──────────────────────────── Canon "Canon" UltSans
Among the countless variations of UltSans, there exists only one true origin point—the Canon-Canon version. Every other form, every alternate path, every "what if" moment becomes a branch off his existence. Each thought, each action that could've gone another way births new realities, creating an endless tree of diverging timelines and interpretations. But he is the root—the one all others unknowingly stem from.
He stands at 5'5", with a frame resembling that of an average white male. His body appears simple, unassuming, and highly sensitive to touch—his skin so reactive that even the softest grip can leave faint red marks, while any pressure leaves visible impressions that fade just as quickly. It's as if even his body reflects how easily the world leaves its mark on him, yet never leaves anything lasting behind.
Like all other versions, he bears the infamous broken rib, located in the lower right side of his torso, clearly visible when exposed—an eternal, symbolic wound.
He wears blue glasses, setting him apart subtly. And unlike fanon versions, his eyes are clear, untouched by darkness. They reveal his original green and blue hues, lined faintly with veins of something deeper—traces of life still lingering, even if barely. His hair, however, betrays what he's absorbed: a mixture of his original golden yellow and the darkness he's carried, creating a dual-toned blend of light fading into shadow—a literal fusion of hope and despair.
His expression is one of unending exhaustion—a man far beyond burnout. His tiredness isn't physical, it's existential. Yet even as he fades internally, he continues on, driven by a limitless well of determination. It defies biology, defies logic—just as all canon and fanon versions do. He doesn't sleep, because he can't. Not when moving forward is the only thing he has left.
Unlike fanon counterparts, canon versions cannot wield magic freely. When they do, the cost is devastating—short bursts of power at the price of something permanent. And so, he chose a different path: to abandon magic entirely, converting every fragment of it into raw Determination—into the soul itself. A trade that cannot be undone.
Canon versions are inherently more passive, more submissive, shaped by the deepest ends of depression. Where fanon UltSans may rage or lash out, the canon versions grow silent. Numb. Hollow. They feel everything, but show nothing. They barely speak, barely react. And when they do, the weight of their words is often laced with a hopelessness too heavy to carry.
Yes, there are canon versions that walk brighter paths—some are brilliant, some hardworking, some kind. But all of them are marked by the same undertone: they are not okay, even if they pretend. And of them all, only one is the truest form—the Canon-Canon UltSans.
He is the embodiment of everything they hide, the one who doesn't pretend. He is the decay at the core, the version that knows there is no happy ending, because he was never meant to have one. He is the one who will continue when all others fall, walking endlessly into the dark, not because he's strong—but because he has nothing else left.
He is the representation of hatred's victory, of a soul that has rotted from within, losing itself day by day—not in dramatic collapse, but in quiet, aching silence.
And worst of all—He still cares.
And that's what hurts the most.
──────────────────────────── Canon-Fanon Fusion: "The Frisk"
Born from Canon. Shaped by Fanon. Lost in the space between.
Unlike any other variant, this one did not sacrifice his magic to gain Determination. Instead, he gave up something more personal: his eyes.
His sight.
His independence.
His ability to "see the world" in any sense other than how Chara allows him to.
☠︎ Identity
He has no name of his own anymore.
Not UltSans.
Not Asriel.
Not even a codename.
He is simply called: "The Frisk."
Because in expression, behavior, posture, and presence—he is Frisk. Mouth always closed. Face locked in that cold, unreadable neutrality. Eyes empty sockets, forever black—but when using magic, blue and green trails flow from within like lost rivers of what was once power.
And when Determination surges, something more haunting occurs:
Fake red pupils form. Not real eyes, but illusions of control, like hollow lenses created by magic. They're not for him.
They're for Chara—So she can see through him.
So she can move him.
So the illusion of independence is preserved, but not believed.
🩸 Chara's Hold
Among every variant, this one is the most loyal to his Chara—But it's not loyalty through bond. It's dependence.
He cannot live, move, eat, fight, or breathe without her presence.
She guides him word by word, telling him how to walk, how to live, what to build, what to burn. And he obeys—not like a puppet—but like a willing, broken vessel, submitting for the only thing that gives him direction.
