Monster Age

by GR Griffin

  “You listen to me, I work my butt off – through pure spite – all morning in those stinkin’ mines so that I earn the privilege to watch telly for the rest of the day,” roared the self-proclaimed couch potato. Dabs of spit flecked onto Alphys’s face, dotting her glasses. “When I don’t get all my hard day’s work reward, I get very, very upset.”

  One of the other monsters, a tomato monster with no limbs and a beard that hung six feet behind him, rolled up to the scene. “This pipsqueak givin’ you a hard time?”

  Without taking his eyes away from the perpetrator, the potato monster responded, “Yeah, I think she’s trying to sell me something... during my television time!”

  A collective gasp resounded from everyone present. The tomato monster shot arrows down at the stranger. “I don’t know where you come from, but that kind of stuff does not fly around here. No sir!”

  By now, the monsters had surrounded Alphys, enough of them to make a hearty broth. As her breathing space dwindled, she felt the pressure build on her own lungs, cutting the oxygen needed for her thoughts to run properly. “I… I… am truly sorry.”

  Couch Potato grumbled through his teeth. “There you go with ‘sorry’ again.” He reached down with his root appendage and grabbed Alphys by the nape of her coat. Her point of view suddenly changed as she was dragged off the ground and dangled four feet higher, her four eyes level with several of the vegetables’ – most importantly, Couch Potato. “What should we do with this little troublemaker?” Couch Potato asked whilst refusing to break his stare from her.

  An eggplant with a fat cigar smouldering between his lips suggested, “She looks pretty tasty, with all that excess meat on those bones. Let’s cook her up.”

  “Hold on a second! You guys don’t wanna eat me, I’m, err, got too much… salt?” Alphys cried.

  Couch Potato shrugged. “Fine by me. Let’s have a big feast tonight, and this is what we’ll be carving. Never had real meat before.”

  “Wait! WAIT! You don’t want to do this. Please.” Alphys cupped her hands together. Her fingers gripped so tightly the knuckles went white. “All I w-want is some info-information, and then I-I’ll go, and then you can get back to what you were watching!”

  The crowd began to march in unison across the street. “Tell the chef to get the oven heat up. Better put some extra stuffing in this one, make sure there’s plenty to go around.”

  “Please, I’m not looking for any trouble, I swear!” Alphys wailed. “My name’s… My name’s Alphys!”

  Everyone stopped in their tracks.

  Couch Potato turned the woman around to meet her eyes, his features a hundred times softer. She instinctively held up her hands to shield her face. “Alphys?” The potato monster asked gently. “Your name’s Alphys?”

  Alphys’s arms dropped slightly. “Y-y-yes? That’s my name…”

  Couch Potato squinted his eyes. “Doctor Alphys?”

  Whispers were shared amongst the crowd. “The Doctor Alphys?” an onion monster asked; “The same Doctor Alphys from beneath Mount Ebott?” enquired a cucumber monster who was taller than mister potato; “The same Doctor Alphys who built Mettaton?”

  Alphys swung to the one who said that familiar name. “M-Mettaton? Yes, yes! That’s me! I’m Doctor Al— w-wait!” She turned back to the potato. “You guys don’t h-hate him, do you?”

  “Hate him? We love him! TV was so dull and drab until he came along. Now we can’t get enough of him.” Couch Potato gently placed Alphys back on her feet. “Sorry about threatening to eat you, guess I wasn’t thinking right; like I said, I get grouchy from time to time.” He uncharacteristically shook her hand, almost popping it off the women’s shoulder socket. “The name’s Bub. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “L-l-l-likewise…” Alphys managed to say, caressing her arm.

  “Say, if we’re not eating her,” a mushroom monster added, “what should we do about the banquet?”

  “Order it like we always do,” answered Bub. “We gotta make our extra special guest feel welcome.” He faced the ‘extra special guest’. “You can stay in my house for a while.”

  Inside Bub’s house lay a single room. On the outside, it appeared to be two-storey, but in actuality, there was no second floor, just an extended ceiling. Alphys could count the number of features with one hand: a mattress, a refrigerator, a couch, a television that took up the entirety of one of the walls, and several large stacks of videos and DVDs. There was also, however, the utility closet, which – judging by the shininess of the doorknob – had never been opened since the house’s construction. The walls were drywall grey and the floor was unpainted, uncovered wood – littered with empty French-fry packs and burger containers.

