Waves of magic break apart and reform all around her. The monochrome abyss stretches out in either direction, forming an endless loop that ensnares an entire ecosystem and its inhabitants. The white and black fade from one to another with such ease that it is difficult for the fragile mind to remember that these two colors— if they can be called as such— are different, set on each pole of the color wheel's inverted axis. Only sparks of genuine color can be found, swallowed whole by the emptiness, but briefly presenting the memories of a bygone age better left in the cracks of history and legend than brought to the forefront of the mind.

Asgore stares out, eyes dark and somber. His velvet purple cloak pulls gently, snagging on the formless wind that seems to swirl in tandem with the loop. His arms are left at his sides, hands placed in weak fists, one motion away from a peaceful open palm or a tightened grip meant for violence. He turns slightly, not quite looking at her but getting close enough that she is able to look upon him without any obscurities. He wears his ancient age like armor, but the darkness lingering around him like a weighted sadness is not so easily dispersed.

Asgore opens his mouths, words held there instead of airing into the openness around them. Without having uttered a sound, he turns away from her. He moves into the emptiness as if there is some destination within this infinity of primordial magic. She follows after him, steps slow and eyes darting around for a difference in where they are going from where they have been. No differences present themselves in the way the white and black ebb all around them, but soon, color breaks through the shallowness of the emptiness. Asgore stops, but she keeps going, one step, then another, and then she finally stops, standing in front of the empty pillar. She reaches her hand up, placing it against the glass. It warms underneath her touch, and she sees her reflection staring back at her as she moves her hand to the side.

There are seven of these pillars, all lined up in a row. There is a gap, separating three of the containers from the other four. The side with four has a green SOUL, a yellow SOUL, an orange SOUL, and the empty container meant for her. The other side has a purple SOUL, a dark blue SOUL, and a cyan SOUL. They radiate light around them, and wisps of magic filter out of the black lids screwed tightly onto each container. She shuffles back a step, no longer able to see her reflection in the empty container, as she tries looking at each one simultaneously.

Asgore finally begins talking, but she is no longer listening. She instead reaches her hand out. She touches the container next to the empty one. As her hand warms the glass, the orange light of the SOUL falls upon her. She blinks, and her vision blurs. When it refocuses, she finds herself standing in a part of Snowdin she had never gone to. The snow is stained red with blood, and a body is facedown in the murky puddle of melted snow and blood. An orange SOUL glows right above the body, and someone takes it, leaving behind an odd apparition leaning over the body. The ghost looks over its shoulder at her, and she finds that it has a face of darkness, only broken apart by two orange pricks where the eyes should be.

She stumbles back, jerking away from the odd vision to return to the barrier. She immediately places her hand on the next container, and the yellow light whisks her away to a place she is completely unfamiliar with. The only recognizable part is the body on the ground being held by a monster that resembles a star. A fox monster holds the yellow SOUL in her paws, staring at it intently. Another apparition is standing near the body, made from the whirling blackness but with yellow dots in its face like stars breaking through the night sky.

Asgore continues to talk, but she is reaching for each container to witness what she assumes are the deaths of those who fell before she did. Each scene is accompanied by a ghost that looks at her as if she is intruding upon their memories. Most of them remain motionless, but the last vision, the cyan SOUL, has the apparition following her out of the vision. They stand in the barrier, staring down intently at her. They are shorter than she is, but there is a thick aura around them that supersedes any claims to power she might have. They look between her and Asgore, and a voice seems to pour out of their lips like a slow-moving fog covering the city at dawn. "We've been waiting for you."

The light seeping out of the other containers start to condense, transforming into the dark-aligned ghosts with their given SOUL color replacing their eyes. They look like humans stripped of all substance, shadowy silhouettes without structure or detail. They reach out to her, all of them speaking at once. She grabs onto the sides of her head, falling to her knees. Asgore's concerned tone fades as the rest of the voices merge into one continuous mass, begging and pleading and yelling and wishing for salvation, for their own angel to save them, for someone to give consequences and to be a vessel for their HATE.

All of their hands wrap around her red SOUL, and even the brilliant color is dulled by the cracks of black that spread across its illusory face. The hands squeeze and squeeze, nearly shattering her heart and killing her. When she fears they may actually destroy her, each hand jerks away from the heart as if they were burned by it. But they do not flee from her. They surrounded her, almost like they're protecting her from Asgore, almost like they're waiting for an outcome.

She tears at her face, trying to find herself in the thoughts that rip right through her. Flashes of the hundreds of deaths she's experienced in the Underground present themselves in the forefront of her mind. Callous words and prejudiced looks act like gasoline to these nasty flames that make her feel as if she cannot breathe. Worst of all, more memories pour into her, deaths that aren't her own and sacrifices she's never made becoming meaningless and promises she never uttered never coming true. An undercurrent of agony, of HATE, sweeps her away in its trenches. The HATE cusps her SOUL in its hands, and tightens its hands until the beautiful red light, the stars in the cosmos, the blood in her veins, the very heart that beats in her chest, is no more.

She stumbles to her feet. Her hands fall to her sides. Her head remains lowered, staring at the unstable ground beneath her. She reaches her hand up, and a command flickers into visibility. RESET is lit up in bright orange, glowing unnaturally in the barrier. The SOULs of the damned stand around her, behind her, like an audience, like an orchestra, like the driving force behind her newly black sclera and glowing red irises. Asgore's eyes widen, and he reaches a paw out to stop her. He is not able to do anything as she slams down her hand against the RESET button.

*You are filled with SPITE