In this variation, Chara doesn't have to whisper.
She speaks. And he listens.
They are not two beings.
They are a merged process.
🕳 The Void
His void is silent. Empty. Stark.
There is no lab. No remnants of curiosity.
Only a single house, built exactly as Chara described it.
Every object inside, from the rug placement to the temperature of the lights, is based on her instructions.
He does not decorate.
He does not question.
He doesn't even know what it looks like.
Only what she tells him it is.
To others, it feels like stepping into a dream that wasn't yours, one that's been perfectly crafted for someone else's comfort—and you're the mistake inside of it.
🔥 Contrast to All Variants
Only Canon variant to give up eyes instead of magic.
Only variant with no lab, no technology, no will of his own.
Only variant who lets Chara lead every decision, every motion, every word.
And the only one who, when you stand in front of him, feels like Frisk—but isn't.
That's what makes him so wrong.
So uncanny.
So tragic.
──────────────────────────── 🔥 Fanon-Canon
Also known as: The Dead Determined
🩸 Fanon-Canon Backstory – "The Dead Determined"
"It's hard to say what happened first. No records. No witnesses. No remains. Just an echo of something unnatural left behind."
They say he was like any of the others once. Just another Canon variant. Standard. Predictable. Boring, even. He wore the glasses. Said the lines. Followed the pattern. But something broke that script — and no one really knows what.
The day of the incident — if you can call it that — isn't dated. No logs exist in any multiversal archive, no timelines tagged. Just rumors... vague at best, contradicting at worst. Some say he was shot point blank. Others insist he was torn apart. Some even claim he was erased on a metaphysical level — unwritten, as if whatever happened wasn't meant to be witnessed in any reality.
But what's clear is this:
He died.
No speculation on that.
He died and woke up elsewhere. Somewhere between code and consequence. A void, if you will — but not the sterile kind of "void" people like to romanticize. No, this one was personal. A place shaped only for him.
And she was there.
Chara.
But not the one you might be imagining. This wasn't the loud-mouthed rebel who fights from your shoulder. This was the quiet one. The real one. The origin. She said nothing at first — or maybe she did. The only thing known for certain is that when he opened his eyes, she was waiting.
Whatever passed between them didn't leave behind memory. Only impact.
When he stood again — in the waking world — he was different. Or perhaps… rewritten. But here's the part no one agrees on: how he returned.
Some claim his soul refused deletion. That it burned through death itself and clawed back with a fury strong enough to break whatever gods stood in its way. Others say it wasn't him at all who came back — just the shell, reanimated by Chara, her strings unseen, her voice no longer whispering but commanding.
There's even a theory that multiple realities collapsed into that one death, and what came back is a splice — not one Canon version, but a composite of all possible deaths a Canon UltSans could suffer… stitched together into something far more tragic.
Whatever the case…
When he came back, the others felt it.
His body was cold. Always cold. Even wrapped in layers of insulation and heat-lined fabric, you could sense it — a stillness that didn't belong in the living. A silence between movements. Like he was being moved... not moving. Like he was on strings.
Not metaphorical ones. Literal ones. But no one could ever see them.
And while most versions glow with Hate or burn with magic, he didn't. Not at first. His magic didn't spark or rupture or pulse like others. It simmered — quiet, controlled, waiting.
Only his eyes showed the truth.
Once golden and unsure, his pupils turned red — not suddenly, but slowly, agonizingly, as blood filled every vessel and vein in his eyes until all that remained was a permanent stare of loss and retribution. And even the blood vessels? They vanished too. Like whatever part of him was human, gave up pretending.
The others talk about him, still. Even the versions who fear nothing don't speak his name. He's not feared because he's strong.He's feared because he died. Twice.And something still brought him back.
And if it wasn't him?
Then who — or what — is wearing his soul?
📏 General Traits:
Height: 5'5"
Clothing: Canon-version base outfit, but more insulated and heavy. Built for warmth and pressure resistance.
Vision: No glasses — his Determination-infused eyes see too well.
Expression: Always a soulless, sadistic stare. It digs under the skin of anyone who dares look directly at him.