  The television screen was on pause. Mettaton was performing the splits, one hand was pointing to the sky while the other was grasping a microphone. Burgerpants was sat in the armchair, a spotlight surrounding him. He had his head in his hands. Bubs pressed play on the remote and Mettaton continued his song Clap Your Hands If You Know That Burgerpants Is Not Doing His Job As Good As He’s Supposed To, which was the fourth track of his album. Other songs include:

  Track 6: All My Pay Checks (Are Wasted (On You (Burgerpants)))

  Track 11: Can’t Get No Recommendation (From Me, Burgerpants)

  And everyone’s favourite, Track 35: You Sold a Steak With My Face On It, Burgerpants, What Did You Expect?

  Mettaton insisted that his album was merely an alteration of his original CD, meaning that it could apply to any boss who felt that their employee or employees were not pulling their proper weight. Burgerpants, however, found that hard to believe since his name just so happens to appear in both the song titles and in the lyrics, in each individual verse.

  “You, uh, get TV here?” Alphys asked.

  “Yep,” Bub answered, taking his place back on his throne; the worn space on the couch. “According to whatever mumbo jumbo, we stream excess signals from Earth. Don’t know how it works, but I couldn’t care less.”

  Alphys leaned on the arm of the couch, watching her own creation bust a move on his own talk show. Mettaton was just as flamboyant as ever. All those sleepless night, all that sweat, and it all paid off. Mettaton was easily her finest work yet, an achievement she could truly be proud of.

  Bub stated, “Who knew a guy like that could stand straight, let alone dance?”

  “Oh, well, there’s an interesting story behind it.” Alphys hopped up next to Bub. “When I was building Mettaton, I had to take into account his balance and weight proportions, since these fundamentals are crucial for his overall performance. I outfitted him with an auxiliary magnetic fusion matrix that interacts with the Earth’s magnetic field, replicating an equilibrium, allowing him to maintain perfect balance when standing. As for his dance moves, most of them were his own, but some of them were inspired by some of the anime I watched over the years.”

  “Like Mew Mew Kissy Cutie?”

  Alphys gasped. “You’ve seen the show?”

  “Yeah. Watched them of all in one sitting. I’ve even managed to download both games, the first and the second.” He dug his hand between the seat cushions and pulled out a game controller that Alphys did not recognise. It looked custom made under a thick layer of cheese dust. “I’ve got the high score on the first one.”

  “What about the s-second?”

  Bub’s face darkened. “To be honest, I didn’t like it very much.”

  That sentence almost brought a tear to Alphys’s eye. She was finally not alone. Hiding her joy, she responded, “Fire it up.”

  The recording of Saturday Morning With a Killer Robot made way for the video game. The opening intro appeared, followed by the main menu. Bub navigated his way to the high score page. At the top of the pre-installed computer scores with generic names stood Bub’s score.

  The amount of digits in the score made Alphys smirk. “That’s your high score?” she smarmed, holding back laughter. “You almost impressed me.”

 
“You think you can do better?” Bub enquired.

  Alphys held an open palm out toward Couch Potato. “Sit back and watch the master.”

  With the controller in hand, Alphys entered her zone. In the world of Mew Mew Kissy Cutie, she was a god, commanding the very forces of nature itself. She knew every line of dialogue, every secret, every quick time event, every right and wrong decision. Bub sank deep in his seat, flabbergasted; Alphys had already beaten his high score after the first date alone.

  Behind them came the audible sound of a door clicking open. Bub and Alphys span around – the latter climbing up onto the back – as the door to the utility room, which had never been opened, was opening for the first time since someone put hinges on it. Out from the three-foot by five-foot enclosure emerged two skeleton brothers.

  “Hmm, guess I took a wrong turn at Albuquerque…” Sans mentioned.

  “Hey,” Bubs said, confused, “I didn’t know I had skeletons in my closet.”

  The biggest smile of relief grew on the doctor’s face. “Papyrus! Sans! You made it! You’re alright!”

