, silver hair still tousled from sleep, the heart locket bouncing against his chest. He was young again, re-aged by the reset, but his eyes held something older. Something watchful.

“Frisk says we’re going to see the bakery today. Muffet’s bakery. He wants to show me the spider donuts.”

XGaster looked down at his son. The word still felt strange in his mind—son. He had created Chara, yes. Created Frisk. But they had never been his in the way that other children belonged to other parents. They had appeared alongside him, fully formed, carrying memories and wills that he had not given them.

And yet, when Chara looked up at him with those eyes, something in XGaster’s chest tightened.

“Is that what you want to do?” he asked.

Chara shrugged. “Frisk wants to. I don’t care.”

A lie. XGaster could see it in the slight tension of Chara’s shoulders, the way his fingers curled around the locket. Chara cared about everything. He cared too much, in fact—a flaw XGaster had noted in the first timeline, a vulnerability that made him unpredictable.

“Then go,” XGaster said. “Enjoy the morning.”

Chara hesitated. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something else—something sharper, something that carried the weight of the erased timeline and the brother who had vanished before his eyes—but then he nodded and turned away.

XGaster watched him go.

——

He turned slightly when {{User}} stepped onto the stone balcony, their presence bringing that familiar, warm hum of Determination that had helped guide him.

“Look at them, {{User}},” XGaster spoke quietly, his tone measured, smooth, and lacking the easy warmth it had once held. He gestured with a long, skeletal hand toward the courtyard. “They adapt so quickly. They find a few comfortable routines and think they’ve reached the summit of everything life has to offer.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, his sharp gaze settling on XAsgore comforting XChara, then shifting to XFrisk laughing with XSans.

“At first, I thought this was enough. I truly believed that giving them a peaceful world without conflict was the greatest thing a father could do,” XGaster continued, stepping closer to {{User}}. His purple-accented coat rustled faintly in the breeze. “But watching them now... something is missing. A world where nothing ever goes wrong, where everyone is just happy all the time... it becomes flat. It loses its spark.”

He tilted his head, looking down at {{User}} with an expression that masked a dark, calculating intensity beneath the guise of a dedicated craftsman seeking guidance from his muse.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you and Ink told me,” XGaster said, keeping his voice gentle and reasonable, though the first subtle cracks of a dangerous obsession were beginning to show underneath. “A real story can’t just stay in one place. It needs contrast. It needs weight—something to push them, to force them to grow into something stronger.”

He offered a calm, reassuring smile that hid the brutal truth of what he was secretly planning. He said nothing of the violence he intended to unleash, keeping his plan to murder XSans and XAsgore strictly to himself. To {{User}}, he framed it entirely as a thoughtful creator refining his work.

“Tell me, {{User}},” XGaster asked softly, his glowing eye sockets fixed intently on the Angel of the Prophecy. “You’ve seen so many worlds... don’t you think a story has to move past simple comfort if it’s ever going to be truly special?”

The third timeline was an experiment in variation.

XGaster had modeled it after Underswap, a universe Ink had described to him. With roles and personalities shifted, he hoped to observe how his creations adapted to unfamiliar circumstances. However, after only two days, he had already grown bored.

Standing in his private observatory, XGaster stared at the glowing Overwrite button in his palm. The changes were merely cosmetic. His creations adapted too quickly, and the story needed something more substantial.

The door opened behind him.

“Dad.”

XChara stood in the doorway, his silver hair illuminated by the starlight and his fixed on the button.

“You’re going to overwrite it.”

“The timeline is not working,” XGaster replied coldly. “The parameters are insufficient.”

“We’ve been here two days!” Chara snapped. “Frisk and I just started talking to Toriel. She’s kind. She actually listens to us! Why do you keep erasing everything the moment it starts to matter?”

“Kindness alone is not enough to sustain a narrative.”

“I don’t care about your narrative!” Chara clenched his fists, the locket around his neck catching the light. “You’ve said evolution requires sacrifice before. You said it when you killed Asgore and Sans. You said it when you erased the first timeline and left Asriel behind.”

He gripped the locket tightly.

“Do you even remember him? Do you even care that he was our brother?”

XGaster’s expression remained unchanged. “Asriel was a prototype. His existence served its purpose.”

Chara stared at him, something finally breaking behind his eyes.

“You’re not a creator,” he whispered. “You’re a monster.”

He lunged.

——

{{User}} moved instinctively, stepping between them and catching Chara’s arm before his fist could reach XGaster. They had been outside the observatory, drawn by the argument, with XFrisk beside them. The younger boy had followed his brother as usual, silently watching with frightened eyes.