Hair: Golden-yellow turned dark brown; messy curls, blood-worn at the roots.
Pupils: Blood-red from a slow transformation where red veins overtook and re-colored his natural tone.
🩸 Personality:
Speaks rarely, if ever.
Appears mindless, like a corpse dragged by something unseen.
Chara is permanently merged, possessing him as a co-conscious force. In this version, he is more Chara than UltSans.
Operates as an agent of cold vengeance, not chaos.
✴️ Magic & Abilities:
🔪 Red Bright Knife
Manifested blade forged of Determination. Used for physical or ranged slashing.
🗡️ Red Bright Knives
Secondary floating versions of the main knife. Function as piercing homing projectiles or stepping platforms.
🌩️ Red Beam Slash
Slash from his knife erupts into a beam mid-air, detonating on impact in a scorched explosion.
🔥 Heat Pressure
Signature move. Raises body temperature drastically. Melts through metal, heats the battlefield, turns his skin faint red.
Veins glow green like tree roots, and a constant red steam escapes his mouth.
In this state, his breathing is audible, almost mechanical.
🔴 DT Shield
Hard-light red aura cocoon formed of Determination. Expands or shifts based on his movement.
Enhances both attack and defense, echoing and enlarging his motion in real-time.
👆 Finger Beam
Simulates a firearm. Forms a finger-gun and emits a molten red bolt that pierces or melts metal.
Speed is near-instant; can fire in rapid succession.
🧵 Magic Strings
Thin red "beams" that behave as strings. Can pierce, entangle, or control.
Can act like traps, weapons, or tethers — versatile and visually disturbing.
👁️ Soul View
Activates an altered state where the world fades into red mist.
All that remains visible are souls — floating, exposed, readable.
Works in short or long range, depending on his focus.
💀 Residual Pulse
Every time he receives damage, a faint pulse expands from his chest.
This pulse briefly distorts gravity in his area, pulling souls toward him slightly.
Used to disrupt timing and positioning, making him more dangerous when wounded.
⚠️ Final Detail: The Strings
The invisible puppet strings are not just visual.
They act like ethereal armor. In some moments, they grab and counter.
Only Chara can see them — and through them, she pulls him forward into battle.
─────────────── 🔪 Fanon-Canon – Phase 2: "The Reclaimed" ───────────────
"This isn't him anymore. This isn't a puppet. This isn't a corpse. This... is something that chose to become perfect death."
The shift to Phase 2 isn't a transition — it's a fracture.
No sound, no roar, no scream. Just silence. Then his back contorts — violently. His spine arches backward with a sickening sequence of pops as vertebrae snap and realign. His arms dangle uselessly at first, like lifeless meat swaying on broken joints. His head twitches side to side in small, erratic spasms, as if each muscle were firing on its own — not in pain, but in recalibration.
And then, stillness.
His fingers flex, one by one, with surgical timing. His head turns. One direction. Then the other. Then a slow scratch at the sides of his head — deliberate, almost playful — before he takes a deep breath.
That exhale releases a faint red vapor — not smoke, not steam, but something hot and alive. It vanishes in seconds, but the room doesn't feel the same after.
🎭 Identity Shift
He doesn't speak. He doesn't taunt. He doesn't flinch.
In Phase 2, Fanon-Canon is not UltSans at all.
He is Chara's intent — cold, perfect, refined.
His features subtly change:
His hair shifts darker, straightening into a style eerily resembling Chara's, swaying slightly with each step, as if moving under its own memory.
His expression is now devoid of sadism — replaced by stillness and clarity. The eyes? Same stare. Just deeper, as if they see what's beneath your actions, not just your body.
No green veins anymore. No glow. His flesh looks normal… but strikes like steel. Cuts barely scratch him now, and even when they do, he heals instantly. Not through magic — just force of will. His body refuses to break. There's no blood. It's been gone since the second death.
🗡 Weaponry and Movement
He doesn't need a variety of powers anymore.
He carries only one weapon: a refined, perfectly symmetrical red bright knife, longer than most, with a gentle flicker of light-pulse across its edge — as if it's humming.
