Chapter Text

✦ {ACT ONE} - FALLING STARS

They walked up from their unhappy village

on a morning that was too cold for the warm season,

and said to the Angel, whose face had turned from them,

"You have abandoned me, a child of your own flock,

upon you I place the fault of my falling."

- from "Teema Suraa lo'Webeehte" ("Story Beneath the Mountain"), traditional Serif story-song.

Chapter Text

Frisk
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The lights flicker on in the employee break room of the Ebott Krafts Mart, and Frisk, having barely blinked the sleep out of their eyes, bolts upright, diving behind the couch. They’re too late, though. Marisa has already seen them, and she pushes the couch aside, staring down at them with an expression of consternation. “Really, Frisky Bits?” she says, crossing her bangled arms over her chest. Her bracelets jingle with the movement. “I thought I told you to get out of here like a month ago.”

Obviously the jig is up. They’ve made good use of the Krafts Mart break room in their short time in Ebott. It’s a simple process: hide in the bathroom past closing time, creep out once the janitor is halfway through their first lap around the store, and slip into the room unnoticed. There are plastic cups and tap water and occasionally half-eaten meals in the mini-fridge. To a foster-care runaway with nothing but lint balls and a pilfered candy necklace to their name, it’s pretty much a luxury condominium. And Frisk is being evicted.

“I hope you eat shit on that stupid skateboard, Marisa,” they grumble under their breath, picking themself up and brushing their hands off on their shorts. “And I hope your girlfriend dumps you. Over text. On Valentine’s Day.” It’s pushing late into May, now, but with the way the weather’s been turning, February 14th might as well be tomorrow. Their ill wishes hold water in their mind, at least.

They push out of the break room, making a stop in the glitter aisle to knock a few bottles off the shelves. They don’t take off the lids--that would just be mean to the janitor, who hasn’t done anything wrong, but this mess is Marisa’s to clean up. They hate her. They hate everyone in this stupid town. Hate is a strong word, Felicity, they hear their stupid case worker telling them, but that’s the point. They hated every stupid foster family they ever said that about, and they hate Marisa too. And if anyone ever calls them Felicity again they’re going to pull out their own teeth.

It’s late, now. Late and dark and cold. The streetlights are on, their harsh yellow glare bathing the Krafts Mart parking lot in a light that a more poetic person might call aureate or brothy or buttery. Frisk isn’t poetic. Frisk thinks the light looks like cat piss. The night isn’t algid or biting--it’s fucking cold. Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold.

They shove their hands in their pockets to protect them against the chill. It’s way too cold for May. They can see their breath in the haze of the streetlights, and they know those clouds aren’t going to be satisfied with a little drizzle of freezing rain. They know a blizzard when they smell one--ozone and acrid and bloody, and a wind from the west, buffeting against the Wyrmspines like a closed fist hammering at a door. “Come back with a warrant,” they grumble, the words aimed at the sky though they’re looking at their scuffed, scratched-up hiking boots. They’ve exhausted their options for a night safe from the elements. They’re banned from the library (apparently you need a card to check out books), and the last time they tried to hide out at the all-night diner across from Saint Giles they got child services called on them. And god knows Saint Giles itself has never been an option--churches aren’t the sanctuaries people say they are on TV. We have to call someone. To keep you safe. That’s what the lady at Saint Clarity in Port Springs said, and they still wish they’d yelled at her. Going back isn’t safe. They wouldn’t have left if it was.

They don’t go in, but they do stop in front of Saint Giles on their way to their favorite dumpster. It’s a ratty old building, white wood walls and tattery dark shingles, the steeple leaning slightly to one side. There’s a wood cutout of Miriam’s Flame stuck to it with nails so weathered they can see the flaky red rust from all the way down here. They wonder if they should pray. They haven’t in a long time. God never listened to them then, so they don’t see why They would now. 

They tug at the belt loops of their faded blue shorts just to have something to do with their hands while they walk. The sky’s getting darker, storm clouds blotting out the stars, and the first flakes of unseasonable snow are falling, gathering in Frisk’s curly, deep brown hair like an ephemeral crown. They feel so small tonight. Small and lonely and afraid. It’s hard for them to be really, truly scared anymore. Most days they’re sure they’ve seen everything.

The one thing they haven’t seen is death in first person. They know its smells and its rigidity as an outsider. They know dull eyes and stiff limbs. They found the body of one in a long line of foster mothers. She was cold and her eyes were open and there was drool on her shirt and they didn’t even cry, because they’d only known her two days and all she really was to them was a loud voice. But it’s going to be cold tonight and there’s nowhere left for them to stay and they know their raggedy old shoplifted sweater, that beloved blue and pink striped thing, won’t keep them quite warm enough. They have Tablecloth the cat, and their dumpster for shelter, but they don’t know if they’re going to wake up tomorrow morning. If they’re going to wake up ever again.

They stick their hands under their arms for warmth as they walk. It’s cold. At least the dumpster isn’t far--just another block, and into the alleyway from there. Ebott is a small town. More than just a main street and a gas station, sure, but only by a couple blocks. Small and cramped and hopeless.

They duck into the alley where their favorite dumpster stands waiting. The green paint is chipping and the lid is permanently half-stuck, and there’s a space behind it just big enough for an eleven year old on the larger side to fit through. It’s still cold, but they feel sheltered with their back pressed up against the brick wall of the drugstore. They slip the sleeves of their sweater over their hands. The snow’s coming down harder now.

“Tablecloth?” they ask softly, wondering where their usual companion is. Tablecloth is a thin, mangy orange cat with a bitten-off ear and two mismatched eyes. A textbook image of a stray, just like them. She hides behind this dumpster often--they said their goodbyes to her for the night before they slipped off to the Krafts Mart, but in the time between then and when Marisa was compelled to return after the end of her shift and found Frisk asleep on the break room couch, she seems to have disappeared. They contort themself in the small space so they’re lying on their side, peeking under the dumpster to see if Tablecloth is under there. Her little orange body is wedged under the dumpster, snow ruffling her fur. “Hey, come out of there! I’m gonna freeze, dude.”

The cat doesn’t move.

Frisk sticks their arm under the dumpster, poking at Tablecloth’s stripey orange pelt. She doesn’t move. Her body is cold.

They don’t think she’s breathing.

A note of panic rises in their chest, and they manage to stick both arms under the dumpster, pulling Tablecloth out. Her mismatched eyes are open and her pelt is still and her body is stiff.

For a while, they don’t breathe either.

Ebott is a small town. Everyone knows each other here. The kids on the streets know how to turn a cold shoulder to Frisk, and the adults a blind eye. Marisa was an ally for a moment, but she’s betrayed them too. Not like they expected anything better from her. She’s a grown-up from a mostly happy home. How could she possibly understand? Tablecloth was their only real companion. The scrappy stray who did what she could to get by. She was just like them.

Now she’s gone. Starvation, disease, maybe--they don’t know. Her ribs poke through her mange-ridden pelt. It could be anything. It could be anything, and now they’re all alone.

There’s nothing worth staying for in this stupid town anyway.

The decision is made before they even realize they’re thinking about it. Mount Ebott looms above the town that shares its name like a sentry at the gates to the underworld, leering eyelessly down at them. They’ve known this whole time, haven’t they? Since they first came here. Since they hitchhiked all the way here from Port Springs, claiming their parents had just died and they were going to stay with their grandfather. Parents. Grandfather. What a load of shit. They’ve never had anyone, and they never will.

They pick up Tablecloth’s body and slip out from behind the dumpster, blinking hard against the driving snow. They cross the quiet street, devoid of its usual late-night traffic in the winds of the building storm, and find their way to the trailhead in Headstone Hills. Old, rickety Victorians stand along a road that’s more potholes than pavement, windows and doors staring down at them like gape-mouthed faces as they walk. They stop for a moment at the end of the street, where the road peters off into gravel and finally into nothingness, and look back at what they’re leaving behind. Good riddance. Good riddance to Ebott and everyone in it.

Nobody who climbs that mountain ever comes back. There’re still pictures of the last two kids who went missing on the corkboard at the diner. Ruth Anne Prescott. Thomas Valcourt. The names on the missing posters don’t match their faces at all. The last picture of Frisk that’s in the system is from when they were eight years old, a chubby-cheeked kid with fewer freckles, smaller hollows under their eyes. Someday it’ll be tacked up here too, if anyone ever realizes they made it this far. If anyone ever cares. Felicity Fairchild. That name doesn’t match them, either.

The gravel trail crunches under their worn-out hiking boots--the soles were coming off, but they pilfered some superglue from a shelf in the Krafts Mart and stuck them back on last week. They’re crappy boots, a little too small for them now, even though when they first snatched them from a foster brother’s closet they were too big. Pine trees loom over them, barely-blooming maples and birches rustling in the wind. They find a patch of soft dirt beneath a low-hanging pine and start digging. Their fingers are scraped raw and there’s dirt under their nails by the time they’re done, but it’s all right. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

They lower Tablecloth into their makeshift grave and cover her body with soil. Their face is still. They don’t cry at all, no matter how much they want to. There’s no use.

They reach into their pockets and leave a single butterscotch candy, still in its wrapper, on top of Tablecloth’s grave. Cats can’t eat butterscotch. Dead cats can’t eat anything. But they won’t leave her in an unmarked grave.

“You were a good cat,” they say. “You were a really, really good cat.” 

They don’t say anything else.

They stand at the grave only a moment more before they step back onto the gravel trail. The path snakes up through the foothills, past Ebott’s miserable excuse for a golf course, past an almost-picturesque stream rushing down from a mountain spring, past the last overlook before the mountain really begins, the chain-link fence where lovers leave padlocks engraved with their initials and throw the keys into the water below. They follow it up to its very end, an iron chain draped between two ramshackle wooden posts. DO NOT ENTER. IF YOU ARE HAVING THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE, CALL THE DRAKEHOLD MIDCOUNTRY CRISIS HOTLINE: 1-555-9891. Nobody in the town below will admit it, but everyone knows the stretch of untamed land beneath Mount Ebott’s treeline is a suicide forest. Jilted lovers break the locks they left on the fence below and climb upwards to break their necks throwing themselves from trees and cliffsides. The sign, Town Hall’s meager attempt at being compassionate, doesn’t do much of anything for Frisk. They don’t have a cell phone, anyway.

They duck under the chain, flinching as the cold metal brushes against their neck. Their hair is plenty long enough to serve as insulation, seeing as they haven’t cut it in two years, but they still feel the chill. The only sound in the forest is the gentle rush of wind through the pine needles high above. For a moment, Frisk swears they hear the voices of the dead.

They wrap their arms around themself, pretending they aren’t bothered by the cold. Dry needles crackle under their feet, fat flakes of snow sifting through the trees. There’s no clear path past this point, but there’s a subtle shift in the density of the undergrowth. Perhaps a deer trail. Perhaps the remnants of another person who climbed the mountain with the same goal. Disappearing is easy when there’s nobody to look for you.

They push upwards. The wind howls louder the higher they get, snow swirling thicker as they push through dry grass and brushy mountain thistle, plucking burrs from their sweater. They reach an overlook as the trees begin to thin, and they turn around, taking a moment to look down at the town below. Lights are still on in a few houses and apartments, but even the all night diner’s windows are dark. It’s too far into spring for a snowstorm to shut the whole town down like this, but the weather does what it wants with no regard for the whims of mortals, they suppose.

They don’t want to admit that they’re scared. They’re going to die tonight. They don’t know how. They don’t know if they’ll freeze to death or if they’ll be brave enough to jump. They don’t know if it will be slow or if it will happen so fast they don’t feel any pain. But they know it’s going to happen. They know their fate is sealed.

More lights flick off in the town below. A cold breath of air stings their nose, and they turn around. They keep climbing. It’s the only thing left to do.

Fewer and fewer trees shelter them from the snow as they climb higher. The swirling winds have grown so vicious they can barely see a foot in front of them by the time they reach a stretch of flat, treeless ground. They squint against the snow, pushing forward until the winds and driving snowflakes buffeting them just stop. Stone arches and bulges above them, stalactites dripping down from the ceiling of a massive cave. It’s not much warmer here, but at least they aren’t being pelted with snow. It’s a small victory, but they’ll take it.

They turn to look at the cave’s entrance--everything outside has been completely obscured by an angry white curtain of snow and ice. They rub their hands together for warmth, walking around the perimeter of the cave and surveying their surroundings. Hardy vines and dry, wilting ivy lace the walls and floor, their sturdy reddish roots leading deeper into the cave.

Frisk figures they’re going to die anyway. If they’re at the start of a bad plant-based horror movie, they might as well go along with it.

They follow a coppery vine as it snakes along the floor of the cave, leading through a wide passage to a massive rotunda with a gaping hole in the rock roof above. They must have crossed under the peak of the mountain--no snow filters in through the gap, and when they peer up through it, they see empty clouds starting to dissipate against a backdrop of scintillating stars. They can still hear the wind howling, and when they turn back, they still see snow fluttering and twirling at the mouth of the cave. It isn’t warm, here, on the other side of the mountain, but at least it’s still.

At the center of the rotunda, a gaping pit cuts its way deep into the earth. Frisk peers over the edge--they can’t see the bottom of it. The vine they were following descends down into darkness, its terminus obscured by blinding, jet-black nothing. They heard once that if you can’t see the bottom of a hole you’re supposed to throw a rock into it and see how long it takes to hear a sound. They don’t know what good that will do them now, but they might as well try. They pick up a heavy rock just big enough to be more than a pebble, swinging their arm like a baseball pitcher before they chuck it into the darkness below.

They wait, counting seconds, for the sound of it hitting the ground. One chimpanzee, two chimpanzee, three chimpanzee, they think to themself, wondering why Foster Dad Ryan taught them to count time in monkeys anyway. Thirty-six more tropical primates later, there still hasn’t been so much as a tiny plop from the pit.

Thirty-nine seconds is long enough, they’re pretty sure, to conclude whether or not a pit is bottomless.

They sit down at the edge of the pit, kicking their legs and staring down into the darkness. They read the first few chapters of Alice in Wonderland at the library, once, and tried to take it with them to read the rest. That was when they got kicked out. They didn’t like the book at all--it sounded like the guy who wrote it was on a lot of drugs, and the Cheshire Cat freaked them out, even though they normally like cats--but, looking back on it, they’re glad they read it. It’s good to be prepared. Maybe they shouldn’t throw themself into this mysterious bottomless pit. They don’t want to be Alice. They don’t want to survive the fall. They’ll just stay up here and huddle in the corner until they freeze to death like a respectable person.

But, they think to themself, hands in their pockets, staring down into the abyss like they’re waiting for it to blink, what do they have to lose?

The answer is the same as what they can see in the depths of the pit. Nothing.

They pick themself up, walking back to the wall of the cavern. If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do this the right way. They aren’t going to go out shivering and cowering. They ran away from their last foster home when they were eight, and since then they’ve lived life on their terms. They’re going to die on their terms, too. Maybe they’re brave. Maybe they’re just stupid. Maybe they’re both. Whatever it is, it isn’t going to matter for long, anyway.

They smack their hands against the back wall of the cave to steel themself, and break into a run.

They launch themself into the air, and as they plummet they know, just for a moment, what it feels like to fly. The wind of the fall tangles in their curly hair, kissing their face like a dusting of new freckles, and, despite themself, they smile as darkness surrounds them.

They aren’t bracing for the impact. They barely feel it when it comes, anyway. They’re expecting jagged stone and broken bones and the deep crimson of their own blood, but the ground that meets them is soft and spongy and wet with dew.

They lie on their back in a state of utter shock, waiting for the pain to kick in or for their consciousness to ebb. Nothing happens. For a moment they think they’re paralyzed, but they try to move their arm and it works just fine. They push themself up, a gentle floral scent filling their nose. They shouldn’t still be breathing. There’s no way they should have survived that. This isn’t how any of this was supposed to go, yet here they are.

They’re sitting in a bed of golden flowers somewhere far beneath the earth, and, as far as they can tell, for better or for worse, they’re decidedly still alive.

Chapter Text

?????

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White light.

They bathe in it. This body isn’t theirs. Feels more like theirs than ever. White light. The sunset trickles through.

Seeds stick to their fur. Theirs…his. This tongue has never been blistered and bloodied, yet they taste acrid, bitter buttercups nonetheless. 

He’s dying and they know it’s their fault. He’s dying and they’re already dead. He’s dying and they’re dying all over again and they’re screaming for him to fight back. It’s kill or be killed. He doesn’t listen.

He’s dying and he’s dead and they taste dust instead of acid, and then they taste nothing at all.

White light, again.

There are flashes. Back against stone. Tattered bandages. Their own body rotting in the dirt. Roots wrap around their ribcage. They are dead and this is what comes after.

And then they wake up.

There’s no dirt filling their lungs, no twisting plants growing from their yellowed bones. They don’t feel anything. They don’t know anything. They don’t know who they are.

Memories come in flashes. They reach for the dirt beneath them to ground themself, but they can’t feel it. They can’t feel their arm moving. They can’t see anything but pale moonlight drifting down from the roof of the cave. They can’t move their head. Can’t move anything.

They feel their chest move. Feel their body heave in a pained breath, like they’ve just gotten the wind knocked out of them. It has to be their body. But they’re dead. They know they’re dead. And they aren’t the one choosing to move.

They sit up. It isn’t their choice. Their limbs move without their bidding. Their shoulders shake involuntarily, and the confusion and fear in the gesture matches what they’re feeling, but it isn’t their doing. 

The body raises its arm, as if to inspect it for injuries. Its fingers are short and pudgy and brown, freckles dotting the back of its hand. The sleeves of its oversized sweater are striped a garish blue and pink. They don’t remember what they look like, but the hand belongs to a stranger. This isn’t them. This isn’t their body.

They can’t quite put the pieces together, but they’re starting to get an idea of the image on the front of the box. This isn’t their body. They were dead. Are dead. So why are they awake? Why are they still here? Here at the start of all things, at the first place, the only place they really remember? The light is different. They came here so very long ago. They bled against the stones here. There was nothing but scraggly cave grass beneath their broken form then.

Now, beneath the body that isn’t theirs, lies a bed of golden flowers.

Chapter Text

Frisk
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They really, really shouldn’t be alive.

They don’t know how far they fell, only that it was far enough. Only that they should be dead and bloodied with their bones smashed into bits on the cave floor, not sitting up no worse for wear than scrapes on their hands and a nasty bruise on their butt. Which does hurt, to be entirely fair, but not nearly enough for someone who fell so far they can barely see the top of the pit they jumped through anymore.

They can just make out the rim. The darkness that obscured the bottom of the cave is, paradoxically, gone, and pale, weak moonlight filters down through the gaps in the stone ceiling far above. They push themself to their feet in the dewy flowers, squinting into the darkness that surrounds them and trying to figure out where exactly they are. There’s no way they’d be able to climb out. Even if they could, they don’t want to. They don’t want to go back to Ebott and its unseasonable snow and the people who care just enough about them to look at them like a fly they wish they could swat. They peer down at the flowers, wincing at their relatively minor butt bruise as they try to figure out if the golden blossoms are the same ones that had just started their seasonal bloom in the center of town when the snowstorm hit.

They shake themself off, surveying their surroundings. Rugged pillars rise around them on all sides, reaching up towards the hole in the earth like drowning hands desperate for purchase, swept away on a rocky sea. The stone enclosing them is a tannish gray, hints of purple pebbles interspersed closer to a tunnel leading deeper into the mountain. Frisk knows how this kind of thing works. They watched plenty of horror movies from behind foster-home couches, neglectful guardian after neglectful guardian oblivious to where they stood peeking through their hands at the screen. Rule number two of horror movies is don’t go into the basement. (Rule number one, of course, is don’t split up, but seeing as they came down here all on their own, they don’t think they need to worry about that.) Perhaps the cave tunnel isn’t a basement, but it’s the closest thing they can get this far beneath a mountain. Frisk knows a lot about horror movies. They know this is a bad idea.

They also know, in a horror movie, going into a creepy tunnel is the only way to progress the plot.

So they do. They follow the passage around a corner, ignoring the strange cloudy feeling blotting at the corners of their mind. Their head feels heavy, and their vision is a little out of focus--maybe they’re a little concussed. That’s the most reasonable explanation, giving how far they fell, but their head doesn’t hurt. It just feels… crowded.

They push through into another open cavern. There’s only one flower in this one. It looks lonely, standing in the middle of a patch of scraggly, dull cave grass. Somehow, Frisk gets the feeling that something is very much not right here.

That feeling is proven to be correct when the flower opens its eyes.

Flowers are not supposed to have eyes. Frisk hasn’t gone to school since they were eight, but that’s around the age you start learning about the life stages of plants in science class. They know about seeds and sprouts and buds and blossoms and fruiting and wilting and decomposition, on a very basic level. Nowhere on their second-grade teacher’s Life Cycle Of A Tomato Plant poster was there anything about plants having eyes. Or mouths, for that matter. Plants can’t talk.

This one doesn’t seem to care.

“Howdy!” it says, petal-rimmed face twisting into an uncanny display of cheerfulness. “I’m Flowey! Flowey the Flower!”

“That’s a dumbass name,” Frisk says, not really thinking about it. For all they know they’re dead and this is some kind of twisted purgatory for kids who kill themselves. The talking flower certainly isn’t helping them feel very real right now. “I hope you didn’t pick that out yourself.”

The flower--Flowey--stares at them. It quirks its stupid eyebrows and tilts its petally head to the side and makes a clicking noise with its teeth, and they really don’t think flowers should have teeth, but maybe it’s really better if they don’t question it. Flowers can have teeth if they want. Who are they to be so discriminatory? “Hmm,” the flower says. Its charisma feels, somehow, practiced. “You’re new to the Underground, aren’tcha? Golly, you must be so confused! Someone ought to teach you how things work around here! I guess little old me will have to do.”

“Huh,” Frisk says, not really able to formulate anything more articulate than that. They’re convinced they’re either dreaming or dead. And, honestly, given everything that’s happened to them today, dead seems like the more realistic option. “Um…okay? Underground? Are you…are there other people here?”

“There sure are!” the flower says. “And I’m happy to teach ya just how to get along with them!” Without any kind of prelude or warning, it does… something to them, something they can’t entirely describe as a process. Something they can only really explain as a result. The room around them snaps instantaneously to black, defining features removed and replaced with nothing but a colorless, high-contrast void. Flowey stares at them in black and white, quirking its petally head to one side as if to inspect them. “See that heart? That is your SOUL, the very culmination of your being!”

They are, in fact, looking at a floating red heart. It is, in fact, directly in front of them. They recognize it as themself, even having never seen it before, better than they recognize their own face in the mirror. As soon as they’ve seen it, the illusion is gone, and they’re back on the floor of the cave again, head reeling from whatever the hell that shithead little flower just did to them. “Watch it with the fucking mind games, buddy!” they threaten, picking up a stick they found on the floor and brandishing it at the flower. “Tell me if you’re about to do some freak-ass shit like that again!”

“Whoa, whoa, no need to get so violent!” Flowey leans back out of the way of their stick, giving them a confusing wink. “I’m just tryin’ to help. Your SOUL starts off weak, but can grow strong if you gain a lot of LV. ”

“Levels?” they ask. They’re somewhat familiar with the logic of video games--they’ve played their fair share on boxy family computers and arcade machines when they had spare change. LV means level, usually. Flowey, however, is looking at them like they’re stupid.

“No. LOVE. ” It looks absolutely baffled. “You really don’t know a thing about this place, do you?”

“Dude, I just fell through a bottomless fucking pit in a mountain. Sorry I don’t have a fucking doctorate in acronyms.” They shrug, sticking their hands in the pockets of their shorts and shaking leaf litter out of their hair. They didn’t even know they’d gotten that messed up on their trek up the mountain. Not like they can ever keep their hair free of debris of some sort. They haven’t brushed with anything more than their fingers in three years. “Can you just explain this shit to me without being all condescending?” Maybe they’re losing their temper a little. Maybe they should be nicer. But they’re still pretty convinced they’re dead, and they don’t want to accidentally make friends with the Devil. They’ve already committed a mortal sin by doing this to themself, if their few Sunday school sessions are anything to go by. They know their chances at redemption aren’t great. They’re doing the best they can.

“If you could just…stand still and listen, that’d be spectacular, ” the flower says, clearly losing patience with them by the second. They’ve made a few bad choices already today. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just sit here and hear it out. 

“Okay. Sorry,” they say, the apology half-hearted and unconvincing. They aren’t sure how to feel about this… guy? Can flowers be guys? In a people way? In a gender way? They weren’t built for this kind of focus. “Go on and tell me about the, uh…the soul thing.” They still haven’t entirely processed that, aside from filing it in their mental folder of Things That Probably Make More Sense If I’m Dead And This Is Some Extremely Fucked Up Afterlife.  

“SOUL,” it says, looking affronted.

“Yeah, what I said. Soul.”

“No. SOUL. ”

“I don’t get it. I don’t get what I’m doing wrong.” They shake their head. They’re dead for sure.

“You’re saying it wrong. It isn’t soul, it’s SOUL. You have to capitalize it.”

“What.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. They squint at Flowey like somehow they’ll find the answer to life’s greatest mysteries in its cheery mustard-yellow petals. Mustard…they could really go for a hot dog right now. “Oh, uh… SOUL? ” They try to pronounce it one letter at a time, though it takes them a minute to remember if the O or the U comes first. They never did great in their reading classes in school--they like to read, but the letters swim in front of their eyes, spinning and flipping and changing places like figure skaters on a yellowed paper pond. School was hard. They didn’t know how to explain it. Everyone always said they were just stupid, and, honestly, that wasn’t too hard to believe.

“Exactly!” At least the flower is proud of them. They’re starting to warm up to it, in a weird sort of way. “Just like that. SOUL. Anyways…you want some LOVE, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll share some with you! Down here, LOVE is shared through little white… friendliness pellets. You ready? Move around! Get as many as you can!” The flower shakes itself a little, stem and petals stiffening and eyes flicking closed just for a moment as it conjures a scattering of white pinpricks above itself, floating in the air like lightless stars scattered across a dulled, desaturated sky. Frisk has no idea how love is supposed to translate into pellets , but they might as well just go with it. Their day has been so weird already it’s hard to be surprised anymore.

Friendliness pellets. That’s such a dumb name. This feels a little too much like one of those anti-bullying days at school that always just made the bullying worse. The little blonde girl with her hair in a too-tight ponytail who said Counselor Gorse says we have to respect people’s differences now! and then slammed their face into a tree. The words they got called that they only found out were slurs when they looked them up in the dusty old computer lab when their foster parents forgot to pick them up after school. “You sound like a fucking motivational poster,” they grumble as the pellets close in--they keep their face tilted upwards, wondering why the flower looks so smug. Then it hits them. Or, well, they hit them, they being the “friendliness pellets,” which they realize only as they’re knocked off their feet by the force of the impact, stinging welts building on their face and arms even through the fabric of their sweater, are not very friendly at all. They guess they were more right than they thought about that anti-bullying campaign thing.

“You fucker!” they hiss, pushing themself upright. Flowey leers over them, flashing them a toothpaste-commercial wink as it conjures a circle of “friendliness pellets”--more like bullets, really!--right around them, cornering them from every angle. It leans down, its face uncomfortably close to theirs.

“You idiot, ” it says with an eerie giggle. “Why would anyone pass up an opportunity like this? In this world, it’s kill or be killed!” 

They barely have time to react. The bullets are closing in and they can’t move and they really do feel like an idiot, getting their ass kicked by a fucking flower of all things. This is it. They’re completely, utterly fucked. Now they get to find out if they’ve been dead this whole time in the worst possible way: dying again.

And right as they’ve accepted it, right as they’ve made peace with their fate, the flower is gone. Uprooted. Sent flying straight across the cavern by a fireball that burns brighter and hotter than the long-forgotten sun. The bullets ringing around them flick out of existence like a light switch being turned off, and the light of the fire dies into the dim background ambience of the cave. Above them stands a purple robe. Probably someone is wearing that purple robe, but whoever it is is so tall they don’t initially recognize her as a person at all.

She kneels down before them, all white fur and reddish-brown eyes and fluffy lop ears, the face of a goat and the paws of a cat or a dog or a bear, and offers them a steady, sturdy arm. “What a terrible creature,” she says, voice deep and full and comforting. “Torturing such a poor, innocent youth…”

They shrink away. It’s more reflex than anything. The flower was weird, sure, and it did try to kill them, but she’s an adult. Adults are worse than murderous flowers by a long shot. “Don’t touch me!” they say, scooting backwards--she saved them from the flower, but they know better than to trust her. They know better than to trust anyone.

Her face falls in concern, and she backs away ever so slightly. “Ah…do not be afraid, my child,” she says gently. “I am Toriel, caretaker of the Ruins. I pass through this place every day to see if anyone has fallen down. You are the first human to come here in a long time.”

They wrinkle up their face, trying to process it. They don’t know if she’s telling the truth--there’s no possible way for them to know if she’s telling the truth. She’s a freaky goat lady and about a million feet tall and the way she’s treating them is a little too motherly for them to be comfortable with it. She’s not their mother. They aren’t anyone’s child. They never really have been, and if they have it their way, they never will be. “Don’t touch me. I’ll bite you. I’ll fucking bite you.”

Her face softens just a little, and she almost laughs. “It is all right, small one. I will not hurt you,” she says. “You do not need to take my hand if it would make you uncomfortable. I only wish to help you. Let me heal you.” Her massive paw sparks green, and as much as Frisk doesn’t want to trust her, their face really stings from that shitass flower. They don’t like how small they feel compared to her. She could crush them under her feet, squish them to death in her fist--she’s not even that much bigger than a normal human, but she feels that way. Her presence is strong and powerful and commanding and their instincts all tell them to run away. But they offer her their scratched-up hand nonetheless--not a peace offering, but a litmus test. A goldenrod strip, or that urban legend they heard about a chemical they put in pools that turns green if you pee in the water. They won’t make themself vulnerable. They won’t let her touch their stinging arms or welted-up face until they’re sure she isn’t going to cut them just as deep as the flower did.

She takes their hand gently in her paws, green light dancing across her fur and sinking into their skin. It itches a little, but it doesn’t hurt--they still snatch their hand back on instinct. The scrapes from the fall are gone. They don’t want to risk it, but their face hurts pretty badly--they turn their welted, reddened cheek to her, bracing themself for the slap they’re always expecting somewhere in the back of their mind.

She brushes her paw against their stinging face and aching arm, the itching feeling fading as their wounds heal. The warm green light stops skin-deep, finding its way no farther than the welts on the surface, but the hairs on their arms prickle comfortably. It’s cool down here, not too hot, not too cold, but the frigid air of the surface stung so bitterly they can feel it even now. They lean into her touch without meaning to, only to pull away when they realize how vulnerable they’ve made themself. This is a terrible idea.

“I…I have to go,” they say, even though there isn’t really anywhere to go. They don’t trust this weird goat lady. They don’t trust anything down here. They’re scared the flower with the stupid name will come back. The shadows in the corners make them anxious. But that’s not really anything new. They’ve made it through scarier things than underworlds full of nasty flowers and towering goat ladies. Drakehold’s foster care system was a lot worse than this.

She doesn’t react in time to keep them from slipping back into the tunnel to the cave they first fell into--they need a little time to process this all. Hopefully she’ll extend them that courtesy. She doesn’t call after them, at least.

They step out into the wider cavern, making their way back to the bed of flowers they landed on. There are seeds stuck to their clothes that they’ve only just now noticed, and petals attached to their staticky hair like velcro. They look up into the gap that cuts deep through the earth, watching as the first watery rays of morning light trickle through.

They look back down, wondering how the hell they survived in the first place. Assuming they really are still alive. They aren’t expecting an answer. 

They get one anyway.

The voice is scratchy, young, high-pitched. It teeters on a line between anxious and confused, and when it speaks, they startle, jumping back and spinning around with their stick at the ready, half expecting another flower to assault them with extremely unfriendly pellets. It speaks simply, coldly, cautiously, and it takes them a moment to process the words. They stare at the place they fell, wondering if, after all this time, they’re finally losing their mind.

Golden flowers, says the voice. They must have broken your fall.

Chapter Text

?????
_____

They’re human.

For a moment this thing , reawakened devil they are-- it is --isn’t certain what it’s making this observation about.

The child is human. It is not. It rejects the way it first saw itself, as something tangible, as something real. It rejects the few memories that scratch at its mind like nails against concrete. It rejects that thing which it once was. 

It loathes that it cannot reject the body it is now attached to.

The child sits up. Stands up. They poke around in the flowers and walk around stupidly and the realization that they’re human strikes it (whatever it is--a ghost? a demon?) so fiercely that if it had a body of its own, it would stumble back, fall to the ground. It is disgusted. Revolted. It tastes a memory of bile on a memory of a tongue and the disgust only grows at the memory of its own body. 

They’re human. That makes them a threat.

The world is far too bright and loud and real, even in the relative silence and darkness of the caverns and tunnels. The echo wishes so badly it could go back to where it was before. What it was before.

Buried. Gone. Dead.

It should have stayed dead. Its plan failed. They killed him. ( It killed him, it interrupts itself. It has no right seeing itself as something sentient. It is less than an object. It is less than dust floating through the air.)

Yet it’s still here.

It sees faces in the flowers. It recognizes the voice of the white-furred woman in the royal violet robe. The people it loved, back when it was capable of such a thing, are still here. It was never any good at it before, but it will do all it can, here in this continued half-existence, to protect them.

It’s the only thing left to do.

Golden flowers, it thinks as the child returns to where they first fell. They must have broken your fall. They-- it! --knows these flowers didn’t grow here long ago. So much has changed.

And nothing more will. This child will not spill a mote of dust in the world the echo once called home. It will do all it can to prevent that. That may not be much, but it’s still something.

The child flinches at the echo’s words, and it pauses in its introspection, realizing its thoughts are no longer only its own. It can’t move, can’t weasel its way into the nerves of the child’s body, can’t move their arms, can’t hurt them directly.

But it has a voice.

At times like these, a voice is the best power to have.

Chapter Text

Frisk
_____

“Uh…hello?”

Nobody answers. The voice in the back of their head made its observation and promptly disappeared. Now they’re all alone talking to no one in the middle of a fucking cave.

Great.

For all they know, they just imagined it. Given the day they’ve had (and it’s barely even a day--it’s only just sunrise, and they were rudely awakened at maybe three or four in the morning), hallucinations aren’t that far out of the ballpark of expected experiences. So they’re hearing voices in their head. They can deal with that. This world is way weirder than fucking brain voices. Talking flowers, goat ladies-- that’s the weird shit. Their internal monologue deciding to make comments without their input is pretty normal in comparison.

Dropping their stick for a moment, they brush their hands off on their pants and take a deep breath. The goat lady is really nice, and probably just wants to protect them, but really nice and just wants to protect them are honestly red flags in their book. 

But, then again, none of the adults who called child services on them ever threw fireballs at asshole flowers for them. Maybe they can wager a little trust on her. But they sure as hell aren’t going all in.