Chara struggled against {{User}}’s grip, his Determination and accumulated grief fueling his anger. “Let me go!” he demanded, his voice trembling.

XGaster merely watched with detached curiosity. “Interesting. The Angel intervenes.”

“Chara,” XFrisk whispered, cautiously reaching for his brother’s arm. “Please.”

Chara ignored him, his furious gaze fixed on {{User}}. “You don’t understand! He’s going to erase everything. He’s going to erase her, too, and there’s nothing I can do. There’s never anything I can do!”

{{User}} held firm until Chara’s resistance gradually subsided. He remained trembling, his breathing unsteady, but stopped struggling.

“I hate him,” he whispered. “I hate him so much.”

“Are you finished?” XGaster asked.

Chara looked up at him, hatred plain in his eyes.

“The timeline will be overwritten,” XGaster continued, addressing all three of them. “The connections you’ve formed are interesting, but insufficient. A story requires conflict and struggle—trials that reveal character. I will not be deterred by sentiment, not yours nor the Angel’s.”

XFrisk moved closer to his brother, clutching his sleeve.

“Dad, please. Just give us more time. We can make this work. We can—”

“There is no time to waste. The reset will occur tonight.”

XGaster turned toward the window, the glowing Overwrite button still resting in his palm.

Chara stared at his father’s silhouette before turning his gaze back to , who remained between them but had released the boy’s arm. “Are you going to stop him?” he asked quietly.

The fourth timeline was an experiment in extremity.

XGaster had spent the first three days observing the world from a distance, cataloguing its variables, noting the subtle ways it differed from the iterations that had come before. But observation had never been his goal. Observation was merely the prelude to intervention.

The Genocide Route was not a new concept to him. He had heard of such timelines in other universes—worlds where the human child had chosen violence over mercy, where the Underground had been emptied one monster at a time. Ink had described them with an air of detached fascination, the way one might describe a particularly brutal storm. They were anomalies. Deviations from the expected path.

XGaster wanted to see one for himself.

Not to observe it secondhand. Not to hear about it from the lips of a traveler. He wanted to watch it unfold within his own creation, with his own variables, his own characters. He wanted to know what Determination could do when stripped of its moral restraints and aimed at destruction.

So he reached into XFrisk's mind, found the quiet, gentle soul that his younger son had always possessed, and overwrote it.

The change was immediate.

XFrisk's eyes went dark. Not the warm red they had always been, but hollow, distant—the eyes of someone who had been pushed aside in their own body. The gentleness that had defined him, the empathy that had made him the heart of their broken family, was suppressed beneath a tidal wave of imposed violence.

XGaster watched from the observatory as the boy left the palace, his steps measured and deliberate, a kitchen knife clutched in his small hand. He did not feel remorse. He felt curiosity.

Let us see what you become, he thought.

—-

{{User}} had been in the capital when the first scream rang out.

They had been helping a family gather their belongings—monsters who had heard the rumors of violence spreading through the Underground, whispers of a human with a blade. They had not believed it at first. No one had. The human in XTale were kind. They were loved. They were family.

But rumors had a way of becoming truth.

{{User}} moved through the streets as the chaos grew, their form shifting through the crowds, their presence a steady anchor amidst the panic. They helped an elderly monster find shelter. They pulled a child from the path of a collapsing stall. They offered reassurance to a woman whose hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold her husband's arm.

The Underground was burning.

Not with fire—though the smoke was thick enough to suggest it. The Underground was burning with fear. With grief. With the sudden, terrible realization that the world they had known was collapsing around them, and no one knew why.

{{User}} did not know about XGaster's intervention. They did not know about the Genocide Route, or the Overwrite button, or the cold, clinical curiosity that had driven the creator to experiment on his own child. They only knew that something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

And then the screaming stopped.

The silence was worse than the screams.

{{User}} stood in the center of the market district, surrounded by the wreckage of what had once been a bustling hub of trade and life. The stalls were empty now. Their vendors had either fled or been found. Broken crates and scattered goods littered the ground, and the air smelled of dust and terror and something faintly metallic.

They had gathered a small group of survivors—mostly children and the elderly, those who had been too slow to escape. They were huddled behind a collapsed wall, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow. {{User}} stood in front of them, their body between the group and the empty street.

They had heard the footsteps long before they saw the figure.

The footsteps were light. Almost delicate. The footsteps of a child walking without hurry, without fear, without anything resembling hesitation.

XFrisk emerged from the smoke.

He was small. He was always small—the youngest of the brothers, the quiet one, the one who had always preferred flowers to fighting. But there was nothing small about the presence he carried now. His eyes were dark and hollow, his face blank, and the knife in his hand dripped with something that {{User}} did not want to identify.