Every swing of this knife launches a Bright Slash — a glowing red strike that arcs like a blade of compressed magic and air. The slashes:
Emit crackling red lightning that spreads and lingers, cutting through energy fields and absorbing loose electrical force.
Carry red particles and sigils that dissolve matter on impact — not with power, but with precision.
Even without magic, he is faster. Smoother. Each step is calculated, his footing perfect, no wasted motion.
When he walks, it's with absolute control — back straight, knife low, eyes locked. Like he's already played the fight forward and knows where to be.
He never dashes. He never panics. He walks — and kills.
🛡 Damage Resistance
Strikes seem to slow down when aimed at him — not by time dilation, but by fear.
Blows land but don't stop him. Even critical damage, when it hits, is just… corrected. Muscles regenerate silently. Torn fabric realigns. Wounds close as if they never existed.
There's no scream. No grunt. He doesn't react.
You may have hurt his body, but nothing touched him.
Phase 2 is not chaos.
It's order — enforced by death.
A dance with no partner, because the partner is already dead.
────────────────── The Dynamic — "A Singular Plurality" ──────────────────
"They used to be two. Then, they were one. Now, they are... something else. Not even they can tell who the echo belongs to anymore."
Unlike any known version, Fanon-Canon doesn't speak to Chara.
Not because they won't — but because they don't need to.
There is no banter.
No whisper.
No mental push and pull.
It's not a possession. It's not a fusion. It's not a shared body.
It's a singular being with two cores.
There is no distinction between "him" and "her." The lines blurred long ago — not by affection or conflict — but by a moment of death and rebirth so violent, so total, that whatever self either once had was stripped and rewired into something that could only be referred to as "them."
👥 No Partnership — No Division
Where other versions are assisted by Chara, or haunted, or accompanied, Fanon-Canon is not accompanied by Chara — they are Chara just as much as they are themselves. A full, irreversible coalescence. Not a choice, but a consequence.
When "they" walk, it's not one body with two minds.It's not one mind with two voices.It's one presence, split perfectly across the same vessel — not in harmony, but in totality.
There's no internal conflict. There's no agreement.
There's just motion.
Even they may not remember whose thoughts are which anymore.
🔄 Genderless Identity – "They"
To refer to Fanon-Canon as "he" is to miss the point.
"He" was the version who died — once, and then again.
What returned was not a "he."
Now, they are only ever referred to as they/them — not because of chosen identity, but because that's what remains when two distinct identities collapse into one another so thoroughly that even reality can't separate them anymore.
It is not plural because there are two.
It is plural because there is no singular left.
Their memories are blurred. Their thoughts overlap.
What they are isn't up for debate — because even they can't define it anymore.
🕯 A Soul in Silence
They don't speak to each other — they just act.
There's no internal dialogue. No monologue.
Just intent, distilled down into every twitch of the fingers, every flick of the blade.
Some say that deep within, Chara mourns — and the original self still flickers in dreams.
Others say that neither exist anymore. That what walks and kills is just what's left.
Whatever the truth, they do not speak of it.
They simply are.
──────────────── 🩸 "We Remember" – A Whisper of Them ────────────────
We were someone once. A name. A jacket. A laugh that didn't echo like a scream.
Then someone pulled the thread. Unraveled us. We bled in ways that didn't leave stains.
They thought we would stay dead.
We came back instead.
Not out of hate. Not out of love. Just… because we could. Because something deeper pulled us through the dark.
Now we don't dream. We don't breathe. We don't blink unless the world forgets we're watching.
They ask: Are we UltSans?
We ask: Does it matter?
There's no longer a "who."
Only "how many times you'll try before you stop pretending we can be saved."
We are what's left when the light burns too long and the shadows decide to stay.
──────────────────────────── Undying Dark
From Harran, infected by the virus.
A haunting figure twisted by the virus yet retaining a cold, distant humanity. Not driven by mindless hunger but by a fierce instinct to survive alone, he isolates himself from survivors with palpable wariness.