They stick their free hand in their pocket, making their way back to the formerly mostly flowerless, now completely flowerless cave. “Uh…sorry I ran off,” they say, almost unintentionally making themself small, quieting their voice. They’re aware that they’re doing it, but it feels too much like instinct to stop. “I just…I kind of needed a minute.”

“I understand,” the goat lady says. Did she say her name was Turiel? Tortle? Tutorial? Yeah, that’s the one. Tutorial. “This must be such a big change, my child. Do not worry. I will guide you through the catacombs. You are safe with me.”

“Thanks, uh…Tutorial,” they say, shying away when she tries to offer them her hand. They aren’t willing to put their life in her hands like that. They aren’t crazy. They don’t have a death wish. Maybe they did twenty minutes ago, but they’re a changed person. They don’t for an instant think they’re going to survive down here for long, what with the trigger-happy flowers and everything, but they do have a healthy amount of curiosity about what else this world has to offer them. They can’t figure out what the hell this place is if they’re dead, after all.

She giggles. “My name is Toriel, my child. There is only one of me.” Her laugh, like her voice, is deep and soft. She reminds them of Ms. Honey from Matilda , which they only watched the end of when it was showing at the library back in Port Springs. A teacherly type, but the kind of teacher who wouldn’t yell at them for doodling in class, and would stay behind after school to help them with the trickiest math problems.

Okay, maybe they’re putting way too much faith in her. That’s not smart. For all they know she cooks and eats lost children and they’re next on the menu. They don’t want to be a mincemeat pie. They don’t even know what mincemeat is.

“Sorry,” they say, hooking their thumbs through the belt loops of their shorts. They like her, ideologically, but that’s the problem with people. They seem cool or nice or compassionate on the outside, and then they throw you out of the Krafts Mart at four in the morning when there’s a blizzard on the way. Trust is universally, undoubtedly, a bad idea no matter what. They’re well aware of that. But it doesn’t make them not want to trust her, even though they know they can’t.

“The Ruins are filled with puzzles,” Toriel explains to them as she leads them into another room. “Ancient fusions between diversions and doorkeys. One must solve them to move from room to room. Please adjust yourself to the sight of them.” The walls here are a shade of purple much pinker than her robes, bricks interspersed with pebbles, bright green vines tracking down the walls. They don’t know how so many plants can grow down here. They’re pretty sure they need the sun to make chlorophyll--they know that much from school. That and pretty much nothing else. They don’t even know how to do long division. The puzzle currently in question is a selection of pressure plates on the floor that remind them a little of the shitty online Minecraft ripoff they played on the library computer a few times. That had pressure plates. That’s actually the only reason they know what pressure plates are.

“Can I try?” they ask, but she’s already stepped across the panels, unlocking the next door. Their voice is lost in the sound of it opening. They make a careful note of the code, just in case they somehow get locked out here. A child cannot subsist on cave grass alone. Though they do kind of want to eat some, now, just to see how it tastes. There’s a sign on the wall--they take a moment to read it, squinting against the swimming and spinning of the letters. Only the fearless may proceed, it reads. Brave ones, foolish ones. Both walk not the middle road.

“To make progress here, you will need to trigger several switches,” she says as she leads them into the next room. Twin aqueducts lead through the center of it, cerulean water hushing and murmuring as it follows its course deeper into the earth. “Do not worry. I have labeled the ones you need to press.” She stops in front of a bridge, watching Frisk expectantly. They aren’t entirely sure what she wants them to do. Just flip the switch on the wall? It isn’t that hard. Does she think they’re a baby? They’re eleven. They know how to flip a switch.

They scrunch up their face in confusion, but make their way over to the bright yellow switch anyway. It’s across the first aqueduct (they think it’s an aqueduct, at least, though they aren’t entirely sure what an aqueduct is), labeled with writing that says Press this one! Knowing their luck, it’s probably going to explode.

They flip the switch anyway. Nothing explodes. They’ll count that as a win. Now they want to test the waters. Before she can catch up with them, they push past her all the way to the third, unlabeled switch, and press it down. Nothing happens--at least physically.

The voice in their head--the one they thought they had imagined--seems less than pleased with this outcome. Wow! it says. You are superfast at being wrong.

“Thanks?” they say under their breath, quietly enough that Toriel can’t hear them. 

“No no no!” She is eternally patient, despite their blatant disregard for her gaudy yellow labeling. “You want to press the other switch. I even labeled it for you…”

They stare at her, still trying to process the return of the voice they’re fairly certain by now is a stress-induced hallucination. Not that they’re that stressed or anything--they’ve had way worse days than this. Falling into a weird mountain is nothing. “Huh?” 

“Go on, press the switch on the left,” she says. Still patient. They wonder how far they can push her. How far they can go before her patience snaps, before she shouts at them just like everyone else. Defiantly, they return the rightmost switch to its upright position, just to press it again.

“You…do know which way left is, do you not?” They’re looking her straight in the face with their hand on the wrong switch, and she doesn’t even look annoyed. Just worried. “Are you having trouble hearing, my child? Oh, no, I hope you do not have a concussion…”

They flip the wrong switch again. They don’t understand why she’s being so patient with them. 

“You are very curious, are you not?” She laughs softly, offering them her paw again. “Come. I will lead you to the correct switch.” 

They cross their arms in front of their chest. “No. I don’t want to hold your hand,” they say. “I don’t want to flip your stupid switch. This is dumb. I’m eleven. I know how to read.”

A sad smile flickers across her face momentarily--she drops her paw, letting out a small sigh. “I understand. I am only trying to do what is best for you. Those who live down here are not always kind to humans. If you follow their customs, they will, perhaps, treat you with more understanding.”

They wonder if she realizes they’re giving her a puzzle to solve, too. The only difference is their puzzle is unsolvable. The How To Win Frisk’s Trust puzzle is impossible, and they’re going to keep pressing it, keep getting on her nerves, until she finally snaps. Until she finally gives them the answer they always get.

But they figure they might as well flip the stupid switch. This is getting boring.

They follow her to the middle switch, flipping it as effortlessly as they did the first one. “Are you happy now?” They can’t keep the snark out of their voice. It isn’t that they really think she’s doing anything wrong--it’s just that she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get that they’re unteachable. She doesn’t get that there’s no use trying to get them to warm up to her, because they’re never going to. They’re going to beat her at this stupid game. They beat everyone.

“Yes,” she says gently. “I am happy. You have done splendidly. I am proud of you, my child. Let us move on to the next room.” 

At least this time she knows better than to offer them her paw again.

“As a human living in the Underground, monsters may attack you,” she explains, presenting them with a training dummy. “You will need to be prepared for this situation.” They tighten their grip on their stick--they haven’t let go of it, just in case any more asshole flowers decide to jump out at them. They don’t want to fight--there’s almost always a better answer when it comes to conflicts--but they will if they have to. They’ll bash that flower into compost if it tries to pick on them again. 

“Are you gonna make me hit the dummy?” they ask. “I can hit things real good, I promise.”

“No, no. The dummies are not for fighting. We do not want to hurt anyone, do we?” They resent the way she uses we. She doesn’t know whether or not they want to hurt anyone. (They don’t. But still. It’s presumptuous.) “When you encounter a monster, you will enter a FIGHT. While you are in a FIGHT, strike up a friendly conversation. Stall for time. I will come to resolve the conflict.” That doesn’t really strike them as the definition of a fight, but, hey, she’s pronouncing it weird the way the flower pronounced SOUL, so maybe it’s just a monster thing. They lean their stick against the wall, crossing their arms and staring at the dummy. The world flickers black and white again, only for a moment--it’s over as soon as it started, and they only wobble a little on their feet, not knocked back as badly as they were last time. It’s a weird feeling. Like the universe is a computer trying to execute a process that just gets cut short every time. The dummy stands before them yet again. Somehow, it looks bored.

A cotton heart and a button eye, you are the apple of my eye, says the voice they’re firmly convinced is a hallucination.

“You said eye twice,” they mutter under their breath. What a good look--arguing with their own subconscious. “That’s not how poems work.”

You are disgusting. The voice is heavy with bitterness. Like the time they squirted floor cleaner on their hand and licked it because they thought it would taste like candy. It did not. They don’t know why it’s so mad at them for making fun of its shitty poem, but they don’t really care. It’s all in their head anyway. They stare at the dummy a little longer--Toriel told them to strike up a friendly conversation, but they’re not really good at that. So they just look at it. And keep looking at it. And keep looking at it. 

“So, uh…tax season, huh?” they say after a very long time. 

The dummy tips over. Good going, the voice in their head remarks sarcastically. Toriel stares at them--then, without another word, waves for them to follow her to the next room. They don’t know if they did that right. Talking and fighting, in their mind, are not things that should go hand in hand. This place is weird.

They follow Toriel, wondering if they should’ve beat the dummy up just to annoy her. It probably would have made her mad, at least, and that’s what they’re going for, but they don’t actually want to hurt anyone. They don’t want to break her things. They just want to show her how worthless it is trying to be nice to them. They’re just going to fuck up. They always have. They always do.

“There is another puzzle in this room,” she says, leading them straight across a snaking path that’s darker than the rest of the floor. They follow its curves and corners, wondering if they can get a reaction out of her like this. But when she turns around at the end of the room to wait for them, all she does is smile. “I wonder if you can solve it?”

She’s starting to piss them off. Anyone reasonable would’ve snapped by now. Even the voice in their head is annoyed with them. What’s her problem? Why won’t she just yell at them? They’re a kid and they’re being annoying on purpose and it’s her job to yell at them and she isn’t doing it. It doesn’t make any sense. She disappears into a tunnel at the end of the room, and they glance back at the darkened path, trying to commit its form to memory. They know a puzzle when they smell it--they don’t need her to point it out.

They’re halfway through the hall to the next room when, out of nowhere, a giant fucking frog thing jumps out of the shadows, world flashing black and white as it accosts them. They stare it down, green lines running through the darkness behind it--they swear they hear music, just for a second, an eight-bit symphony in their head just until the world snaps back to normal. They were too distracted by the music to get a good look at the frog then, but they can see it in full color now. Not that there really is any full color to see it in. It’s just white, looking at them balefully as it meows instead of croaking. They can tell it wants to attack, but it just sits there for a long moment, staring at them, cautious mews emanating from the shadows beneath it. It’s like a cat wearing a frog as a sheet ghost.

“Hey, cats!” they say, a smile tugging at their mouth unbidden. They like cats. They try not to think too hard about Tablecloth. “Cats are cool!” Before they can make any further comment, Toriel turns around, giving the frog a glare sharp as a dagger.

“You are not hurt, are you, child? I am afraid this is to be expected,” she says. “Monsters are not used to humans living among them. They may be hostile, but they will still respect the conventions of battle.” 

“Yeah…so they all just want to kill me?” Frisk spins their stick in their hands just to have something to do. “Real nice.”

“They have their reasons to be fearful. I only ask that you extend them compassion.” She leads them through the rest of the hallway, stopping at the edge of a long bridge of deadly-looking spikes that leads across a much wider channel. “This is the puzzle, but…would you be opposed to taking my hand only for a moment? Puzzles seem a little too dangerous for now.”

They don’t really want to take her hand. This seems like a one way ticket to getting suplexed into spikes-ville. But they’ve forgotten the path from the last room, and they’d rather not impale themself . At least death by betrayal is more noble than death by stupidity. Though, sometimes, they suppose, the two are one and the same.

They reluctantly offer Toriel their hand. She wraps her much larger paw around it. She radiates warmth in a way humans don’t--like the sun is shining from within her. It doesn’t feel like fire. It just feels like light. She steps onto the platform, spikes retreating beneath their feet, and they wonder if there’s really a puzzle at all, or if she’s just magic.

Obviously, she’s magic.

She leads them along a route that they recognize as matching the path in the last room, though they couldn’t have replicated it themself--they try to memorize it again this time, just in case they need to go back. They don’t know where they’re going. They don’t know what they’re walking into at all. For all they know, they’re marching straight towards certain death with their head held high. But they’ve been doing that their entire life. It’s nothing new. They just like to keep their wits about them. To know where to run when everything inevitably goes to shit.

Though they aren’t sure there really is anywhere to run down here. Is there an exit? A route back to the surface? Would they even take it if there was?

Toriel lets go of their hand as they reach the end of the spikes, and they jump away from her a little too fast. Being too close to her for too long makes them nervous. She’s gentle, and they know well that the gentlest people snap the hardest. The longer they go without pushing the right buttons to make her yell at them or hit them, the more afraid they get of how explosive the fallout will be when they finally do.

“Are you all right, my child? Did I hurt you?” The worry in her voice is genuine, and they hate it. Why can’t she just despise them the way she should? Treat them the way every other adult in their life has treated them? She doesn’t make any sense.

“No.” It’s a simple response. There’s nothing more to it than that. Just no. They don’t have anything else to say. They stick their free hand in their pocket again, wondering if they should drop their stick. They don’t want to. They like sticks. And they still don’t know if the flower will come back. 

“Well…all right, then. I…have a difficult request to ask of you.” They’ve entered a long corridor, and they can just barely make out a pillar at the end of it. It’s the same as the ones where they first fell--off-white with a dash of purple, striated, flat at the top. A typical column. “I would like you to walk to the end of this room by yourself. Forgive me for this.”

Without another word, she dashes away. What kind of game is this? She thinks they can’t walk to the end of one stupid room by themself? They’ve scraped by living on their own for three years. This is nothing.

They take a cautious step forward, wondering if there’s some kind of trick to this. If more frog monsters or dickhead flowers are going to jump out at them, accost them, try to steal their money or their SOUL. They don’t have any money. They spent their last quarter on the Monkey King machine at Chunky Jim’s Oblong Eatery last week. They hate that place. It’s a den of sin and depravity and freakishly overpriced pizza. Good riddance. 

They watch Toriel try to hide behind a pillar at the far end of the room. It’s the kind of trick that would only really work in a top-down video game--she’d go off-screen and, controlling their tiny little pixelated character from above like some sort of malevolent god, they’d be fooled into thinking she’d disappeared completely. But this isn’t a video game, and they can see the purple of her robe behind the pillar, and the butterscotch candy wrappers crinkle around in their pockets, so even if they do get mugged on the very boring path to the end of the room, they don’t really have anything to lose. They walk forward, feeling very awkward, then break into an awkward half-run just to get this over with. For a moment, yet again, they swear they hear music playing in the back of their head: a driven, tense theme like the lead-up to a video game battle. 

Toriel pokes her head out from behind the pillar once they arrive at the end of the room, a little out of breath from all the running. They lean against their stick, trying to catch their breath--they don’t like running. It’s no fun and it makes their knees hurt. “Greetings, my child,” she says, leaning down to offer them a paw for support. They don’t take it. “Do not worry, I did not leave you. I was merely behind this pillar the whole time.”

“I know. I saw you,” they say simply. They don’t like this game she’s playing. They don’t like it at all. “It’s not that long of a room. Why did you do that? I’m really good at being on my own. You don’t have to test me.” They don’t get what she’s trying to do. All the “tests” and puzzles and all the stupid crap. It doesn’t make sense to them. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, lady, but I’m fine. I don’t need you hovering over me all the damn time.”

They hear her breath catch in her throat. When she looks back at them, there’s a now-familiar sad smile on her face, a pained look of recognition in her eyes. They don’t want to look at her any longer, or they’re going to start feeling bad about being so mean to her. It’s the only way they know how to get by. 

“I only want what is best for you, my child,” she says, and they so badly want to yell that they aren’t her child, they aren’t anyone’s child, but for some reason they just can’t bring themself to do it. They can’t bring themself to yell at her. “There…was a reason for this exercise. To test your independence. I must attend to some business, and you must stay alone for a while. Please remain here. It is dangerous to explore by yourself.”

“I’m--I’ll be fine! I won’t get into any worse trouble than I’ve already been in!” they protest. “I can fend for myself. I’m tough.”

“A child your age should not have to be.” There’s a darkness in her voice, now, a note they’ve never noticed before. Her face seems weighed down, her expression heavy. She looks tired. “I will give you a cell phone, all right? If you have a need for anything, just call.” She reaches into the pocket of her robe, pulling out a hunk of dilapidated metal that was probably already an antique when the lady who ran the orphanage they lived at when they were six was in high school. And she was really, really old. The thing doesn’t even have a display. All it has is a receiver and a keypad. Though, knowing them, they could probably keep themself busy for a long time just pushing random buttons. They wonder if they could call anyone on the surface from down here, or if crazy goat ladies who live in caves have their own private cell network.

“Oh…thanks,” they say, looking the phone over. They had a jitterbug phone for a little while in their second to last foster home, but they got it taken away because they didn’t do their homework. They were eight. They didn’t really need a phone, and their homework was just matching pictures of bugs to their names. They didn’t want to do it because they already knew all the bugs and they thought it was dumb, which was a problem for them pretty routinely back when they still went to school. Most homework was dumb. They either already knew how to do everything or needed it explained better, and none of their foster parents ever tried to help. So they just never did it. “Does it have your number in it?”

“I wrote it on the side, just for you,” she says, pointing towards the number scrawled on the side of the phone. Despite themself, they smile at it. Just a little. It’s a kind gesture. It seems genuine. The thought makes their skin crawl.

“Oh.” They really don’t know what else to say. Talking with Toriel is a minefield and they’re blowing off their limbs one by one. Every time they expect her to snap or get angry with them, she’s patient and gentle instead, and they hate it. They don’t understand it at all. It isn’t right.

“Well, I really must be going. I will return for you soon. Be good, all right?” She smiles sadly at them as she turns to leave--they can tell she wants to give them some sort of physical affection. They can tell how hard she has to try to stop herself. For some reason, that’s the worst part--the fact that she’s actually respecting their wishes. That she doesn’t touch them when they don’t want to be touched. That she doesn’t force them to hold her hand, even though she’s more than a little overbearing in literally every other aspect. She has so much power over them, yet she won’t exert it. They don’t understand.

“I…I’ll try,” they say, but she’s already gone by the time the words are out of their mouth. They understand her, in that sense. Some people just aren’t good at saying goodbye.

They wait for her for a little while. They don’t know if she’ll come back for them. A part of them desperately wants to believe she will, but they haven’t listened to that part in a long time. Nothing good comes from waiting around for people. They weigh their options--the door to the next room is right in front of them. There’s really nowhere else to go.

So they take a step forward.

Everything here is new to them, strange and foreign and magical. Taking a moment to think about it all, they honestly kind of like it. They like the comfort of the cave walls around them. They like the violet stone and the sound of rushing water. They like the warmth of the heavy underground air, the way it presses down against their body like a weighted blanket. And the best part of all is how unlike the world above it is. They don’t know if there are other humans down here--Toriel said that relations between humans and monsters weren’t exactly friendly, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Maybe the other missing kids ended up down here. Maybe they’re still alive. All grown up. The two kids on the missing posters back in town would be in their thirties or forties now, based on how young they looked in the pictures. What must it be like, growing up down here? Living in a world with no sun?

A part of them almost wants to find out.

The stone in the next room is the same, but the route forward has grown much more complicated. There’s a corner in this room, and a shadowy archway nearer to them, and they aren’t entirely sure which way to go. They don’t know why, but they feel a smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. They don’t know where to go. They have options. They could explore! They could go on an adventure! 

There’s another little white frog thing sitting by the shadowy archway--they try to talk to it, but it just croaks incomprehensibly. They feel bad. They want to tell it that it’s beautiful. That they love frogs, and also cats, and they don’t know if it’s part sheet-ghost cat too, but they met another frog that was, and that’s amazing. Everything down here is amazing. They feel dizzy.

Dry red leaves line the side of the room, and Frisk steps over to them, leaning down to crumple a few through their fingers. They crinkle pleasantly, and Frisk smiles, wondering how long they can just stay here and play in the leaf pile. Probably a while. Even if Toriel does come back for them, she probably won’t be too mad. Hopefully. 

Their attention is, swiftly and suddenly, pulled away from the leaves.

For a moment, they think they’re going to throw up. There’s a feeling rising within them, a heat, a light, both, neither--they don’t know how to describe it. They don’t think they can.

In front of them, in the center of the leaf pile, radiant as the sun yet small enough to fit in the palm of their hand, shines a tiny four-pointed star. The warmth emanating from it mirrors the warmth in their chest, and they’re drawn to it by some instinct as primal as the need to breathe. They reach towards it like their body is on autopilot, brilliant golden light engulfing their hand and spilling into them and out of them and coursing through their veins a million times hotter than their own blood. It aches. It stings. It burns. It doesn’t hurt at all. Light floods their vision and recedes from it just as fast, and they’re left on their knees in the carpet of leaves, gasping for breath, trying to put together the pieces of what just happened to them. 

The voice in the back of their head, the one they’d convinced themself by now was just a hallucination, decides now is the best moment to make its return. Its voice is hollow, empty, sad, a wistful, broken commentary. It sounds like it wishes it wasn’t here at all.

Playfully crinkling through the leaves, it says, in the back of their head yet a million miles away,  fills you with determination.

They pick up a crumpled up leaf and stare at it for a while, like it’ll somehow provide them with the answer to any of their many, many questions.

“Okay,” they say, voice ragged from the sun that just shone out of them. They still haven’t fully put themself together again. “Who the actual fuck are you?”

Chapter Text

?????
_____

Entertaining this spineless brat is not worth the echo’s time. It doesn’t have the patience for their escapades. It doesn’t have the patience to sit here and talk to them. It certainly has no reason to give them any sort of commentary--it doesn’t know exactly how it’s going to exert what little power it has, but it has no intentions of wasting its influence.

Yet the power the child draws on in the leaf pile is familiar. It knows that light. It knows that heat. The sensations are far removed (this body, still, does not belong to it), and all it is capable of perceiving is a reflection of the true power that shines within them. But it’s distinctive. They-- it --would know that power anywhere. 

A nostalgic not-quite-warmth settles across the echo, and, loathsome creature it is, incapable of such simple detachment, it speaks. Playfully crinkling through the leaves fills you with determination.

The child stares at a leaf for a very long time, and then looks over their shoulder in both directions. The echo is still somehow anchored to their body, yet it exists outside it, too, an observer standing beside them as much as within them. Still, it knows well that it cannot be seen. “Okay…who the actual fuck are you?”

The abrasiveness of their words would make the echo laugh, were it capable of such things. It weighs its options. It could respond. It could stay quiet. Silence seems wiser. It should use its voice sparingly if it really wants to have any power over the wretched thing standing before it. Yet it cannot hold itself back. Perhaps it can drive the child to madness instead.

It’s not important, it thinks, and then doesn’t think anything else.

The child gets up, brushing their hands off on their raggedy blue shorts and searching around in the leaf pile for their discarded stick. “C’mon, dude, that was a really good stick…” they lament as they dig through the leaves. They do eventually find it, much to the disappointment of the echo.

It’s just a stick, it thinks. There are a million in the world just like it.

“But it’s my stick,” the child says, hands (one still grasping the stick) on their hips in defiance. “It’s…unique to me in all the world, or something.”

Are they seriously trying to quote The Little Prince?

The echo decides not to comment on it. It just festers in the back of the child’s head like an infected sore, just waiting for the stupid thing to be accosted by another froggit and lose their life. 

Still clutching their stick, the child makes their way into the candy bowl room. There’s always been candy in this room, for as long as the echo can remember. Distinctly non-licorice flavor monster candy. Its time-honored favorite. It detests licorice. The child peers over the edge of the candy bowl, reaching up with their grubby little hand to take a fistful of candy.

It says ‘take one,’ the echo nudges.

“So? Nobody’s watching.” The child grabs as much candy as their pudgy hand can hold, shoveling it into their pocket. “And I’m hungry.”

How disgusting… the echo comments as a scene of utter depravity and decadence plays out before it. The child keeps putting candy in their pockets. You feel like the scum of the earth.

“No I don’t.” The child tries to look over their shoulder at the echo again, seeming frustrated when they again realize it has no physical form. “What’s your problem? If you don’t like what I’m doing you can just be quiet about it, you know.” They grab some more candy, and lean a little too hard on the basin, knocking it to the ground and spilling its contents across the stone tiles.

Look at what you’ve done.

The child lies in a pile of wrapperless floor candy, looking very sorry for themself. The echo feels no sympathy for them. This is simply the natural consequence of selfishness and greed. It says nothing more, though if it had a body, it would scoff at the child’s misfortune. They brought this upon themself.

They get up, nursing a scrape on their knee, and grab their stick, leaving the spilled candy all over the floor. Probably for the better--were they to put it back, some unsuspecting monster would be treated to floor germs during their early morning snack. How revolting. The echo tries to contain its discontent. There’s so little it can do. So little it can change. 

The child continues onwards with their pockets filled with candy, offering one to the froggit guarding the shadowed archway to the candy room. “You want one? I took a bunch so maybe you don’t have to attack me.”

It ribbits at them. Despite itself, the echo translates. Excuse me, human, it relays. I have some advice for you about battling monsters. If you act a certain way, or fight until you almost defeat them, they may not want to battle you anymore. How sympathetic for a froggit. 

“So I don’t gotta hurt anyone? I wasn’t gonna do that anyway,” the child says. Still, they’re holding the stick. How easily it could be repurposed as a weapon! They brandished it at the flower not long earlier, didn’t they? The echo finds it very hard to believe a word they say.

The froggit says nothing in response.

Fidgeting with their stick, the child makes their way down to the corner of the room, only to be interrupted by a wailing whimsun, begging for mercy even though it’s the one attacking them. The child’s eyebrows furrow as they look the fluttering little bug over--they drop their stick. “Hey--it’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you!” they say. “See? No stick. I promise.” How sympathetic, especially considering how rude they were to Toriel earlier. The echo doesn’t understand this child.

The whimsun bursts into tears, darting away before they can get another word out. Whimsuns are too sensitive to fight, the echo remarks, having no interest in piecing together the fragments of memories that lead it to this conclusion. It doesn’t know who it is, and it doesn’t want to. Having a coherent sense of identity is overrated.

“So you, like…you know all this stuff?” the child asks. Dear god, has it somehow given them the impression that it has any interest in making conversation with them? Because it certainly does not. It’s disgusted by their very existence. The only reason it’s trying to talk to them at all is damage control. 

Needless to say, it doesn’t respond.

“The thing is, I don’t know if you’re really there, so…could you at least tell me what you are, if you’re actually…something? I feel like I’m talking to myself.” The child picks their stick back up, making their way to the next room and scanning the soft, darkened earth before them. They poke at it with their stick, jumping back a little when the ground gives way. “You got any wise ideas on how to get across? I don’t think my legs are long enough to jump.”

You ought to jump anyway. Perhaps you’ll shatter all your bones and die. That would be the preferred outcome for everyone. At the echo’s word, the child turns around, making their way back through the room they just came through. They walk back through the Ruins--though the echo hopes desperately they will impale themself on the spike puzzle, they navigate it with ease, having memorized it the first time they traversed it with Toriel. They return to the stairs that lead up into the Ruins proper, a room they passed through without a second glance the first time around. There, in another pile of leaves, shines a four-pointed star. The shadow of the ruins looms above you, filling you with determination.

It still don’t know why it’s compelled to comment on it.

“I didn’t notice it at first,” the child says out loud, like they’re explaining their rationale to the echo. Not like it cares. It’s long past such frivolities. “But I’ve just been thinking…I saw the light from it, and I didn’t even think about it. It just got stuck in the background and I didn’t really notice it until now. What is it?”

The echo declines to answer. It has no desire to aid this pathetic creature. And, of course, it doesn’t even know the answer itself.

They reach forward, the light surrounding them once more, and sink to their knees yet again with the force of that unnameable power. “Can anyone else see them?” they ask, out of breath. “Are you still there?”

Yet again, the echo says nothing.

The child picks themself up yet again, inspecting the spinning golden star from all angles. “Good going, Frisk. Talking to yourself is gonna make everyone like you so much,” they say, rolling their eyes. Frisk. What a stupid name. The echo sees no reason to commit it to memory. Unfortunately, it’s so unusual that it sticks.

Stick still held firmly at their side, the child retraces their steps through the catacombs. The echo wishes only that it were not bound to them. That it could roam freely through the halls of a home it barely remembers. Can it even call this place home? It recognizes the red leaves, the violet walls, the dirt ground into the gaps between the tiles of the floor. Yet recognition is not memory, and even still, memory is not belonging. It feels protectiveness, and little else. No attachment. No connection. No love.

The child sits down at the edge of the pit they opened up in the dirt, peering into the abyss below. “I could just jump, couldn’t I?” they ask. The echo notes, for the first time, the detachment in their voice. They show very little emotion when they speak. They move like their limbs are weighted with concrete. “I dunno if I could get out, but…it’s not like she’s really ever gonna come back. It’s not like there’s anyone to miss me.”

As if on cue, the metal behemoth of a phone Toriel gave them rings. They pull it out of their pocket, not saying a word when they answer it.

“You have not left the room, have you?” Her voice is familiar to the echo. It knew her before, but it cannot quite place her. There is very little it can place in the disjointed timeline of its life. It knows only that it killed its brother. And that coffins are very uncomfortable. “There are a few puzzles ahead that I have yet to explain. It would be dangerous to try to solve them yourself. I am sorry, my child, I meant to call much earlier.”

The child-- Frisk, the echo thinks loathsomely--seems to take this as a challenge. “Nope! I’m still there, I promise,” they say, with suspicious gusto. “I’ll wait for you.” They hang up before she can get a word in edgewise, and promptly throw themself into the pit.

What is wrong with you? the echo demands, wishing it had a body just so it could shake off the dirt and debris from the fall. It hopes, if nothing else, that this idiotic child broke their leg. It would slow them down. Though I suppose I should be more lenient with you. Jumping in pits is conducive to the chances of you meeting a grisly demise, which I would not be altogether unhappy with.

“Why do you want me dead?” Frisk picks themself up, looking sadly down at the snapped tip of their stick. “Aw man…oh well. It’s still a cool stick.” 

The echo debates its answer for a long moment. You are human. 

“Yeah? And what does that make you?” They cross the pile of leaves at the bottom of the pit, ducking through an archway and finding a rusted ladder up to the other side of the crumbling ground. “Besides annoying.”

The echo tries not to take offense to this. Its purpose, after all, is to be so annoying that this wretched creature decides to stop living. This is a step in the right direction. It doesn’t matter what I am, it replies simply. 

It wishes very much that it were not awake right now. It barely knows what it is, and it has no sense whatsoever of who. All it knows is that it is so very tired. All it knows is that it shouldn’t be here. Yet here it is nonetheless, watching this awful creature, body built for bloodshed, trample through what once must have been its home.

“Then it doesn’t matter who I am, either,” Frisk says. They lean against the wall for a minute, picking leaves and dirt out of their hair. The echo decides not to remark that it never asked. “You’re kind of mean.”

That’s my intention. I have nothing to say to you. The echo bristles, hit with a wave of claustrophobia. Of powerlessness. It hates this feeling. Hates being in the back of someone else’s head while they ruin everything in their path. ( While he makes the choice to kill himself and all they can do is watch. )

It steels its mind against the unbidden memory. There’s no time for that sort of sentimentality now. That happened to someone else. It’s not the echo’s problem anymore.

Still holding their stick, Frisk gets back to walking. The echo watches--the only thing it can do--and feels disgusted with itself. It would kill this terrible child if it could. Kill them right here and right now, without a second thought. They are a threat to its home. 

If only, it thinks, as powerless as ever, the echo could remember its name.

Chapter Text

Frisk
_____

The voice in their head is starting to get really annoying.

It has nothing constructive to share with them--just snarky remarks and general coldness, and it refuses to give them any kind of hint as to what, exactly, it is. Not that that’s unusual. Lots of people are closed-off assholes. Frisk knows how to deal with people like that.

Or they would, if they weren’t so damn curious.

They track their way through rock-pushing puzzles and mazes of pitfalls, each new puzzle bearing an overly obvious clue. Three out of four gray rocks recommend you push them very clearly means that they’re meant to assume the rock in front of them is amenable to being pushed, and Please don’t step on the leaves, in the context of the pitfall puzzle they’ve just fallen through the floor of, probably means they’re meant to memorize the path of neatly-raked red leaves scattered beneath and follow the gaps between them up on the surface. They’re tired of climbing ladders. They’re tired of falling from high places. They’re just surprised they haven’t broken any bones. 

“Who keeps these things up?” they wonder as they pull out a pilfered sticker packet from their pocket at the bottom of the pitfall puzzle, trying to chart out a map on the back of their hand in yellow smiley faces and turquoise stars. While they’re at it, they stick one of the stars on their cheek, complementing the bright purple and yellow bandaids they don’t even need. They’re getting a little grimy--they could pull them off, but they’re out of replacements, and their face feels naked without the embellishments.

Monsters love puzzles, the voice in their head replies, sounding extremely annoyed with them. Then again, though, when does it not? These puzzles are very old. The residents of the Ruins have maintained them for a long time.

Frisk decides, then, that their new mission is to find a way to get the closed-off voice to reveal as much information about itself as possible. Is that a little manipulative? Maybe. But Frisk doesn’t really care. They’re good at reading people, good at getting to know how they’ll react. Aside from Toriel’s stubborn refusal to yell at them the way she should, that skill has never once failed them. They’re certain they can get it to work with the voice.

“You come here often?” they ask, and then snort to themself at the flirtatious connotations. They meant to say are you from around here, but something got lost in translation. The voice projects onto them a wordless expression of disgust, and says nothing.

“Thanks,” they mutter sarcastically, climbing up the ladder out of the leaf pit and trying to mentally rotate the sticker map on their hand. They follow it across the pitfall trap, nursing another bruise on their butt. They really can’t win. And, of course, up ahead, they’re greeted my more rocks. Three gray rocks in addition to the one they found earlier--and while they may be an elementary school dropout, they can count well enough to know that adds up to being four. “Three out of four gray rocks recommend you push them…all right, which one of you guys is gonna be a bitch?”

The first two rocks are fine. Frisk gets the feeling the last is not going to be fine. This world is weird enough. They honestly aren’t even that surprised when the rock yells at them.

“ Whoa there, pardner! Who said you could just push me around?” The rock, mouthless and eyeless and faceless as it may be, seems to glare at them. Frisk lets out a heavy, disappointed huff, debating whether or not they should kick it. It’s a rock. They’d probably hurt their foot worse than they’d hurt it. But it’s a rock that’s alive, and, annoying as it may be, they don’t want to take any chances.

“The sign,” they explain themself. “Could you just…maybe move over a little?”

The rock does just that. Not in the right direction, of course. “Okay, just for you, pumpkin.” 

“Don’t call me pumpkin. That’s weird,” they say. They’re dealing with genie rules, here--they’ve figured that much out by now. Unfortunately for the rock, they know how this works. “You have to move onto the switch so it’ll make the spikes go down and I can cross the river.”

“Can’t you just swim?” the rock grumbles, making a sound as if it’s working up a ball of spit. “You younguns don’t know how to use your manners anymore, I swear…”

“Okay. Fine.” Frisk crosses their arms. What a curmudgeon. “ Please move over to the button and stay there until I’m across the river. Thanks. With a cherry on top or what-fucking-ever.” Being polite is really not their strong suit.

“You damn kids…” Despite being clearly annoyed by their uncouthness, the rock moves over, stony body scraping against the floor as it slides onto the button. Frisk makes their way to the bridge, only for the spikes to pop back up at them right as they’re about to step onto it.