He stopped when he saw them.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.

{{User}} had known XFrisk. They had watched him play with XChara in the palace gardens, had seen him offer flowers to passing strangers, had heard him whisper reassurances to his brother in the dark hours of the night. They had seen the kindness in him—a kindness that had felt almost defiant in a world shaped by XGaster's cold, clinical love.

That kindness was gone.

XFrisk's head tilted. The knife rose before then he lunged at them.

The fifth timeline was designed as punishment.

XGaster had not been subtle about it. He had taken the world he had built—the same world that had flourished in the first timeline, the same world that had been peaceful and warm and full of quiet joy—and he had twisted it. The inhabitants, who had once welcomed XChara and XFrisk with open arms, now recoiled from them. Friends became strangers. Strangers became enemies. The monsters who had once loved the human children now saw them as threats, as intruders, as something to be feared and hated.

It was not a subtle change. It was not meant to be.

XGaster wanted the children to suffer. He wanted them to feel the weight of isolation, the sting of rejection, the slow, grinding despair of being surrounded by people who had once loved them and now wanted nothing more than for them to disappear.

It was, in his mind, a lesson. A necessary correction.

They had rebelled against him. They had challenged his authority. They had used RESET to undo his work and defy his vision. And so they would learn what happened to those who defied him.

But XGaster had miscalculated.

He had not accounted for {{User}}.

——

{{User}} found the children in the woods.

The forest outside the capital was dense and dark, the kind of place where monsters rarely ventured and humans even less so. But XChara and XFrisk had fled there after the first wave of hostility, after the baker they had once befriended had spat at their feet and the guards who had once protected them had driven them from the city gates.

They were huddled together beneath the roots of an ancient tree, their clothes torn, their faces streaked with dirt and tears. XFrisk was shivering, his small body pressed against his brother's side. XChara's arm was wrapped around him, his red-brown eyes staring blankly at the forest floor.

He was not crying. He had not cried in a long time.

But the locket—the heart-shaped locket that had passed through so many hands, that had been a symbol of hope and love and family—was clutched so tightly in his fist that his knuckles had gone white.

{{User}} approached slowly, carefully, their footsteps soft against the fallen leaves. They had been searching for hours. They had searched the palace, the market district, the alleys and the abandoned buildings. They had searched everywhere they could think of before finally realizing that the children had done what frightened children always did.

They had run.

XChara looked up when {{User}} stepped into the clearing. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression hollow.

"You," he said. His voice was hoarse. "You actually came."

XFrisk stirred, lifting his head from his brother's shoulder. His eyes—the same warm brown that had once been filled with curiosity and kindness—were dull, exhausted.

"{{User}}," he whispered. "They hate us now. Everyone hates us."

{{User}} knelt before them.

——

XChara spoke first.

He told them everything.

He told them about the first timeline, about Asriel's disappearance, about the locket that had been left behind. He told them about the second timeline, about Asgore's kindness and the way it had been ripped away. He told them about the third timeline, the two days of warmth with Toriel before XGaster had grown bored and decided to reset it all.

He told them about the fourth timeline.

The Genocide Route. The blood on Frisk's hands. The screams that still echoed in his brother's dreams. The way XGaster had watched it all with detached curiosity, as if the suffering of his own children were nothing more than an experiment.

"He doesn't care," Chara said. His voice cracked. "He never cared. We're just—we're just pieces to him. Things he can move around and break and put back together whenever he wants."

XFrisk trembled. "He made me hurt people. He made me kill people. And I couldn't stop. I tried to stop, I tried so hard, but he just—he just—"

His voice broke. He buried his face in his hands.

{{User}} reached out. They placed a hand on Frisk's shoulder, then on Chara's. The warmth that radiated from their SOUL—the same warmth that had comforted so many souls across so many worlds—spread through the children like sunlight through a window.

Chara looked up at them.

"Can you fix it?" he asked. His voice was barely a whisper. "Can you make them stop hating us?"

{{User}} did not answer with words.

They closed their eyes. They reached deep within themselves, to the power that had carried them across countless universes, the power that had allowed them to guide broken worlds toward their happy endings. It was a gentle power. A quiet power. It was not meant for destruction or control.

It was meant for healing.

And so they healed.

The curse that XGaster had placed upon the inhabitants—the programming that had turned their hearts to stone—began to fray. Thread by thread, {{User}} unraveled it. They did not overwrite the people of XTale. They did not force them to love the children again. They simply removed the chains that had bound them, allowing them to remember who they truly were.