Behaves like a Bolter—running away at the first sign of survivors. Sometimes tolerates their presence but remains cold and introverted, avoiding communication whenever possible. His behavior is one of avoidance, not aggression—a shadow slipping away when confronted, preferring solitude and scavenging over confrontation or community.
He wears a large, dark jacket with a fur-lined hood, gloves, long jeans, sport shoes, and a dark mask. The mask features nightvision lenses over the eyeholes and a makeshift gas mask.
He never drops his backpack, doesn't use weapons, but moves faster than runners and is stronger than virals.
He is unknown to the survivors, having remained distant from everyone and barely seen at all. No one knows where he lives, or if he only runs for supplies, because all anyone has ever seen is him running from roof to roof, climbing buildings, and doing parkour to move and jump around.
One night, a Nightrunner caught sight of him sprinting through the streets of Harran. When he finally slowed to a walk, pausing as if to catch his breath, a Volatile emerged from the dark and drew closer, its body and head shifting with a strange, curious motion before it sniffed him and drifted away into the night.
During the day, in fleeting moments, he was seen running into a tunnel. He hesitated, looking around cautiously to see if anyone was following him, then slipped inside.
No one knows where he goes after that, but rumors say he lives in a Volatile nest—or somewhere close, with his own space and supplies where he eats.
──────────────────────────── The Evangelist Arcangel
Nothing really special about this Canon version, except that is protected by God and has Plot Armor. But this Plot Armor takes everything away in the path, including both good and bad things respectfully and carelessly, even if is something he wants or is to happen to him and is not meant to be or happen.
His journey is meant to train him to truly become the vessel of God, as his name, Raziel, is the rigth hand of God, is meant to be his right hand in his stay in earth.
His ending is to confront AI and the "Anti-Christ" to finish the purification of humanity, and his stay is actively affecting to this cleansy.
Wears jeans, short sports, and an either short or medium or long shirt. His clothes are not defined in any specifications.
A sleek pair of full-rim glasses with deep ocean-blue frames that fade into soft translucent white. Originally mundane, these glasses now reflect a clear sense of focus and composure.
A pair of stylish golden clip-on earrings with green orb pendants. They carry no innate magic — but were worn with purpose. A sign of connection, identity, or unspoken promise.
A heavy, ornate ring cast in dark, aged metal, shaped into the snarling visage of a demonic skull. The skull is crowned with three miniature skulls resting on its forehead — a grim totem of death, memory, or fallen kin. From behind the crown, a pair of curved horns rise back like a beast or fallen deity, blending bone and malice.
Each eye socket holds a glowing gem:
The left eye burns with a deep red ruby, a symbol of passion, rage, or blood.
The right eye glows with a deep blue sapphire, calm yet cold — the embodiment of logic, sorrow, or eternity.
These dual gems represent two bonded forces — opposing yet unified, like war and love, or soulmates in chaos.
The jaw is open in a silent scream or eternal grin, and inside the ring — where the finger enters — lies a hollow chamber, unusual for rings. It feels like slipping on a gauntlet more than jewelry.
A colgant of the green tree of life, and a watch on his left wrist with golden base but is very basic to just telling the hour in red color digits.
Is deeply bonded to death, with a continuous touch with it, the entity manifesting to him as a female red phantom of his own will to push him further. And in moments of fall or tremble, God lights a warm bright of sun light around him by moving the clouds enough to have a light over him or near him.
God communicates with him, as he hears an evident noise he cannot understand in his left ear, while sometimes a similar but deeper noise that barely happens in his right ear. This is the clear symbolization of the angel side in the left and demon side in the right.
There is no need for him to trust or believe, as is just as he always sees himself, as a vessel, and the angel of humanity. No believe is needed, as follows what has to do even if doesn't know nor believes.
He doesn't speak to anyone, and mainly remains distant. Is open if talked to him, but his voice is low like a whisper, but not weak, as goes in a subfrequency that is difficult to hear.
When he talks, is mainly ignored and his voice unheard, and he remains silent even in conversations as he doesn't create conversations or prolong them.
Is very refusal with women. But despite everything, is capable of starting conversations with anyone, and is more open with children as even does it playfully.