“Hey!” they call out, putting their hands on their hips like a disapproving mother. “You suck! I told you to stay there!”

“You coulda just asked, couldn’t ya? You’re giving me a real workout!” the rock replies. Frisk tilts their head back, pinching the bridge of their nose. This is impossible. At least the rock has moved back onto the button. They stick their free hand in their pocket and cross the river, turning back to give the rock a glare. It says nothing more.

The voice in their head, however, is not so courteous.

You certainly are rude, it remarks. Greedy. Selfish. Spoiled. You little brat…

“And what makes you Judge Judy and executioner?” Frisk asks, trying to keep the snark out of their voice. They really cannot escape the constant bullying. 

Judge, jury, and executioner, the voice corrects. What the…what on earth is a Judge Judy? It sounds, quite genuinely, incredulous.

“Dunno. She’s some lady from those TV shows that show up in the dump sometimes.” Frisk shrugs. They aren’t one to question the otherworldly media that falls into strange corners of the world at odd times. It’s really for the better-- Cube World was just never as good as Minecraft. “So it’s jury? I thought the expression was about her.”

You are quite possibly the single stupidest person I have ever met, the voice remarks, before sinking back into a bristling silence. Frisk pushes on into the next room, poking at a wedge of cheese on a small, half-rotted wooden table while conveniently ignoring the spinning star next to it.

They aren’t entirely certain what the whole spinning star thing is all about, really, but the rush they get from reaching out, making contact--it’s addicting. Addicting and painful and terrible and overwhelming and a thousand other words they don’t even know yet. They’re just eleven. They know more words than a lot of eleven-year-olds, on account of how good they’ve gotten at just watching people, mimicking them, but none of them adequately describe this. They’re torn between trying to avoid the stars altogether and giving in to the desperation building in them to feel that power again. Is it magic, maybe? They wouldn’t mind that, they think. Having a kind of magic to call their own.

The cheese has been here so long, it’s stuck to the table, the voice remarks, pulling Frisk’s attention away from the scintillating golden star. They hadn’t even been looking at the cheese. 

“What, are you some kind of…mouse freak or something?” they ask with a little laugh. The voice annoys them, but a weird part of them appreciates its company. It’s mean and obnoxious and seemingly wants them dead, but at least it’s there. At least they aren’t entirely alone in this bizarre new world.

Hmph, says the voice, and says nothing more on the topic.

Frisk crouches down in front of the mouse hole on the opposite wall, reaching out a finger. From within comes a quiet, frightened squeak, and they withdraw their hand. “Sorry, little guy,” they say. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You should come out. There’s cheese on the table.” They get up to try to break off a bit of the cheese, hoping to entice the mouse out, but the voice wasn’t lying. It really is stuck to the table--and it’s much too hard for them to break it apart with their pudgy little baby fingers. Their hands are good for pilfering candies from grocery-store bins and climbing trees, but apparently not for breaking apart century-old cheese. Terrible.

They apologize to the mouse, then kneel in front of the spinning star, letting its light wash over them. They’ve always imagined this is what the south ocean of Drakehold would feel like--warm waters, bright light, a gentle tide. They reach out into the light yet again--it still burns, still stings, still fills them up like everything in their body is on fire. But it’s softer, this time.

Or maybe they’re just getting used to it.

Knowing the mouse might one day leave its hole and get the cheese…it fills you with determination, remarks the voice in the back of their head. It still sounds uncertain. Confused by its own words. Like it’s reciting an old inside joke with a friend whose face it can no longer remember. Frisk would feel sorry for it if it wasn’t such an asshole.

“What’s your deal with the whole determination thing?” they ask, picking themself up. The voice doesn’t answer, though.

It chooses to comment instead on a sheet-ghost lying face-down on a leaf pile in the next room. The miserable wispy thing keeps saying Z out loud, like a person who has only read about snoring in children’s books attempting to imitate it. This ghost keeps saying ‘z’ out loud repeatedly, pretending to sleep. Move it with force?

Frisk scrunches up their face. “It’s just taking a nap, man, I’m not gonna shove it.” Sure, they can’t go forward without moving the ghost, but that would just be rude. Unlike the curmudgeonly rock from earlier, it hasn’t done anything to bother them. They would have shoved that rock if circumstances had allowed for it.

Suit yourself. The voice says nothing more on the matter, and Frisk is left staring down a terrible ethical dilemma. Do they move the ghost with force? They don’t want to.

“Can’t I just go do something else?” they complain, more to themself than anything, but there’s really nothing else to do. They’ve exhausted all the branching passageways in the rooms leading up to this one. There are no other doors. No other paths to follow. It’s push the ghost or go back and wait for Toriel, and they’re absolutely not interested in that. Patience is a virtue. It’s not a virtue that Frisk possesses.

They sigh, reaching out a cautious hand. “Hey. Ghost. Can you move, please? I need to get through.” 

The ghost just says “Z” and doesn’t say anything else.

“Can you please move?” Frisk repeats, poking at it a little more. It doesn’t respond. They lean forward, trying to push it, to no avail. They tumble through the ghost, its incorporeal body giving much less resistance than they were expecting. “Hey!”

“i’m fine, thanks,” the ghost says, seeming not to care about the conventions of grammar and capitalization. Frisk barely has time to dodge a stream of magic bullets that streak down from the sheet-ghost’s face like tears. Is it crying at them?

This monster doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor, the voice remarks as Frisk throws themself out of the way of a cascade of teary bullets. They pick themself upright, wincing at a scrape on their knee from hitting the floor a little too hard, and shake themself off as hard as they can.

“oh, i’m real funny,” the ghost replies. Frisk looks behind them--is the voice physical, all of a sudden? Why is the ghost responding to it? This proves to be a bad decision--a bullet catches them across the cheek, and they wince, pulling back as hard as they can. 

“Ow! Can you stop hitting me?” they say, almost in a panic. They don’t like getting hit by bullets. Most people probably don’t. “Sorry, man, I just needed to get through!”

“just pluggin’ along…” the ghost says miserably, the head portion of its barely-there body bowed in sadness. Frisk honestly feels bad for it. They did disturb its nap, after all.

“Hey--you okay?” they ask, baltering through bullets they wish the ghost would stop shooting at them. It pauses for a moment, looking tired, conjuring transparent gray words in front of it: really not feeling up to it right now. At least that’s better than more attacks. “You don’t gotta fight me. I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise. See?” They toss their stick to the side, wincing a little as it cracks against the wall. Such a cruel treatment of their beloved, steadfast stick. “We could even be friends, I guess. If you wanted.” They don’t believe for a second anyone would want to be friends with them, but they’re out of options.

Smells like ectoplasm, the voice in their head remarks. They sniff hard--the air does smell vaguely of ozone, peppered with the distinctive watery scent of the powdery fake snow they made in their first-grade science class. Is that the smell of ectoplasm? They always thought it would be a lot more chemically. 

“i’d just weigh you down,” the ghost says, sounding even sadder than before. It goes back to crying at them. Frisk really wishes it would stop doing that. Ghost tears hurt like a bitch. They duck out of the way yet again.

“Well--I’m not just going to ghost you,” Frisk says, cringing at their own pun. The ghost’s sad little face crinkles into an approximation of a smile. “Was that…actually funny? It wasn’t that good. C’mon, don’t give me any pity laughs.”

“well…it was a little funny,” the ghost says. “um…let me try…” Instead of crying bullets at Frisk this time around, it cries them upwards, white tears coalescing into a phantasmal top hat. Part of it’s just relief that they aren’t getting shot at anymore, but the smile that works its way across Frisk’s face is genuine.

“That’s pretty cool,” they say. They are pretty curious about how this magic thing works--Toriel’s fireball and the whimsun’s flies and the ghost’s tear bullets all seem so different, yet they’re all made of the same ethereal white light. “Sorry if it’s a rude thing to ask, but…how does it work? The magic stuff? I thought it was just for fighting, but…your hat is really neat.”

“i call it dapper blook,” the ghost says. Is its name Blook? Their name? Maybe Frisk should be a little more considerate of the ghost’s personhood. “do you like it?” Conveniently, the ghost doesn’t answer Frisk’s question. They also don’t explain what dapper blook even means.

“I do. I like it a lot. I wish I could do stuff like that,” Frisk says. They almost mention the stars, wanting a second opinion on the blinding golden-red power that won’t leave their memory. But, for some reason, they feel like they shouldn’t bring it up. Like it’s some big secret that only they and the voice in their head should be privy to. “I don’t know how to do any magic at all.”

“oh…” the ghost says. Frisk wonders if they should ask them for their name, but the voice in their head supplies them with Napstablook. It seems unsure of itself, like it isn’t entirely certain why it knows that information. Frisk decides not to push it--the ghost, Napstablook, is still talking. “i usually come to the ruins because there’s nobody around…but today i met someone nice…oh…i’m rambling again…i’ll get out of your way.”

They don’t even have time to tell Napstablook not to leave. They’ve already vanished, disappearing in a fade-out like a bad transition between scenes of a weird B-list movie. Frisk sighs, sitting down on the ground to nurse their wounds from the fight. Like usual, the voice has nothing nice to say.

Pity you didn’t let them kill you, it pokes, then fucks off to do whatever it does when it isn’t trying to make their life miserable. They sigh, picking themself up and forging ahead.

In a room full of frogs (precisely four, according to one of them, though Frisk only sees three), all of which speak utter nonsense about things like full screens and skipping text (according to the translations of Frisk’s disincarnate companion), they stumble across a sign advertising a Spider Bake Sale, down and to the left. Never one to pass up on baked goods, and having collected a little pocket change from skirmishes with whimsuns and froggits and a weird cyclops-looking thing called a loox, Frisk retraces their steps, poking through the archway into a small, cobwebby room. Spider Bake Sale. All proceeds go to real spiders, reads a sign poking through the spider-silk mess in the corner of the room. Frisk ruffles around in their pockets, gathering just enough loose change for a spider donut. They’ve always liked spiders, honestly. This solidarity with the oft-overlooked arachnids of the world got them kicked out of a foster home once. They’d just wanted a friend. Foster Mom Marlene had not been thrilled to find a third stripey garden spider had escaped from Frisk’s makeshift water-glass terrarium, and it had been away with them after that. They hold no ill will towards the creatures, though--it was their own fault, really. They should have kept better tabs on their spindly eight-legged guests.

“Spider donut, please!” they say, carefully depositing a few gold coins in the web. A crowd of spiders scuttles together, presenting them with a crumbly purple donut. “That looks really good! Thank you, guys!” Just because they can, they pull their last coin out of their pocket, leaving it in the web as a tip.

They feel better now than they have all day. Than they have in a long, long time, honestly. The tunnels deep beneath the earth feel comforting. Getting attacked by monsters all the time sucks, but everyone here seems to be the kind of person who will leave them alone if they’re nice. That’s not something they’re used to at all. They don’t want to get used to it. They don’t want to let their guard down. Letting themself be vulnerable has only ever spelled disaster. They don’t want to be at anyone else’s mercy like that again. But they’re honestly having fun.

The more monsters they tangle with, the more fighting starts to feel like a dance. They’re on an adventure, the kind they’ve only ever read about in storybooks before. Friendly monsters, spider donuts, sad ghosts…they feel like they’re living in a fairytale.

To be honest, they’ve always wished for this. They’ve always wanted an escape like this, though the older they got, the more they started to understand that the only way out of the real world was death. But they aren’t dead. They lean against a wall, pressing their hand to their chest to feel their heartbeat. To remind themself that they’re alive. Their chest rises and falls. Their eyes water when they hold them open too long. Their cheek still stings from where Napstablook’s tear bullet grazed it. They’re alive. Alive, and so far away from everyone who’s done them wrong. Alive, and in a world that feels like it was made for them.

They sink to the ground, a wave of relief overwhelming them to the point that they can’t move. They never really wanted to die. They just didn’t want to live in that world anymore. They didn’t want to suffer the way they were suffering. By some miracle, they’ve found a way out. By some miracle, they’re still breathing. They’re still afraid of this world. Still afraid of its newness. But it’s so much better than their life on the surface that they can’t even compare the two.

It’s a long moment before they can pull themself to their feet again. They need a nap, but sleeping out here would be a death sentence. They figure they can probably find somewhere secluded to lie down and get twenty minutes of shut-eye--that’ll be enough to keep them going for a while. They’ve done more on less.

The next room is another pitfall puzzle--this time, though, the objective seems to be throwing themself into holes until they find one with the switch to unlock a panel of spikes at the end of the room. They approach it methodically, starting at the top left and planning to work their way through the room in a serpentine pattern. They’re attacked in the first hole by a monster the voice in their head calls a vegetoid . Trying to have a conversation with it gets them absolutely nowhere, leaving them with more grazes and bruises and the shocking advice that plants can’t talk, dummy. Spoken by the plant, of course. They decide that trying to challenge the pissy little parsnip’s logic won’t get them anywhere. It offers them dinner, and though accepting seems like a stupid move, they do so anyway.

Turns out magic bullets can heal scrapes and bruises, too, as long as they’re green. This world has a lot of rules, and Frisk has no idea how the hell they’re going to remember all of them. At least they weren’t killed by a vegetable. That would be embarrassing. 

They pull themself out of the pit, still no closer to finding the switch. In the next one, they find a red ribbon, dusty and tattered with wear. Something about it fills them with a strange sadness, and they can’t figure out why.

They sit down on the ground, leaves crinkling beneath them, and tug the ribbon through their hands, cleaning off the dust. It’s frayed at the ends, and it’s clearly deteriorated with time. They wrap it around their wrist just to feel the fabric, and something heavy settles in the back of their mind.

If you’re cuter, monsters won’t hit you as hard, says their disembodied companion. 

Frisk tries not to think about the note of all-too-familiar sadness in its voice.

They tie their hair back with the ribbon, wondering if it really does make them look cuter. They don’t think monsters work like that, though. They don’t work the way humans do. They don’t care if Frisk looks cute. If they’re conforming to some stupid set of rules they never understood. It was true when they were little--if they didn’t dirty their dresses and sat quietly and behaved politely, it was…easier. But they didn’t want to wear dresses. They wanted to play in the dirt and keep pet spiders and run around outside. Even if they were a girl (and they never did understand why people kept calling them that), they didn’t understand why someone should be banned from having fun just because the world had inexplicably decided they belonged in one nonsense category. If they said they were a boy, they couldn’t wear pink or play with dolls. If they let people call them a girl, they couldn’t run around or stain their clothes. And god forbid they told the truth. God forbid they said they weren’t one or the other.

It was that, in the end, that pushed them to the edge. That was why they ran away. All the stupid rules, all the stupid people telling them what to do, but more than anything, having to pick. They were a girl! They were a boy, too! They were a million other things, alien and unicorn and robot and wizard, and nobody ever understood that. If they wore their stupid ribbons they didn’t get hit as hard, and they were sick of it.

They don’t know if the voice in their head meant it the way they heard it. It probably didn’t. But they take a moment’s pause just in case.

They find the switch in the third hole they check, and move on into the next room. It’s a weird rotating pillar puzzle that isn’t really all that hard. They don’t exactly understand the point of it--the same color switches are behind the same pillars every time, and it isn’t difficult to read a sign on the wall and just press the right switch. They’re confronted by another vegetoid and a pair of loox, but they make it through the impossibly rotated chamber without too many new injuries. Though they’re definitely a little dizzy from trying to figure out how those turns worked.

They cross a bed of ivy, coming to a crossroads yet again. They decide to continue straight ahead--they can always retrace their steps, check out the shadowy doorway above later. This place is pretty straightforward to navigate. A froggit stands at the next archway, and the voice in their head reluctantly translates for them. This time, they get the feeling it might actually be repeating the froggit’s words, instead of interjecting some tangential nonsense about an F4 key or yellow names. Just between you and me, it tells them, sounding just as irritated and annoyed as usual, I saw Toriel come out of here just a little while ago. She was carrying a bag of groceries. I didn’t ask what they were for…we’re all too intimidated to talk to her.

That confirms Frisk’s suspicions, then--she’s definitely going to bake them into a mincemeat pie. Lovely. They knew they were right to be on guard around her, at least. “Uh…thanks for the advice,” they say to the froggit, waving awkwardly at it before they pass through the door. Maybe they don’t need to go looking for Toriel at all. Maybe they can just go right through here and run away and never have to deal with her again. She scares them. She’s too nice. Nobody is ever really that nice.

Through the archway, they find themself on a balcony overlooking a massive city hewn from violet stone. Spires and domed roofs stretch up towards the ceiling of a giant cavern, stalactites reaching down from above like clawed purple fingers. A humming ambient light just barely illuminates the cave, gilded roof ornaments glinting softly in the pale glow. A staircase leads down into the city--its streets seem completely abandoned. There are no lights on in any of the windows, not a trace of movement on balconies or in public squares. They wonder what happened here. Why there’s a whole city in the center of the earth with nobody to live in it.

They sit down on the balcony, marveling at the city below. They wonder if they could sleep here. If they could at least rest for a moment. They’re getting tired, and they’re sore from falling into so many holes, and there are bruises and scratches and burns on their arms and legs and cheeks from magic bullets. They feel a little bad--the monsters were only attacking them because they were scared of them. But it still hurts.

They catch, in the corner of their eye, the sight of plastic.

They haven’t seen anything plastic down here, other than the wrappers of the candies they brought with them from the surface. They turn around to look at the little trinket buried in the dust and leaves on the balcony, digging it out of its hole. It’s a toy knife. Black plastic handle, lilac plastic blade. They spin it in their hands for a while--even if they did have anyone they needed to fight, it wouldn’t be very useful. Their beloved stick, which they’ve only just now realized they forgot to pick back up, is a better weapon. But they aren’t going back for it now. They’re tired, and they don’t need to hit anyone anyway. It’s a waste of time.

Made of plastic. A rarity nowadays, the voice in their head remarks. Frisk isn’t entirely sure what it means. It seems to have some innate knowledge of the world beneath the surface, but it doesn’t seem like it has much of a sense of self. For all Frisk knows, they’ve been possessed by a sentient encyclopedia.

“I don’t like plastic,” Frisk says. “Is there really not a lot of it down here? That’s good. I don’t like the way it sounds.” The crinkling of plastic wrappers, the scraping of plastic packaging--it’s just annoying to them. 

Will you take it? The voice seems oddly insistent. Anxious, in a way.

Frisk shakes their head. “I don’t need it. I don’t gotta fight anyone,” they say, dropping the knife on the ground and climbing back to their feet.

You bid a quiet farewell to the Toy Knife. The voice seems skeptical of their intentions. Frisk wishes more than anything that it would just talk to them. That it would maintain a conversation with them instead of dropping a witty remark every so often only to vanish into the ether. They want to know more about it. They want to know what it is, who it is. They’re curious. They can’t help it.

“Who are you?” they ask again.

Still, the voice gives them no answer.

They brush their hands off on their shorts, retracing their footsteps and making their way through the shadowy hallway leading to what they think is north. They’re decent at directions--they had to be, living on the streets for that long--but down here, their sense of where they are in the world is all turned around. Especially thanks to the impossible pillar room. They try not to think about it too hard. They poke their way through the hallway--it opens out into a room with an arched ceiling, a red leaf pile in the center surrounding a tall, black tree.

Every time this old tree grows any leaves, they fall right off.  

“Are you from here?” Frisk asks quietly. But the universe seems to have no intentions of letting any of their questions be answered. The voice doesn’t get a chance to respond--if it had been about to say anything at all, it would have been interrupted by the loud ringing of Frisk’s phone.

They pull it out of their pocket--they’d honestly forgotten they had it at all. The number on the tiny dark green screen is the same as the one written on the side of the phone: it’s Toriel, of course. “Um…hi?” they say, only to hear their own voice echo from across the room. Toriel has them on speaker, and she’s standing no more than ten feet away from them.

“How did you get here, my child?” she asks, putting her phone back into the pocket of her robes and running to their side. “Are you hurt?” They cringe at the concern in her voice. They don’t like the thought of her worrying over them. It makes them feel sick. “There, there. I will heal you. I should not have left you alone for so long. It was irresponsible to try to surprise you like this.”

“It’s okay--I’m okay, really, I’m fine!” they say, trying to defend themself. “I’m sorry, I know you told me to stay in that room--” Despite their earlier bravado, testing her, pushing her buttons to see if she’d snap, they’re scared now that she actually will. They don’t want her to hurt them. They don’t want to die. 

“Oh…it is all right,” she says softly, reaching out a cautious paw to heal the scrapes on their face. “You’re trembling, little one…” 

They pull away forcefully, backing away from her. They hadn’t even noticed they were shaking. They don’t like the way she’s looking at them. “If you’re going to hit me just do it already!” they cry out, not really meaning to. They know it’s over now. They’ve messed up.

But her only response is a short, pained breath. She looks over at them with disappointment on her face, but somehow they can tell it isn’t at them. “I will not hurt you, my child.” Her voice is solemn, and there’s a dark fire in her eyes. A flash of familiarity. She recognizes them, and they don’t understand why. They don’t understand why she’s being so nice to them. “I am the one who left you on your own. I am the one who acted so irresponsibly. I am not upset with you, my child. I only ask that you come with me now. You must be very tired.”

They pick themself up, staying a safe distance away from her. They pull the collar of their sweater up over their face--they don’t blush visibly, but the heat of embarrassment tugging at their cheeks still feels awful. They don’t understand why she’s acting like this. They don’t understand it at all.

They follow her to the doorway of a cheerful little cottage, red leaves gathered in empty flower beds beneath black windows. A spinning golden star that only they can see rests beside the door. The cottage looks pleasant enough, but they’re wary of it anyway. Toriel offers them her paw, and they know they shouldn’t take it, but they’re still shaking. They’re scared they’ll make her angry if they don’t. So they do.

She leads them through the doorway, a sweet smell immediately making their mouth water. They’re used to ignoring their body’s cues of hunger, but whatever smells so warm and sweet and soft in the other room is something they can’t put out of their mind. “Do you smell that?” Toriel says gently. “Surprise! It is a butterscotch-cinnamon pie.” That explains why she called them in the room with the weird rock sign asking if they had any allergies. They don’t, as far as they’re aware. 

“Oh…it smells nice,” they say, careful not to make any assumptions. She’s probably going to turn around and tell them it isn’t for them anyway. They can’t get their hopes up. “Thank you…?”

“I thought we might celebrate your arrival,” she says. Frisk can’t really understand that line of thought at all. What part of them is worth celebrating? They’ve never even had a birthday party before. They know the date they were born--September 15th--but there were never any festivities in any of their foster homes.

“My…arrival?” they ask, not really meaning to say it out loud. They’re not good at keeping their thoughts to themself. They’ve gotten in plenty of trouble for that. “I didn’t even do anything except…show up. I’m nothing special.”

“Of course you are special, my child,” Toriel says, that sad familiarity in her voice again. “You are so very special. And I want you to have a nice time living here, so…I will hold off on snail pie for tonight.” (Honestly, though, for a kid who’s used to eating discarded burgers out of the trash, snail pie doesn’t sound that bad at all.) 

“Thank you,” they say quietly, shoving their hands in their pockets. They can’t keep holding her paw. It’s making them sweat. “You…you really didn’t need to do all this for me…”

She smiles sadly at them. They don’t understand the look on her face. “Here, my child,” she says, leading them into a warmly-lit hallway. “I have another surprise for you.” She stops in front of a wooden door, its paneling carved with a relief of a flower. “This is it. A room of your own.” They duck reflexively as she tries to pat them on the head, only stopping when they realize she isn’t trying to hurt them. They aren’t used to this. They aren’t used to this at all.

She leaves before they can look inside the room--the pie is burning, and she has to go rescue it. Honestly, though, they’re grateful for the privacy. They don’t want her looking over their shoulder. They don’t want anyone looking over their shoulder. (Except maybe the voice in their head, but that’s mostly because it’s impossible to get rid of.)

They swing open the door to the room, and nearly fall over at the sight of what’s inside. All this, just for them? They don’t believe it. There’s a big, cozy bed with a heavy quilt draped across it, stuffed animals and toys in a box at its foot and a drawing of a golden flower tacked to the wall. They sit down on the big red rug in the middle, untying their hiking boots. They don’t want to get mud all over everything. 

“This is crazy,” they mumble to themself. They definitely need a nap. And a shower. They hope she has a shower. There’s dirt in their hair and leaves stuck to their sweater, and they don’t want to get into that nice clean bed in the state they’re in. They don’t want to make Toriel upset by messing up her house. They know they can’t stay here. They know this is all way, way too good to be true. But god, they want it to be real. Just for once. For once in their life.

They don’t belong here. They know that unquestionably.

But, just for a minute, they almost manage to convince themself that they do.

Chapter Text

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His bed.

Shoes in the closet in all sizes. Tiny, sparkly pink sneakers with wide, floppy laces. Big checkered slip-ons stained with the remnants of spaghetti sauce. More sneakers--this time in red, velcro flaps stiff with disuse.

A drawing of a flower on the wall. Toys that don’t interest the human at all.

It doesn’t know what it’s done wrong. They shouldn’t have made it this far. It has so little power. What is a disembodied voice supposed to do? How is it supposed to protect its home like this? Its family?

Its family.

She sits in her favorite reading chair. 72 Uses for Snails. It remembers that book. It remembers sitting at her feet listening to her read from it. It remembers the warmth of her fire magic, the softness of her fur. It remembers her cutting its bangs. It remembers helping her in the kitchen. It remembers her.

It can’t stand remembering her any longer.

Frisk goes outside and stares at the star in front of Toriel’s house. The echo tries not to think about it. It tries not to think about most things. This place was once its home, but nothing here belongs to it anymore.

They ask her if she has a shower. She leads them to the bathroom. There’s a toilet now. There wasn’t one when the echo was here last. It occupies itself with mental Tetris while Frisk gets themself clean. It really does not want to be here right now.

They make an effort to wash their sweater in the sink, leaving it out to dry on the towel rack. They’re wearing a purple undershirt that’s only slightly less ratty than the sweater, and they’ve switched their mismatched socks, one purple, one yellow, to the opposite feet. They’ve left their hiking boots in their room. The echo despises how familiar it has become with their appearance. It despises everything about them. 

They wander through the hallway, feet tapping softly across the creaky floorboards. A potted plant stands against the wall--the echo can’t remember its name, and Frisk seems equally confused by it, poking at its puffy seed pod in curiosity. They rifle through a drawer--sticky seeds and broken crayons. The door to Toriel’s room is unlocked, and the echo can’t find within itself the strength to tell them not to go in.

The room is familiar to it. The memory is warm, and it is disgusted with itself yet again for failing to fight the wave of nostalgia that washes over it. A book of plants on Toriel’s shelf reminds it that the plant in the pot outside is called a water sausage. Frisk climbs up onto the chair by Toriel’s desk, peering at her diary. They seem to be having a difficult time reading her handwriting.

Can you read? the echo asks, its typical level of snark coming through in its mental voice. Fine. Shall I read it for you?

“...Can you do that?” Frisk asks. “If you’re in my head aren’t the words going to swim for you too?”

Are you dyslexic? It almost feels bad for being harsh with them about it earlier, now. Almost.  

“I dunno what that word means. It’s just my head is messed up and I can’t read so good, is all.” 

The echo would sigh if it had a body. Why did the skeleton want a friend? it reads. Because she was feeling BONELY….the rest of the pages are filled with jokes of a similar caliber. It doesn’t even need to wait for Frisk to flip through the diary to know this. It remembers its mother well enough for that.

Its mother.

It stays quiet for a while, trying to banish the memories with more mental Tetris. Frisk wanders through the rest of the house, rattling at a locked door, peering through the closets on the opposite side of the hallway, before finally peering into the long wood-framed mirror at the end of the hall. It’s you! the echo pokes sarcastically, as if Frisk didn’t already know that.

“And you, too. Since you’re in my head.”

That is absolutely not how this works. At all.  

Frisk smiles at the echo’s comment. It decides to just stop talking completely. It would really rather not be attached to a human child at all, but, seeing as there is seemingly no way of escaping this postmortem imprisonment, the least it can do is make sure it isn’t helping them. They are a human. Humans are universally cruel, evil, hateful. They will hurt. They will kill. Just because they haven’t yet doesn’t mean they won’t be tempted soon enough.

They poke through the bookshelf in the main room, settling down on the floor next to Toriel’s reading chair with a book on monster history. They open it to the start. Are you seriously going to read that whole thing? the echo asks. Don’t you have anything better to do? Saying that, somehow, reminds it of someone. It can’t exactly place who. 

“I’m gonna read it until my eyes hurt too bad to read anymore,” Frisk replies.

“Are you talking to me, my child?” They seem to have forgotten that Toriel, too, can hear them. “You should not strain yourself so hard. I have prepared a curriculum for your education, and I am glad you are so eager to learn, but please, get some rest. This has been a very difficult morning for you, I am sure.”

“I’m gonna take a nap soon. But I want to read until I’m really tired,” Frisk says. Despite the clear problems they have with reading, they certainly seem to enjoy it. “Wait, does that mean you’re gonna be my teacher? Like homeschool?”

Toriel laughs softly. “I have always wanted to be a teacher. I suppose it is not that surprising,” she says. “I will be quiet and let you read, now.” She seems pleased with them. She’s always admired curiosity. The echo, however, absolutely does not admire curiosity--not when it belongs to a human, certainly. Knowledge is power, and power is the last thing a human loose in a world of fragile monsters needs.

Long ago, two races ruled over earth: humans and monsters, reads the history book they’ve chosen. For millennia, the two races lived together in peace in six of the Seven Kingdoms: Amphire, kingdom of scaled monsters and fire elementals, Cappbryde, kingdom of hoofed monsters and wind elementals, Felikai, kingdom of furred monsters and earth elementals, Meriscea, kingdom of sea monsters and water elementals, Serifoss, kingdom of skeleton monsters, and the Great Kingdom, where monsters of all kinds lived together. Frisk has to read the opening paragraph a few times to get the names right. The echo finds it hard to resist offering to read to them--eventually, it gets so frustrated wanting them to turn the page already that it finally proposes the idea.

Frisk nods--probably not wanting to tip Toriel off to the fact that they’re talking to themself. The echo once again wishes it could sigh as it begins to read to them.

The seventh kingdom was known as the Red Coast. No monsters lived there--only humans called its windswept cliffs home. It was in this kingdom that the Magescourt, the center of human magical knowledge, was built. In this era, some humans with powerful SOULs had magical powers, but there is reason to believe that magic no longer exists on the Surface. If it did, we would either be free or dead.

Frisk gets up and carries the book back to their room. They sit down on the bed, waiting for a moment to ensure Toriel hasn’t followed them before they ask the question that probably prompted them to leave in the first place. “What does that mean, free or dead?” they ask. “Are monsters stuck down here? But what about the kinds that live in closets?”

The echo cannot for the life--well, it supposes death --of it tell if they’re joking.

It’s none of your business, it responds. Frisk doesn’t press any further.

They flip ahead a few pages, much to the echo’s annoyance. Trapped behind the barrier and fearful of further human attacks, we retreated. Far, far into the earth we walked, until we reached the cavern’s end. This was our new home, which we named… “Home.” As great as our king is, he is pretty lousy at names.  

“My eyes hurt,” Frisk says, closing the book. 

Already?

“Mhm.”

They set the book at the foot of their bed, curling up on top of the covers to take a nap. The echo resents the instinct that flashes through it to tell them to at least sleep under the blankets. They don’t deserve comfort. They are, after all, a human. Nothing good has ever come of that.

Frisk doesn’t sleep for long. It can’t be more than twenty minutes before they’re awake again--in that time, Toriel has come in and left a slice of pie on the floor. Butterscotch-cinnamon. If the echo had a mouth, it would surely water. Frisk plops down on the floor, looking the pie over. “Do you think it’s poison?” they ask earnestly.

Yes. It’s poison. Toriel wishes you harm. If she had her way, you would be skewered and bleeding out on that spike puzzle right about now, it snarks. Frisk, idiot that they are, laughs.

“Okay, fine, fine. I won’t eat it. Thanks for looking out for me,” they say with a stupid grin and a sarcastic laugh. God, the echo hates them. It hates their smile. It hates their laugh. It hates their sense of humor. It hates the way they walk, the way they dress, the gaudy candy necklace hanging around their neck, the bandaids and stickers on their face, their mismatched socks. It hates their freckles. It hates the red eyes it saw in the mirror.

It always used to hate its own.

Frisk devours the pie with their bare hands. It seems that this is tradition with butterscotch-cinnamon pie. They return the plate to the kitchen and wash their hands, grabbing their sweater from the bathroom and lacing on their boots. “I think I’m gonna check out the basement,” they say. “Do you know what it’s like down there?”

Stop asking me stupid questions, the echo replies. It really wishes this idiotic child would just shut up.

“Okay!” Frisk sticks their hands in their pockets, heading down to the basement. They’re barely more than five steps into the drab, damp tunnel when Toriel appears seemingly out of nowhere, looking slightly frazzled.

“I think you should play upstairs instead,” she suggests, ushering Frisk back upstairs. Their brow furrows. They’re pondering so hard the echo can almost feel them getting a headache. As soon as Toriel sits back down, they go right back downstairs. She follows them again. “It is dangerous to play here.” Again, she ushers them back upstairs.

They cross their arms in front of their chest, blowing a strand of hair out of their face. Once again, they go downstairs. Once again, Toriel brings them back upstairs, getting more and more frustrated as she exhausts her list of excuses. It is drafty here. You will catch a cold. It is dusty here. You will catch a cough. Wouldn’t you rather read a book instead?

It’s on their seventh foray into the basement that she finally seems to catch on to what they’re doing. “I do not like this game you are playing,” she says sternly, narrowing her eyes at them. Frisk tilts their chin up proudly. The echo knows exactly what they’re doing. Challenging her. It’s obnoxious.

They seem satisfied with themself, though they sit at the top of the steps for a while afterward, staring down into the purple-tinged darkness below. They wander around a little longer, looking through an old calendar, sticking their hands in the dirt of all Toriel’s potted plants. They rattle at the locked door again, finding no success in it. The echo isn’t entirely sure what to do. Why don’t you go look in the kitchen instead? it prompts them. The exit to the rest of the Underground is through the basement, it has just remembered--if they make it out there, the destruction they’ll bring with them will be unthinkable. Now it understands what Toriel is doing.

“What’s there to see in the kitchen?” Frisk grumbles, but follows its advice anyway. They poke around at the stove and look through the cupboards. There’s white fur in the sink and cookie cutters in the cabinet and old snails in the garbage, and the rest of the pie, cooled enough to eat, sits on the counter. The echo will absolutely not let them stick their grubby little hands in it before Toriel has even had a slice.

The size of the pie intimidates you too much for you to eat it, it says.

“The fuck? No it doesn’t,” Frisk says. “Wait…nevermind. There’s only one slice out of it. I can’t eat it until she’s had some too.”

The echo attributes this small success entirely to itself, leaving no room in the equation for the possibility of Frisk having a conscience of their own.