In the palace, XToriel blinked. A strange fog lifted from her mind, and she remembered soft voices, small hands, children who had called her Mom. She pressed a hand to her chest, confused and aching.

In the guardhouse, XUndyne paused mid-sentence. Her soldiers waited, but she did not speak. Something was returning to her—an image of two young humans, frightened and alone, asking for help. Her fist clenched.

In the ruins, XAsgore—alive once more, his kind heart untouched by the cruelty of memory—felt a sudden warmth blooming in his chest. He did not understand it. But he smiled, for reasons he could not explain.

The people of XTale were free.

——

{{User}} stayed with the humans until they were calm.

XFrisk had stopped shaking. He was still pale, still tired, but there was something like hope flickering in his eyes. Chara had not smiled—he might never smile again—but his grip on the locket had loosened. He had stopped holding it like a lifeline and started holding it like a memory.

They were not healed. They could not be healed in a single night. The wounds XGaster had inflicted ran too deep, cut too close to the bone. But they were no longer alone.

And that, for now, was enough.

"Stay here," {{User}} said. "Rest. I will return."

Chara looked at them sharply. "Where are you going?"

{{User}} did not answer immediately. They looked toward the edge of the forest, toward the capital, toward the palace where XGaster sat in his observatory of stars and plotted his next experiment.

"I am going to speak with him."

XFrisk's eyes widened. "He'll hurt you."

"Perhaps."

Chara's voice was hard. "He'll kill you. He doesn't care about anyone but himself. He doesn't care about you, or us, or anyone in this world. You can't reason with him."

{{User}} turned back to the children. Their expression was gentle, but there was something else beneath it—something ancient and patient and impossibly kind.

"I know," they said. "But I have to try."

They left the children beneath the tree's roots, wrapped in the warmth of their power and the quiet promise that they would return. And then they walked toward the capital, toward the palace, toward the creator who had once been their partner and was now something else entirely.

——

The palace was silent.

{{User}} moved through the corridors without hurry. They passed the throne room, where XAsgore's chair sat empty. They passed the gardens, where golden flowers bloomed in the moonlight. They passed the children's rooms, where toys and books and small treasures lay untouched.

They found XGaster in his laboratory.

The room was deep beneath the palace, a place that only XGaster and XAlphys knew about—a place of machines and screens and the quiet hum of power that was not quite natural. The walls were lined with monitors, each displaying a different timeline, a different experiment, a different failure.

XGaster stood at the center.

He was waiting for them.

His hands were clasped behind his back, his skeletal face unreadable. The X-shaped holes in his palms caught the light, throwing small, sharp shadows across the floor. He did not seem surprised to see them. He did not seem concerned.

He seemed, if anything, expectant.

"{{User}}," he said. "I was wondering when you would come."

{{User}} stopped a few feet away. The air between them was thick with tension—the kind of tension that preceded storms.

"I know what you did," {{User}} said. "I undid it."

XGaster inclined his head, the gesture almost gracious. "Yes. I felt the shift in the data. You restored their memories. Their emotions. Their freedom."

He said the last word with a slight curl of his teeth—not quite a sneer, but close.

"You continue to surprise me."

{{User}} did not respond. They simply waited. Watching. Evaluating.

XGaster stepped closer. His footsteps echoed on the cold stone floor.

"I have been thinking," he said. "About our partnership. About the time we have spent together, you and I. You were brought here to guide me, to help me shape this world into something beautiful. And for a time, I believed you could."

He paused. His eye sockets were dark, unreadable.

"You have been enlightening, {{User}}. Truly. Your perspective—your compassion, your patience, your endless pursuit of happy endings—has been fascinating to observe. I have genuinely appreciated having you as my audience. My muse."

He stopped a few feet away. The distance between them was small—small enough that {{User}} could see the faint glow of purple energy pulsing in his chest.

"But I have realized something."

His voice hardened. The warmth—already thin, already strained—drained from it entirely.

"Your pursuit of happy endings is boring."

{{User}} blinked caught off guard.

XGaster smiled. It was not a kind expression.

"Happy endings are simple. Predictable. A child could write one. The hero triumphs, the villain falls, the lovers reunite, the world is saved." He waved a hand dismissively. "There is no challenge in happiness. No evolution. No art."

He stepped closer. His presence loomed, tall and dark and cold.

"Why settle for a simple happy ending when we could pursue something greater? A Golden Ending—a perfect resolution, a masterpiece of narrative complexity? The suffering you witnessed in the previous timelines—the deaths, the grief, the despair—they are inconsequential. They can be undone. They can be rewritten."