  “Ah, Doctor Alphys,” Papyrus said, also smiling, “your latest invention is a resounding success.”

  Sans turned the whites in his eye sockets to the ceiling. Or, at the very least, it used to be, he thought.

  Chapter 11: The Necessary Steps

  Fleck’s new adventure had begun. Or did it begin from the moment they were abducted off the Earth’s surface? Or when they landed at Highkeep Enclave? Or escaped from Highkeep Enclave? Or woke up in Sam an’ Rita’s humble abode? Fleck drew the line right here, their adventure had officially begun due to the fact that all journeys have a destination. Every beginning had an end. Just like in the Underground, their goal was to escape, and the only way to escape was to reach Professor Haze in the Forest.

  Just like in the Underground, they had to deal with monsters wanting a piece of them.

  Fleck sprinted down a narrow, worn path between a dry stone wall and a rickety fence, both having seen better days a century or two ago. The sweat dripping from their brow, the hollow fatigue in their legs made the exertion more painful. The attacking monster, a lady bee, was in hot pursuit, having shot out from a field of rich produce she had been tending to moments earlier.

  Miss Spelling Bee, with her long permed black hair with blonde stripes, cat eye glasses, red stilettos, a handbag around one arm and a chalkboard in the other, chased after the child, swaying to-and-fro in the air. Her black eyes locked on like a jet fighter on target, taking aim with her theoretical sights. A dedicated teacher, and a dedicated farmer to her own brand of alphabet spaghetti – the gimmick being there’s always one letter in the wrong place – her one regret is that she flunked English class.

  Several flashes of silver light dazzling from around the crop field enclosed by the fencing as packets of instant noodles dangled and waved gently. The packets were not just blocks of dried noodles, but wrapped in plastic and included flavour packets. There was even writing on the packets: Noodle-a-go-go. Alphys would have a field day with these fresh produce.

  Fleck glanced over their shoulder to catch Miss Spelling Bee gaining altitude, moving in a beeline higher into the air. Her droning buzz sounded identical to that of a bomber. There was something primal about the bee’s buzz, something hardwired into the human psyche that made it one of the most terrifying sounds to witness, especially when they flew too close to the ear. Now, take that drone and multiply it by a hundred. That was this monster.

  “Its thyme for you too learn you’re lesson,” Miss Spelling Bee said incorrectly, taking aim with her stinger. “If you understand my point.”

  In-between all their sprinting, puffing and panting, Fleck sighed. Here they go again…

  Miss Spelling Bee unleashed a barrage of magical stingers, spitting them out at machinegun speeds. Fleck dashed to the side, narrowly dodging the first couple dozen that broke the ground before them, then screeched to a halt as another ten struck down before them. The stingers themselves, one foot long needles the colour of nectar, were sharp enough to pierce stone. Fleck bobbed and weaved, all their dodging from the Underground having paid off. The coins in their pocket jangled constantly.

  Exiting the narrow path, Fleck reached open fields leading up a gentle slope, nothing but grass six-hundred yards upwards, perfectly even. Fleck bolted up it, hoping for the best. It wasn’t until they had ran two-hundred feet did they realised that the length in the grass was rising, like running into a rising tide. Before they knew it, the grass was up to their eyeballs. While not exactly what they had in mind, it provided decent cover against the honeyed rain. The pursuing monster fired blindly into the grass, missing every shot.

  Emerging at the summit, there was a line of big, elderly oak trees. Fleck dove for cover behind one of them. Colossal in size and twisted like several oaks fused into one, the tree barks appeared platinum in the setting sun. The leaves shimmered in the dying sunlight, turning amber. As magnificent as the great oaks were, the child pressed their back against the bark and discovered that it had all the texture and roughness of a car tyre: rubbery and worn.

  “Are their two Es in tree, oar three?” Miss Spelling Bee posed a question. “Want two help me fined out?”

  More shots spat out. Fleck glanced to the side just in time as three of them pierced the tree, the ends splitting through the wood, dangerously close to Fleck’s head. They leapt away, sliding down a steep drop as many more stingers turned the oak into a needle cushion.