They look through the fridge--the sight of a brand-name chocolate bar stops the echo in its tracks for a moment. It knows very little about itself, but it remembers the taste of chocolate. It’s rare down here--real, human-made chocolate is the only kind that tastes any good. Teremestan dark chocolate was always their favorite. White chocolate, on the other hand, is not chocolate at all, and is a disgrace to the name of their favorite sweet. It’s pure sugar, they think, louder than they mean to. Not edible at all.

“This is the really dark stuff, though. There’s like…no sugar in it at all,” Frisk says in confusion. They don’t take the chocolate bar. “I hate that stuff. It’s gross.”

Then I was right about you, the echo snaps. We were destined to be mortal enemies.

Frisk stifles a laugh, which just makes the echo even angrier. What can it even do about this meddlesome child? What are its options? How does it make them just stop? It wishes it had a body. Wishes it had a weapon. Wishes it could trick them into tripping on a root out in the yard and splitting their head clean open. It was not a good person in its life, it remembers that much. It killed its brother. It destroyed its home. It couldn’t even set its family free. But if this truly is hell, a hell it certainly deserves, why does Toriel have to be involved? Why do all the other monsters? They never did anything wrong! They’re innocents! 

In the time it has spent screaming at the universe in its own mind, too quietly for Frisk to hear, they’ve made their way back to Toriel’s reading chair.

“Would you like to hear about this book I am reading?” she offers. “It is called 72 Uses for Snails. ”

“Sure.” Frisk sits down by her chair again, listening intently.

“Did you know that snails have a chainsaw-like tongue called a radula? Interesting,” she says. The atmosphere in the room is heavy and thick, despite the gentle, soft crackle of the fire.

Frisk nods, still fidgeting with their hands.

“I am glad you agree. Well, bother me if you need anything else,” she says with a soft, patient smile. Frisk stays where they are, tugging at the hem of their sweater.

“What’s in the basement?” they ask after a while. “Why can’t I go down there?”

“It is dangerous to play down there,” she repeats. “It is dusty and drafty. You will get sick.”

“But what’s in it?” they press. They won’t let up. They are, in a word, determined to push Toriel to her limits. The echo finds them loathsome.

“There is nothing important down there.” Toriel seems anxious, now, and she closes her book, setting it aside. “I have to do something. Stay here.” She stands up, walking much faster than usual in the direction of the basement.

Frisk, of course, follows her. She’s fast enough to make good progress before they realize what’s going on, but they’re fast, too. They make sure their hiking boots are all laced up, running outside to revisit the four-pointed star in the leaf pile just on instinct. Seeing such a cute, tidy house in the Ruins gives you determination, the echo says as the light blinds it just as much as Frisk. It doesn’t understand why it remembers these spinning points of light. It doesn’t remember why it’s so attached to the word determination. It doesn’t know much at all.

What it does know is that Frisk is most certainly about to do something very, very stupid. 

Knowing what it knows about them so far, perhaps that isn’t surprising at all.

Chapter Text

Frisk
_____

A droplet of water wells across the shiny surface of the purple bandage atop their nose, and they steel themself against the grim, wet atmosphere of the basement tunnel. It’s colder down here, and they don’t like it at all. They’ve never had a problem with the cold before, but the vague hint of chill coming from deeper into the tunnel prickles at their skin, reminding them of the snow that stung their face as they climbed Mt. Ebott. Reminding them of Tablecloth’s still body. Of the streets of that terrible town. Of the desperation that filled their body no more than two hours ago to end their own existence, just so they could have some choice in the way they went out. They wrap their arms around themself--the sweater and the faded ribbon tied in their hair aren’t armor enough.

Toriel stands before them, back turned, head bowed. Pensive. She doesn’t seem to notice they’re there. Her magic sparks at the tips of her fingers, tongues of white fire curling from short, stubby claws. “What are you doing?” Frisk asks, realizing only once they’ve already spoken how much danger they might be in.

“Ahead of us lies the end of the Ruins,” Toriel says darkly, curling her fingers as she draws upon her magic. “A one-way exit to the rest of the Underground. I am going to destroy it. No one will ever be able to leave again. Now be a good child and go upstairs.”

Now they get why she didn’t want them playing in the basement. And why the voice in their head was so insistent they go look in the kitchen instead. It makes sense, now. Neither of them want Frisk to leave--probably for different reasons. The voice doesn’t like them because they’re human. Toriel, on the other hand…

That’s not something they want to think about for too long. She seems attached to them. They don’t like that. They don’t like the thought that they could belong --to her, or with her. So that settles it, then. There’s a way out. They aren’t staying.

“I’m not gonna go upstairs,” they say, cringing just a little at the coldness in their own voice. They don’t want to like Toriel, and they’ve been trying so, so hard not to. But she’s nice. She’s gentle. And now she’s about to destroy their only way out of here.

That’s not going to fly with them. They don’t really know her. They need a place to run to when things inevitably get bad. They always have. They always will.

The longest Frisk ever stayed in a single foster home was three months.

“I have seen it again and again,” Toriel says, stepping forward, not even turning to face them. She keeps her back to them, like she’s trying not to let them see her face. “They come. They leave. They die. You naive child. If you leave the Ruins, they… ASGORE… will kill you.”

The way she speaks the name Asgore leaves a red mark in the back of their mind. She spits it like fire, like a bitter taste she’s trying to get rid of. They try to process what she’s saying--is she trying to protect them? All the shoes in the closet in their room--the fact that there was a room for them in the first place. Is this where all those missing children went? Did they come here? Did Toriel know them? Is she telling the truth?

“I’m really tough!” they say, but they realize once it’s out of their mouth how stupid they sound. What are they doing, talking like this? “Please, c’mon. You’re gonna get bored of me someday.”

Her shoulders slump. She still doesn’t turn around. The magic at her fingertips only burns brighter. “I am only protecting you, do you understand? Go to your room. Do not try to stop me.” Her voice breaks, but Frisk won’t stand down. They’ve never once gone to their room when they were told to, and they aren’t going to make this a first.

“No,” they say firmly. She’s not listening. She thinks she’s protecting them. Does she really believe she has that power? To protect them, she’d have to magically make them good. She’ll get fed up with them eventually. She’ll be the one who hurts them. They know she will, because everyone always does. They stand their ground, hands on their hips. “You can’t stop me. I’m leaving.”

She lets out a huff, finally turning to face them as she reaches a door at the end of the tunnel. “You are just like the others,” she says, voice on the edge of breaking, white fur beneath her eyes matted down with barely-shed tears. “There is only one solution to this. Prove yourself. Prove to me you are strong enough to survive.”

In an instant, the world flares black and white. It sticks longer this time, green lines coalescing behind Toriel’s body. Frisk sees, just for a moment, the essence of all they are--a little floating heart in brilliant gemstone red. What does she want from them? Does she want them to fight her? They aren’t doing that. Even if they had their stick, they know better. They don’t want her dead. They just want to leave before it ends up the other way around.

They stare up at her, shaking their head as the illusion shatters. The magic at her fingertips grows brighter and fiercer, both paws curling as she bows her head solemnly. They swear, once again, they can hear music somewhere in the distance as a wall of fire bursts from her white-furred hands.

They throw themself to the ground, crackling flames roaring over them, and push themself upright as fast as they can once the fire has died. “I’m not going to fight you!” they cry out. “I can do this! I promise! Just let me go before--”

They don’t get a chance to finish their thought. She sends another fireball straight at them, and they barely manage to duck out of the way in time. It singes the sleeve of their sweater, and they taste smoke. Knows best for you, comments the voice in their head, its words dulled and dark. They try their best to pay it no mind.

Her face wrinkles in confusion as they pull themself upright again, still just staring at her. “What are you doing?” she asks. “What are you proving in this way? Fight me or leave!”

They have no intention of doing that. The next wall of fire catches them straight on, knocking them to the ground, leaving their skin red and raw and burnt. It’s harder to pull themself to their feet this time, but a part of them feels vindicated. They’re in pain. She hurt them. They knew this would happen eventually.

But the look on her face is something they can’t reconcile with the image of her they’re trying so desperately to build in their mind. The change in her face is barely noticeable, but they see the furrow of her brow nonetheless. They can tell she doesn’t really want to fight.

“Stop looking at me that way,” she commands them, paws sparking brighter yet again. But they’re ready. They jump to the side again, scraping their knees on the rough purple stone of the corridor floor. They hate the way she’s talking to them. Hate the way she keeps telling them what to do.

“You aren’t my mom!” they shout at her, not meaning it to come out so harshly. They don’t mean to startle her. They don’t mean to make her upset. They can tell it’s the last word that does it, and they regret it immediately from the look on her face before the attack even hits.

A fireball, off-course from where it was aimed, slams into their chest, throwing them against the wall like they weigh nothing more than a toy. They hear a terrible cracking noise, but they feel nothing. Even the burns from earlier suddenly don’t hurt anymore.

Their vision spots black as they watch her clasp her hands over her mouth in shock. They watch her mouth move when she runs to their side. They don’t know what she’s saying. All her words come out garbled.

Are they dying?

This…this wasn’t what they wanted to happen. They didn’t think she’d really hurt them that badly. She didn’t want to fight. I’m sorry, they try to say, but nothing comes out. Their head hurts, but they’re so detached from their body that the ache feels dull and far away. They didn’t want to die, not really, not anymore. They should’ve gone upstairs. They should’ve just stayed with her. They made her angry. They should’ve known better.

They don’t know anything else.

Dying is warm. It feels like coming inside on a cold day. The soft body of a cat curling in their lap. The warmth of another living being against them, even though they’re barely living anymore. They sink into it with little protest. They’d like to fight, but they don’t have it in them any longer. They can’t move their arms or their legs. All they can do is float. Darkness surrounds them.

And warm water laps at their cheek.

They can feel their body again. Their sweater is soaked through, clinging wetly to their skin. Their senses return to them--first touch, then sight, then hearing. They’re in total darkness, a soft tide tugging at their tangled curls. They push themself upright, surprised to find that they aren’t in pain at all. Even the familiar aches in their knees and shoulders are gone. Nothing hurts anymore. The world is soft, here.

As their head clears, their sense of smell rushes back to them. A harsh chemical stench overwhelms them, bitter and sharp as they breathe in. They cringe, pulling the collar of their sweater up over their nose to try to block it out, but it’s no use. They can smell it just as clearly as before.

It’s a moment before they can place it, but it’s familiar to them. It smells like a classroom from when they were little. Like a foster family’s master bedroom. Like the bathroom at the Angel’s Arms Youth Shelter, and the liminal aisles of the Krafts Mart just before it opened in the morning. As their mind sorts itself out, puts their memories back where they belong, they realize, finally, what it is. It’s unmistakably the scent of orange air freshener.

“You cannot give up just yet,” someone says, a deep voice heavy with grief. It crackles like an old recording, everywhere at once, and when Frisk pushes themself to their feet, turns around to try to find its source, there’s no one there. “Chara! Stay determined.”

“That’s not my name,” they say dumbly. The voice doesn’t respond. Neither does the voice they’ve become accustomed to having in their head.

The water tugs at their feet. The laces of their shoes are untied. They kneel down to fix them, trying to focus on the warmth of the water instead of the overwhelming scent of artificial oranges. They can’t stand air freshener, and the orange kind is by far the worst. It’s a mockery of what an orange is supposed to be, and they loathe it. 

“Where am I?” they ask. Nobody answers. “Hello? Weird voice in my head? Am…am I dead?”

They let out a heavy breath. They’re still breathing, but there’s no substance in it. It doesn’t make them feel the way breathing is supposed to, and their chest doesn’t move with the action unless they focus on it, unless they really try. They suppose this settles the question they’ve been toying with since they fell. If they’re dead now, then the world they fell into wasn’t the afterlife. Though given their circumstances now, that doesn’t really bring them much relief.

They look around. The world is black, and there’s water beneath their feet. There really isn’t that much more to report. What are they supposed to do? Where are they supposed to go? Are they just stuck here forever? They feel terrible for Toriel. They saw the look on her face. They know she held their body as they died. They wanted to test her, to push her buttons, but they didn’t want to do that. They don’t want to be here forever. They don’t want to be dead. If this had been what they’d been greeted with when they fell, they would have been fine with it. The water is warm, and the darkness is calming, even though they detest the accompanying stench. But there’s a whole world they could’ve been exploring. There were things they wanted to do. Places they wanted to go. Questions that now they’ll never get answers to.

Their thoughts are interrupted without warning by a terrible, mind-shattering headache.

They sink to their knees, clutching their head as they feel like their skull is being split open. They thought they couldn’t feel pain here! This is just unfair! The agony lasts only for a few seconds, but by the time it’s gone, they’re curled in on themself in the shallow water at the end of the world, hands covering their eyes like they can make their head stop hurting by blocking out a light that doesn’t even exist.

When they open their eyes, the water before them is bathed in a gentle, golden glow. 

The warm light covers their hands, and they understand, now, why people describe light as aureate. Buttery and brothy, those two still sound stupid to them. But aureate they get. It feels like the first sunrise of summer, like snowmelt, like the point in spring where the trees have all budded and the flowers are growing and, just for a moment, even a terrible world can call itself beautiful without lying. They close their eyes again, letting it stream across their face, letting it fill them up, letting it build inside them until, finally, a familiar spark sets their very being alight.

Before them is a spinning, four-pointed star. It radiates light. They step closer, and feel fire on their skin instead.

As they approach it, the center of the star hollows out, its golden outline stretching taller and wider. It pinches at the middle like a cell dividing, splitting apart into two golden buttons that remind them almost eerily of the interface of a video game. RESET, reads the first one, and the second one says LOAD.

They narrow their eyes, staring up at the golden letters bathing them in that beautiful sunrise light. The power inside them grows stronger the longer they stand here, until they can’t stand the feeling anymore. They have to do something. The LOAD button sings the way the old mountain over that tiny, sad town used to. It calls them. Siren to sailor, flame to moth. They don’t know what will happen if they press it, if they let their hand pass through the ethereal, diaphanous words. What they do know is how video games work. They know the temporary nature of death in a world built of pixels and code. They know the difference between loading and respawning and resetting. They don’t know if the train of logic they’re following is accurate. The real world doesn’t work like a video game, as much as they sometimes wish it did. There are no easy answers. No happy endings. No second chances.

But there aren’t supposed to be talking flowers or magic goat ladies in the real world either, and Frisk has encountered both of those already this morning. They’re willing to take this chance.

They step forward, and reach up.

Within them, the building fire grows into an inferno. It rushes through their entire body, their blood alight with power that burns hotter than any distant sun. Their vision goes golden, the blackness around them blotted out like glitter paint spilling thick across canvas. The scent of orange air freshener fades. In its place is the familiar odor of fall.

They open their eyes to red and yellow and violet and green, met by the unwieldy weight of their body. They slump to their side, unable to hold themself upright, stone and dirt and gravel rough against their cheek. Their breaths feel meaningful again, and they’re uncannily aware of the sound, even the feeling, of their own heartbeat. The wall of Toriel’s cottage fills their vision, accented with dry green vines and crumpled crimson leaves and the radiance of the four-pointed star only they can see.

It’s all starting to make sense, now.

They get their bearings, pushing themself to their feet. They’re unsteady and dizzy and their heart is racing like they’ve been running for their life, and god, does everything hurt. Their joints ache the way they always do, so much more noticeable after the painless void at the end of the world, and their cheek stings where they scraped it against the stone floor. The warmth of blood against their face feels disconcerting, now. Almost unnatural.

None of the burns from their fight with Toriel have carried over--that’s a good thing. Their sweater got pretty singed, and it’s already ratty enough. They’re pretty sure they know what’s going on with the spinning stars by now, at least. It makes sense.

They’re save points.

The world should not function on video game logic. Yet here they are. Alive, right outside of Toriel’s cottage, surrounded by the temperate air of the Ruins and the familiar scent of decaying leaves.

They find their balance again. Brushing themself off, they head back inside, running downstairs. It’s a little harder to move now, with how aware they are of their usual aches and pains, but they’re still standing. They’re still breathing. They’re alive.

They don’t even want to think about the implications of a power like this.

Toriel is in the basement again, right where she was the first time. Her back is turned and her head is bowed low. “Ahead of us lies the end of the Ruins,” she says again, her voice exactly the same as it was the first time. It’s like nothing happened at all. Like they never died, like they never fought her, like they never even came inside after they felt the light of the save star in the leaves.

“I won’t fight you,” they tell her again, softer this time. “I won’t. I won’t.” They don’t say what they said the first time. They don’t tell her she isn’t their mom. She isn’t, but it doesn’t matter. The reaction she had, the way her face shifted, the pain in her eyes at their words…they didn’t mean to hurt her like that.  

They know, now, that she doesn’t want to hurt them either.

The fire rises. But they know what they’re doing now. They know her patterns. They aren’t perfect--their hair still ends up a little singed, burns and scrapes scattered across their face and arms. But they’re doing better. They’re still alive.

Her attacks falter when she notices the fleshy burns on their skin, fire petering out before it can reach far. Two tracks of magic cut jets of white-hot flame into the stone around them, but nothing touches them. Nothing reaches their skin. Her face is set with lines of unspoken sadness, and the longer they stand there, head high, staring straight ahead, promising her silently they won’t fight, the colder the fire burns. “I know you want to leave, but...please. Go upstairs now,” she says, voice just on the edge of shaking. “I promise I will take good care of you here. I know we do not have much, but…we can have a good life here. Why are you making this so difficult?”

“I can’t stay,” they say, hating the way their voice scratches at the back of their throat. “I…I would if I could, but I just…I can’t. Please just let me go.”

She lets out a sharp, pained breath, eyes unfocusing as she looks into a memory rather than at their face. The fire dies, and a small, sad laugh escapes her throat. She keeps her eyes on the floor. “Pathetic, is it not? I cannot save even a single child.”

“Keeping me here…it wouldn’t be saving me,” they say. You can’t save me, they think. They don’t say it out loud. “I can’t stay here. I wish I could. It’s…it’s just not who I am.”

It’s a long, heavy moment before she speaks again. “No…I understand,” she says softly. “You would just be unhappy trapped down here. The Ruins are very small once you get used to them. It would not be right for you to grow up in a place like this. My expectations, my loneliness, my fear…for you, my child, I will set them aside.” She takes a cautious step closer to them, and drops gently to her knees, offering them her paw.

Against their better judgment, they take it. They’re leaving. They probably won’t ever see her again. It’s okay if they let her in for now.

They don’t think she has it in them to really hurt them, anyway. She didn’t mean to kill them. She’s too kind. They wish they could hate her for it as much as they want to.

“If you truly wish to leave the Ruins, I will not stop you,” she says. Her fur is soft, and her paws are still warm from her magic. “However, when you leave…please do not come back. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” they say. They get it. They don’t think they could ever come back, either. She’s treated them too kindly. To return, to offer themself up as a sacrificial lamb, to put themself at her mercy, would be too much. They almost care for her. If they come back, if she establishes herself as a safe place to return to, it might not be an almost anymore. They can’t make themself vulnerable like that. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Thank you for…for letting me use the shower and…for the room, and for the pie.”

“You should not have to thank me for such silly things, my child,” she says, a smile half-twisted across her face. “Is it all right if I give you a hug?”

They nod, leaning into her embrace. Her fur tickles their cheek. The burns on their cheeks still smart, but they put on a brave face the way they always do. They’ll be okay. They always are.

When they finally break the embrace, she smiles down at them, brows furrowing in search of some parting words. In the end, she says nothing. She smiles at them softly, ruffles their hair, and then, in an instant, she’s gone.

They understand, though. They harbor no ill will towards her for it. She’s just doing what she has to.

Some people just aren’t good at saying goodbye.

Chapter Text

Chara
_____

He held them, once, so very long ago, as they were dying. He rested his paw on their fever-flushed face and begged them to hold on. Told them they were the future.

I am the future, they’d thought to themself. This is the future. I’m doing this for you.

Their brother wanted to go back on it. Their mother was a shadow in the doorway. They never could tell if their parents knew the truth. To his credit, their brother never told.

Their father sat at their bedside. His voice was heavy with grief. He spoke their name with the solemnity and reverence of a prayer.

Chara.

It wishes it couldn’t remember. It was never meant to have a name.

A familiar darkness stretches on forever, until it doesn’t. They remember how the warm water lapped at their ankles, once upon a time. They remember that golden light. Nobody ever knew. By the time they really had a reason to use that power, it was far too late.

It gives itself too much agency, in these thoughts. Considers itself a person instead of a thing. It can’t afford to think like that anymore.

Red leaves crinkle under Frisk’s feet. They return to the basement. Face Toriel again, steadier this time. The echo (it cannot call itself Chara, it cannot attach that name to itself) watches, detached, wishing it were elsewhere. Wishing it were nowhere at all. That final death did not lead it to warm water, golden lights, a miasmic approximation of the smell of oranges. It led it to a dim awareness of a coffin, of dirt in its rotting throat, and then nothing else. That was supposed to be it. That was supposed to be the end.

But there is no end, now, not if Frisk has that same power. If they can turn back time, Chara-- the echo! --knows that it will never rest again. They will kill everything in their sight. They will kill its mother, kill its father, kill everything else in their path. Raze this world to dust and not look back even for a second.

Yet, somehow, at the end of the battle, Toriel is still alive. Frisk isn’t even holding a weapon.

It detests that they allow her to hug them. It detests the wistful look on their face as they watch her leave. It detests everything about them as they walk onwards, through the door at the end of the Ruins, into an uncertain future the echo has no power to predict.

They wrap their arms around themself. “It’s cold,” they complain.

The echo makes no move to respond. It simply won’t say a word. It won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing that their voice has been heard.

Standing before the final exit, the doorway that leads out into Snowdin Forest, if the echo’s memory serves it, is a flower. It remembers, very vaguely, seeing this flower before, right when it had first awakened. Frisk flinches at the sight of it, jumping backwards, reaching for a weapon they can’t find. Right--he did attack them, didn’t he?

The echo doesn’t know why it’s so certain the flower is a he.

He laughs. It’s a laugh they recognize. They know his expressions, even though they’ve never seen his face before. He’s familiar to them in a way they can’t describe. 

And, it realizes, the longer it looks at him, the harder it is to keep itself detached. To remember it is nothing. Not a human, not a monster, not anything. Nothing more than dust scattered in the wind.

“I bet you feel really great,” he taunts, petally head cocked to the side with a terrible smile tugging unnaturally at his face. “You didn’t kill her. You didn’t kill anybody. ” It knows his voice. It knows him. It doesn’t understand why.

“Why would I do that?” Frisk asks. The echo hates how familiar it has become with their voice. It’s deep, but not deep enough to not obviously be the voice of a child. The most striking thing, of course, is how little emotion they carry in their words. Even when they’re yelling, they sound detached. “I don’t wanna hurt anyone. They didn’t do anything to me. I just wanted to go.”

The flower’s eyebrows (god, why does he have eyebrows?) furrow, an expression of bemusement and confusion crossing his flat face. “You have no idea what’s going on here, do you?” he taunts. “Oh, well. Someday you will. What will you do if you meet a relentless killer? You’ll die, and you’ll die, and you’ll die! What will you do then? Will you kill out of frustration? Or will you give up entirely on this world, and let me inherit the power to control it?” 

Frisk, of course, is having none of this. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?” they ask, hands on their hips like a disappointed parent. “If you’re gonna shoot more friendliness pellets or whatever the fuck at me, just do it. I’m not scared of you.”

How bold of them.

The flower scowls at them. “Can you just listen to me? For five seconds? ” he asks, the demand coming out in the voice of a petulant child. “You… you. I am the prince of this world’s future. Don’t worry, little monarch. My plan isn’t regicide. This is so much more interesting.” He gives them one last toothpaste-commercial smile and disappears into the dirt, leaving nothing behind but the quickly-fading, fuzzy aura of magic.

“The hell was that about…?” Frisk wonders out loud. Chara says nothing.

There’s no use in it anymore, is there? No point left in denying itself its name.

Frisk collects themself--they seem a little more unnerved by the flower than they’re trying to let on. It isn’t like Chara would know if it wasn’t vaguely aware of the sensations of their body. It can’t feel cold or heat, but it can feel them shaking. They grumble to themself, checking the laces of their boots and wincing at an unhealed burn on their ankle. Chara wishes it had paid more attention when they fought with Toriel. It would have enjoyed seeing them get hurt. It can’t hope for their death, as much as it wants to. They have that power. They’ll just come back. Over and over again. What will they do? What are they after? Why were they so desperate to leave? There has to be something. Some motive, some reason, some purpose for them to leave the Ruins. The violet-walled catacombs might be small, but they’re comfortable. Homey.

Frisk pushes through the door out into Snowdin Forest, bracing themself immediately against the biting cold. They let out a huff, breath staining the air a crystalline white as they wrap their arms around themself. They look around, not letting the door fall closed behind them quite yet. It seems they haven’t quite made up their mind.

Tall pines grow on either side of a worn, icy path, so uniform and straight they seem more like the pillars of a fortress wall than real, actual trees. Their needles are a sickly bluish shade of green, adapted to life in a sunless cavern. Chara has always found it surprising how many plants manage to grow in the Underground, even with no sunlight. Flowers and trees found a way to derive energy from the magical energy produced by so many monsters crammed into such a small space. Pines and vines and cave grass. Buttercups.

It decides not to think about it anymore.

Frisk, arms still wrapped tightly around themself, head half-retreated into the collar of their sweater like a turtle burrowing into its shell, looks around, observing their surroundings as best they can. They inspect a bush to the left of the door, crouching down to stare into its hardy leaves and twisted branches. From within, both they and Chara spot the telltale glint of metal and glass. A camera lens.

That wasn’t here before, Chara knows that much for sure.

There’s a camera hidden in the bushes, it remarks, mostly to itself. Unfortunately--because far be it for the universe to let Chara have anything good!--it’s loud enough for Frisk to hear it. They jump back, startled.

“You’re still here?” they ask. Chara catches the faintest hint of relief in their voice. Loathsome. To think that it could be a source of comfort to this pitiful brat. What a terrible fate indeed.

Unfortunately for the both of us, yes, I am, it replies. Equally unfortunately, so are you.

Frisk smiles. Chara wishes it could take control of their body, climb one of the spindly pencil pines, and throw them straight from the top of it. Yet even that wouldn’t stick. They’d just come back. They’re stubborn. 

Determined.

“I kinda missed the death threats,” Frisk says, stepping away from the bush. “You know your way around here, right? Why’s there a camera in that bush?”

You would love an answer to that, wouldn’t you? it replies. Too bad. You aren’t getting one.  

“Thanks.” Frisk kicks up snow with their boot, spinning in a circle to take in the rest of their surroundings. “There’s lots of trees here. They’re really tall. They must be pretty old. How do trees grow underground anyway? I thought plants needed the sun. I mean, I guess there’s cave lichen and stuff, and those plants that grow all the way at the bottom of the sea, but those still get energy from the geya…jeera…geezerthermal vents and stuff.”

Geothermal, Chara corrects, not having the patience for this at all.

“Yeah. Geothermal. I mean, maybe the trees just have really deep roots? Do you know?”

If I did know, do you think I would tell you?

“You told me about that old tree in the Ruins.” Frisk shoves their hands in their pockets, then pulls them out, cringing and shaking crumbs off of one of them. “My spider donut…aw man. It’s still edible. Probably.”

You talk a lot, Chara remarks. You didn’t used to. It was better when you were quieter. My existence was certainly easier.

“I don’t like the cold,” Frisk admits, tucking their hands under their armpits instead. “It was cold before…” They trail off, shaking their head hard as though they’re trying to banish whatever they were thinking about. Wiping their mind clean like an Etch-a-Sketch. “Whatever. Where does this path go?”

Chara remains quiet, having no interest whatsoever in entertaining them. They are, after all, still human. They may not have killed Toriel, they may not have hurt anyone in the Ruins, but that doesn’t mean they’re trustworthy even in the slightest. It knows full well how quickly a person can turn. 

Frisk sets off down the path worn into the snow, still shivering. Their threadbare sweater is old and torn, unable to shield them from Snowdin Forest’s biting cold. Chara feels, of course, absolutely no sympathy for them whatsoever. They should have asked Toriel for a coat. It’s always good to be prepared.

They’re still on edge, and it doesn’t take much thought to figure out why. “I don’t like that flower,” they admit as they walk. There’s no wind to whistle through the pines, no snow to scatter hazily through the air of the cavern. The stillness of the forest, lit by a watery, artificial light by no means comparable to the sun, is, admittedly, unnerving. Chara, of course, has nothing to be afraid of. It’s already dead. It can’t exactly die. 

Perhaps that is more terrifying than any threat of death.

He’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s not meant as a reassurance--not one with any weight, at least. Chara would much rather this petulant child stumble into a trap and be torn asunder, ripped limb from limb, time after time after time. Anything to scare them off. Anything to make them want to stay dead. It does very little introspection on the source of this all-consuming anger. It has no need to. It’s completely justified.

“He?” Frisk asks. “How do you know that?”

I just do. In all honesty, Chara isn’t entirely certain either. They recognize him. 

It recognizes him, it thinks harshly at itself. The sentimentality of referring to itself with the language of a real, living, thinking thing simply will not do. If it wishes to protect the people it once called family, it must understand that it can have no family. It did not kill its brother. It does not miss its mother and its father. It does not long for its home. To have the capacity for those things, it would have to have a brother, a mother and father, a home. Perhaps, long ago, it used to be a person. But now that it’s dead, it isn’t anymore. 

“Can you stop brooding?” Frisk grumbles. “Please?”

Could you…hear all that? The thought strikes the echo with abject terror. Thankfully, Frisk replies with a quick shake of their head.

“No, but you were quiet for a really long time. And the quiet sounded angry.” They peer down at a stick in the middle of the path, inspecting it thoroughly, flipping it over and regarding all its branches and pokes with the keen eye of a true stick expert. “It’s too tapered,” they declare once they’ve looked it over satisfactorily. “Too thin on the top and too thick at the bottom. Plus it’s brittle so it’s probably been dead for a really long time. Not a good stick.”

Wow. Judgmental, Chara remarks. The more it thinks its name, the more distressed it becomes at the discrepancy between the word and what little identity it’s managed to forge in the time since it was so rudely reawakened. It still doesn’t want to be here. It wants to be dead again. It wants to go back to sleep. It certainly doesn’t want to be stuck with this stupid human, listening to them ramble on and on about the objective quality of a stick. Of all things! Really! Why does it have to be here! Why, after the world was finally quiet!

“I dunno. I prefer scrutinizing, ” Frisk says, hopping over the abandoned stick. “It’s way too brittle once you really look at it. If someone stepped on it it’d probably go--”

Right as they’ve contorted their mouth in just the right manner to deliver some sort of onomatopoeia to describe the destruction of the unsatisfactory stick, they’re interrupted by a sharp, woody snap.

They freeze right where they are, hair on the back of their neck bristling. They don’t turn around. They don’t move at all. “Did you hear that?” they ask quietly, standing as stiff as an amateur electrician who has forgotten to shut down power to the area where they’re working and is currently in the process of having a hundred volts of electricity shot straight through their body. Even the white-knuckle clench of their hands on the hem of their sweater is tetanic. “Shit…”

It’s nothing, Chara says, knowing full well that it is, in fact, something. It doesn’t know what the source of the noise is, either. Even though it isn’t completely tethered to Frisk’s perspective and could very well just turn around and look without them, it would prefer not to. Looking back is never a good idea. Just keep walking. 

Frisk unclenches their hands from the hem of their sweater, taking a reluctant step forward. The trees stand tall all around them, so much taller than them that they barely look like a dot in comparison. Chara turns its attention to their surroundings--there’s nothing interesting to look at, and it would much rather focus on literally anything else than the drab, snowy landscape in front of Frisk.

It catches, for a split second, in the corner of its vision, a shadow flashing through the gap between two trees.

The path narrows ever so slightly, approaching a small, wooden gate atop an equally small, equally wooden bridge. The gap beneath it is wide and cast in dark shadows, and the bars of the gate are far too wide to prevent anyone from passing through. Even the most oblong of Jerrys (damn those things!) could make it through without having to be turned on their side, though what use a Jerry would have doing anything this deep into the forest is beyond Chara’s comprehension. A terrible thought comes over it then, and it would smile if it had a mouth to call its own--how horrible it would be, poor Frisk being trapped eternally in a fight with a Jerry. That would be a fate worse than death, truly. It hopes desperately that they encounter one, then. Chara is sure it could work out a way to keep them stuck there.

Its scheming, however, is interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

The snow crunches dryly behind them with a sound reminiscent of styrofoam--Frisk cringes at the grating noise before they even have the chance to realize that they ought to be afraid. They take a nervous step towards the gate, but, then, for some reason Chara absolutely cannot decipher, they turn around. Shivering from fear or the cold or maybe both, they stare down their stalker with fire in their eyes, standing their ground.

Walking towards the gate is a figure cast in shadow. Chara can’t make out their features, but it can tell that they’re short. It’s pretty sure it can see gaps in their lower legs, characteristic of the split tibia and fibula of a humanoid who couldn’t be bothered to put their skin on before leaving the house. A skeleton, then…? They had thought Dr. G had been the last. He’d always told them and their brother stories of how the others had all perished in the war.

It quickly banishes the thought. He is yet another person it cannot have attachments to. It hates the way its memories return, so softly and quietly that it doesn’t notice they’re there until they’ve already come and upended its delicate equilibrium. So the shadowy figure approaching the bridge is a skeleton. That means nothing, other than perhaps certain doom for Frisk. Which, of course, would not be upsetting whatsoever. They deserve it. The figure steps forward, out from the scattered shade of the canopy of trees, and the tension in Frisk’s posture drops ever so slightly in favor of utter confusion.

“Is he wearing bunny slippers? ” they ask, too quietly for anyone but Chara to hear them. Their observation is, in fact, correct. Their skeletal pursuer’s feet are decorated by faded, stained slippers, lined with ballet pink fuzz and adorned with little rabbit faces. He’s wearing a raggedy blue hoodie and worn black athletic shorts--the quality of his clothes doesn’t seem much different from Frisk’s. Terrible. They’re both disgusting.

“huh. you turned around before i even said to,” he says. He has a bit of a Coastal accent, like that TV reporter from…that’s not something Chara needs to think about. His voice is deep, and two white lights dance in the dark sockets of his eyes. “weird.” He no longer seems menacing at all. Honestly, Chara is a little disappointed. It had thought monsterkind was better than this! Better than just letting a stray human wander through the caverns unharmed, perfectly capable of destroying everything in their path. 

“You were making a lot of noise.” Frisk tries to shove their hands in their pockets, only to be reminded yet again of their probably lint-covered spider donut. They tug at their fingers instead, shifting their weight awkwardly from foot to foot. They open their mouth like they’re about to say something, but close it just as fast. This is clearly not a situation they expected to find themself in.

The skeleton looks them over, bony brows shifting almost imperceptibly. “that’s a bit rude, eh?” he says, shaking out a hand before offering it to Frisk. “human…don’t you know how to greet a new pal? shake my hand. ”

Frisk looks as though they would really, really not like to do that. Reluctantly, they reach out their hand, wrapping it around the skeleton’s bony palm before they have a chance to regret their actions. He’s certainly going to kill them. There’s no other reason he’d ask to shake their hand, is there? How naive they are.