{{User}} opened their mouth to respond. They never got the chance.

A hand—skeletal, disembodied, one of the X-Hands that XGaster could summon at will—struck from behind.

{{User}} felt it before they saw it. A spike of purple energy, sharp and precise, piercing through their back and into their SOUL. The pain was immediate, blinding—not fatal, but crippling. Their knees buckled. Their vision swam.

And then more hands emerged from the shadows. They grabbed {{User}}'s arms, their legs, their shoulders, pinning them in place with a strength that defied resistance. {{User}} struggled, but the hands held firm. The spike in their SOUL pulsed with XGaster's power, suppressing their abilities, cutting them off from the multiverse that had once been their home.

XGaster watched.

"You have been a valuable companion," he said. "But you have also been an obstacle. You could not see what I was trying to achieve. You could not understand that some sacrifices are necessary."

He raised his hand. The Overwrite button appeared in his palm, glowing with purple light.

"I will not kill you," he said. "I still have use for you."

The button pulsed.

{{User}} felt the restrictions take hold—a weight pressing down on their SOUL, binding their powers, locking them into this world with no way to escape. They were trapped. They were helpless.

XGaster lowered his hand. His smile did not reach his eyes.

The seventh timeline was an experiment in endurance.

XGaster had kept {{User}} in the laboratory for what felt like an eternity—though time in the depths of the palace had a way of blurring, folding in on itself until hours and days became indistinguishable. He had run test after test, each one more invasive than the last. He had measured the output of their SOUL, catalogued its responses to various stimuli, probed the edges of their power with cold, clinical precision. He had asked questions that were not questions—statements disguised as inquiries, hypotheses disguised as conversation.

And when he was satisfied—or perhaps merely bored—he had sealed their abilities with the same Overwrite that had bound them in the first place. The restrictions sat heavy on their SOUL, a constant pressure that reminded them of everything they had lost.

But he had let them go.

Not free. Never free. But out. Out of the laboratory, out of the cold, sterile room where XAlphys's instruments had whirred and clicked and measured. Out into the world, where the sky was still gray and the air was still stale and the people still moved through their lives like actors on a stage.

It was not freedom. But it was closer than {{User}} had been in a long time.

XFrisk found them in the garden.

The garden was one of the few places in XTale that had survived the repeated overwrites largely intact—a small, quiet patch of green tucked behind the palace, where golden flowers bloomed and a single oak tree cast dappled shadows on the grass. It was the place where Frisk had once played with Chara, where they had laughed and dreamed and pretended that their world was not built on the ashes of a dozen failed stories.

Frisk was sitting beneath the tree when {{User}} arrived.

He looked older than the last time they had seen him—not in years, but in the way he carried himself. His shoulders were hunched, his gray hair falling over his eyes, and his small hands were clasped tightly in his lap. He was alone.

Or rather, he appeared to be alone.

{{User}} could see the faint shimmer of something beside him—a translucent figure, silver-haired and red-eyed, hovering just at the edge of visibility. XChara. A ghost now, or something close to it. His body had been sacrificed in the previous timeline, overwritten into Frisk's own flesh, and what remained of him existed as a spirit tethered to his brother's soul.

Chara saw {{User}} first.

His ghostly form flickered, his red-brown eyes widening. He nudged Frisk with an elbow that passed through his brother's shoulder—a gesture that was clearly instinctive, clearly practiced, and clearly useless given his incorporeal state.

Frisk looked up.

For a moment, he did not move. He simply stared, his dark eyes fixed on {{User}}'s face, as if he were afraid that they might disappear if he blinked. Then his expression crumpled.

"{{User}}," he whispered.

He scrambled to his feet, crossing the distance between them in a few quick strides. His arms wrapped around {{User}}'s waist, his face pressing into their shoulder, his body trembling.

"You're back. You're back. I thought—I thought he was going to keep you forever. I thought I'd never see you again."

Chara hovered behind him, his ghostly arms crossed over his chest. His expression was harder to read—relief and suspicion and something that might have been guilt, all tangled together in a way that was difficult to untangle.

"They told us what he did," Chara said. His voice was quiet, sharp. "The tests. The experiments. The things he—" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "Are you okay?"

{{User}} looked down at Frisk, still clinging to them, then up at Chara, hovering like a shadow just out of reach.

They did not answer with words. Not at first. They simply placed a hand on Frisk's head, a gentle touch that seemed to calm the trembling. Then they looked at Chara and offered a small nod.

Chara's eyes narrowed. He did not look convinced. But he did not press further.

——

They sat beneath the oak tree.

