VOXISTALE: Novel Edition

Epilogue

Thwack!

He shielded his eyes from the sun, squinting above the horizon line to see the small white ball sailing through the air. The speck eventually landed on a plot of short fake grass, coming to roll to a stop near a hole in the earth.

"Ah. Good try," a voice croaked beside him.

He turned to look at the old man at his side, incredibly aged, almost dust in the wind. He was wearing a heavy coat, despite this being a relatively warm day for winter in Germany. It was to conceal aspects about him, however, rather than to preserve body temperature. "Well," the man who'd taken the long stroke slid his club back into its bag alongside a dozen others. "I am a little rusty. I've been busy. As have you."

The old man was silent at this for several moments, before he gestured for the much younger red-headed man to give him a club. After sliding one out, the old man placed a red golf ball down upon a tee, and began to adjust himself, taking aim. "We all have," he finally said. "And now the Messiah's dirty laundry is out to air. I'm sure this is why you're talking to me."

"Quite," the young man confirmed, placing his hands behind his back to watch his companion at work. "They've named the monster king as acting mayor."

"I heard," gruffed the older individual, before he pulled back, and took a wide swing.

Thwack!

This ball too became a speck in the air, a black dot against the backdrop of the blue sky. Both shielded their eyes to watch it fly down the golf course. It too came to a stop near the hole, though a few feet shy of falling in. The old man cursed under his breath as he handed the club back. The younger man accepted it as he stared out at the distant green. "I need to call that favor in."

"I know. Otherwise you wouldn't be treating me to this," the old man turned to look at the younger, wrinkles wobbling in a manner that made them seem seconds from just falling off his face, though somehow, they held on. "You only talk to me when you want something."

"I despise your Messiah," the redhead immediately replied. "I despise what they did to you."

"This was something I wanted," the older of the two cut in, his bushy brow knitting together. ". . . For a time." He admitted after several seconds of silence. "It has become a burden, but I bear it all the same."

The younger man glanced at his companion, his lips tight. "As much as I despise them, I know how useful they can be. Without your leaders, they're left scrambling. They need direction, and a firm hand. They need a real purpose. Our people, so busy killing each other to realize that we're being oppressed by inferior people."

"Must not be that inferior if we're so oppressed by them." The old man sniffed.

"Americans," the younger man practically spat the word like it was a venomous curse. "The UCA is now taking control of my city. It's something I can't stand for, and to place a monster in charge? It's an insult. We were once proud people."

"Careful there . . ." the old man's tone got so deathly quiet that for a moment, the redhead though he was about to have a heart attack. "You're not the first German nationalist to speak those words."

"I am no dictator," the man replied dismissively, though he was certainly hurt by the comparison far more than his demeanor portrayed. "I have no plans for world domination, for the eradication of the lesser man. All I want is peace, and freedom. The only way to achieve such a distant dream is by destroying the UCA."

The old man sighed, turning away from the course, hobbling over toward a golf cart nearby. "If only you could see the contradiction in what you just said."

"You know it to be true," the man hastily replied. "You know it's the only way to break the UCA's grip on the world. Germany will lead the resistance. The world will follow suit."

"And so you need the Messiah. Don't you comprehend how that completely destroys your goal? The Messiah is built on power and control. The UCA only got this far because of us."

"And now it has turned on you. How long until it betrays the nations it claims to protect? You've seen how they change everything they touch. How they destroy every culture they cross."

It was here that the old man let out a tired croak, wincing as he took a seat. "I don't want to argue about it. You need the Messiah, then fine, but no matter what you do, just know that the UCA aren't the only ones to worry about. Frisk Dreemurr? The monsters? Their allies? They so much as catch a sniff of your dealings, and all bets are off. You're a target, and that little girl's as ruthless as they come."

Finally, the redhead didn't have an immediate response as he sat in the driver's seat beside his old friend. His eyes were distant as he stared forward, body moving in practiced movements as he started the vehicle. Of course he was aware of the Ambassador, and was very annoyed at Asgore's rise to the top of Voxis by some kind of UCA-regulated default, but making enemies out of them was indeed not something he was interested in. Any working relationship with the Messiah, no matter how distant, would prove disastrous in any future dealings with the monsters, should they catch wind of his plots.

"I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no, you can't beat her. You're a very powerful individual, yes, but Frisk is something else. Every time it seems like she's going to lose, that damned SOUL of hers pushes on. Winning against her isn't an option, and attacking those she loves just pisses her off," the old man croaked as the golf cart made its way off the course. They hadn't come here to play, anyway. It had just been a pleasant backdrop to make their meeting more tolerable. The balls belonged to the course anyway, someone would pick them up. However, the young man wasn't thinking along those lines at all. While he did believe he could handle the child in a fight, he wasn't keen on the idea. It was like trying to kill a cockroach with a cotton ball. Possible, but exhaustingly difficult to the point of pointlessness. His thoughts rested more on how he could manipulate this girl. How could he make the Messiah's enemies unknowingly work alongside them? How could he pit all parties involved against the true enemy: the United Countries Alliance?

"Old friend," the man spoke. "Brute force was what I used as a child. I have grown since then, in ways even you aren't aware. I need you to gather what's left of the German Messiah, and begin causing chaos. I don't care what, but hurt as little people as possible. I want angry soldiers, not damaged goods. Do what you can to thwart every effort Asgore and the CIA are making. Turn public opinion against them."

Silence befell the pair again as they began to approach a large white building, the roof of it domed and shaped like a golf ball. It wasn't until they'd parked, and the young man had stepped out of the cart, that the older individual spoke again. "I can do that. I'll need to clear it with Leader Amour and—"

"Don't bother with her," the man replied, turning away. "You mentioned she was headed to France, yes? My sources indicate that the Frisk girl was doing the same. They will distract one another. Until further notice, you and your militia answer to me, and me alone. You are dismissed."

Without so much as another word, even as the old man called for him, the red-haired man walked away, disappearing inside of the building. It wouldn't be wise to oppose a man like that, and despite all of the experiments he'd lived through, the old man was no match for the tenacity of his younger counterpart, and neither were any of the individuals he'd be able to rally. Grunts, for the most part. Anyone powerful and important were either dead or out of the country. He'd need to comply, for the time being. As long as he could. Whatever the young man was planning, it surely couldn't end well . . . for anyone.