  Fleck scraped their way down forty feet of dirt and landed in a bush filled with fresh roses; long green stems – devoid of thorns – with plump, red petals. Their face fell straight into a fat one, their nose against the stigma. They impulsively drew breath and regretted that decision immediate as the overpowering stench of cheap perfume slashed away at the back of the throat and reduced their sinuses to mush. They pulled away and went into a full on, uncontrollable coughing fit, giving away their position. Fleck hacked their way out of the bush and ran, struggling to breathe as the itch threatened to seep down into their lungs.

  If there was anything positive to take away from the experience, it was that they at least took the time to stop and smell the flowers.

  The Underground was one thing, but this was something different altogether. Under Mount Ebott, where the fresh air cannot reach and the sun does not shine, the inhabitants lived and died without seeing the beauty of the sun rising and the moon fat in the night and the magic was wishing upon a shooting star. But as the scent of the fake rose lingered fresh on Fleck’s nose and their boots crunched on the fake grass did they realise that these people were the polar opposite. They had the sun and the moon and the stars and the fresh air, but they had none of the Earth’s goodness.

  Through watery eyes, Fleck moved in what they hoped was north, passing blurs of columns and shifting shapes, wishing more than anything that the town was over the next hill or around the next tree. After minutes of coughing – their eyes and nostrils pouring like waterfalls – the irritation finally passed. The human rubbed away the tears to see where they were going. That was when Miss Spelling Bee landed before them, brandishing her board like a stop sign. In pale yellow chalk dust, she had written Apull.

  “Apple,” Miss Spelling Bee announced, tapping the stick against the board. A teacher speaking to her class. “A-pull. Say it with me, A—”

  Fleck politely borrowed both the chalk and the board, rubbed out Apull with the side of their hand, and wrote something else in its place. Handing it back to Miss Bee, she saw the word apple written in the rough, shaky handwriting of a youngster. No capitalisation. The letter L was the wrong way around.

  “Apple…” Miss Spelling Bee said more to herself than to her reluctant student. “That’s how you spell apple…” Just like that, all the violence buzzed out of her body. “I can finally spell apple. Thank you, little one.” She rose into the air and sailed off into the sunset, her newfound knowledge would serve her well in life.
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  Fleck had won. They received no execution points, exp; gained no love, level of violence; and no gold – err, cloud coins, CC. What is this, a video game? An interactive role playing game adventure paying homage to a widely remembered game from over twenty years ago? The only thing Fleck earned was the right to be not dead for another day. After all, we’re only in chapter eleven.

  Like nothing had happened, Fleck continued on their journey, already feeling like they had covered a thousand miles when in actuality it was more like four and a half. The grass was the same length and the same shade of green everywhere, and all the trees present were of similar lengths. Everywhere in this place looked the same. Black Ice Mountain was fading into the darkening horizon, still hundreds of miles away. It would take the human child weeks, months even to reach it, and that was the halfway point in their adventure. If only there was a faster way to get there…

  The answer may have presented itself when they crossed a narrow footbridge crossing a gentle stream and saw, across a vast lake, the long, slow crawl of a faraway locomotive, shaking in the late evening heat like a mirage. The train and its cargo of several carriages snuck southward, back in the direction Fleck had travelled. From that distance, it was hard to tell what its payload was. There needed to be a train that could take them to the Ice Island, or maybe all the way to the Forest. At least it was a little nook of hope to latch on to.

  They dropped down into a valley before rising back up again. Fleck cleared their seventh hill for the day and found a big white house resting on a flat deep within the prairies. The wooden, seamless, two floor house was so white that it was blinding, surrounded by a white picket fence, lush trees, and beds of colourful flowers. The unmistakable sound of birds chirping resonated from above, within the branches. Fleck turned upward into the spindly fingers and found seven birds – one of each colour of the rainbow – fluttering from branch to branch, whistling tunes. A bird with feathers of vibrant indigo darted from a south-western tree to the roof and whistled in harmony, which was responded by a boisterous tweet from the one with feathers as green as Granny Smiths. The orange bird hopped across the length of a jutting branch, nipped at the underside of its wing, shook its tail feathers, and then harmonised a sweet tune.