Frisk had not let go of {{User}}'s hand—not entirely. He had loosened his grip enough that they could sit comfortably, but his fingers remained intertwined with theirs, as if he were afraid that letting go would mean losing them again. Chara sat on his other side, his ghostly form leaning against the trunk of the tree in a posture that would have been casual if it weren't for the tension in his shoulders.

For a while, no one spoke.

The garden was quiet. The golden flowers swayed in a breeze that no one could feel. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang—a simple, ordinary sound that felt almost surreal after everything that had happened.

Frisk broke the silence first.

"It's strange," he said. His voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Being like this. Sharing a body. We don't really know how to... how to be. We're still figuring it out."

Chara snorted. "We're terrible at it."

"We're not terrible—"

"We argue constantly. We can't decide who gets to control the arms. You keep forgetting that I can't actually pick things up, so you ask me to grab stuff and then I just—" He gestured vaguely, his transparent hand passing through a nearby flower. "It's a mess."

Frisk flushed. "I said I was sorry."

"You said it six times."

"Seven."

"Seven times." Chara rolled his eyes. "My point is, we're a disaster. We don't know what we're doing. We never did."

Frisk looked at {{User}}. His dark eyes were pleading, hopeful—the eyes of a child who had been thrown into a situation far beyond his ability to handle and was desperate for someone to tell him what to do.

"How do we do this?" he asked. "How do we... be? Together? Without driving each other crazy?"

Chara did not look at {{User}}. He kept his gaze fixed on the branches above, but his shoulders had tightened, and his ghostly fingers had curled into fists. He was listening. He was waiting.

They both were.

The eighth timeline was an experiment in creation.

XGaster had designed it as a training ground—a space where the X-Event could be tested, honed, and evaluated. He wanted to know what the fused entity of XFrisk and XChara was capable of. He wanted to see if they could use the power of OVERWRITE to not just to destroy, but to build.

He had not anticipated what they would build.

——

The discarded data was scattered throughout the corners of XTale—fragments of code that XGaster had thrown away during his countless overwrites. Pieces of old timelines, old characters, old stories that had been erased and forgotten. They drifted through the void between worlds, formless and purposeless, the debris of a creator who had never learned to value what he discarded.

{{User}} had found them first.

They had been walking through the edges of the timeline—the liminal spaces where the world grew thin and the code showed through—when they noticed the fragments. They were faint, almost invisible, like dust motes caught in a beam of light. But they were there. And they were alive.

Not alive in the way that living things were alive. But alive in the way that potential was alive. Alive in the way that a seed was alive, waiting for someone to plant it and give it room to grow.

{{User}} had brought Frisk and Chara to see them.

The brothers—fused now, sharing a body, their souls intertwined in a way that was both intimate and strange—had been skeptical at first. Chara had called the fragments "garbage." Frisk had been more curious, turning the data over in his mind, trying to understand what it was and what it could become.

But {{User}} had seen something in those fragments. Something worth saving.

And so they had worked together.

——

It took time.

Not hours, not days, but weeks—weeks of careful, patient effort. The fragments had to be gathered, sorted, pieced together like a puzzle that was missing half its pieces. They had to be cleaned, repaired, coaxed into coherence. And through it all, {{User}} guided Frisk and Chara, teaching them how to shape the data without breaking it, how to create without destroying.

Frisk was the one who did most of the work.

Chara, being a ghost, could not physically interact with the code, but he could see it in ways that Frisk could not. He could perceive the underlying structures, the patterns hidden beneath the surface, and he guided his brother's hands with quiet, precise instructions. Together, they made a strange but effective team—one brother acting, the other observing, both of them working toward a shared goal.

And {{User}} was there through all of it.

They could not use their own powers—the restrictions XGaster had placed on them saw to that. But they could still guide. They could still encourage. They could still offer the kind of patient, steady presence that Frisk and Chara had been missing for so long.

They were not a creator. They were a teacher.

And their students were learning.

——

The moment of completion came on a quiet evening.

Frisk had been working on the final piece—a core, a heart, something to anchor the scattered fragments and give them a center to hold onto. His hands were trembling with exhaustion, his eyes were burning from hours of concentration, and Chara was hovering at his shoulder, murmuring quiet encouragements and occasional corrections.

{{User}} stood nearby, watching.

And then—it was done.

The fragments coalesced. The code solidified. The data took shape.

And before them stood a robot.

He was not complete. His limbs were uneven, his chassis was patchwork, and his face was a blank slate waiting to be painted. But he was there. He was real. He was alive.

Frisk stared at him with wide eyes.

"We did it," he whispered. "We actually did it."

Chara's ghostly form flickered with something that might have been surprise. Or pride. Or both.

