Undertale Patience Novels & Stories

She knew Marcus well enough to know that when he said a long time about Damien it meant the fifteen-year-old on the flat pitch, the serious boy, the one he had found and built and handed things to across thirty years of trusting his own ability to read people. What made you know, she said. He looked at the table. The patience, he said. He is patient the way only a person who genuinely cares about the other person is patient. He cannot perform patience. He has never been able to perform it. He gets impatient when things are not working and the getting-impatient is visible and the working through it is visible and the patience on the other side of the impatience is real, not constructed. He pa

She stood on the street in the mid morning sun and removed her dark glasses and looked at nothing in particular for a moment. Then she took out her phone. She dialed. It rang once. “You are taking too long,” she said quietly. “Every day that passes—” “Patience,” the voice said. Male. Accented. Unbothered in the way of someone operating on a timeline that belonged entirely to them. “I have been patient,” she said. “A little longer.” “You keep saying that.” “And I keep meaning it.” A pause. “These things cannot be rushed. You of all people should understand that.”

"He's been ready for three months." "I know." She had made him wait because the work of the third month had not been the tracking skill but the patience — the specific discipline of not moving until you had finished reading, which was the hardest thing for a thirteen-year-old with quick instincts to develop. She had watched him develop it. She had waited until it was consistent before giving him the assignment. "He's ready now." Dorin looked at her with the expression he used when he was deciding whether to say something. "Say it," she said.

His cat was asleep on his shoulder, clearly not possessing the patience its owner had. “Hmm,” Pazuzu sighed and disappeared into the darkness a second time; and he reappeared a second time after a week had passed. Once again, he had not left and had been watching all this while! It was amazing how patient he was; but his attitude made sense when one considered that this was the only lead he had, and he had nowhere else to look or go. He did that a number of time, but once a month had passed, he finally gave up and left for good. This time, he did not reappear; this time he did not return. For a whole month, he didn’t show his face.

"That's the risk of patience too. You're treating caution like it's free. It isn't. Every day you wait to act is a day the ping keeps firing, a day whoever built this keeps knowing where you stand." "I know that better than you do. I'm the one whose coordinates it's sending." "I know you know it. I'm the one who has to stand in that terminal room every time it fires and not let the sound of it decide what I do next." He said it without raising his voice, which somehow made it land harder than if he had. "You held the compass and the letter face-down for three weeks before you could look at either one. I understand patience. I've watched you build a religion out of it since your father died.

CHAPTER 46 — WHEN HE PULLS THE STRING POV: Ezra The mistake people make about patience is assuming it’s passive. It’s not. Patience is preparation. And something has been preparing. I feel it before it happens. Not celestial. Not explosive. Just… alignment shifting. Aidan has been steady for six days. Six. That’s the longest stretch without a spike, dream rupture, or atmospheric distortion since I met him. He laughs easier now. Moves without scanning exits.

YellowUrine: Shall we play? YellowUrine: I'll just be your duo. YellowUrine: Notice me. I just rolled my eyes and just exited the application then just turned off my laptop again. I no longer feel like playing or doing anything. Maybe I'll just go to sleep now ‘cause I don't think Patry will be able to talk to me either because he still seems angry with the world. If he is no longer angry, he will at least text but I have not received a single text message from him.

"My father put something significant in that box. The person who found the same thing he found understood that eventually someone would come for it." "They waited fourteen years for someone to come," he said. "Yes," she said. "Which tells us something." "What?" "Patience," she said. "The same kind of patience Cosimo had. The same kind Conti had." She looked at the road. "This world selects for patience in the people who last longest inside it." She paused. "But it also tells us they haven't used what they found. In fourteen years they haven't moved against the judge or the man from the photograph."

But maybe that was the point. Patience, restraint, awareness,they were tests. And Randy, for the first time in a long while, was willing to pass them.

I shoot back quietly, not even sparing him a glance. He chuckles under his breath, the sound low and satisfied. “Nonsense?” he repeats. “I’m complimenting you.” “You’re being loud,” I fire back. “I’m being honest,” he defends himself. “You’re being annoying,” I tell him. He grins wider. “So you are listening to me.” I close my eyes briefly, inhaling slowly, forcing down the irritation building in my chest. Patience, Marcella. Patience. My fingers tap once against the edge of my notebook before I still them.