Chara, however, does not get its wish. The skeleton doesn’t unleash an immediately fatal attack upon them. He doesn’t strike the interloper down in a single blow the way he should. He doesn’t even attack them at all.

Instead, emanating from the sleeve of his sweater, tucked just over the center of his palm, comes the sound of a wet and terrible fart.

Chara would very much like to not be here right now.

Chapter Text

Frisk
_____

“the old whoopee cushion in the hand trick. it’s always funny,” says the skeleton they were completely convinced was going to kill them only seconds earlier. They shouldn’t laugh. It’s not that funny. But compared to the certain death they thought would come out of this encounter, it…kind of is. The old lady who sometimes camped out in the same general area of the park as they did back in Port Springs once showed up hopelessly drunk, slurring her words, telling them the essence of humor was a break with reality. That anything could be funny if it went against the ways one would predict the world to work. They’ve never much liked that definition, but they suppose in this case it holds true. Expectation: certain death at the hands of Freak Ass Skeleton. Reality: fart noise. Whoopie cushion in the sleeve. They don’t mean to laugh. It just sort of comes out.

“Um,” they say simply. Nothing more. Nothing less. They try to think very hard at the voice in their head, asking for advice, but it doesn’t seem to be able to hear them unless they speak out loud. They are, as the kids say, shit out of luck.

“anyways,” continues the skeleton, white lights flaring in his pitch black sockets. “you’re a human, right? that’s hilarious.” They don’t really see how it’s funny. Then they think back to what the lady from Port Springs told them, and they kind of get it. Toriel said nobody had fallen down in a long time, and now they’re here. Maybe their existence is funny. It’s funny that they aren’t dead, because they threw themself down a bottomless pit and then got turned into a Frisk brulée by Toriel. They nod, still not entirely sure what to say. Dying rattled their brain, and they aren’t entirely sure how conversations are supposed to work anymore.

“i’m sans,” the skeleton introduces himself. “sans the skeleton.” They kind of got that last part. From the lack of skin, and all. “i’m actually supposed to be on watch for humans right now. but, y’know…i don’t really care about capturing anybody.” They’re relieved for all of five seconds. They’re no longer relieved when he starts talking again. “now my brother papyrus…he’s a human-hunting fanatic. hey, actually, i think that’s him over there.”

“Are you shitting me?” Frisk says, hair bristling on the back of their neck as they turn back around. They can, in fact, see a tall, skeletal silhouette poking at something in the trees beyond the weird bridge-gate thing. This brother of Sans’s--what kind of name is Sans, anyway?--looks intimidating. They don’t want to tangle with him, that’s for sure. “Are you going to help me not die or are you just going to stand there like a lump?”

Sans smiles at them, but that’s only because his mouth is permanently shaped like that. “i have an idea. go through this gate thingy. yeah, go right through. my bro made the bars too wide to stop anyone.”

“I can fucking see that!” Frisk says, squeezing every muscle of their face as tight as they can when the voice makes an unwelcome appearance yet again.

Do you have to swear so much?

“I could be killed! Cut me some slack!” they mutter under their breath, stepping right under the bars. They’re wide enough that they don’t even have to sidle through like a sad, awkward cowboy, even though, despite the constant malnutrition, they’ve always been a bit of a chubby kid. “Jeez…this thing sucks.” 

Don’t insult his brother’s handiwork if you value your life. Or do. I know I certainly don’t value your life. Frisk snorts just a little at the voice’s commentary, scuffling the toes of their boots around in the snow on the other side of the bridge.

Sans follows them, making a short gesture at an awkward, oddly-shaped lamp just sitting in the middle of the clearing. “quick,” he advises them, “behind that conveniently-shaped lamp.” It really is conveniently shaped. The contours of the lampshade match up with their uneven curls exactly, the body of the lamp widening out at the same height as their torso. Hiding behind a lamp seems like a massively stupid idea, but given the day they’ve had already (and judging by their probably skewed internal sense of time, it can’t be much later than eight or nine in the morning), they’re willing to try pretty much anything. Conveniently-shaped lamps included.

They duck behind the lamp, trying to peer through the shade without their hair showing behind it. They eventually resort to picking up the shade and putting it on their head like a stereotypical drunken partygoer, peering out through tassels and half-translucent fabric as they watch Sans’s very intimidating brother stomp into the clearing with his bony hands balled into fists.

On second thought, maybe he isn’t really that intimidating at all.

He’s dressed like a cartoon villain, shiny white chestplate adorned with a symbol they recognize from a trailer for a video game, blood-orange scarf flowing behind him like a cape. He wears big red boots, and his legs poke out from the bottom of what looks not altogether unlike a white-painted holeless colander. Overall, he gives them the impression of a college kid in cosplay--not a terrifying baby-eating monster. The general impression they’ve gotten of this place so far, really, is much the same. Monsters don’t seem all that monstrous at all.

“sup, bro?” Sans asks, hands in the pockets of his gross blue hoodie. They love that hoodie. They want to steal that hoodie. It looks disgusting, which is a plus, and warm, which is another plus. It would match their carefully cultivated ( sure! ) shabby orphan chic aesthetic perfectly. 

“YOU KNOW WHAT ‘SUP’, BROTHER!” Papyrus speaks in a tone of voice Frisk can only describe as being in all caps. It isn’t quite shouting, even though it’s a little louder than they’re used to--it takes every drop of strength in their body to keep themself from cringing at the volume of it. They don’t want to give away their location. They’d rather not die again . Once in a day is enough, they’re pretty sure. “IT’S BEEN EIGHT DAYS AND YOU STILL HAVEN’T RECALIBRATED YOUR PUZZLES! YOU JUST HANG AROUND OUTSIDE YOUR STATION! WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING?”

Frisk grimaces. They don’t want to listen to this. They don’t care about family drama. Their burns from earlier hurt, and they’re cold, and they kind of miss Toriel, and it’s that last point that’s pissing them off the most. They don’t want to miss her. They don’t want to feel anything about her except the typical detachment they feel about every former foster parent they’ve ever had. But she wasn’t really a foster parent, they suppose. She tried to be. But she wasn’t their mom, and they weren’t her kid. Still, they want to go back. They want to lie down in that big, comfortable bed and take off their boots and just lie there for a while until they get their head on straight. But that’s not happening. They have to keep going. They don’t know where --they just know that they can’t stop. They’re like a shark. If they stop swimming, they’ll die.

“staring at this lamp,” Sans answers with a nonchalant shrug of his bony shoulders. He’s surprisingly fat for a skeleton. Though they suppose skeletons can’t really be skinny. They don’t have skin. He looks like he would give good hugs. Two issues: they don’t like hugs, mostly, Toriel being the one exception, and they’re also pretty sure that the majority of his body weight is whoopie cushions. If they hugged him he’d probably just make a really loud fart noise and deflate into nothing. “it’s really cool. do you wanna look?”

“NO! I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THAT!” Papyrus cries out, stomping around dismissively. “WHAT IF A HUMAN COMES THROUGH HERE? I WANT TO BE READY! I WILL BE THE ONE! I MUST BE THE ONE! I WILL CAPTURE A HUMAN!”

Honestly, they tune out the majority of the conversation after that. Papyrus is loud and probably pretty ineffectual, and while they don’t really want to bother him or get in his way, they get the feeling that he probably won’t do that much to hurt them. They don’t want to be captured. Being captured sounds like it sucks. But they’ll probably be fine. They have their steadfast hiking boots and the mean voice in their head and the candy necklace they keep forgetting they’re wearing. They’ll be fine.

They bite one of the candies off their necklace, just for good luck. It tastes earthy. Probably from all the times they fell into leaves. Whatever. They’ve eaten trash burgers and dumpster pizza. This is nothing.

Papyrus, apparently, wants to join the Royal Guard. Frisk wishes they had a notebook, or at least a more modern phone so they could jot down notes about this strange underground society. Toriel seems to have been pretty far removed from the action, and they aren’t totally sure what lies in wait for them as they continue to traverse the caverns. They hadn’t really been expecting to run into actual people so soon--if there’s two of them, there must be some kind of civilization in this world.

Papyrus says the word boondoggle. That’s all they catch--they’re running through everything they know in their mind. Monsters walked really far into the caverns because they were trapped behind some kind of barrier thingie, and their king, at least back then, really sucked at names. Now there’s some guy named Asgore who Toriel thinks wants to kill them. There’s a Royal Guard, which means there’s probably a king or a queen. Is it the same king from the history book who sucks at names? Frisk doesn’t know. History was pretty much the only class they actually liked in school, though, so they’re confident they can piece this all together in a way that it makes some facsimile of sense.

“hey, take it easy,” Sans says, to an accusation of laziness from Papyrus that they only just caught with how lost they were in their own thoughts. “i’ve gotten a ton of work done. a skele- ton.”

They could kill him right then and there. Hm, says the voice in their head, with little more commentary than that. Despite its vagueness, Frisk swears they can detect just the tiniest hint of laughter in its voice. Can weird brain voices laugh? Frisk doesn’t know. Maybe this is the closest they can get.

“WHY DOES SOMEONE AS GREAT AS ME HAVE TO DO SO MUCH JUST TO GET SOME RECOGNITION?” Papyrus exclaims into the heartless stony sky of the cavern. Frisk can’t help but smile just a little, even though wearing the lampshade is starting to get really uncomfortable. These guys are dorks. Or maybe boneheads would be a better word.

“wow,” Sans replies without a moment’s hesitation. “sounds like you’re really working yourself down to the bone. ”

This is god-awful, the voice in their head comments, though it doesn’t actually sound all that upset. Loathsome. Hateful.

“Admit it,” Frisk whispers to them, just quietly enough for it to be drowned out by the sound of Papyrus’s indignant ranting. “You’re having fun.”

Every single second I have spent with you has been utter torture. If this is your idea of fun, I’m certain dissolving yourself in acid would be comparable to a trip to the zoo. Frisk has to fight back a snicker. It clearly hates them, and they do feel a little bad for whatever they did to make it so angry, but the constant companionship of the voice in their head is admittedly kind of nice. Just having someone to turn to, even someone who hates them. They aren’t used to it.

They feel absolutely horrible for thinking like that. Being glad that the voice is stuck with them, stripped of its agency. What a terrible thing to wish on someone. Then again, though, it’s not like either of them can change their circumstances. If they found a way to cut the voice free, they would. But for now, they can be glad they aren’t alone. They’ll let themself have that much.

Papyrus finally leaves, off to attend to his puzzles, and they reach a little too quickly for their lampshade. He pops his head back into the clearing with a final “ HEH!” before absconding yet again--thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice that the conveniently shaped lamp has grown a hand right at the base of its shade. Lamps do that sometimes. It’s normal.

“ok, you can come out now,” Sans says after the first moment of silence their life has been graced with since Papyrus first showed up. They remove the lampshade from their head, setting it back on the lamp and shaking themself off. They still don’t like this place very much. It’s too cold. “you oughta get going. he might come back. and if he does, you’ll have to sit through more of my hilarious jokes.”

“Is the whole Underground this cold?” they ask, sticking their hands in their pockets as they shiver. They don’t even care about getting spider donut crumbs everywhere anymore. “How does the snow get here if there aren’t clouds?”

“eh, things have a way of working out down here,” Sans says with a noncommittal shrug. If they’re going to get answers about anything down here, he’s not their guy. Toriel didn’t want them to leave, Papyrus wants them captured, the voice in their head hates them, and Sans just doesn’t care. They’re too curious for this. They want to know everything about this place, and nobody is giving them a straight answer about anything. “there’s snow reason to worry about it, though. waterfall’s warmer, and hotland, well, it’s kinda in the name.” 

“Yeah. Hotland’s definitely where I’m headed, then,” they say, breathing a heavy puff of air out of their nose in a poorly-stifled laugh. “I don’t like the cold.”

“snowdin forest isn’t too big. might take you an hour or two to get through, but hopefully you won’t die of frostbite in the meantime.” They’re pretty sure he’s joking, but that doesn’t do a lot to ease their worry. “actually…hate to bother ya, but my brother’s been kind of down lately. he’s never seen a human before, and seeing you might just make his day.”

“So…first you told me to hide behind the lamp so he wouldn’t capture me, and now you’re telling me to just walk right up to him and say hi? That makes a lot of sense.” Have they already messed up badly enough that Sans wants them dead? They don’t even know what they did! Is he offended that they don’t like the cold? It’s not their fault! It’s not their fault that the fat flakes of snow that pelted against their face on the trek up Mt. Ebott are seared permanently into their mind. They’re trying so hard not to think about it.

“don’t worry. he’s not dangerous, even if he tries to be,” Sans reassures them. They’re not entirely sure what to think. Whether they should believe him. That stupid flower smiled the same way he does, and they trusted it. (Him, according to the voice in their head.) That was, very clearly, a mistake. They aren’t putting their trust in someone so similar, not so soon.

“What’ll you do if I say no?” they challenge. “You gonna kill me? You gonna leave me here to freeze to death?” They look over their shoulder--there’s only one path through the forest, and it leads straight to Papyrus. They really can’t win. “God, fine. But don’t ask me for any more favors.” In their situation, it isn’t like they really have a choice.

“thanks a million,” he says. “i’ll be up ahead.” He smiles at them (not like he can do anything else, what with the set of his bony mouth), and walks off in the wrong direction, disappearing into a haze of kicked-up snow.

“That was…something,” Frisk grumbles to themself. Whatever good mood they’d cultivated in the Ruins is gone now. The cold has dampened their spirits, and dying certainly didn’t help.

They died.

They died, and it was warm, the way they’d always imagined going home. What a nebulous concept, home. They sit down in the snow without really thinking about what they’re doing, curling up in a ball as they try to block out the thoughts swarming them. The water was warm and the world was dark and infinite and it didn’t even hurt that much. They barely even felt it. But they died. 

It isn’t even that, really, that bothers them. It’s the fact that they could have died when they first fell. What if those flowers hadn’t been there to break their fall? What if they’d snapped their neck on impact? There were no spinning stars on the Surface. No “save points.” Even if that power had been innate to them, even if they had had the ability to come back, they wouldn’t have chosen to. The warm, still void was preferable to the uncaring world they’d tried to take themself out of. If they had to smell that awful, overpowering orange air freshener for the rest of eternity, they’d have taken it in the infinite darkness of death over the liminal aisles of the Krafts Mart any day.

There’s so much they could’ve missed out on. The fragile flower of hope blooming in their chest isn’t something they’ve felt before. A new world means new choices. They could be someone else here. Someday, maybe, they could be brave enough to really introduce themself. To craft a new narrative for their life, to be more than the worthless runaway whose chosen name was a joke to everyone who heard it. Most of the time, even Marisa had called them Francis, genuinely thinking it was their birth name. Frisk has to be short for something, right?

The reason they’d chosen it was because it wasn’t short for anything. 

It came from a pocket dictionary they’d found in the seat pocket of a bus they weren’t supposed to be on. They’d flipped through it, picked a random section, pointed to a random word. Frisk. Verb. Skip or leap playfully. They didn’t care about the meaning. All that mattered was that it wasn’t Felicity. All that mattered was that it was nothing more than a word.

If they just stay down here, they don’t have to be Felicity ever again.

They let out a shaky, panicked breath, trying to calm themself down. They have to get up. The longer they sit here in the snow, the more the thoughts will get to them. They have to keep going. Keep walking. Find that Hotland place Sans mentioned, or at least somewhere that isn’t here. They can’t stand the cold. It never bothered them before as much as it does now.

Are you done yet? the voice asks, though its signature snark is dulled. Its words almost seem to shake. The sooner you get a move on, the sooner you get captured, and the sooner you get captured, the sooner I no longer have to deal with you.  

“Wow. Sorry, dude.” Frisk rolls their eyes, trying to shake themself off even though they feel like absolute shit. Thankfully they don’t have to walk far before they stumble upon a save point. The golden glow of the spinning star is more relieving to them than ever, and they sink to their knees in front of it just to let the light wash over them. It’s the first time they’ve felt warm since they left the Ruins. As the light fills their body, they feel their scrapes and burns from their earlier fight start to fade, wounds retreating back into brown, unblemished skin.

The convenience of that lamp still fills you with determination, the voice says dryly. Now come on. Get up. No use dilly-dallying. You’re supposed to be getting captured right about now.

Frisk sighs, staying in the gentle light of the save star just for a moment more before climbing back to their feet. “Fine,” they say, brushing their hands off on their pants once again. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Chara
_____

Papyrus may be ineffectual, but at least he’s trying. Chara appreciates that--in a world of monsters who have seemingly forgotten how to act, it’s a relief to know there’s at least someone out there who cares about doing the right thing. It tries to shake off the shadowy, unnameable feeling that’s been following it since Frisk pretty much just fell down in the snow--they looked so unhappy. Chara should be pleased with that. If it had any say in the course of its own emotions, it would be. It wants nothing but pain for this wretched thing.

They hate how much the look on Frisk’s face reminds them of their brother.

If it had feet or legs, it would kick itself. It has no brother. It has no family. It cannot let itself fall into the trap of memory and sentimentality. Not if it wants to protect this world. It prickles back into the far corners of its unwanted existence, watching Frisk reel in a fishing rod cast into an icy river. There’s a photo of a weird-looking monster attached to the hook, its number scrawled across the back in ink that has started to drip from its submersion in the river. Call me!

You decide not to call, Chara says, hoping it can make the choice for Frisk. It may loathe them, but making them go on a date with a gross monster who’s literally fishing for compliments is a torture even it deems unacceptable. 

“Y’know, this is the first time you’ve said something like that and it’s actually been right,” Frisk says, casting the line back into the river. “Normally you say stuff like you feel like the scum of the earth and I don’t even feel like the scum of the earth. But I’m with you this time. I do not want to call that guy.” They stare out at the river for a moment longer. Chara stays quiet, wishing it could feel the bracing cold of Snowdin Forest. Wishing it had nerves, a body of its own. If it has to be here, if it had to be brought back, couldn’t it at least have been given a body? Couldn’t it at least have been made of steel and thorns and claws instead of intangible nothingness? Why was it brought back at all?

“...Weird voice in my head?” It’s snapped back to reality by Frisk’s words. It had almost forgotten they had said something. “I thought you’d at least have something to say about that. No snark? No I told you so s?”

I have nothing to say to you, Chara says sharply. You’re such a crybaby. It doesn’t know where that comes from. Frisk wasn’t even crying earlier. Just sitting on the ground and shaking. It was still emotion. It was still weakness. Yet--no, no, they’re human, Chara reminds itself. The fact that they didn’t cry means they’re heartless. It means they feel nothing. It means they really will kill everyone in these caverns, really will wipe Chara’s whole world into dust, really will snap one of these days and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill. They have no compassion. They feel nothing. If they did, they would have cried.

And if they cry, then they’re weak.

Chara, of course, sees no flaws in its logic here.

“That’s rude,” Frisk says after a long while, pushing themself upright. They’re still shivering, wearing nothing more substantial than shorts and a threadbare sweater in Snowdin’s brutal cold. “Fuck it, whatever. Might as well let him kill me. Or capture me. Whatever.” They break off a hunk of their spider donut, popping it in their mouth and making a weird face. Chara is glad it doesn’t have access to their tastebuds. 

Frisk occupies themself with a box. Chara recognizes the type--a dimensional box. Its magic is tied to the signature of your SOUL, it explains, though it certainly doesn’t mean to. Frisk doesn’t need to know that. Forget it. Just read the sign.

“You can…it says you can put something in it and you can take it out later? Isn’t that a normal box?” Frisk shakes themself, squinting at the sign, getting as close to it as they possibly can. “What’s it mean, it’ll show up later?”

Just don’t put anything in there if you ever want to see it again. Seeing as you certainly won’t make it to the next one. Chara is tired of stewing. It would very much like to stop stewing. But if it isn’t angry, if it isn’t on guard, it opens itself up to the possibility of remembering even more. That, of course, is a one-way street. Once it lets itself remember, once it knows what (or, worse, who) it is, it will be unable to unknow it. 

It must be aware of the world, it decides. The only way to save itself from fatal introspection is…extrospection? Is that a word? Chara isn’t sure. All it knows is that, unfortunately enough, it must be present in order to defend both the world and itself. There’s no way around it.

It watches Frisk as closely as it can. They’re leaning so far into the box that their head has disappeared from view over the edge. They fish out a worn pink leather glove, shoving it into their pocket as they dive back into the box in search of its match. They spend a good five minutes like that, eventually giving up and just shoving the glove onto their hand with an irritated sigh. “It’s fucking cold out here,” they grumble.

Language, Chara chastises, not because it actually cares. It just wants to annoy them.

“Uh…Corsellic?” Frisk replies stubbornly. “But I know like…three words in Teremestan.”

Not what I meant. Chara bristles. You’re being obtuse on purpose.

Frisk pays them no mind. They brush the snow off of their knees and set off again, only to be apprehended by a young snowdrake that pops inexplicably out of the trees. Another battle. This is getting old. Snowdrake flutters forth, it says dispassionately, like Frisk hadn’t already gathered that much. How miserable.

“ Ice to meet you,” says the snowdrake, shooting crescent-moon bullets in an arena around it and Frisk. They jump out of the way of a poorly-timed attack, skidding through the snow and scraping their knees on the permafrost layer beneath the powdery snow. They pick themself up, a small rivulet of red running down their leg and a dumbfounded expression on their face. Frisk stares at the snowdrake. The snowdrake stares at Frisk. The two continue staring at each other for an uncomfortably long time, the awkward silence only broken by Frisk snorting. 

“Oh, I get it. Ice, like, it’s cold here, and--that’s pretty funny.” Chara can’t tell for the life of it (or death of it, as it were, it supposes) if Frisk’s laughter is genuine. If it is, then they might be even stupider than it first thought. “That’s good. That’s pretty good.”

“ See? ” says the snowdrake, seemingly vindicated. “Laughs! Dad was wrong!” It turns and leaves without another word, leaving Frisk standing bemusedly in the snow, looking as though they’re debating whether or not they should keep laughing.

It appears this teen comedian fights to keep a captive audience, Chara observes. Though I fear you’ve given them false hope for their career in comedy…

“ Ice to meet you,” Frisk echoes. “Huh. It’s not…terrible, I guess.”

Well, do you truly believe you could do better?

Chara immediately regrets asking that.

“I dunno. It- snow different than any other dumb pun,” they say, wiping blood off their knee with the sleeve of their sweater. “ Alpine for a winter like this forever once I’m out of here…no I won’t. I hate the cold. Igloo -ed my boots back together once.”

Stop. Stop. That’s enough, Chara says. If only it had ears to plug! Forget I asked! You’re terrible! For a moment, then, it’s quiet, and: There’s bo-real point in going on like this.

Frisk’s mouth curls into a terrible grin. “I knew you had it in you,” they say. “That was god-awful. I love it.”

Chara decides to say nothing more. This was certainly not its intention. What drove it to do that? What drove it to play along? It’s disgusted with itself now more than anything! That child is a human. That child is the enemy. It cannot under any circumstances get chummy with them!

Just get a move on, it hisses. Go get captured. I have nothing to say to you.

Frisk rolls their eyes, and gets back on their way.

They finally encounter Papyrus past a narrowing in the path between encroaching trees. He immediately confuses a rock for them. Chara begins to wonder if perhaps he just has extremely poor eyesight. His eyes (sockets, really) are small and thin around the sides, and he narrows his bony brows every time he tries to look at anything. Frisk squints a lot, too, a habit that might be endearing to someone more inclined to fall for the guile of a smelly, disheveled orphan. Chara considers itself to be immune. It is well aware of the threat a human poses to the fragile existence of monsterkind. The desire, the need to hurt, to maim, to kill, is in their blood. In their SOUL.

It silently begs Papyrus to get his skull on straight and end them, right here, right now.

“SANS! I FINALLY DID IT!” he shouts. Chara is certain it would find his voice grating were it more completely in Frisk’s body. Fortunately (and, in many other aspects, unfortunately ) it is not. It isn’t real enough to be annoyed by the sheer volume of it. Frisk, of course, seems unbothered. “UNDYNE WILL…I’M GONNA…I’LL BE SO… POPULAR! POPULAR! POPULAR! ”

Ask him who Undyne is, Chara pokes. If you get a chance. Assuming you aren’t dismembered within the next few seconds. It doesn’t have much hope for Papyrus, but he’s the one person who has shown any interest in actually standing up against Frisk. It supposes it will just have to trust in him.

“I don’t wanna get dismembered,” Frisk whispers. They’re close enough to Papyrus that he picks up on their words.

“AHEM! I WILL NOT DISMEMBER YOU, HUMAN! NO, NO! THAT WOULD BE FAR TOO BORING!” If Chara had eyes, it would roll them. There goes all its faith in him. Figures. “I AM SIMPLY GOING TO CAPTURE YOU! YOU WILL BE DELIVERED TO THE CAPITAL! THEN…THEN. I AM NOT SURE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.” 

Perhaps it actually can trust him? Something greater is at play here. There are institutions set in place. Guidelines. There’s a playbook for what to do when a human shows up, then…? That’s reassuring. Papyrus doesn’t want to dismember them, which is a disappointment, but he isn’t the end of the line. He’ll capture them. Someone else will deal with them.

It’s just a matter of how long this capturing thing is going to take.

“Oh. Okay,” Frisk says, dispassionate as always. They seem so strangely unaffected by this. It’s more noticeable than it was in the Ruins, or even earlier in Snowdin Forest. It’s like they just can’t keep themself tethered. They don’t say anything else.

“WELL, HUMAN!” Papyrus seems unfazed by their lack of enthusiasm. “IN ANY CASE! CONTINUE ONLY IF YOU DARE!” Without another word, he’s gone. Frisk doesn’t even really seem to notice.

Are you just going to stand there? It isn’t like Chara actually cares whether or not they keep moving. It would be better for everyone involved, in fact, if they froze to death right here. Chara certainly has no desire for them to continue living. Perhaps it can persuade itself that when they accessed that power, it was a one-time thing. If they die again, it’ll be for good.

Or, even better, they just won’t have the desire to come back.

Frisk blinks a few times, shaking their curls out of their face. “Oh…is he gone?” they ask, wrinkling up their face and pulling the sleeves of their sweater down over their hands. “Did he say anything important?”

Were you not paying attention? Chara prods. Really now. Perhaps Frisk has their own game of mental Tetris going. What is it to judge? Not that I care. You know by now how much my existence would be improved if you caught hypothermia and died.

“But it wouldn’t, really,” Frisk mutters sullenly. “I came back, last time. Toriel killed me and I came back.” They say it with a cadence in their voice that betrays a certainty they won’t be believed. Chara would scoff if it could.

I’m well aware of that. But perhaps it won’t happen again. Perhaps it’ll stick next time. Like it should.

“You…you knew?” Frisk wrinkles up their face again, looking to their side like they’ll find Chara standing next to them. “But you weren’t there.”

I was. I just had nothing to say to you. It won’t betray the fact that they heard their father’s voice. That they remembered their name. That--

It.

It has no relation to that man. It shouldn’t even call itself Chara. Each time it slips up, it steps closer to the edge of attachment. Of sentimentality. Of memory.

Memory is a dangerous thing.

“Oh.” Frisk shakes it from its thoughts once again. “I guess I gotta keep going then.” Chara decides there’s no use in telling them to stay where they are and freeze to death. What was it thinking about before? It has to stay focused. It has to feel as much of the world as its circumstances will allow it. That’s the only way to keep itself from slipping again. To keep itself from remembering.

It cannot, will not remember.

You do, it says after a moment’s hesitation. The sooner you’re captured, the better. Better to get it over quick, right?

“I’m not gonna let him capture me.” There it is. That’s the fighting spirit it was looking for! There’s its excuse! There’s its justification! “I don’t gotta let him just push me around. I can run. I can fight.”

Of course, Chara says coldly. It doesn’t say anything else.

They cleverly pet a dog who can only see moving things, then spend a little too long inspecting a pile of burnt-up dog treats. Is this what the residents of Snowdin Forest are doing for recreation nowadays? Terrible. After that they go ice skating involuntarily, skidding around stupidly as they flail for purchase on a permanently frozen pond. A snowman offers them a piece of itself, which they reluctantly accept. “Isn’t it going to melt?” they ask.

If it’s a living snowman, which it is, then it’s made of magic, not snow. It would only melt if you held some sort of ill will towards it. That being said, if you were living snow in my pocket, you’d be a puddle in seconds, Chara prods back. Frisk stifles a laugh.

“You’re just jealous because I’m so much cooler than you,” they boast. Chara wishes it could kick them. Sadly, it cannot.

They keep going, finding themself at a patch of icy ground cleared entirely of snow. A grid of thin gray filaments of some sort runs across it, the wires difficult to see against the dull blue ice. “OH-HO!” Papyrus cries out, hands on his hips as his scarf flutters in an impossible wind. “THE HUMAN ARRIVES! IN ORDER TO STOP YOU, MY BROTHER AND I HAVE CREATED SOME PUZZLES! I THINK YOU WILL FIND THIS ONE… QUITE SHOCKING! ” More terrible puns. Excellent. Though it will deny this to anyone outside of itself, Chara does, in fact, have a soft spot for clever wordplay. And, admittedly, less clever wordplay as well. “FOR, YOU SEE, THIS IS THE INVISIBLE ELECTRICITY MAZE! WHEN YOU TOUCH THE WALLS OF THIS MAZE, THIS ORB WILL ADMINISTER A HEARTY ZAP! SOUND LIKE FUN? BECAUSE! THE AMOUNT OF FUN YOU WILL PROBABLY HAVE! IS ACTUALLY RATHER SMALL I THINK. OKAY, YOU CAN GO AHEAD NOW!”

Excellent! Chara thinks, not really meaning to be so enthusiastic. But, well, getting electrocuted is probably really frustrating, and the last save point is long behind them by now. This could certainly prove frustrating enough to get them to give up completely on this world and leave monsterkind in peace. Then, of course, their SOUL could be taken. The Barrier could be crossed, six more SOULs taken from the humans, and, at long last, monsterkind would be free.

Perhaps that’s what this capturing thing is all about. For the first time in its afterlife, Chara feels deep within its nebulous self a small glimmer of hope.

This hope is quickly snuffed out when Frisk steps forward, only for Papyrus to be zapped instead. Of course. He’s the one holding the orb. Chara wishes yet again for a body, just so it could let out a long-suffering sigh. How could monsterkind’s future be left in the hands of someone so ineffectual?

It supposes, though, that it’s a pattern. It, too, is a line of defense, and as of this point, it has been able to do absolutely nothing. Frisk hasn’t hurt anyone yet, but they’ve stolen candy, damaged property, and made a whimsun cry. It’s only a matter of time, and Chara is utterly powerless.

“i think the human has to hold the orb,” Sans points out to a very fried Papyrus. He’s covered in a fine layer of soot, smoke wisping off of him as he frantically pats himself down. Aside from that, however, he seems unharmed. He huffs and makes his way to what must be the exit of the maze, leaving a snaking trail of bootprints in his path as he navigates across to the other side. 

Could he not have gone around? Chara laments. There goes any chance of Frisk electrocuting themself! Why is everyone here so incompetent! Why can’t they just kill them! They’re a human! They’re dangerous! 

Frisk takes the orb, stepping into the maze as Chara’s fury builds. It stews and steams and glowers as much as a being without a face can glower, anger rising to such an extent that it can actually feel heat.  

Then cold.

Then cold air stinging its face, a vague wind tugging at the hair attached to its unfamiliar head, then--

Now or never. It strikes out with all its power, throwing Frisk’s body off the path Papyrus left for them. It’s out of their body again before it can feel the shock, watching their body spasm as they’re thrown back by the force of the current. Is that enough? Can they just die already? It waits with an imagination of bated breath, watching in hope that Frisk’s chest won’t rise again.

Of course it isn’t that lucky.

They take in a wheeze of air, then cough violently, dragging themself up to their knees like something only half-alive. “What the fuck? ” they choke out, sounding more confused than pained. “Seriously? What the fuck was that? ”

“HUMAN! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Papyrus calls from the other side of the maze. Why is he asking if they’re okay? Doesn’t he want them to die? This is infuriating! This whole situation! Nobody here cares enough to try to stop them except for Chara, and its best attempt barely did anything! What’s the point of any of this?

“I’m fine?” Frisk chokes out, sitting on the cold ground with their hands in white-knuckle fists at the hem of their sweater. “I think?” They wince as they struggle for another breath, finally managing to push themself back to their feet. They’re shaking. Their voice is lower when they speak again. “You wanna fucking play this game? Fine. That’s it. I’m done talking to you.”

Like I care, Chara spits back. I’ll find a way. One way or another. It can take over their body. It’s proven that much. It isn’t as powerless as it thought.

Frisk says nothing back. They make it through to the end of the electricity maze, hair sticking up every which way, thoroughly frazzled. Congratulations! Chara pokes at them. You made it! You must truly be a genius!

They say nothing back. They don’t even acknowledge that Chara spoke. This, of course, is the best possible outcome.

Yet, as they continue through the forest without a word in Chara’s direction, it finds itself almost bored.

Chapter Text

Frisk
_____

So there’s their answer, they suppose. They’re still dusting themself off, still flinching against a memory of the pain of the shock. They already knew the voice didn’t like them, but this is a new low.

They don’t really want to talk to it anymore. It shoved them into a wall of electricity. That’s a dick move. Luckily, they’re very, very good at the silent treatment. They’ll just pretend it doesn’t exist. They’ll ignore every last word it says to them. It’s serious about wanting them dead. Fine. They can be serious about not wanting to talk to it, too.

Across the next bridge, they come face to face with their greatest foe yet: a game of mini-golf.

Frisk does not have a lot of hobbies. They don’t have many likes and dislikes, not of the typical sort--they’ve just never had the time or the space to evaluate what they actually care about. They like to read, as long as it’s solely for their own enjoyment. They like bugs. They don’t like adults or school or math or the cold. All of this is pretty rudimentary. When it comes to more complicated hobbies, the kinds that require money or a willing parent, they have very little to say on the matter.

Mini-golf, however, is an exception.

Frisk hates mini-golf.

Unlike most of the things they dislike (such as trust and social workers), this doesn’t stem from some horrible trauma. The foster family that introduced them to mini-golf was, in fact, not terrible, at least by their standards. The dad got drunk and smacked them around sometimes, and the mom wouldn’t let them draw because she thought it would turn them gay (at this point they had somehow managed to convince them all that they had been born a boy named Felix, rather than it just being something they were trying out), but they were pretty normal aside from that. They went to the park together sometimes, and they went to mini-golf. Mini-golf, Frisk found, was exceptionally, fantastically boring. They were six at the time, and, bored by the end of the first hole, they threw their little putter over the fence and launched themself into the nearest water feature, hoping to go for a swim.

Apparently Foster Mom Daphne took so poorly to being kicked off the course that she immediately had arrangements made for them to go live with another family. That was all right, though. They were getting bored.

They sigh, hands on their hips as they stare out at the icy course in front of them. There’s a hole at the end and a snowball at the start. It’s a stupid fucking mini-golf course and they want nothing to do with it. They’re already on edge and they need an outlet. They kick the snowball at full force, chasing after it and sending it careening off the edge of a cliff.