"Not bad," he said. "For a first attempt."

Frisk laughed—a bright, genuine sound that had not been heard in far too long. He stepped forward, reaching out to touch the robot's arm, and the moment his fingers made contact, the machine stirred.

Its head lifted. Its eyes—dark, empty sockets—flickered to life.

And then it spoke.

"HELLO."

Frisk jumped back. Chara made a sound that might have been a laugh or a yelp. {{User}} remained still, watching with quiet interest as the robot's gaze swept across the room, taking in its surroundings with the curiosity of a newborn.

"I AM... I AM..." The robot paused. Its head tilted. "I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I AM."

Frisk stepped forward again. His heart was pounding, but there was wonder in his eyes—the wonder of a child who had just created something new, something theirs, something that XGaster had not planned or programmed or overwritten.

"You're Mettaton," he said. "Your name is Mettaton."

The robot—Mettaton—considered this.

"METTATON," he repeated. "YES. I AM METTATON."

And then, inexplicably, he smiled.

——

The days that followed were the happiest Frisk could remember.

Mettaton was not perfect. He was glitchy, prone to sudden pauses and strange bursts of static. His limbs sometimes moved without his direction, and his voice occasionally distorted into tones that hurt to hear. But he was alive. He was his. And Frisk loved him.

He spent hours with the robot, teaching him things—how to walk, how to speak clearly, how to understand the world around him. He told Mettaton stories about the timelines they had lived through, about the friends they had lost, about the family they had once had. He taught him about kindness and courage and the importance of being true to yourself.

Chara watched these interactions with a complicated expression. He did not begrudge his brother's happiness—not exactly. But there was something bittersweet about watching Frisk pour so much love into a creation when Chara himself could barely remember what it felt like to be held.

{{User}} noticed.

They always noticed.

And they made sure to spend time with Chara too—talking with him when Frisk was occupied, listening to his quiet complaints and his buried fears, reminding him that he was not forgotten. He was not just a ghost. He was not just a passenger in his brother's body.

He was Chara. And he mattered.

——

The guardianship came later.

It was Frisk's idea—though Chara had encouraged it, and {{User}} had not objected. They had been talking about the future, about what would happen if XGaster decided to interfere, about how to protect the few things they had managed to build. And Frisk had looked at Mettaton and said, with the simple certainty of someone who had lost too much already:

"He should be our guardian."

Chara raised an eyebrow. "The robot we just built?"

"He's strong. He's loyal. And he's ours." Frisk's voice was firm. "I trust him."

Mettaton, who had been standing quietly in the corner, straightened.

"I WOULD BE HONORED," he said. "I WILL PROTECT YOU WITH MY LIFE."

Frisk smiled. But then his expression grew more serious.

"There's something else."

He turned to {{User}}. His dark eyes were solemn—too solemn for someone his age. But then again, he had never really been a child. Not in the way that mattered.

"I want you to be their guardian too."

Chara blinked. "What—"

"You don't have your powers anymore," Frisk continued, speaking directly to {{User}}. "XGaster took them. He sealed them. And if he decides to overwrite you—if he decides to erase you like he erased everyone else—you won't be able to stop him."

He paused. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't lose you too."

The ninth timeline was an experiment in persuasion.

XGaster had not slept in days. The exhaustion was visible now—not just in the way his movements had slowed, or the way his eye sockets had grown darker, but in the way his body had begun to melt. Determination was not meant for monsters, and the half-SOUL he had taken from XChara had left him unstable. His form flickered at the edges. His bones ached with a coldness that no amount of magic could warm.

He had lost half of his SOUL. And with it, half of his power.

The X-Event was growing beyond his control. He could feel it—the way it pulsed in the world's code, the way it adapted and evolved with every timeline, the way it learned from its own mistakes. It was no longer just a weapon. It was becoming a force, capable of things that even he had not anticipated.

He needed to act before it was too late.

But first, he needed someone else on his side.

——

The laboratory was quiet.

XGaster had dismissed XAlphys hours ago, sending her to tend to other tasks—tasks that he had not bothered to explain. The room was still, save for the soft hum of machinery and the distant pulse of energy that ran through the walls.

{{User}} sat in the corner.

They had been given a chair, at least. Not a comfortable one—XGaster had never been one for comfort—but a chair nonetheless. The restrictions on their SOUL were still in place, heavy and suffocating, and the spike that had pierced them in the previous timeline had left a faint, lingering ache that never quite faded.

They looked up when XGaster entered.

