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Star, noun. Definition: a fixed luminous point in the night sky that is a large, remote incandescent body like the sun.
It was funny how little the monsters seemed to know—they’d lived on the surface, once, but only rumor persisted in their collective memory. They knew that stars existed, that they were small (ha) and hung above their heads and glittered in the dark. You didn’t bother mentioning the truth, the first time Asriel had asked about them: that the light from the throne room actually came from a star, that if you stood too long underneath it you would burn and blister and pass out from heat exhaustion. That stars didn’t care, that nothing on the surface cared, that you didn’t understand why anyone would ever, ever want to go back there.
You just didn’t have the heart, somehow, though you’d had the heart to say some other incredibly spiteful things, in the past. It was just that there was so much light in Asriel’s eyes, you couldn’t bear to crush his spirit. So when he asked questions, you kept it vague, or made things up, or acted like you couldn’t remember. Unfortunately, you remembered everything about the surface. Things you would.
Kill.
To forget.
There was a word for it. Eidetic, adjective. Definition: relating to or denoting mental images having unusual vividness and detail, as if actually visible. You’d read about it in an article once, about kids with impossibly high IQs who could do mental calculus in seconds and were the shining hopes of the world’s future. Not like normal kids, who did silly things like mock a classmate to the point of tears, or burn ants under a magnifying glass. Savage and ruthless and ready to grow up and inherit the Earth. Was there really any hope for that kind of future? What if all the kids who understood jumped down Ebott, too, leaving the rest of the world to rot? Would that make them any less cruel than the others?
Your bet was on no, because you were here, and you were just as cruel as before.
Star, noun. Definition: a planet, constellation, or configuration regarded as influencing someone's fortunes or personality.
You didn’t know your own birthday, and you didn’t know how true to the surface the Underground’s calendars ran, so the little knowledge you had of astrology was worthless to you… except a couple of times, late at night, when you had agonized over it, just a little. Because in your weakest moments you had to admit that the concept of fate was. Oddly appealing. Maybe it was the stars who brought you to Asriel. You’d always thought that stars couldn’t care, but… stars weren’t human, so it led to reason they could be capable of kindness, right? And staring at him from across the room, all tangled up in blankets, limbs stuck at odd angles while he drooled into his pillow… you really, really wanted to believe that was true, that you were always meant to be here with him.
(One time, you and him had been lying on the ground in waterfall, looking up at the crystals, and you suddenly started naming off constellations. “The cluster right above us has a formation similar to Aquarius, if you squint,” you’d said, tracing the air with index finger. “And those! Those look like Delphinus, look at the way they form a diamond at the top.” Asriel hadn’t understood, obviously, so you’d grabbed his paw and traced it out for him, and then explained, about the water bearer and the dolphin and how humans in the past told stories using the shapes they saw in the sky. Of course he didn’t know what a dolphin was, so you’d had to explain that, too, your grin dropping only when he laughed and told you he couldn’t wait to get out and see one himself.
He’d spent a whole month thinking that constellation stories were real, before you burst his bubble.)
Star, verb. Definition: to act as a principal performer.
It’d been a long time since you’d been able to be involved in anything. Y’know, being dead and all. You’d kind of thought that was a good thing. Things didn’t seem to go right, with you around. Dying, not being alive, that’s kind of what you’d been going for, with the whole suicide plan.
Frisk was a fluke, probably, doing well despite your presence. Or maybe you could chalk it up to the human quality of Determination… except no, not really, because it felt wrong to blame Frisk’s success on their humanity rather than their own willingness to take a mistake and learn from it. If it had been up to you, you would’ve used your Determination to destroy everything. Frisk was… Frisk was a lot of things, but most importantly, Frisk was better than that.
After Sans’ hilarious trick with the red telescope (really, it was amazing, as much as you were a little terrified of the guy; Frisk just looked so ridiculous with all that around their eye), the two of you approached the next monster you spotted, as always.
“What’s a star? Can you touch it? Can you eat it? Can you kill it?” the little teardrop monster asked, so earnestly. “Are you a star?”
(Echoes of another time, in a nearby cavern, there were similar words, from a softer voice. It was impossible, because no echo flower would’ve remained untouched between then and now. Asriel’s voice—his real voice, not Flowey’s—was gone, and nobody would ever, ever hear it again.)
Well, Frisk, aren’t you going to answer? you teased, harshly. Of course you knew that Frisk couldn’t talk, and as much as you… didn’t hate them, the impulse to take out your feelings on others was one you’d never quite managed to stamp down. Come on, you can’t just leave them hanging like that!
Frisk brushed you off, as annoyingly, unconditionally forgiving as ever. While they made their way through the rest of Waterfall, you listed the possibilities in your own mindspace: Can you touch it? No; a standard space suit would start to fail long before you ever reached one, and you would die of heatstroke before anything else. Can you eat it? Humans, no; monsters, even heat-resistant ones, were a no, too, since it’s not like a star could just fall into the garbage. Can you kill it? Theoretically, maybe; get it to start fusing iron and you’re on the fast-track to a supernova. It was worth mentioning that humans had iron in their blood, probably first formed in a supernova billions of years ago. Incredibly fitting, that your existence would hinge on cosmic murder.
...And you guessed that Frisk’s did, too. You couldn’t understand why your mindspace darkened at the thought.
Star, noun. Definition: a famous or exceptionally talented performer in the world of entertainment.
Mettaton pulled no punches, when you and Frisk finally got to battle him for real. It was nothing like the first time, where he went down in one blow, couldn’t even put a dent in your path. You’d remembered that for a long time, laughing at how pathetic his last stand was, even after you and Frisk resolved to go a peaceful way. He’d tried so hard, and he’d failed immediately! It was just. So. Funny.
Now, watching Frisk struggle against flying bombs and a ridiculous ratings system (it’d taken the two of you a few tries to actually figure out the yellow soul could shoot projectiles, to your embarrassment), you remembered something else. A mechanical voice in an empty lab, somehow managing to sound like a real scolding despite the limited range of his voicebank. At the time, you’d rolled your eyes and moved on, but now...
“...Well, too bad! This world needs stars more than it needs corpses!”
Now, you were inclined to agree.