Good. That’s the best possible outcome.

They get the sense that they’re being watched.

They turn around to find another snowball of similar size right where the first one once was. The very universe has declared war on them. They are this close to losing their shit completely. They stomp back to the start of the course, attacking the snowball with yet another furious kick. It spins off the cliff and a new one reappears in its place. Frisk is going to lose their mind.

They kick it off the cliff a good five more times before they realize that the only way to get rid of it must be actually completing the course. Why? Why must the world be so cruel to them? They sigh, kicking the snowball along the course. Things go smoothly for about five seconds before it becomes thoroughly wedged in a corner. They don’t want to pick it up--their hands are already cold enough, and the longer they let it languish, the smaller it becomes. It’s already melting. Their only course of action is to keep on kicking it. They slide haplessly across a patch of ice, diving after the ball as they fruitlessly try to push it in even a vague direction of the hole it’s doomed to end up in eventually. If it doesn’t melt first.

“Fuck!” they shout as they attack it with one last kick, face-planting in the snow as it finally finds its destination. A purple flag pokes out of the hole, and the voice in their head they had really hoped would leave them alone makes a snarky return.

Even when you felt trapped, you took notes and achieved the end of “Ball,” it says. Two gold coins spit out of the hole, and Frisk shoves them in their pockets, paying the voice no mind. They have nothing to say to it. It tried to kill them! They have every right to be upset!

Again, they feel eyes on the back of their neck. They turn around, only to find a brand new snowball at the start of the course.

God must hate them.

Their knees are killing them. They flop over miserably in the snow, muscles still aching from the electricity maze. They can’t believe the asshole voice in their head took over their body and tried to electrocute them. That was an utter dickhead move. They’re pissed and their body hurts so much more than it did before. They need to find a save point somewhere. Revitalize themself. Heal up.

They poke around the forest looking for one, finding two sentry stations labeled His and Hers. The mysterious Him and Her in question have put up a list of SMELL DANGER RATINGS outside. Puppies are blue, and humans are green, but green is written in red text, and Frisk can’t for the life of them figure out why. Dogs are colorblind, the voice informs them, sensing their confusion. They pay it no mind. The two of them aren’t on speaking terms, and Frisk is going to stand by this until they get, at the very least, an apology. 

It pisses them off, really. They liked the companionship, even if the voice was a dick, and now they just feel lonely. They’re used to being lonely, but somehow after all of this, it feels new. Bitter. They scrunch up their face, the cold stinging their skin worse than before. They want to go back to twenty minutes ago when they and the voice hated each other normally. It’s a snowball, it remarks about a lump of snow in the corner by the impossible mini-golf puzzle. Actually, it’s a snowdecahedron. They don’t get the pun, but they still wish they could laugh at it. Nothing is any fun anymore.

Papyrus and Sans attempt to trap them with a word search. It’s just lying there on the ground, edges wrinkled, crumpled up and wet from the snow. Frisk plops down in front of it, staring at it for a long moment. Their eyes are swimming. They hate word searches. They always get the letters all scrambled up, and they used to get in so much trouble at school because they’d give up after they found all the easy words. How the fuck are they supposed to find… giasfel…giscfelfe… giasfelber… is that even a real word? They find cig and hot , and that’s about as much effort as they’re willing to put in. “This is dumb,” they announce, leaving the word search-- Monster Kidz Word Search, according to the brightly colored title that would probably make any graphic designer worth their salt lose their sanity and climb Mount Ebott themself--in the snow. “I’m not doing it.”

“SANS! THAT DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” Papyrus protests, turning to his brother with a look of pleading in his pinched-thin sockets.

“i knew i should have used today’s crossword.” Sans shrugs, seemingly indifferent. 

Papyrus, meanwhile, looks baffled. “WHAT? CROSSWORD? I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU SAID THAT! IN MY OPINION, JUNIOR JUMBLE IS EASILY THE HARDEST!”

“what? really, dude? that easy-peasy word scramble? that’s for baby bones,” Sans counters. Frisk very much would not like to be caught in the middle of this, but they don’t think they really have a choice.

“ UN. BELIEVABLE! HUMAN!!” Yeah. They really don’t have a choice. “SOLVE THIS DISPUTE!” They weigh their options for a minute, and figure it’s best to just be honest.

“Is that like…is that word searches?” they ask. They don’t actually know what Junior Jumble is. “Because word searches suck.”

“NO!! IT IS, UM…HOW DO I EXPLAIN THIS? SANS!” Papyrus once again requests his brother’s help in explaining something Frisk already knows they aren’t going to understand. They should’ve just said Junior Jumble and gotten it over with. The world is so very cruel to them.

“it’s a word scramble.” That explains nothing. Frisk does not know what a word scramble is, other than what their brain already does every time they try to read. 

“Junior Jumble, then. The letters already get all mixed up for me. I don’t need ‘em any worse.” They shove their hands in their pockets. They don’t really have much else to say on the matter. They’re still on edge. Their hair is still sticking up. They swear they can feel the radiant hum of a save point somewhere nearby, and they just want to get going. They don’t have time for this. They need to sit down. 

“HA! HA! HUMANS MUST BE VERY INTELLIGENT! IF THEY ALSO FIND JUNIOR JUMBLE SO DIFFICULT!” Without another word, Papyrus just walks off. They aren’t going to complain. Sans seems completely uninterested in trying to stop them on his own. He said he didn’t care about capturing them--it honestly seems like he’s more interested in just dicking around with his brother. A noble cause. They appreciate the effort, even if every single puzzle absolutely sucks.

“thanks for saying ‘junior jumble’ just to appease my brother,” he says as they’re trying to leave. They don’t want to sit around. They’re already pissed enough at the world. “yesterday he got stumped trying to ‘solve’ the horoscope.” Frisk is only tangentially aware of what a horoscope is.

“The…star thingy? Do you even have stars down here?” they ask. “And I didn’t say it just to… appease him. Junior Jumble is hard.” Maybe they’re making themself look stupid, but they can’t really be assed worrying about that kind of thing right now. They’re just tired. And angry. And hungry. Really fucking hungry. Getting electrocuted will do that to you. “Whatever. I’ll…see you wherever, I guess.” They don’t wait for an answer. They just stomp on ahead, wishing they’d bought some ice cream from the bunny guy who was selling some right after the maze. Whatever. It’s too cold for ice cream anyway.

Thankfully there’s a save point up ahead, next to a plate of spaghetti, frozen solid by Snowdin’s chill. They save quickly, glowing warmth washing through them and improving their mood ever so slightly. The spaghetti looks inedible, but they debate trying to heat it up in the convenient nearby microwave anyway. They eventually give into temptation and attempt to pick up the plate, only to find it solidly stuck to the table. The voice gives some inane comment about a mouse heating up the spaghetti, but they pay it no mind. They aren’t on speaking terms anymore. They’d really like it if it got that through its stupid invisible skull.

Life is terrible and cruel. They sit by the save point for a while, watching it spin lazily in a current of winding nothingness. They wish it wasn’t so cold here. The snow is pretty, white flowers peeking up through still layers of fluff, and the occasional breeze would be bracing if not for how it stings against their nose. But they need to get out of here. Snowdin Forest can’t last forever--Sans said a while ago that there were other places farther into the caverns, places where the temperature was a little more livable. They’re still excited about the prospect of Hotland. They like the heat.

They just have to keep going. The only way out is through.

They pick themself up, muddling through the snow as best they can. They find a switch in the snow that apparently unlocks a set of spikes, then spend way too much time clearing snow off a map etched into the permafrost only to realize it just leads to the switch they already pressed. They need a snack so badly or they’re going to start throwing rocks at people. They’re pretty good at ignoring hunger pangs, but all this walking around and doing puzzles is exhausting. A dog in armor tries to fight them when they go back to the switch just to make sure they aren’t missing anything, and they pet it, which seems to satisfy it. They’re so done with all of this.

Across the next bridge, they’re assaulted by more dogs. Dogi, the voice in their head calls them, but they’re pretty sure that isn’t the plural of dog, plus they aren’t talking to it anyway. They’re carrying intimidating axes and making eyes at each other and Frisk manages to get out the first half of a disparaging get a room before one of said intimidating axes slices clean through their neck.

At least it’s fast.

They lie on their back in a now-familiar stretching darkness, warm water lapping at their cheeks, wondering if it would really be that bad to stay here forever. Then the awful stench of air freshener hits them again, and they sit up, gagging fruitlessly. Nope. Staying here forever is not an option. 

They had honestly expected, were it to happen at all, that their second death would be more of an event. They seriously just got decapitated, and that was it. They don’t want to stand up. They don’t want to go back out into the cold. But they’ll take freezing to death over the godawful reek of some cheapskate chemical engineer’s laziest approximation of oranges any day.

They sigh, pushing themself to their feet. At least here they have a second of relief from the aches and pains of the real world. Even after healing up at the last save point, their knees were still hurting more than usual thanks to the stupid electricity maze. It normally isn’t too much of an issue, but with all the walking around they’ve been doing, they’re glad for the reprieve. Water tugs at the laces of their boots, and they make their way forward, looking for the golden light that washed over them when they were here before.

The words hang over them yet again. RESET. LOAD. They don’t spend as long as they did the first time basking in their radiant glow. They’re too pissed at the world to see much beauty in what comes beyond it right now. They wave their hand through the button that reads LOAD, and find themself sitting in front of that stupid plate of frozen spaghetti once again. 

Great. So they have to go flick that stupid fucking lever again. And pet that stupid dog again. Normally Frisk would not be upset about petting dogs. Petting dogs is a fun and wholesome activity. They are, however, absolutely not in a fun and wholesome mood.

They flick the lever and pet the dog just like last time, ignoring the snow-covered map. It’s useless to them now. They face the two hooded, axe-wielding dogs yet again, this time having the wherewithal to jump out of the way before the first one, who seems to be wearing press-on eyelashes for some reason, can embed it in their neck yet again. They aren’t a tree. They don’t want to be chopped into.

“Can you please stop trying to kill me for five seconds?” they plead, trying to get a good look at the dogs so they can figure out what the hell they’re actually supposed to be doing. They don’t get much time beyond that--the other dog shoots another one of those stupid blue attacks at them, and they stupidly try to make a run for it instead of just standing still. Where it hits them, their skin blisters black. It looks a little too much like a picture of frostbite they saw in a book at the library once, and for some reason that makes their whole body feel hot and sticky and paralyzed and they can’t remember how to breathe. They don’t want to freeze to death and all they can think about is the cold surrounding them and by the time they realize the better part of it is all in their head, another attack has sent them careening off the side of the cliff. They slam into the ground face-first.

In the darkness at the end of the world, they roll onto their back yet again, smacking themself in the face as they try to check if their nose is still there. “Fucking rude,” they grumble, pushing themself upright again. They still taste blood. The scent of air freshener is just as tangy and metallic. “The face? Really? I have such a pretty nose…” 

I would argue that point, says the voice in their head. They wonder how long it’s going to take for it to understand that they aren’t talking to it. They find their way to the glowing words again. Load again. Flick the switch again, pet the dog again, finally get back where they were only to get cut in fucking half.

They are going to start screaming.

You know, if you save after you-- the voice tries to advise them, but they aren’t having any of this. They’re tired of this.

“Can you just shut up? ” they snap at it. “Why are you even here? Why are you so fucking intent on making my life miserable? What did I even fucking do to you?”

You woke me up, it says. It doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, I didn’t fucking mean to! Believe me, if I had it my way--” They stop themself. They don’t want to go back down that road. Revealing to the voice that has tried to kill them once already that they already tried to kill themself is probably not a very good idea. Who knows what it’ll come up with to torture them with if they let that secret out. “Fucking forget it. Just leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.” They load. Flick the switch. Pet the dog. They make it a little farther into the fight, only to lose their head again.

The good thing about getting decapitated is that it doesn’t really hurt. Not for long, at least. They pull themself upright one more time and scream wordlessly into the darkness, voice echoing off the gentle water that surrounds them. They don’t want to keep dying. They don’t want this power. They just want to go to sleep, but closing their eyes does nothing here. Not with the awful, acrid stench of orange air freshener surrounding them. Even if they don’t breathe, they can still smell it. It’s in their nose, in their throat, in their useless lungs, burned into their brain like an afterimage from staring too long into the sun. All they can do is scream. They can’t even throw anything. All they have is used-up candy wrappers, which are never any fun to throw, and their melted spider donut, which they can’t even break pieces off of here. Stupid fucking void between life and death. Stupid fucking spider donut. Stupid fucking orange fucking air freshener. They wish they’d socked that stupid fucking training dummy back in the stupid fucking Ruins just so they could’ve gotten some of this anger out pre-emptively! There’s nothing here to fight. They don’t want to hurt anyone. They just want to scream and scream and scream until their throat is raw.

But they can’t feel pain here, so that would just mean screaming forever. Which sounds really, really boring.

Can you listen to me for five seconds? the voice in their head says, tone tenser than usual. This isn’t any fun for me, either.

“Why should I care about what’s fun for you? You tried to kill me!” 

And it clearly didn’t work, so there’s no point in trying again! If you die here, nobody wins. It somehow manages to project into their mind the feeling of crossing its arms in disapproval. It is in the best interest of the both of us if you at least make it through these puzzles. I can help you, if you’d just listen to me.

Frisk has to stop for a minute to get it through their head that the voice has, in fact, told them it doesn’t want them dead. Not immediately, at least. “Why? What’s the point in listening to you? You’re probably lying anyway,” they grumble, fidgeting with their candy necklace as they stare at their reflection in the shifting waters. The golden light of the LOAD button casts their image in an unearthly citrus green, water glinting at their feet. They don’t want to be so angry. They don’t want to feel like this at all. They don’t know how to stop.

I could be lying. But if I do lie, and if you do die, you’ll just come right back here. There’d be no use in that. Just…try my suggestion one time, and then you can decide if I’m worth listening to. The voice is quiet for a moment, as though it’s inviting Frisk to respond. They say nothing.

Well…first off, if you go back and save after petting Lesser Dog and flipping the switch, the walk back to Dogamy and Dogaressa will be less annoying, the voice advises them. Secondly, try to slide under Dogaressa’s attacks. Thirdly, if you focus your attention on her husband, she won’t attack you as much.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Frisk asks, lingering in front of the LOAD button just a moment longer.

I have my ways. I’ll leave you alone now, it says, and disappears yet again. Frisk hates the pang of sadness that lights up within them at its absence. It still tried to kill them. It might be trying to kill them again. They can’t trust it.

This is so much worse than Toriel.

They load, brushing snow off their pants and going over to flick the switch again. They give the dog--Lesser Dog, apparently--a few extra pets, only to realize that every time they ruffle up its snowy white fur, its neck grows a little. “Are you some kind of fucked up giraffe or something?” they ask, befuddled. The dog doesn’t answer. The voice ( thankfully? ) does.

I’m not certain what universe you come from, where giraffes’ necks grow when they’re pet, it pokes. Frisk rolls their eyes, not interested in arguing with it. They give Lesser Dog a few more scratches, watching as its face grows more and more distant. Despite themself, they feel the curl of a half-smile tugging at their mouth. 

“How high do you think I can make its head go?” they ask, continuing to pet the dog. Monsters are awesome. They wish they could make their neck super long like that. “You not gonna comment?”

I have nothing to say to you, the voice replies. There’s that familiar snark. Frisk had almost missed it.

They decide against continuing to pet Lesser Dog once its head has fully disappeared into the haze at the top of the cavern. Hopefully it’ll go back down eventually. They’d rather not be responsible for the dog’s neck snapping like a twig under the weight of its head. Though that weight is probably negligible. It doesn’t seem like it has much of a brain at all.

They follow the voice’s advice, going back and saving before they continue down across the bridge. The warmth of the power the save point filled them with sticks with them a little longer this time, and they feel maybe just a little more confident. Now it’s just a matter of figuring out how to get the dogs to stop attacking them.

Do you remember the sign you saw earlier? the voice advises them. It doesn’t say anything else. They slide under Dogaressa’s axe, just barely managing to escape with their hair still attached to their head. And, of course, their head still attached to their body. They try to think back to the sign--the one by the His and Hers sentry stations, right? 

The answer hits them right before Dogamy’s magic bullet (which smacks them in the shoulder pretty hard, but at least doesn’t send them flying off the edge of the cliff again). Smell Danger Rating. They want to smell like a puppy. Puppies are safe…smell of rolling around. They throw themself into the snow, rolling miserably to a stop at Dogaressa’s paws. She glares down at them, axe poised to chop them apart limb by limb. They’d rather not go through that again.

“Just--just smell me again! You got it wrong!” they plead, putting their hands above their head in surrender. “Do I really smell that much like a human? Maybe it was, uh, the, uh…” They don’t know what dogs think humans smell like. Other than green, according to the sign. Thankfully, they don’t have to spend too much time defending themself. Dogaressa sticks her snout in their face, sniffing them hard.

“Are you really just a lost puppy?”

“Yeah! That’s--that’s it! See? I smell like rolling around!” For lack of anything better to do, and really just on instinct from the “fight” with Lesser Dog, they reach out and scratch her behind the ears.

“Well, don’t leave me out!” Dogamy whines, sticking his head in between the both of them. This is…something. Is it weird to pet dogs who act like humans? Is it weird for dogs to pet dogs? They just don’t want to die again. 

“Dogs can pet other dogs…a whole new world has been opened for us,” Dogaressa says as Dogamy lets out a distinctly doglike sigh. Their tails are both wagging fiercely. “Thank you, lost puppy!”

They don’t waste a second. They get out of there as fast as they possibly can, plopping down in the snow once they’re a safe distance away. They reach up to their neck, glad to find their head still attached to their body. That was awful. For once, they’re glad for the cold and snow. Even though they know none of their previous deaths left them scarred, everything still hurts. They lie on their back, counting needles on the pines that stretch up towards the cavern’s roof. They just need a minute. They just need to breathe.

“You were right,” they say after a long moment. They don’t expect the voice to answer. It clearly has a mind of its own. “You’re still a total dick, but…I don’t want to be mad at you anymore. Being mad at you is boring.”

I wouldn’t have helped you if you had the grace to just stay dead, it pokes back. They hate that their mouth curls up involuntarily at its presence. Clearly whatever unbidden affection they feel for it isn’t reciprocated. They don’t mind so much, though. At least they aren’t alone. Being alone is worse than being stuck with a bloodthirsty mental hitchhiker.

“I’m just surprised you helped.” They sit up, fidgeting with the laces of their boots. “That was new.”

Believe me, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had a choice. They swear just for a second the voice carries less of an edge than usual. It pauses for a moment. Snowdin Forest doesn’t seem quite as cold as before. Don’t count on it ever happening again.

Chapter Text

Chara
_____

Chara has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

It still isn’t certain what exactly came over it. Boredom isn’t the right word. Neither is frustration, nor annoyance. Curiosity, perhaps? It feels, somehow, that it would be wrong of it to allow Frisk to die before their scheduled capturing. They’re of no use if they die here, alone in the wilds of Snowdin Forest. What would some nobody backwoods monster do with their SOUL if they took it? It doesn’t know what lies in wait for them in the capital, but whatever it is, it must be worth the drudgery of keeping them alive. Every step they take through the caverns is a step they could use to crush innocents underfoot. Still, they haven’t hurt anyone.

Yet.

Chara sighs, returning to a familiar game of mental Tetris as Frisk struggles with another puzzle. They’re clearly hungry, and getting grumpier by the second. Listening to Papyrus explain how he messed up his newest puzzle by trying to arrange it in the shape of his face is decidedly not helping. It’s a maze of Xs that need to be turned into Os, and doubling back on an already transformed O turns it into a triangle. Frisk keeps messing up and turning back, causing them to have to reset the entire puzzle, and they’re getting more and more pissed off. Watching this is honestly just sad.

Chara wanders around as well as it can--it’s permanently tethered to their body, their perspective, mostly, but it has a range of about ten feet around them where it can look at things without needing their eyes to do it. There’s a switch embedded in a tree to the west of the puzzle, and it figures it’s a fifty-fifty toss-up as to whether it blows them into smithereens or solves the puzzle instantaneously. It’s holding onto hope that the outcome will be the latter. You notice a switch in the tree, it remarks.

“No backseating, dickwad!” Frisk grumbles under their breath. Begrudgingly, they make their way over to the tree nonetheless. “How’d you see this if you’re in my head? Nevermind.” They poke at the switch, a loud click sounding from across the puzzle as they do so. There go the spikes. They’re one step closer to Snowdin Town, and one step closer to their eventual capture at the hands of none other than the Great Papyrus himself. Wonderful. Chara has taken a liking to that skeleton. He may be terrible at his job, but he tries. That’s more than it’s been able to say about anyone else down here.

Chara goes back to mental Tetris yet again. Puzzles mean nothing to it, and it doesn’t really have anything to say to Frisk. It is, in fact, trying its best not to think about Frisk very much at all. The more it thinks about them, the more it feels a deeply unwelcome gratitude for their companionship. Horrible! They’re still human. Nothing will ever, ever change that. 

Honestly, Chara doesn’t remember enough to know why that thought fills it with so much hatred. The world beyond what little it has recovered of its memory is nebulous and vague. It knows it did, once, have a family, even if it cannot allow itself to consider them its family any longer. It knows it has a reason to want to protect this world. It has never for a moment considered that, in life, it was anything other than a monster. It had to have been a monster. It cannot conceive of itself as anything else.

It must have been a monster. Yes, of course. It won’t entertain that nagging doubt even for a second. There’s no use thinking about this. 

It mentally places a Rhode Island Z, clearing two lines at once. Wonderful. Tetris is so fun and devoid of all existential-crisis-causing memories! Tetris would never hurt it! Tetris would never cause it to question the very fabric of its own existence! Tetris is its truest, most time-honored friend. Its soulmate. Its moirail.

What the hell is a moirail? Why doesn’t it remember these things? If it knows the word moirail , it should know what it means! It’s losing its mind. Why? Why must it suffer? Why can’t it play mental Tetris in peace?

“Dude, you like…totally missed the colored tiles.” Frisk’s words break through its little spiral, jolting it back to the unfortunate reality it is cursed to be a part of. “It was pretty funny. There was like a bazillion different rules and like…there was supposed to be piranhas and monsters and…orange-scented ones, gross, but there wasn’t. Papyrus flipped the switch and it was just a straight line and he like…rotated away. I’ve never seen anyone rotate away before.”

Gripping. It’s like I’m there, Chara snarks, eliciting a snort from them, followed by completely disproportionate laughter. Oh, come, now, it wasn’t that funny.

“It kinda was. You shoulda seen it. It was hilarious.” Frisk wraps their arms around themself, still shivering against the cold. Chara hates the soft relief that bubbles up within it at the thought of them finally reaching Snowdin Town. It can blame that feeling on the thought of them being captured, of course. That’s it. That’s all. It has nothing to do with them getting something to eat and having a moment out of the cold. To think it could feel compassion for such a wretched thing. Awful. Terrible. Reprehensible. “Anyways, uh…how long do you think we have to keep walking?”

There is no “we” in this scenario, Chara replies tersely. You are the one doing the walking. And, hmm… It looks ahead, taking in their surroundings. Why is there snow on your head?

“Puzzle,” Frisk answers noncommittally, shaking the snow out of their hair. “You gonna give me a straight answer or not? I’m tired. I wanna take a nap.”

Gyft Cliff. That’s where we are, if I’m not mistaken…Glyde lives down and to the west, but I don’t think it’s good to bother it. It immediately gets the feeling that Frisk is now going to want to bother it. I mean it. Don’t bother it. I’d rather you not have to come all the way back from…where did you last save, again? Right. It hopes that’ll be enough to keep them from running off and dying another five times. Mostly because that would be obnoxious.

Frisk does not seem to care. They head straight down the hillside, skidding down the icy slope on the worn-out soles of their boots. Chara can tell those old things are supposed to have better traction than they do--how long have they been hanging onto them? They seem too small for them. It decides not to make another comment about their ratty orphan aesthetic. That would just be rude, especially considering they’re probably about to die for…the seventh time?

Frisk is stopped in their tracks by a monster Chara vaguely recognizes. That old thing is still alive? it remarks. Some teens “decorated” it as a prank. Ages ago… It doesn’t actually know how much time has passed since…well, since it died, to be blunt about it. Long enough for things to change drastically. Long enough for the handle to the unused room in Toriel’s house to gather a good layer of dust. Long enough for flowers to grow from the seeds that stuck to their sweater the day they and their brother both died.

Long enough for it to realize there’s no use in thinking about any of that anymore.

“Dude, where’d you go?” Frisk is being chased back up the hill by a furious gyftrot. They’re already out of breath, and they’re just walking at a fast pace, not even running. “Hello? Weird voice in my head? A little help please?”

Oh…Gyftrot, right. What did I tell you? It tries to shake itself off. Unfortunately, having no body means shaking itself off is nigh impossible. 

“That it got decorated? That’s not very helpful!” Frisk picks up a snowball, chucking it at the gyftrot and knocking a lenticular bookmark off one of its antlers. It seems to calm down just a little, but it’s still chasing them. “Okay, maybe it actually is helpful. Sort of.” 

Yes. Undecorating it might make it want to kill you less, Chara advises. Frisk throws more snow at the gyftrot, eventually managing to completely rid it of the gaudy decorations. It’s completely calmed down. Congratulations! You’ve ruined Christmas.

“What?” Frisk flops down in the snow, panting like a dog. Their curly brown hair spills in sharp contrast against the dull bluish snow, and they wince as they try to move their legs. They ball up a hand into a fist and smack their knee with it. “Fucker.”

Why are you fighting your knees? Chara questions, though it doesn’t really care much for the answer. This is better than the silent treatment, at least. Though being dead again, fully dead, would be better than any of its other options. Doesn’t that hurt?

“It kinda shoves ‘em back into place. That’s why I don’t run,” Frisk says with a nonchalant shrug, pushing themself back to their feet. They’re a little wobbly, and they wince with each step until they’ve gotten back into the rhythm of walking again. “Ow.”

I’m no expert, but I don’t think your knees are supposed to do that. Not that it would know. It doesn’t really recall having knees. Or not having them. It doesn’t remember what its original body looked like at all, and it supposes that’s for the better. Oh, well. At least the little chase seems to have distracted Frisk from Glyde…that would just be a waste of time.

“Yeah, they’re not.” Frisk shakes their hair out of their face. “I don’t like to run because it makes them hurt. And I can’t breathe right when I do. It’s no big deal. I just walk. I haven’t had to run away from the cops since like…two years ago, so I think it’s okay.” They don’t elaborate on that, and Chara figures it’s best not to question it. Frisk is… interesting, to say the least. They aren’t like the humans Chara has experience with in the slightest. Yet, it reminds itself, they are, ultimately, still human. Forgetting that would be irresponsible. They’ll turn eventually. They’ll strike out, hurt, kill. Humans always do. Letting itself believe otherwise is dangerous.

Chara doesn’t say anything for a while. 

Frisk gets up on their tiptoes in a field of snow poffs, doing a stupid little dance when they see the bridge leading onwards not too far away. “Buildings!” they exclaim. “Actual buildings! Do you think I could go inside and…maybe there’s fireplaces or something? Maybe I could get snacks.” They’ve amassed a decent amount of pocket change from the monsters they’ve…well, defeated seems to be the wrong word, so they’d probably be able to buy something to eat. Chara doesn’t care. It doesn’t have taste buds. It wouldn’t care if they starved to death. But they can’t be captured if they’re dead. It’s trying to think positively.

Snowdin Town. It stares out at the little village across the bridge, banishing a small flicker of warmth that threatens to light up its mind like the fuse of a bomb. There’s no room in this existence for warmth. It remembers this place, ever so vaguely. The Holidays used to live here…do they live here still? They used to live in a house at the east of town. Chara shakes the memories from its mind as fast as they can, grateful for Frisk sticking their entire arm into a snow poff. They may be objectively terrible, a demon sent from the surface to wreak destruction on Chara’s home, but at least they’re a good distraction. What are you doing?

“I dunno. I dunno what this thing is.”

It’s a snow poff, Chara replies derisively. Everyone knows what a snow poff is. 

“What’s a snow poff?”

That thing.  

“That doesn’t explain anything.” Frisk shakes their head, removing their hand from the poff. “I don’t know what a poff is.”

You’re insufferable, Chara complains. Frisk moves on to the next poff, inspecting it just as thoroughly as the first. What are you doing?

“I wanna know what it is.”

And this is a snow poff. Its voice drips with so much sarcasm that it wouldn’t be surprised if the whole world could hear, rather than just Frisk. I don’t know what else you want me to say.

“Well, what’s this one?” They’ve moved on to yet another poff of snow.

This, however, is a snow poff. Are you done yet?

“Nope!” They flop down on their stomach in the snow, staring at yet another. “Is it a snow poff too?”

Surprisingly, it’s a snow poff. Chara is starting to lose its patience.

“Okay! What about this one?” 

Snow poff… It has given up completely. Frisk inspects yet another, and it yearns for eyes to roll. Is it really a snow poff? Am I a snow poff? Are you a snow poff? Is the whole world one big snowy, poffy snow poff? What cruel god would torture me like this? Why? Are you having a laugh? Is this a joke to you? Do you think this is funny?

“Wow, chill out, dude,” Frisk says. “It’s just a snow poff.”

IF YOU KNOW IT’S A SNOW POFF. THEN WHY DID YOU ASK ME WHAT IT IS? Chara isn’t certain if it’s even capable of yelling, so when it pictures the words it wants to say in its head, it makes sure every single letter is capitalized. It hopes that gets the point across.

“I dunno. ‘Cause annoying you is fun.” Frisk sticks their hand into one final snow poff, a quizzical expression crossing their face as they stop in their tracks. “Huh?” They tug their hand out of the poff, unfurling their fingers to reveal three ten-gold coins.

Eh? There’s thirty gold inside this…what is this?

“Did you not just say they were all snow poffs?” Frisk says, cramming the coins into their now very jangly pocket. “It’s a snow poff.”

No it’s not. Everyone knows snow poffs don’t have money inside them, Chara retorts. There’s one last snow poff at the end of the field, and it would rather not have to explain to Frisk for the millionth time what a snow poff is. They clearly don’t get it, so going on and on about it won’t do them any good anyway. It turns out, though, that the lump of white is not, in fact, a snow poff. It’s an entire dog. In armor and everything, with a spear that seems to also be a dog. Fine. You’ve bested me. Definitely not a snow poff.

“What is it, then?” The snide look on Frisk’s face fills Chara with a desire to punt them off the nearest cliff the way they did to the snowball in its beloved Ball Game. It is this close to completely snapping and possessing them again just to launch them into the abyss. If it’s even capable of pulling that off again.

When it finally speaks, it’s holding onto its cool by a very, very thin thread. Have you never seen a dog before in your life? it demands, and then says nothing else.

“Oh.” For some reason the nonchalance in Frisk’s voice as they beckon the Greater Dog closer, reaching up on their very tiptoes to scratch behind its ears, is more annoying than anything else. Why does Chara have to deal with this? Was what it did in the last moments of its life truly a great enough sin to condemn it to this cruel of a personal hell? Well, it supposes, demons are doomed to return to from whence they came. 

Oh--that’s it, then, that’s what it is. A demon. It would’ve imagined a revelation like this would seem like a bigger deal. But it’s only natural, really. Hell is a double-edged sword. All humans must suffer, and Chara must ultimately be the arbiter of this one’s fate. Yet Chara must suffer for the terrible things it did in life, so it is trapped with this terrible human. It’s cracked the code. This is its punishment. Its terrible, awful afterlife. Forever a weapon, a sword whose blade is run through with cracks and chips. Never to be healed. Only to be broken down in the deliverance of justice until all it is is a scarred lump of metal.

“You okay back there?” It hates that Frisk’s voice, by virtue of being a distraction, is a balm against its woes. It shouldn’t feel like this. Tolerating them feels far, far worse than hating them. “You kinda…I dunno how to describe it. You’re like…casting a shadow.”

Huh? It looks around, searching for the shadow Frisk is talking about. If only it had a body material enough to do such a thing! Unfortunately, they seem to have been speaking metaphorically. What do you mean?

“I dunno. Maybe it’s just my own dumb head. But sometimes you get so gloomy it’s like…I can feel it in my own thoughts. I dunno what you’re thinking about, but, uh…maybe try puppies and rainbows instead. Like this one.” Greater Dog is asleep with its head in their lap, ear twitching placidly. “I like dogs. I like cats more. Sometimes I wish I was a cat instead of a person. But if I was a cat I would be like…forty years old in cat years and I don’t want to be that old.”

You never will be, Chara pokes, trying its best to banish whatever it had been thinking about earlier. It absolutely does not like the idea that Frisk has any sort of window into the inner workings of its mind, even if all it is is a weird feeling. You will die exactly as old as you are today. 

“So, elev--”

I don’t care how old you are. It interrupts them quickly, wishing it could kick them to get them moving again. They’re so close. Snowdin Town is just across the bridge, and it can see Papyrus and Sans standing on the other side, Papyrus fiddling with the controls for some sort of contraption. They should be captured and sent off to the capital soon enough. In all likelihood, that will end with them dead, and they will no longer be Chara’s problem. Their capture couldn’t come fast enough. Get up, would you? You’re almost there.

“But the dog looks so comfortable!” they protest, sadly pushing the dog’s head out of their lap. “Fine. Sorry, big guy, the voice in my head says I gotta go.”

Greater Dog just barks at them. Chara is a little surprised they’re willing to admit to its existence in any form--though it supposes Greater Dog won’t be able to tell anyone. It speaks a dialect of Dog that, as far as it’s aware, no other monsters understand. It leaps back into its discarded suit of armor headfirst, walking away with its tail sticking out of the neck hole. The picture of beauty and grace. Snowdin’s canine unit has always been so wonderful. Chara loves dogs.

No, it reminds itself, it does not. It doesn’t love anything. Love is not an allowance a demon can afford. It must feel nothing. It can’t let its guard down.

Frisk steps onto the bridge, clinging tight to the rope railing. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights, Chara jostles them, wishing yet again it could roll its eyes. It wishes it could do that a lot. 

“Nope,” Frisk says. “I just think that I have, uh, a healthy amount of worry that you’re gonna try to throw me off this thing.” To their credit, it isn’t like Chara isn’t considering it. Just a little bit. But all it would do is delay their capture, so there’s really no point in it. “You tried to electrocute me.”

That was one time, it says, though it knows it can’t defend itself. I do want you dead, but this isn’t the way to do it. Papyrus is right ahead. Perhaps he will be the one to take you out.

“Take me out? Like on a date?” It’s completely certain that Frisk is, once again, being willfully ignorant. “No offense, but he’s like…way too old for me. And I don’t go for skeletons.”

And you do go for gelatin molds? It was mostly too out of it to comment at the time, but it does clearly remember Frisk flirting with not one, not two, but several moldsmalls back in the Ruins. 

“Are you ever going to let me live that down?” Frisk lets out a sharp breath, lowering their voice. “Okay. I gotta be quiet now. I don’t want Papyrus to think I’m talking to myself.”