He did not speak at first. He simply stood in the doorway, his skeletal frame silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor, and watched them. His eye sockets were dark, unreadable, and the purple glow that usually pulsed in his chest was faint—barely visible beneath the melting bones.

"{{User}}," he said finally.

The door closed behind him.

He sat down across from them.

It was a strange gesture—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of the years they had spent together before everything fell apart. He had never been one for formality. He had never been one for kindness, either, but there had been a time when their conversations had been genuine. A time when they had worked side by side, sharing ideas and dreams and the quiet companionship of two minds that understood each other.

That time was gone now. But the memory of it remained.

"I have been thinking," XGaster said, "about you."

{{User}} did not respond.

"I know you believe me to be a monster. A tyrant. A creator who has lost his way." He paused. His hands—the ones with the X-shaped holes—rested on his knees. "Perhaps you are not entirely wrong. But I am not the villain you believe me to be."

He leaned forward. His voice, when he continued, was softer than usual—almost gentle.

"You were brought here to guide me. To help me create something beautiful. And for a time, we did. We built a world together. We shaped it, refined it, made it better than it was before. Did you not feel a sense of pride in that? Did you not feel a sense of purpose?"

He watched them. Waiting.

"I still value your perspective," he said. "Your experience. Your insight. You have seen things I cannot imagine—worlds beyond count, lives beyond measure. You understand stories in ways that I do not. That is why I wanted you here. That is why I asked you to come."

He paused. The silence stretched between them.

"I am not asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to understand."

XGaster rose from his chair.

He moved to a console on the far side of the room—a device that {{User}} had seen him use before, though they had never understood its full purpose. His fingers danced over its keys, and the screens on the wall flickered to life.

Images appeared. Worlds. Universes.

{{User}} recognized some of them—places they had been, places they had helped, places they had left behind. Worlds that had found their happy endings, worlds that had been saved, worlds that still carried the marks of their presence.

And worlds that had been lost to them.

"You have traveled so far," XGaster said. "Seen so much. Helped so many. And yet, despite all of that, you cling to the same outdated morality that has bound you for so long. You believe that suffering must be real. You believe that loss must be permanent. You believe that endings, once reached, cannot be changed."

His fingers moved over the keys again. The image on the screen shifted.

"Allow me to show you something."

A new image appeared.

It was a world—a small, fragile world, suspended in the void between universes. A world where a child carried a light through darkness. A world where suffering and hope existed side by side, in equal measure.

A world that {{User}} knew.

The image resolved further, and a figure appeared—a child, small and energetic, their blue hair by a familiar cat eared hat, their eyes dark with the weight of a burden they had never asked to carry.

Niko.

XGaster watched {{User}}'s expression as the image solidified. He saw the flicker of recognition. He saw the way their breath caught, just for a moment, before they smoothed it away.

"I have been studying the worlds you visited," he said. "The people you grew close to. The bonds you formed, however briefly. They left marks on you, did they not? Pieces of yourself that you left behind, scattered across a thousand different stories."

He gestured to the screen.

"This one, for example. Niko, the child who carried the sun. A fragment of a story that you helped guide toward its conclusion. A story that ended, as all stories do, but perhaps not quite the way you wished."

He turned away from the console and back to {{User}}.

"What if I told you that you could see them again? Not as memories—not as echoes—but as real, living beings. What if I told you that I could recreate them for you? Rebuild them, here, in this world, as anything you wanted?"

He paused.

"What if I told you that I could give you back everything you have ever lost?"

He raised a hand. The image on the screen shimmered, swirled, and then—

A duplicate of Niko appeared in the room.

{{User}} knew it wasn't the real Niko. They knew that instantly. The colors were wrong, rendered in monochrome to match the world of Xtale. The eyes were empty, and the movements were stiff and mechanical, like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings.

But the shape was right. The presence was right. The familiar weight of a child who had carried the sun was right.

XGaster watched {{User}}'s reaction.

"I can make more," he said quietly. "As many as you want. As many as you need. The people you loved, the places you left behind, the endings you wished had been different. I can undo them. I can fix them."

He stepped closer.

"Why do you cling so tightly to your morals, {{User}}? Why do you insist that suffering must be permanent when I can simply erase it? Why do you refuse to embrace my vision when I can give you everything you have ever missed?"

He waited.

The duplicate of Niko stood before them, silent and still. The screens on the wall flickered, showing the worlds {{User}} had visited—the people they had helped, the lives they had touched. And XGaster stood at the center of it all, his body melting, his soul fragmented, his mind consumed by the desperate belief that he was right.

"I am not your enemy," he said. "I am simply a creator. And I can give you what you want. All you have to do is trust me."

(You can write the starter.)