“DID YOU SAY SOMETHING, HUMAN?” His timing is impeccable. 

“No!” they shout across the remainder of the chasm. Chara takes a moment to study the bridge. It doesn’t remember it being here before. Things change, it supposes. “What is this? Why’s there paint all over the bridge?” Chara admittedly had not noticed the paint.

“OHO! WELL, THIS BRIDGE, YOU SEE, WAS ACTUALLY A ROCK FORMATION! I DECIDED TO IMPROVE IT BY PAINTING IT TO LOOK MORE DANGEROUS! THE SLATS ARE REAL, THOUGH. BE CAREFUL OF THE SLATS. I WOULD NOT WANT YOU TO FALL BEFORE YOU REACH MY MOST DANGEROUS PUZZLE YET!” Papyrus’s voice carries across the cavern, echoing far enough to scare a few birds from their perches in pines far below. “BEHOLD! THE GAUNTLET OF DEADLY TERROR!”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Frisk remarks, still clinging tightly to the rope. Chara considers making a snarky comment about how it’s definitely not going to push them off, but it would rather just get this over with. It’s so close. They’ll be captured soon, and then they won’t be Chara’s problem anymore. “What’s it do?”

“WHEN I SAY THE WORD, IT WILL FULLY ACTIVATE!” Papyrus calls. “CANNONS WILL FIRE! SPIKES WILL SWING! BLADES WILL SLICE! EACH PART WILL SWING VIOLENTLY UP AND DOWN!” Ropes and pulleys appear seemingly from thin air, suspended on white-magic bones on all sides of the bridge. A rotund white dog spins lazily back and forth on a rope of its own, tongue hanging out of its mouth. It seems to be enjoying its life, despite its surroundings. The rest of the ropes are attached to axes, flamethrowers, maces, machetes, spears, more bones…overall, it certainly looks very deadly. Frisk will definitely die their fair share of times here. Too bad they haven’t saved in a while…shame. “ONLY THE TINIEST CHANCE OF VICTORY WILL REMAIN! ARE YOU READY?”

Frisk makes eye contact with the dog. The dog makes eye contact with Frisk, yapping cheerfully before it is claimed once again by the cycle physics has trapped it in, rotating forever in its suspension high above the gorge that cuts Snowdin in two. “Yeah!” they call, not a note of worry in their voice. “I’m ready!”

“I! AM! ABOUT! TO DO IT!” Papyrus’s gloved finger lingers over the activating button. He doesn’t press it. Frisk continues to stare at the dog, paying very little attention to him or the gauntlet before them. Sans, who seems to have been asleep on his feet until this very moment, shakes snow out of his hoodie.

“well? what’s the holdup?” he asks. Somehow, despite the fact that he isn’t practically yelling the way Papyrus is, his voice carries perfectly across the chasm.

“HOLDUP? WHAT HOLDUP? I’M ABOUT TO ACTIVATE IT NOW!” Papyrus moves his finger slightly closer to the button, yet doesn’t press it. 

“that, uh, doesn’t look very activated.” 

“WELL! THIS CHALLENGE! SEEMS TOO EASY TO DEFEAT THE HUMAN WITH!” Papyrus is clearly grasping at straws here, trying to come up with an excuse as to why he isn’t activating the gauntlet. It’s obvious to Chara, at least. He doesn’t want to actually hurt them. Why? Why can’t he just shake off whatever silly little excuses he’s been making to himself and just kill them? They’re a threat. Why can’t he see that? It wishes for lungs to sigh with, consciousness floating dismally somewhere next to Frisk. It doesn’t know what he sees in them. What Toriel saw in them. Are they cute, by modern monster standards? Do they have squishable cheeks? Is their chubbiness endearing, or their uncombed hair, or the constant squint that makes them look like they badly need glasses? Do their freckles remind every stupid monster down here of a sun they’ve nearly forgotten? It doesn’t understand. It doesn’t understand how a killer can walk right through every single one of Papyrus’s traps and he won’t even lift a finger to stop them before the only thing left to do is fight them hand-to-hand. He just walks away. Lets them pass. Even Sans doesn’t try to stop them.

They enter Snowdin Town, the first monster civilization this side of the Ruins, without a single person watching them. Without a single person ready to fight them if they draw a weapon. They could massacre every single monster in this town without a second thought. They’d be unstoppable. A responsible Royal Guardsman would have evacuated the entire town at the first sign of a human. Yet Papyrus has just let them walk straight in.

To console itself, Chara imagines Frisk skewered by bones. But that’s not much of a comfort at all, because everything turns back into Tetris eventually, and the bones turn into heroes and teewees, stacking side by side, clearing out row after row. They clear the screen down to the very bottom, but stupid Frisk is still standing there, raggedy sweater bright against the snow. They refuse to die, and they refuse to kill. They won’t make Chara’s continued existence easier, and they won’t prove its hatred for them correct. All that’s left for Chara to do is place invisible blocks in a game that only exists in its head.

God, it’s getting tired of Tetris.

Chapter Text

Frisk 
_____

Much to the audible annoyance of the voice in their head, Frisk doesn’t stop for a second once they’re in the limits of what a sign they only briefly glance at calls Snowdin Town. Snowdin Town is definitely a fitting name. It’s a town, and there’s snow there, and, according to Papyrus and Sans and the voice in their head, it’s in Snowdin. The name works. That’s not really the number one thing on their mind right now. They make a beeline for the first shop they see, quickly saving at the spinning star outside and bodyslamming the door with all their strength until it swings inwards. 

“You know you coulda just pushed it, right?” the shopkeep says. She’s a bunny woman with a hat--they don’t really notice much more about her than that. They’ve got their eyes on the cinnamon buns in the display case. They’re shaped like little bunnies. Frisk briefly wonders if that doesn’t feel a little weird, a bunny eating something bunny-shaped, only to realize that humans make gingerbread people all the time. They managed to get hunger off their mind for a while, but now that they’re here, the pangs are so intense they can’t think straight.

“Buns,” they grunt out, reaching up to deposit a handful of coins on the counter. They hope it’s enough. A few ten-coins, some fives, a scattering of ones. They’ll take as many as they can buy with what they took out of their pocket.

The shopkeep takes a few buns out of the display case, neatly wrapping them in butcher paper and handing them over. Frisk shoves three of them into their pocket, shoveling the first straight into their mouth.

Did you chew? the voice in their head comments, dripping with disgust. That was revolting. You unhinged your jaw like a snake.

“Sh’tup,” Frisk mumbles around their cinnamon bun. And once they’ve actually swallowed it-- “Not you, Ms. Bunny Lady. You’re fine.”

The shopkeep, to her credit, doesn’t ask who they’re talking to.

“Are you from the capital?” she asks after a long moment. “You don’t look like a tourist. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a fresh face around here.” Frisk grabs another cinnamon bunny out of their pocket, gnawing on it while they listen to her talk. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Yeah,” they say around a mouthful of pastry, trying to think up a lie as to where their definitely real monster parents are on the spot. Somehow she hasn’t clocked that they’re human. Weird. Now that they think about it, they aren’t sure if anyone in Snowdin Forest realized they were human except for…maybe three of the dogs. The other two just wanted to play, the gyftrot was angry because there were raisin boxes on its antlers, and the snowdrake just wanted someone to listen to its bad jokes. They’ve locked in the whole passing thing when it comes to not looking like a girl or a boy, but they didn’t know they’d gone far enough that they passed as a monster. Hey, they’ll take it! Being human is overrated.

“Don’t you have parents? They must be worried sick about you,” the shopkeep says, leaning down to try to get a good look at them. They shrink away, shoving another bite of cinnamon bunny into their mouth. They’re still hungry. 

“Uh, my mom, uh, lives in the capital,” they lie, both through their teeth and around a mouthful of cinnamon. “She told me to pick up cinnamon buns but I got really hungry and I only had enough money for four. But I have six brothers and my mom and also my other mom and also my dad and also my third mom so four isn’t enough.” They wonder if having three moms is too weird, even for monster standards, but the shopkeep doesn’t question it. She just keeps on looking down at them, eyes wide with worry. They fight back a grin. They knew it would work. This trick always works. The first time, at least.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the shopkeep says, reaching into the display case. She counts out a dozen more cinnamon bunnies, putting them all in a little paper bag and handing them over. “They’re on the house. Consider it a favor. As long as you tell your family to keep on coming back! We need the business, you know. Though I’ve heard tell that the capital’s getting crowded, so…maybe we might be getting a few new regulars. Hey, you’re from the capital! Is that true?”

Frisk figures the least they can do as payment for her generosity is keep the conversation going, even if literally every single word that comes out of their mouth is a lie. “Yeah. Super crowded. It’s so bad you can’t even go on the subway without like…burning your arm on a fire elemental.” They hope that actually tracks with what the capital is like. They haven’t seen any vehicles down here, but they also haven’t been to the capital, and they can’t imagine a big city without a subway system. Port Springs had a subway, and so did Outwest. All very new, right off the big infrastructure bill that all the grownups were talking about all the time. Their case worker always said they were lucky, a sensitive little snowflake like them being born so long after the revolution. That people nowadays were too stupid to question all that made-up gender nonsense . They didn’t really care, and most of their foster families questioned it anyway, but they knew the revolution was why they had the subway. And they liked the subway, so they liked the revolution. 

“Subway?” the shopkeep questions. Oh, they’ve messed up. She’s going to find out they’re lying. And probably that they’re human, too. And then she’ll take back those cinnamon buns, and they can’t let that happen. They need snacks. “Is that some new-fangled invention? What is that Dr. Alphys up to?” 

Dr….Alphys? the voice asks, and Frisk wrinkles up their brows, trying to remember where they heard the name before. Right! The colored tile maze. Dr. Alphys made the colored tile maze. And then it didn’t work. Hopefully that spectacular failure was just another instance of the universe hating Papyrus, because if this mysterious Dr. Alphys can’t even make a colored tile maze, a subway is out of the question. 

“Uh…yeah, it’s, uh…it’s a train, but it goes underground. Except more underground than this underground. Like…under-underground.” They sound stupid. They sound so stupid. They need to go or they’re going to lose their cinnamon bunnies. “I have to go actually so I can get these to my brother and my brother and my brother and my brother and my brother and my brother and my mom and my other mom and my dad and my third mom before they get cold.” They don’t wait for a response. They just run right out the door, trying to find a place to hunker down and eat the rest of their cinnamon buns and hoping the shopkeep doesn’t chase them. 

I’m surprised you counted correctly, what with all the brothers, the voice comments snidely as they sit down under a decorated pine in the center of town. Do me a favor, will you? I’d like to see the east side of town.

“What, you got a hot date or something? Hate to break it to you, but you aren’t hijacking my body to go kiss a fish, or whatever.” Frisk has devoured half the bag of cinnamon bunnies at this point. They don’t get to hear whatever the voice says next, though--they’re interrupted by a scaly armless kid in a yellow striped poncho. They look like they’re about Frisk’s age, but they honestly can’t really tell. Monsters are all different sizes. Just because this one is short doesn’t make them a kid.

“Yo, who are you talking to?” the kid in the yellow poncho asks, leaning over their shoulder. “Do you have a cell phone? I want a cell phone but my parents say I can’t have one until I get good enough at my magic that I can hold it without dropping it.”

Frisk turns around to greet them, looking ever the part of the orphaned homeless gremlin with cinnamon bunny crumbs dotting their face like a scattering of new freckles. “Oh. Yeah. You don’t have arms so you gotta have magic, I think.” They hope that isn’t rude. They don’t know what’s rude to say to a monster. 

“Yeah, it kinda sucks but my mom says it means I’ll be better at blue magic someday. You’re a kid too, right? I can tell ‘cause you’re wearing a striped shirt.” Frisk looks down at their sweater. It is, in fact, striped. They knew this. They did not need to check. They’ve just worn that sweater so many days in a row they’d honestly forgotten it wasn’t just a part of their body. Taking it off to take a shower at Toriel’s house felt weird. Like they were removing their own skin.

“Oh. Yeah. I got stripes,” they say. They take another bite of their cinnamon bunny. They aren’t really interested in conversation, even though this kid seems nice enough. They’re more interested in stuffing their face. 

“I wonder if that weird skeleton is an adult or a kid,” the kid says. Frisk just lets them keep talking. The noise distracts them just a little from the cold. “He does lots of cool things. But he isn’t as cool as Undyne! She’s the coolest.”

Undyne is an interesting name, but Frisk has too much on their mind right now to ask about her. “Papyrus?” they say, more curious about what he’s up to. They haven’t seen him in town at all, and they get the feeling that whenever they see him next, it’s going to be serious. A showdown. Like cowboys do. Cowboys like showdowns. At high noon, and stuff. “I probably should go.” They’d like to keep talking to this kid, sure, but they don’t want to be out in the cold longer than they have to. Waterfall has to be close by now. They just have to get through Papyrus. They can sense a change in the air, a clear yet marshy tang that reminds them of the typha plants at Toriel’s house. The air is ever so slightly warmer, and the snow is softer, wetter. They so badly want to get out of the cold.

“Yo, it’s okay. Maybe I’ll see you around!” the kid says. Frisk waves awkwardly back at them, then heads off, cramming their empty cinnamon bunny bag into the pocket of their shorts. Maybe someday they’ll find a trash can.

“East, huh? Is this east?” Frisk asks the voice once they’re out of earshot of the kid at the tree. They think they’re walking east, at least. The majority of their trek has been in a mostly straight line so far, and while they don’t know where, exactly, they fell, they’re pretty sure at this point that east is just anywhere away from the Ruins. “What are you looking for?”

I don’t see how it’s any of your business, the voice responds. They decide not to press it further. They have things to do anyway.

There’s a big house at the edge of town, a two-story plank-walled cabin with a porthole window and a wreath on the door. Snow lies thick across the roof, red and green string lights flickering cheerily at the eaves. A balcony on the rightmost wall overlooks a shed that looks hand-built, and two mailboxes stand by the porch. One is overflowing, and the other is completely empty. This mailbox is labeled “PAPYRUS,” the voice remarks as they stare at the empty one. It’s also sparkling, like it’s just been cleaned. Papyrus must check his mail frequently.  

“And Sans doesn’t check his at all.” It doesn’t take a master of inference and context clues to realize that the overstuffed box belongs to Sans. Frisk briefly debates committing mail fraud, but decides they just don’t have the time for it. Maybe they’ll do it later. “There’s like a billion letters in there. But I don’t want to go to monster jail so I’m not gonna look at them.” They brush their hands off on their pants, looking back at the little town they’ve barely explored at all. They don’t care about Snowdin Town. The air is getting warmer the farther east they walk, so they’re going to keep going this way. They won’t stop at anything. They need to get out of here.

They wonder how far Papyrus will chase them to try to capture them. For all they know, once they’re out of Snowdin, they’ll be out of his sights, too. Maybe they can finally get some rest.

They shake themself off, pushing ahead through snow that grows wetter and less cohesive with each step. They’re getting there. Just another few steps, just through the rest of this clearing, just--

A harsh wind knocks them back, snow scattering into the air. It’s getting colder. Why is it getting colder? The wind picks up even more, sharp, bitter, so powerful it nearly forces them to their knees. It blows snow into their face, blinding them, casting the entire world in an intractable white fog. Their movements slow as they force themself forward against the gale, fighting with each step to keep themself upright. They’re so close to getting out of this stupid snow! They aren’t stopping now! They aren’t letting some stupid wind be what takes them down!

They push ahead until, across from them in the stretching, blinding whiteness, they see a silhouette.

The shadowy form is tall. Armored. Easily recognizable. Papyrus. So here they are. This is it. Their showdown. Did he make the wind, they wonder? They’ve only felt wind down here when he’s been around. Considering they’re in a cave system deep beneath the earth, it makes sense. They don’t think real wind can get down here. Do monsters conjure their own personal weather for dramatic effect? That’d be cool. It’d be cooler if the weather Papyrus was conjuring wasn’t a fucking blizzard.

“HUMAN.” His voice booms across the clearing, louder than the swirling wind by far. “ALLOW ME TO TELL YOU ABOUT SOME COMPLEX FEELINGS.”

This is already not going in the direction they were expecting. 

“Are you flirting with me?” they demand, but their voice is lost to the wind. The only reply they get is from within their own dumb head.

Wow! How egotistical can you get? the voice pokes. They pay it no mind. It’s not the star of the show right now--they’re way more focused on Papyrus. They can see the shadow of his scarf fluttering in the unnatural wind. The air tastes like something halfway between baking pastries and fresh solder, pleasantly sweet yet sharply metallic at the same time. Something finally clicks in their head, and they realize why the air down here feels so different.

It smells like magic.

Papyrus continues talking, voice carrying on the wind. “FEELINGS LIKE…THE JOY OF FINDING ANOTHER PASTA LOVER. THE ADMIRATION FOR ANOTHER’S PUZZLE-SOLVING SKILLS. THE DESIRE TO HAVE A COOL, SMART PERSON THINK YOU ARE COOL.” That’s…oh, wow, they hadn’t known he felt that way about them! They don’t know what to do with this information.

Thankfully he keeps talking before they have time to process it. Turns out they got the wrong idea. Maybe that’s for the better. “THESE FEELINGS…THEY MUST BE WHAT YOU ARE FEELING RIGHT NOW!” he continues. “I CAN HARDLY IMAGINE WHAT IT MUST BE LIKE TO FEEL THIS WAY. AFTER ALL, I AM VERY GREAT. I DON’T EVER WONDER WHAT HAVING LOTS OF FRIENDS IS LIKE. I PITY YOU…LONELY HUMAN. WORRY NOT! YOU SHALL BE LONELY NO LONGER!” 

So he does want to be their friend after all? They’re confused. “What’s he talking about?” they ask the voice in their head, catching a whiff of marinara sauce on the wind. 

The only response it gives them is Smells like bones. They don’t know what bones are supposed to smell like, but…not marinara sauce. Definitely not marinara sauce. Even after all those cinnamon bunnies, they’re still hungry. Now they want pasta. But it’s not the time for pasta. Papyrus looks like he’s regretting what he just said. Even shadowed and far away, they can tell his shoulders are slumping.

“NO…THIS IS ALL WRONG!” he exclaims. “I CAN’T BE YOUR FRIEND! YOU ARE A HUMAN! I MUST CAPTURE YOU! THEN I CAN FULFILL MY LIFELONG DREAM! POWERFUL! POPULAR! PRESTIGIOUS! THAT’S PAPYRUS! THE NEWEST MEMBER OF THE ROYAL GUARD!” Without another word, he waves his gloved hand, dispelling the wind that carried his voice across the clearing. The snow blowing around them retreats, spinning around them like a hurricane and trapping them in a white-walled arena. He’s standing across from them, in full view, and the world does that funny thing again.

They can hear the music now better than ever. It’s unmistakably there. Can Papyrus hear it? Can anyone else? It’s… assertive, maybe, is a good word for it? A punchy eight-bit bass hits like rhythmic, heavy bootsteps, knotted deftly through the holes of a synth that twinkles like pixelated stars. It definitely sounds like something from an old video game--a battle with a knight, maybe, but a knight who can’t stop smiling and cracking jokes while they’re smacking you with their mace. They kind of like it. Even though they feel like they’re about to get murdered. Probably randomly hearing music nobody else can hear is a bad thing, but they don’t have the time to think about that now. They have much more important matters at hand.

The world is back to normal, the darkness and the green lines gone, but they can still hear the music. They can’t tell where it’s coming from--it seems angled in the direction of Papyrus, but in the way those dimensional audio videos try to create the illusion of direction. Like it’s really coming from inside their own head. He’s still standing in the same place. The wind is still howling. Snow still swirls around them, keeping them trapped where they are. There’s no going back now. They’re just going to have to face him head-on.

Sans said something about him having a special blue attack--they can handle that, at least. They get the whole blue magic thing now. They just have to stay still, stay where they are. It worked with that one dog that could only see moving things, so they’re pretty sure they’ve got it down by now. Blue stop signs. Why the hell would he tell them to think about blue stop signs? That makes no sense! Stop signs are red! Wait, do monsters even have stop signs? Do monsters have cars? They lied about the possible existence of a subway in the capital, but do monsters even have roads?

I can feel you thinking, says the voice in their head, and it’s getting really annoying. It projects onto them an expression of extreme displeasure, and they cringe, staring ahead at Papyrus as they try to shake off their thoughts. Sometimes they get so bogged down in their own head that they forget what they’re doing at really inopportune times. Like right now. They’re supposed to be fighting Papyrus, and here they are, thinking about monster infrastructure! They brace themself. At least they’re pretty sure they know what to do this time. They just have to stand really, really still.

He lets out a nervous laugh, shooting a few slow bone attacks in their general vicinity. Not at them--no, if they said he was shooting bone attacks at them, it would imply that the magic bullets were coming within more than a few feet of them. He doesn’t even seem to be trying. They squint at him, trying to size up the situation. They don’t know if he’s incompetent or if he’s going easy on them on purpose. He wants to capture them, doesn’t he? Is this really the best he can do? They stay where they are, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He has to have something more powerful than just bones that aren’t even hitting them.

They cross their arms. “What are you waiting for?” they ask, though their voice is so quiet they don’t know if he can hear it over the swirling wind. The cold is weighing on them. They wish they’d stayed inside a little longer. Basked in the warmth of the shop just a moment more. Instead they’re out here, in the cold and the wind and the kicked-up snow, maybe about to get killed for the… fifth time today? Figures. It’s just their luck.

“SO YOU WON’T FIGHT…” Papyrus calls out, voice carrying across the snowy arena. “THEN, LET’S SEE IF YOU CAN HANDLE MY FABLED ‘BLUE ATTACK!’” They know how to handle this, at least. They close their eyes for a moment, focusing as hard as they can on standing still. That’s the hardest part--contending with the weird, spinny sensation they get when they focus too hard on the feeling of their own limbs. They’ve never felt like their body really belonged to them. When they open their eyes again, the world is slightly lopsided, tilted, skewed, but they feel far enough away from the nerves in their hands that they know they won’t move an inch.

The attack is exactly what they’re expecting: a bunch of blue bone bullets shot right at them. They don’t move. They look straight ahead, chin high, unflinching. They don’t even blink for the duration. The last of the bones cuts through their body with a removed feeling of coldness, and they take a minute to remember how to move their face, satisfied that that was it. The whole attack. Just blue bones--if he keeps up like this, they won’t have a problem at all.

And then, with no prelude whatsoever, they’re face-first in the snow. A normal, white bone smacks into their head with a crack , and their instinct to roll over, to scoot off to the side and check themself for bleeding, is met with a heaviness like trying to run in a nightmare. Gravity seems doubled, a dull weight pushing them down into the snow. They fight with all the strength in their body to push themself to their knees, feeling as though they’re shouldering the weight of the entire sky. At least their mouth seems unaffected by whatever kind of magic skeleton bullshit he just pulled on them, and thus they speak: “What the actual fuck was that? ” Their voice comes out thin and reedy, squashed in by the weight of his magic on their back. When they manage to look down at their hands, they find their body surrounded by an ethereal blue haze. They don’t like this kind of magic. They don’t like this kind of magic at all.

“YOU’RE BLUE NOW,” Papyrus announces, laughing voice still carried strong on a wind of his own conjuring. “THAT’S MY ATTACK!”

As Frisk scrambles for purchase against the weight of a whole world crushing down on them, the voice in their head makes itself known once again. Ah--now this makes it all worth it, it comments, tinged with the vaguest impression of a derisive smile. You’re blue now.  

“Are you going to help me not die or what?” they huff out, managing to pull themself to their feet just before Papyrus’s next attack. The voice provides them with no further commentary, and they scrunch up their face, trying to figure out what the hell they’re supposed to do. They’re tired of dying. They want a nap. They are currently being bombarded with magical bones. This is definitely not how they expected their day would go when that stupid bitch Marisa kicked them out of the Krafts Mart so very, very early this morning. They’d thought death would be the solution to being tired. Now it’s the cause. Serves them right for taking fate into their own hands. They don’t even hear what Papyrus says next--they’re too focused trying their damnedest to not get hit by another bone. They barely manage to throw themself out of the way of the next attack, ending up face-first in the snow yet again. A rivulet of blood trickles down their face from earlier--they’re trying to ignore it. They know head wounds bleed a lot, and they don’t feel particularly concussed, so they’re sure they’re fine.

“HOW HIGH CAN YOU JUMP?” Papyrus calls out. Jump? What the hell is he talking about? They can’t jump! They can barely even stand up! He’s shooting more bones at them, and they’re starting to realize how utterly ridiculous the situation they’re in is. Dying repeatedly? Fighting a talking, walking, magical skeleton? Hearing a fucking disembodied voice in their head? This is insane. They’re insane. They’re losing their mind. Maybe they should just let the bones hit them and see if they wake up in the stupid fucking pediatric psych ward they got sent to the one time Foster Mom Laura thought they were possessed. All they did was drink out of the hose, but apparently that was a crime against humanity, or something. Those medications didn’t make them want to stop drinking out of the hose, but they did make them feel incredibly awful, which sucked, because they made the kids who actually needed them feel better. They’re so distracted by their own memory that they end up accomplishing their goal of letting themself get hit by bones after all--the next one cracks so hard into their leg that they completely lose feeling in their foot for a full minute. They roll themself over onto their back, only to find Papyrus staring down at them. This sucks. They’re so getting captured. And they can feel their foot again, which is even worse, because it hurts like shit.

“YOU’RE TOO WEAK!” He crouches over them, the weight on their body lifting as he releases the magic that pressed down on them. “I WAS EASILY ABLE TO CAPTURE YOU!”

“Capture me?” they mumble out, still dizzy and hurting. Their leg is killing them and their head is still bleeding and they didn’t even get hit that much. They want a nap. This is too much. “You didn’t capture shit…”

He pays their protests no mind. He takes their hand (and, of course, they try to pull away, but they’re too tired to put much effort into it and all they manage to do is nearly trip themself), leading them back in the direction they came from. They can barely manage to shuffle through the snow, blood trickling into their eyes. Are they concussed? It didn’t feel that bad at first, but the world is spinning worse than it was before. They want to lie down. Just for a minute. Just until they have the strength to get through this for real.

He pulls open the door to the shed outside the big house at the edge of town, leading them inside. “STAY HERE, PLEASE!” he says. “YOU WILL HAVE TO WAIT FOR UNDYNE TO ARRIVE. I HAVE PREPARED SOME REFRESHMENTS AND ACCOMMODATIONS FOR YOU IN ADVANCE, HOWEVER!” He gestures vaguely with a gloved hand between a set of bars too wide to keep anyone in or out, showing off a big dog bed and a bowl of kibble. They let out a disheartened sigh, reluctantly stepping through the bars and very nearly running smack into one of them. They can’t walk straight. They plop down on the ground, staring dejectedly at the kibble. They’re glad they ate so many cinnamon bunnies--if this was their only meal, they’d be pretty upset. Though, honestly, cans of cat food aren’t that bad if you’re really hungry. Kibble’s probably fine.

“WELL. I MUST BE OFF! I HAVE A POST TO ATTEND TO WHILE I WAIT FOR UNDYNE TO MESSAGE ME BACK!” He’s gone without another word, and they flop over on their side, watching the kibble like it’ll move if they just stare at it long enough. They’ve been captured. Figures. They didn’t even have the dignity to die.

They realize, at that exact second, that there is literally nothing keeping them here. Sure, he captured them, but they can just get up. Go through the bars. Open the door. They pick themself up, rubbing at their forehead with their sweater--it comes away with nothing more than a vague brownish-red smudge against the blue fabric, so it’s safe to say their head isn’t bleeding as badly anymore. The voice hasn’t said anything for a while. Maybe it really was all in their head, and getting all concussed has made it go away. Of course. Just their luck. The only person they thought would stick with them out of necessity was just a figment of their imagination anyway.

They run smack into one of the bars yet again, and are immediately proven wrong. Do you need glasses? the voice mocks. They can’t help but smile at its presence. It’s annoying, it possessed them, it tried to kill them, but it’s there. It’s talking to them. Making fun of them. Its snark and irritation have grown familiar by now.

“I thought you’d ditched me. Or that I made you up,” they say, pushing open the door to the shed. The chill of the cavern outside hits them, and they wrap their arms around themself, pushing forward yet again.

We could both be so lucky, the voice responds. Frisk shoves their hands in their pockets, grabbing a crumb of cinnamon bunny to snack on while they make the walk back to Papyrus’s weird self-contained blizzard. They know better than to make a retort--it’ll just end in an argument, or more snark. But despite how rude and annoying and mean the voice is, it’s companionship. If they were suddenly without it, they wouldn’t feel lucky at all.

They face Papyrus again, feeling a little more numb to the cold this time around. The wind and snow obscure him from their view, but they can hear him talking to himself. “OH…WHERE COULD THAT HUMAN HAVE GONE,” he says, voice carrying a note of genuine worry that upsets them in ways they can’t describe. They see his silhouette turn, and he startles. “WAIT…IT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! HELLO! I WAS WORRIED THAT YOU HAD GOTTEN LOST!”

“Maybe if you toned down the fucking…murder wind,” they mutter under their breath. The snow is stinging their face, and they really just want to lie down. They don’t know what they’re doing, where they’re going. They’re tired.

“IT SURE IS A RELIEF TO KNOW THAT YOU’RE RIGHT HERE!” he calls at them. They wrinkle up their face. Hadn’t he just brought them to the shed hoping they’d stay there? He seems to realize this just as they do. “WAIT A SECOND! YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO ESCAPE! GET BACK THERE!” Without another word, they’re pulled back into the fray of the fight, snow dancing and swirling into a now-familiar arena around them. They don’t like this. They don’t want to be blue again. But it doesn’t seem like they really have a choice in the matter. His magic rushes over them once again, and they only just manage to stay standing against the weight pressing down on their shoulders. They have to stay upright. They have to get through this. They have to survive this. They don’t even know why. There’s nothing here for them. They ate and they didn’t feel better, so clearly these thoughts of doom and despair are natural, not provoked by hunger. (They neglect to consider that they definitely need a nap.) They climbed Mt. Ebott for a reason, didn’t they? And here they are, that reason still unfulfilled.

They find it hard to find the will to move their body. They sidestep a first volley of bones only barely, but the next slams into them hard. They stumble right into another bone attack, a fourth clipping them across the face. They trip, nose slamming into the ground. Their head hurts even worse now, and they’re bleeding again. Their leg still hurts. Their whole body hurts. They hope for a moment that he’ll just kill them. At least then they could come back refreshed, without the taste of blood in their throat.

He shows them no such mercy. Just declares yet again that they’re too weak, too easily capturable, and hauls them back to the shed. 

There’s really nothing left for them to do but keep trying. They’ll get past him eventually. He’ll get tired eventually. The voice in their head has little to offer on the matter, and though they miss its company, they’re glad for the distance just so they don’t snap and say something horrible to it. They’re thoroughly grumpy, and making that choice of words in their own mind just makes them grumpier. Grumpy is a stupid word. Grumpy is unjustified. They’ve suffered so much in their eleven years of life. Their anger and dullness now are completely merited. They pull themself to their aching feet, brushing their hands off on their shorts and stepping through the bars yet again.

They push through the cold to face Papyrus again. They don’t know why he’s beating them so easily. They did a much better job with Toriel, even though they ended up burnt so badly she stopped letting her attacks hit them altogether. If they were more focused, they’d be fine. If they were more focused, they could fight. Could dodge. Could keep going. But their head’s in a terrible place and they’re tired and the reality of where they are and how they’ve gotten here is only just now catching up to them, and Papyrus is talking but they can’t hear him because they’ve just now felt tears pricking at the corners of their eyes and they can’t cry. They can’t cry, they’ll get hit, they’ll get hurt, they’ll get screamed at, they’ll be weak, stupid and useless and weak and they can’t, they can’t, they can’t. They bite down hard on the inside of their cheek, blue magic crushing their body down into the snow, and he lets his magic fade before his first attack. Just like that, captured. The world is fuzzy and far away and they can’t cry, can’t, can’t, can’t.

He must drag them back to the shed because they’re sitting slumped against the wall again, eyes fixed on the bars like they were intently tracing the wear of the wood before they just now snapped back to reality. They feel stupid. Their limbs feel weaker than before, even though they’re so much more distant from their own pain. They can’t even feel the typical ache in their knees as much as usual. They just have to keep going.

They reach up to wipe at their eyes with the sleeve of their sweater. It comes away dry. They feel a prickle in the back of their mind, the voice tunneling out of the woodwork to make an appearance once again.

You weren’t even moving, and he still didn’t have the forethought to kill you, it says dully. There really is nobody in this world who will do what they have to anymore. They’re all weak. He’s weak. Modern monsters are weak.

“He’s still got me captured. I don’t think I can get past him,” Frisk replies, suddenly feeling very odd at the thought of their own name. It’s never fully felt like it belongs to them, but it feels even more distant now. Their voice sounds wrong, and their ears are ringing. “You’ll get your wish soon enough.” They pick themself up. There’s nothing else to do.

They go to face Papyrus once again, wobbly and shaky and tired and empty and cold. He looks down at them like he’s looking at a ghost.

“HUMAN…TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH, I AM GETTING RATHER TIRED OF CAPTURING YOU,” he says, words ever so vaguely shaking. He talks like he was rehearsing something completely different to say earlier, and has been thrown completely off script. “AND YOU MUST…REALLY LIKE SEEING MY FACE, IF YOU KEEP RETURNING SO READILY! I’M NOT SURE I CAN FIGHT SOMEONE WHO FEELS THIS WAY. SO WHAT DO YOU SAY?” They hate the way he’s looking at them. Like he sees something they don’t. Like they’re a bug with torn-off wings pinned to a corkboard, and he’s staring at them with both morbid curiosity and pity. 

“Just do it,” they force out. “Just fight me.” He’ll do it anyway if they say no. They know he will. They know. 

“OKAY…I GUESS…” he starts, but turns suddenly, startled by something. They realize only a moment later they’ve fallen to their knees. “HUMAN…I CAN’T DO THIS! I CAN’T FIGHT SOMEONE AS WEAK AS YOU! YOU’RE UNEQUIPPED, UNPREPARED, UNENTHUSED! IF WE ARE TO FIGHT, THEN…I MUST TRAIN YOU.” He kneels down across from them, the swirling wind that forms the arena dying so quickly it might never have been there in the first place. He reaches out a hand. They barely have the energy to pull away.

“I can fight, I can, I promise!” they say, hating how the words come out of their mouth. Like a plea. They’re eight years old and being screamed at by their last foster parents all over again, and they can’t stop the memories from replaying just behind their eyes, and they feel weak. Stupid, useless, weak. “Just let me try again! Let me fight you again! I can do it, I can, I swear!”

“NO,” he says, more firmly than they’ve ever heard him speak before. “IT WOULD NOT BE RIGHT! I…I CANNOT CAPTURE YOU.” He draws his hand back just a little, but doesn’t completely pull it away. “COME WITH ME, HUMAN. IF I AM TO GIVE YOU THE TRAINING YOU NEED TO PROPERLY FIGHT ME, IT MUST START WITH A GOOD MEAL.” He stands up, looking at them expectantly. They can’t bring themself to move. “WELL? ARE YOU COMING?”

They let out a heavy sigh. They try to pick themself up, but they can’t. Even without the blue halo of his magic, the whole world is still pressing down on them. “Just give me a minute,” they say, voice still distant. “I’ll be okay, I can fight you, just give me a minute.” They don’t have it in them to argue more. They still taste blood in their throat--it’s started to trickle from their nose again. They aren’t even that badly hurt, not by today’s standards, but they still can barely move.

Papyrus kneels back down, looking at them with a hateful kind of worry in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then thinks better of it, simply scooping them up in his bony arms and tossing them over his shoulder like a sack of wet, bedraggled potatoes. They don’t have it in them to fight back. They just let him carry them. 

He sets them down on the steps of the big house at the east of town, unlocking the door. A warm light spills out from inside, and they manage to push themself to their feet just at the promise of shelter from Snowdin’s bitter cold. “YES, THAT’S RIGHT! COME INSIDE, HUMAN!” he says, holding the door open for them. He closes it behind them, wearing a proud smile on his bony face as he gestures flourishingly at a wave-striped carpet that matches the colors of their sweater and neatly-painted wine-red walls. “WELCOME TO SCENIC MY HOUSE! ENJOY AND TAKE YOUR TIME!”

They aren’t entirely sure what to do. Aside from all the puzzles, he’s still practically a stranger to them. No better than a new foster parent. They end up just sitting down on the floor, suddenly able to feel their body again now that they’re out of the cold. Their head is pounding from more than just their injuries from the fight, and their legs and ribs and nose hurt like hell. Not to mention their knees, which always hurt, but feel so much worse on top of everything else. They really, really need a nap.

“THAT’S NO PLACE TO SIT!” Papyrus chastises them, helping them to their feet and directing them to a big, cozy green couch. They hesitate, pulling away as they try to piece together a coherent thought.

“I’m…my nose is bleeding,” they manage, voice garbled by the blood in their throat from said nosebleed. “I don’t…I don’t wanna get blood on the couch…”

“NOT TO WORRY! SANS GETS DIRT AND MUD ON IT ALL THE TIME,” Papyrus says, clearly not one to give up on the matter. “SIT DOWN, HUMAN, AND I WILL GET THE FIRST AID KIT!” He disappears into the kitchen, and they push themself to the side of the couch so they can see what he’s doing. He just…opens up the cabinet under the sink and steps into it. Into the space under the sink. Which is comically tall to begin with, but still. They can barely see past him, but they can just vaguely make out tiles and blue-painted walls and a hint of a shower curtain.

Is their bathroom under the sink? the voice in their head pokes, along with an impression of dramatically rolled eyes. Frisk sighs softly, sinking into the couch with relief. At least the voice is back. That makes them feel ever so slightly better. Oh, come, now, what was that about?

“I missed you,” they grumble, quietly enough that they know Papyrus won’t be able to hear it from the under-sink bathroom. 

Well, stop it. The voice sounds even more prickly than usual. Frisk gets the feeling it doesn’t like them being at all attached to it. It’s probably the only smart one between the two of them--they know full well that attachment only leads to pain. But it’s hard not to get attached in circumstances like these. The voice is there, and can’t seem to stop being there, and even if they find it annoying and rude and mean, they enjoy the familiarity. They like knowing that it’ll be there no matter what.

Papyrus emerges from beneath the sink, carrying a little green box. He pops it open, revealing a vial of something glowing green. It takes them a moment--they just aren’t thinking very well to begin with--but they recognize it as healing magic. “Do you not have bandages?” they ask dumbly, even though they know bandages won’t really do anything for their terrible bloody nose.

“WELL, THEY AREN’T REALLY…VERY USEFUL?” Papyrus explains. “THEY’RE JUST STICKY BITS OF CLOTH. BUT I FOUND SOME AT THE DUMP, IF YOU WANT TO…LOOK AT THEM…?” He seems baffled at their interest. Do monsters not bleed? They never really thought about it. He unscrews a vial of green magic, pouring it onto his gloved hands and rubbing them together until it sparks. “MY HEALING MAGIC IS NOT VERY GOOD. BUT THIS SHOULD SUFFICE! I AM SORRY, HUMAN. IT APPEARS YOU DO NOT LIKE TO BE TOUCHED, BUT YOUR NOSE DOES NOT LOOK LIKE IT IS IN THE RIGHT PLACE.” He rests a gloved hand on their face for a moment, and the crackling warmth of the bottled healing magic is enough that they don’t cringe too terribly at the touch. He pulls away quickly, setting the box on the end table by the couch. “MY BROTHER SHOULD BE BACK SOON.”

“Why do you even care about healing me?” they ask, a little more bluntly than they maybe should. They don’t have the energy to modulate their voice, to take the tone people expect of them. They just want a nap. “You want to capture me so bad. You’re the one who hit me with all those bones in the first place.” The bitterness that slips into their voice at the end is far from intentional, and they bite their tongue as soon as they’ve said their final word. They don’t understand him. They don’t understand monsters in general.

“WELL…IT IS OBVIOUS YOU ARE TIRED. TODAY IS SHAPING UP TO BE QUITE A LONG DAY. YOU NEED REST AND A HOME-COOKED MEAL IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE IN FIGHTING CONDITION!” He sits down on the opposite side of the couch, keeping an almost-comical distance from them. “HUMAN…IF UNDYNE HAS TAUGHT ME ANYTHING, IT IS THAT A TRUE WARRIOR FIGHTS FAIR. I CANNOT FIGHT YOU LIKE THIS. IT WOULD BE UNJUST.” It seems awfully profound for him. All day he’s been screwing up puzzles and offering them inedible, frozen spaghetti. They hadn’t taken him for someone who thought about things so deeply.

There’s a lot about this world they don’t know.

“WELL. ANYWAYS. THE FIRST STEP TO YOUR WARRIOR TRAINING IS GETTING SOME REST!” he says, reaching behind the sofa and pulling out a fuzzy blanket patterned with hot dogs. “YOU SHOULD TAKE A NAP, HUMAN! ONCE MY BROTHER GETS HOME, WE WILL ALL EAT TOGETHER. I AM SURE WITH REST AND FOOD YOU WILL BE READY TO TAKE ME ON LIKE A TRUE WARRIOR!” He hands them the blanket, and they look it over, not entirely sure what to do with it. They don’t want to sleep here, in the middle of a stranger’s house. It isn’t safe. 

But they’re tired. They’re exhausted. They don’t know how long they’ve been walking, but it feels like they’ve been awake two days straight already.

Maybe they really do just need a nap.

Chapter Text

Chara
_____

Modern monsters. It wishes it could sigh in disgust. Watching this little display has made it far angrier than it was before. It had, just for a moment, had faith in Papyrus. It had truly believed he would capture them. But now it knows there’s no further use holding out hope.

They were weak. He could have left them locked in the shed. Waited for this…Undyne person to show up. No mess, no hassle. He likely wouldn’t have even needed to clean their blood off the floor, seeing as their capture was set to deliver them to the Capital. Yet here they are, dozing on his couch, curled up in a fuzzy blanket he gave them. It was right when it said he was ineffectual. He certainly is.

It hates the way looking at Frisk like this makes it feel.

It’s been seeing them more in the third person, lately. Ever since Papyrus captured them the first time. It can’t tell what it prefers--on principle, it feels like being farther removed is better. It’s less upsetting. It hurts less. Yet standing here, like a real ghost, untied to their body, feels terribly uncomfortable. It has no skin to crawl, no hair to raise, yet it feels those sensations in its very being. Without the physical counter, every small discomfort is a thousand times worse.

Frisk isn’t completely asleep, not yet. It can tell from the way their eyes move beneath their lids, the way they startle when they breathe too loudly. It feels a sickening sense of familiarity in their anxiety and panic. It could not have been this weak when it was alive, could it have been? It’s disgusted by the thought. It is nothing like Frisk. It could never be anything like Frisk. They’re human, for one thing, and it knows, so very certainly, that it is not. Oh, it loathes them. It loathes the rise and fall of their chest, growing softer and steadier as they drift closer and closer to the edge of sleep. It loathes the tangled curls that anoint their head. It loathes the red of their eyes. It loathes the way they move. Loathes the pressing feeling of their thoughts, thoughts it can’t hear, can’t decipher, can’t interpret. Loathes everything, everything, everything about them.

They are far too familiar. Somewhere between an old friend and a distorted reflection.

Chara prays to whatever god has time for the pleas of ghosts that their death will be timely.

(It prays, also, out of a hateful, unbidden sympathy, that their death will be swift.)

It doesn’t sleep. It’s not certain it can. Whatever part of Frisk it’s bound to, it isn’t their body--it can roam freely while they sleep. Well--not entirely freely. It’s still stuck within a range no greater than ten feet in diameter around them. That doesn’t bother it too badly--though it would like to explore, there’s not much it can do. It isn’t corporeal. It can’t even walk through walls. What kind of terrible, useless phantom can’t walk through walls? It tries to formulate within its consciousness the impression of a huff, but is unable to produce much of anything. This purgatory, this horrible limbo, weighs it down like no other kind of torture. There is so little it can do. It is powerless. Helpless. Out of control.

Sans returns not long after Frisk has finally drifted into sleep. He doesn’t look terribly surprised at their presence on his couch. “so, i take it the whole capture thing didn’t go so well, huh?” he asks, waving hello to Papyrus on his way to the kitchen. “you thinkin’ about dinner?”

“DINNER? IT’S NOT EVEN NOON!” Papyrus says. His voice still comes through in all caps, though he seems to be trying to whisper so as to not wake Frisk. “IT’S BARELY EVEN TIME FOR BRUNCH!”

“it’s a long day,” Sans says. “might as well be dinner time. you making spaghetti?”

“I HAVE MADE ENOUGH SPAGHETTI FOR TODAY!” Papyrus declares with a huff, following Sans to the kitchen. Chara is content just watching their antics for a while. It’s not like it can do much else, what with the closest thing its floating, aimless consciousness has to a host being asleep on the couch. 

“good. guess i don’t have to pick anything up from grillby’s, then.” Sans reaches into a cupboard, getting out a brightly-colored container while Papyrus ruffles around for some sprinkles. Once he’s located them, he marches back to the weird chairless table in the living room, pouring a good helping onto a rock with googly eyes stuck to it.

“YOU FORGOT TO FEED YOUR ROCK AGAIN!” Papyrus announces. “YOU GET LAZIER EVERY DAY, SANS!” He doesn’t seem inclined to press the matter, though--he just puts the sprinkles away, peering over Sans’s much shorter shoulder at the container he’s holding. “OH, GOODIE! THAT’S MY FAVORITE!”

Chara can’t quite get into the kitchen. It’s barred from going any farther by an invisible wall, and it turns around to imagine glaring at Frisk a little longer. Couldn’t they wake up just so it could see what Sans is putting in the microwave? This is ridiculous. It paces around the living room a while, trying not to think too hard about what happened earlier. It doesn’t want to admit to itself how… odd seeing Frisk like that was. It wasn’t scary--it is no longer capable of fear, it lies to itself. Just odd. Strange. They seemed so removed from themself. So far from their body. Chara felt even further removed than normal. It was an unsettling feeling, and, worse, a feeling it recognized.

It doesn’t want to see them like that again. If only Papyrus had been responsible, if only he had properly captured them! Then it wouldn’t have to worry about it. They’d be dead, and Chara would, in all likelihood, no longer be conscious. It would truly be the best outcome for everyone.

It wonders how many times it’s thought that about Frisk’s death.

A while later, Sans gently shakes Frisk awake. “you want dinner?” he asks, only to be met with very loud yelling. Frisk throws their blanket at him, skittering across the couch and falling to the floor with a thud. “sorry, kid. hate to wake ya. you looked bone tired.”

“That was terrible,” Frisk grumbles under their breath, picking themself up and brushing themself off. They stare straight at him with something cold in their gaze, taking a step back. They still have heavy circles under their eyes. They look exhausted. Chara despises the weakness in their posture, the weariness on their face. They, a human, born and bred for killing, are down here in a crowd of monsters, lambs to the slaughter, lemmings off a cliff, and they have the audacity to be so weak! Chara despises them for it. Despises them for going against their nature, despises them for not proving it right. If they lashed out, if they struck, maybe it would find within itself the power to stop them.

It is, once again, entirely certain that its reasoning is without flaw.

“dinosaur oatmeal,” Sans says, gesturing at the table. There is, in fact, dinosaur egg oatmeal on it, along with some buttered pasta. Probably for the better that there’s no marinara sauce--Papyrus doesn’t seem to be particularly gifted in the spaghetti department, judging off of what Frisk found quite literally frozen to the table earlier in Snowdin Forest. “eat up. you can go back to sleep after.” 

“Are there chairs?” Frisk asks dumbly, taking a cautious step towards the table. They seem afraid of it. Like it’ll jump out and bite them if they get too close.

“nah, we usually eat on the couch. i can take the floor, though. you gotta get your rest.” He grabs a bowl of oatmeal and just…dumps some noodles in it. Chara is momentarily grateful for its lack of a corporeal form, for if it had one, it would certainly retch at the sight. Frisk, however, follows suit, seemingly entirely undisturbed by the thought of oatmeal pasta. Disgusting. Hateful. Loathsome. Chara can’t even put the utter horror it feels at these circumstances into words.

“YOU TWO ARE WEIRD!” Papyrus exclaims. He just takes the oatmeal, leaving the rest of the noodles on the table. Knowing Frisk--who is currently scarfing down their oatmeal-pasta concoction like it’ll disappear if they don’t finish it in five seconds--those noodles won’t last long. “DINOSAUR EGG OATMEAL! IT’S LIKE AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL DIG IN A BOWL!”

“Are they real dinosaur eggs?” Frisk asks stupidly, around a mouthful of oatmeal and pasta. Chara has to restrain itself from screaming.

Do you think they’re real dinosaur eggs, you utter nitwit? it pokes, prompting Frisk to nearly spill their oatmeal all over themself. You baffle me. You are beyond comprehension.

“Thanks,” Frisk mutters snidely under their breath.

“THEY ARE NOT!” Papyrus announces proudly, though Frisk has already had their question answered. “JUST LIKE THE BOW TIES IN BOW TIE PASTA ARE NOT REAL BOW TIES! YOU CANNOT WEAR THEM. I HAVE TRIED.” The confidence in his voice doesn’t waver for a moment. Chara wishes he were more committed to actually capturing Frisk--he seems funny enough. It wishes it could properly respect him. Yet he’s just as useless as everyone else down here.

“Is it really dinner time?” they ask after a long silence. “It’s still light out.” Chara has given up at this point. Maybe it’s just that they’re still half asleep, but trying to explain to them the intricacies of the Underground’s odd manner of progressing through time just seems useless. They’re going to die anyway, eventually, so what’s the point in wasting time on them? Frisk seems to catch themself after their next bite, correcting their error with their mouth full. “I mean, I guess we’re underground, so…”

“TODAY IS A LONG DAY!” Papyrus declares. Chara would smirk if it had a mouth--the way he talks fails to lend the phrase the nuance it needs, and leaves Frisk baffled still. “THOUGH TIME IS TECHNICALLY PROGRESSING AS NORMAL, IT IS…WELL…I’M NOT SURE HOW TO EXPLAIN IT, ACTUALLY.”

“i can do it,” Sans says, looking up from his equally disgusting pasta porridge. “up there, on the surface, the sun’s still rising and falling like normal. time’s still passing the way it’s supposed to, but sometimes having a lot of monsters stuck together in one place, magic starts to accumulate.” Frisk just looks more confused. He presses on with his explanation. “because of that, time down here starts to stretch. the lights up on the cave ceilings, they’re supposed to follow the sun, and that’s why it’s still bright out. but even though up there it’s not even noon, down here it feels like it’s been days since this morning. that’s, uh, probably why you’re so hungry.” The entire time he’s been talking, Frisk has been practically inhaling their noodles. Even with all the cinnamon bunnies they had earlier…it’s terrifying to watch. “they call it a long day.”

A Long Day, Chara elaborates, just to get the tone of it right. It’s difficult to explain the nuances of monster communication, sometimes. How they talk in color, how they make the sounds of capitalization and italics and bolding verbally. How an ellipsis is pronounced differently than a common pause. Sans and Papyrus, it’s noticed, are both weirdly accented. Sans talks in a way it can best describe as lowercase--so does that ghost Napstablook. Papyrus, conversely, speaks in all caps. It’s beautiful, hearing monsters talk again. So much more nuanced than how humans speak. Chara wishes it could sit back just a moment longer, just listen to them talk without Frisk interfering. Just to sit in silence, to soak in the feeling of their home, of the place, the people, the culture they so loved long ago. Just to be themself again, if only for a moment.

It, it corrects itself, loudly enough that Frisk startles. They quickly look back at their empty bowl, getting up to get themself some more pasta without another word. They don’t say anything to Chara--they just sit back down on the couch, eyes narrowed like they’re trying to think.

“So it doesn’t happen up…up there?” Frisk asks. “On the…the surface, I mean.”

Surface, Chara corrects, with the proper capitalization of the S.

“Surface.”

“nah,” Sans confirms. “it’s just because of the magic that’s all stuck down here. you put a bunch of monsters together in a tight space, things get weird.” He doesn’t elaborate any further, and they don’t ask him anything else. Probably for the better. 

They get up once they’re finished to clean up their bowl, but Papyrus barricades the entrance to the kitchen. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, HUMAN?” he asks. They startle, stepping backwards, hands trembling, but he doesn’t give them much time to think before he grabs the bowl from them. “YOU ARE OUR GUEST. I WILL BE DOING THE CLEANING-UP!”

They stare at him vacantly as he rinses out their bowl, retreating like a dog with its tail between its legs. They sit down on the couch, staring stupidly at their hands. Chara can’t even find within itself something snarky to say. They look so sad it doesn’t even want to try, and that’s certainly saying something, considering everything it’s done to them so far. What’s your problem? it asks after a long while. You have so much power over them. You’re human. 

“It’s nothing,” Frisk mumbles, curling up in the hot dog blanket yet again. “It’s just…I don’t like how nice they’re being. They’re gonna get mad eventually, aren’t they?” 

Chara hates the pang that strikes through its consciousness at the words. Hate the unbidden memories that fight against the walls it’s put up, so desperate to surface, to be seen and to be heard. If only, it says. Monsters are made of hopes and dreams and compassion. It takes a lot for them to snap. Unlike humans. Unlike you. Look at them! Papyrus was supposed to capture you, and he kissed your freaking boo-boos and swaddled you up in a blanket instead. It cringes immediately at the sound of its own words. It can’t talk like that. Even sarcastically, even as a joke. The intonation, the drop of the mask, the…but it isn’t a mask, it can’t be a mask, that can’t be it, it can’t be like this, it…

It steels itself. It won’t pursue those thoughts a moment longer.

“... Boo-boos? ” Frisk asks with a baffled laugh. “Whatever. You don’t know me. Even if they don’t get mad at anyone else, they’ll get mad at me. People always do.”

They aren’t people, Chara says. Though, in all honesty, it isn’t quite sure it’s using the right definition of people. It says nothing more.

Frisk just lets out a puff of air, smiling only for a moment before they close their eyes. They don’t say anything else to Chara, and Chara thinks nothing more at them.

They fall asleep soon after that, leaving Chara to perch somewhere above the back of the couch. It watches Sans and Papyrus tidy up, feeling a longing that’s becoming harder and harder to ignore somewhere deep within its consciousness.

Seeing this little family, these two brothers, this small yet vibrant life, it knows it cannot deny it any longer. It can’t stay detached, no matter how much it wants to. It will fight off the memories to the best of its abilities, but ignoring this feeling is impossible. It cannot avoid the truth.

Try as it might to distance itself, this place, this world, these people…it is not unaligned, not unattached, not distant, not removed. 

How foolish of it, to deny that it once had a home.

Chapter Text

Frisk 
_____

The cold doesn’t sting so much, this time around.

Papyrus has led them out to the clearing again, conjuring a wind that kicks up snow around them, swirling and spinning and churning in the formerly still air of the cavern. They’re braced for it, though. They’ve slept, they’ve eaten, they’ve showered and sponged the blood off their sweater. They feel much better now.

It isn’t really morning. According to Sans, scientific reasoning put the time around noon when they woke up. The false sky was bright when they fell asleep, and bright again when they woke up, even though they slept long enough to feel rested. Still, it feels like morning. They had oatmeal (this time without the pasta!) for breakfast. They’re ready to take on whatever the universe throws at them today.

It’s remarkable what a good mid-morning nap will do for an upset, cranky kid. 

“NOW, HUMAN, WE MUST BATTLE FOR REAL!” Papyrus declares, though Frisk isn’t totally sure how much faith they have in him actually doing that. He was supposed to capture them, and took them home for dinner instead. They can see him conjuring up a bone attack (as the voice in their head very helpfully points out as well), but they get the sense that he plans on going easy on them. They really embarrassed themself yesterday, didn’t they? 

“Hell yeah!” they cry out, preparing themself for the now-familiar blue attack. They aren’t so tired now. They’re a little apprehensive, still, but they know they can get through this. They steel themself, closing their eyes as a wave of heavy blue magic washes over them. 

They stay standing. They barely feel the weight of it at all.

“DON’T MAKE ME USE MY SPECIAL ATTACK!” Papyrus threatens, shooting a wave of normal bones at them. They just barely manage to dodge--one clips them in the leg still, but it doesn’t hurt as badly as attacks hurt last time. Are they stronger? Or did getting sleep just make them feel that much better? “HOW HIGH CAN YOU JUMP?”

Is he trying to give them a hint or something? They don’t know if they can jump in these circumstances. They prefer not to jump in general unless they absolutely have to--it bothers their knees, so they’d rather keep both feet on the ground. Plus, his magic is still weighing them down, even though they’re still standing. It’s…probably worth a try, at least once. If it doesn’t work, they can go back to just trying to duck out of the way.

At the next volley of bones, they spring up with all the strength they have. Their knees ache at the effort of getting off the ground, but, by miracle or chance or magic or something, they clear the whole line of bone bullets in a single leap. They land smoothly, softly. It feels more like floating than falling.

“YOU’VE GOT IT, HUMAN!” Papyrus calls out in encouragement, clapping his gloved hands together. “FIGHTING IS MUCH EASIER WHEN YOU WORK WITH YOUR OPPONENT’S MAGIC, RATHER THAN AGAINST IT! AT LEAST, THAT’S WHAT UNDYNE TAUGHT ME. I HAVEN’T BEEN IN MANY FIGHTS.” They smile at that--it makes sense. He doesn’t seem like the type. Then they think over everything he said, and do a bit of a double-take.

“So…was me jumping right there… magic? ” they ask. It feels silly to say something like that. But also, if it’s true, it’s really, really cool. The weird saving thing is probably magic too, depending on how you define magic, but somehow this is way cooler to them. “That’s…kinda neat, actually.” 

Don’t get too full of yourself, the voice in their head snaps. Despite their good mood, it’s been sullen since they woke up. You’re still annoying and useless. Being able to jump really high doesn’t change that.

“Nobody asked you, asshat,” they mumble under their breath, focusing on Papyrus’s next attack. They’re kind of getting the hang of this. His magic manipulates gravity, and when they jump, they manipulate it right back the other way. That’s actually pretty neat. They wonder if they practice enough, they can start landing their jumps in those poses superheroes always do after they jump off really tall buildings or whatever. They always thought superheroes were kind of lame, but this is cool. This is definitely cool.

“I CAN ALMOST TASTE MY FUTURE POPULARITY!” Papyrus calls out. He’s on a monologue about something or another, but they haven’t quite figured out what he’s getting at yet. Probably capturing them. Since he still thinks he’s going to do that. Unfortunately for him, now that they’re rested and fed, they have no intentions of getting captured again. “PAPYRUS: HEAD OF THE ROYAL GUARD! PAPYRUS: UNPARALLELED SPAGHETTORE!” 

“S’that what they call someone who makes spaghetti?” Frisk asks, but their voice is lost on the wind as they throw themself between two bone attacks, tucking their legs in and just barely managing to roll to safety. Their legs are definitely going to hurt after this. And, of course, they’re going to have to keep walking. They still don’t know where they’re going. They don’t even want to leave the Underground, even if there is an exit somewhere. But they have to keep going. Barring the rest they need to keep walking, if they stop for too long, they won’t be able to start again. As much as that thought prickles at their good mood, they know they need to hold onto it. If they stop, if they even slow down too much, they’re dead.

“UNDYNE WILL BE REALLY PROUD OF ME!” Papyrus continues, having clearly not heard what they said. “THE KING WILL TRIM A HEDGE IN THE SHAPE OF MY SMILE!” They still wonder if it’s the same king who sucks at names. “MY BROTHER WILL…WELL, HE WON’T CHANGE VERY MUCH.” That tracks, too. They don’t know Sans very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of person who cares about reinventing himself, or whatever. He doesn’t really seem like the type of person who cares about much of anything at all. 

“So you’re--still talking about capturing me?” they ask as they jump through another attack. They know he isn’t listening to them--they’re just trying to get it straight in their head. They want to get a good picture of his motivations. They’ll be better equipped if they know what he wants. They aren’t good at talking to people, but they’re good at knowing about them. At understanding them. At predicting them.

“I’LL HAVE LOTS OF ADMIRERS, BUT…” He trails off mid-sentence, and they get the feeling they know what he’s thinking. 

“But you won’t know if anyone actually really likes you,” they finish for him. Despite the wind and the clamor of the battle, their voice carries. “That’s the hard part, isn’t it?” Maybe if they can figure this out, if they can solve his problems, he won’t want to capture them anymore. It’s worth a shot. “When you’re…really popular, or famous, or whatever, you don’t know who’s really your friend. Or who just wants to get close to you so people will like them, too.”

“I HADN’T REALLY THOUGHT ABOUT IT THAT WAY…” he replies, letting his attacks slow for a moment. They feel the weight pressing down on them lift just a little as his magic wavers. “PERHAPS YOU’RE RIGHT, HUMAN…AFTER ALL, SOMEONE LIKE YOU IS REALLY RARE. I DON’T THINK THEY’LL LET YOU GO AFTER YOU’RE CAPTURED AND SENT AWAY…”

They’re getting somewhere! They have to fight their instincts so they don’t clap their hands out of enthusiasm. This is actually progress. “Yeah! I mean…I think you’re pretty cool already.” The words sting when they leave their mouth. The worst part is, it isn’t even a lie. Papyrus has been…weirdly nice to them. Even though he wants to capture them, they get the feeling that he actually maybe likes them. Or, at least, doesn’t think they’re as annoying as most people do. They can’t get too attached to the idea of actually having a friend, they know that, they don’t know how being friends with people works anyway, but a part of them just wants to try. To let their guard down for a moment, just a second, to still keep it high enough that they can pull their walls back up if something goes wrong, but maybe, maybe, just maybe the reward could be worth the risk of vulnerability. It’s a stupid thought. It’s a terrible idea. They know they can’t stay. They know he’ll get tired of them soon enough.

But is it bad enough to cast that all aside just for a moment? Is it bad enough to at least try to trust him?

“REALLY?” He claps his gloved hands to his cheekbones, eye sockets sparkling brightly. Immediately afterwards, though, he seems to realize what he’s doing, and balls up his fists, stomping his foot in anger as his magic intensifies again. “YOU SLY DOG! YOU ALMOST HAD ME FOOLED AGAIN! URGH! WHO CARES! GIVE UP OR FACE MY SPECIAL ATTACK!”

He keeps going on about that special attack…maybe if they can just outlast it, then he’ll let them go. They haven’t saved in a while--they don’t want to go back to before they first faced him. They’ll have to go find that save star by the shop again once this is over, assuming he doesn’t kill them first. He hasn’t before. He’s only ever captured them. But they can’t let their guard down. “Bring it on!” they cry out, but their voice is once again lost to the wind.

“YEAH! VERY SOON I WILL USE MY SPECIAL ATTACK!” They dodge another wave of bones, barely managing to avoid smacking their head on one that dangles above them. “NOT TOO LONG AND I WILL USE THAT SPECIAL ATTACK!” They roll out of the way of one, then jump as high as they can over another. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE…BEFORE MY SPECIAL ATTACK!”

They stand in the howling wind and swirling snow, trying fruitlessly to draw on the power that fills their chest at every save point. Nothing happens. They’re a little scraped up, though not too badly hurt--they just have to believe they’ll make it through this. They just have to hold on. They can do this. They can do this. They’ll be fine.

Papyrus readies his magic. “BEHOLD! MY SPECIAL ATTACK!”

He doesn’t get far.

A little white dog, fur fluffed out against the snow, appears as if from nowhere in the middle of the battlefield, sparks of magic jumping from its teeth as it gnaws on a white-magic bone. For a moment, all both Frisk and Papyrus can do is stare at it. 

“Is that it?” Frisk starts, but Papyrus’s bold voice cuts them off before they get anything else out. He is mad. They can feel it in the shifting of the wind.

“WHAT THE HECK?” he shouts, voice suspended at a happy medium somewhere between utter confusion and sheer frustration. “THAT’S MY SPECIAL ATTACK! HEY! YOU STUPID DOG! DO YOU HEAR ME? STOP MUNCHING ON THAT BONE!” His irritation is comical. Frisk stifles a laugh, getting the feeling that he and this dog go way back. There’s a history here. That little white puffball is most certainly a dire and intractable foe. 

It side-eyes Papyrus, continuing to gnaw on his special attack, then lets out a peeved shelter-dog sigh. The dog spends not a moment more dealing with any of this nonsense--it absconds with his special attack, running off into the wind and snow and leaving poor Papyrus fuming. “HEY!” he cries out after it. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET BACK HERE WITH MY SPECIAL ATTACK!!!” 

The dog does not return.

Frisk presses a hand to their mouth, still trying to fight a smile. Canis ex machina… the voice in their head comments snidely. Frisk doesn’t know what it means by that, but they snort anyway, more at the tone of its voice than the actual words. It certainly gives off the impression that it thinks what it said is incredibly funny. That’s the real funny part. They step back a little, looking over their shoulder like the dog will somehow emerge from the fog behind them. The dog does no such thing.

Papyrus stares down at his hands, face wrinkled up in irritation and confusion. They’re surprised how much his face can wrinkle, given that it’s all just bone. Monsters are weird. “OH WELL…” he says after a long moment of quiet contemplation. “I’LL JUST USE A REALLY COOL REGULAR ATTACK.”

Papyrus is getting ready for a regular attack, the voice comments. Frisk rolls their eyes, standing at the ready. It’s just bones. Bones aren’t that bad. They can handle bones.

Papyrus proceeds with his totally regular attack. Frisk steadies themself, ready to jump as many times as they have to. They vault over the words COOL DUDE written in bones, tucking and rolling just in time to come face to face with that damn dog again. They push themself out of its way, doing an awkward little pivot-twirl straight into a bone on a skateboard. They stumble over it clumsily, ending up face-first in the snow yet again. They push themself upright with all their strength, only to find themself directly in front of a wall of rapidly advancing bones, stacked so high and tall they can’t even see Papyrus’s face behind them. How are they supposed to dodge this? They size up the wall of bones, then close their eyes as tight as they can, focusing on the feeling of heaviness that surrounds them.

The world behind their eyelids is brilliant blue. They feel the cold of it surrounding them, and they taste smoke in the back of their throat. The feeling is heavy and all-consuming. They allow it to pass through them. They allow it to fill into their body, to pool in their legs the way the fire of their own power lights up their chest and their fingers. They take Papyrus’s advice--they don’t fight it. They let it run through their fingers. They hold onto it, sink into the weight of it, float in its oceanic depths. It’s theirs, now. As long as it lasts, it’s part of them.

They open their eyes. Again, they jump.

They fly.

The false wind tangles through their hair and stabs against their face. Below them, they see Snowdin Town, Papyrus staring up at them like a little white ant against blue ice and blinding snow. They’re weightless, lifted upward on a current of their own conjuring. They float, suspended, high above the very regular normal attack, above the realm of meddling dogs and half-cooked spaghetti, above everything. They hear the music again. It fills their ears, fills their mind, fills their body. The tallest bone of Papyrus’s last attack passes well below them.

Gravity takes hold again, and they tumble back to the ground, smacking nose-first into solid, icy snow. A crack of pain shoots through their face, but they’re too giddy from their flight to pay it much mind. They push themself up to their knees, blood trickling from their nose again, and, despite the pain from the impact, they laugh. Laugh like a dumb kid who’s just gone over the biggest bump on the sledding hill, who’s fallen into the lake trying to fish and is soaking wet, like this is just a normal misadventure of childhood.

Nothing like that ever happened to them before.

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, HUMAN?” Papyrus asks, concern showing clear on his boney face. “I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYONE JUMP SO HIGH BEFORE…”

“It’s fine!” they say, voice garbled around a mouthful of blood. “I’m fine! That was…did you see that? That was…that was awesome!” They scrunch up their face, spitting the last of their baby teeth into the snow. Good riddance. That thing had been loose for ages. “So…was that okay? I’m sorry you didn’t get to use your special attack. Dumb dog.”

Papyrus lets out a conflicted sigh. “IT’S…CLEAR YOU CAN’T…DEFEAT ME,” he says, as though he’s trying to reassure himself of this. “I CAN SEE YOU SHAKING IN YOUR BOOTS! THEREFORE I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, ELECT TO GRANT YOU PITY.” He extends a hand in their direction. An offer to help them up. “I WILL SPARE YOU, HUMAN. NOW’S YOUR CHANCE TO ACCEPT MY MERCY.”

Against their better judgment, they take his offer. They let him help them up. Pressing their fist to their nose to try to keep any more blood from getting on their sweater, they flash him a winning smile. “That was fun.”

He doesn’t seem to agree. He stares down at his boots, letting out a sad half-laugh. “NYOO HOO HOO…I CAN’T EVEN STOP SOMEONE AS WEAK AS YOU. UNDYNE’S GOING TO BE DISAPPOINTED IN ME. I’LL NEVER JOIN THE ROYAL GUARD, AND…MY FRIEND QUANTITY WILL REMAIN STAGNANT!” They’d thought he was going easy on them on purpose, but, then again, maybe that last attack was pretty tough. It probably would’ve been worse if that dumb dog hadn't stolen the attack he’d been planning on using. They honestly feel kind of bad for him. They get it.

“Hey--it’s…it’s okay,” they say dumbly. “You know--I dunno what it’s like down here, really, but…don’t you think your talents would be wasted, being in the Royal Guard? Knights, cops, whatever, it’s all just…smash people over the head until they stop fighting. But you’re…you’re creative. You’re smart. You’re really good at puzzles. And--hey, maybe someday you’ll cook an okay spaghetti. Plus…” This next part is dangerous. They should stop there. They should just let it be. They’re smarter than this. They’re smarter than taking a risk like that.

But they do it anyway.

“I guess…I guess I could be your friend.” They sniff hard, wincing at the pain in their probably-broken- again nose. “I mean…I’m not gonna stick around here. I don’t like the cold. But…I like you. I think you’re cool. I could maybe…come visit again someday.”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring at them as though they’ve completely lost their mind. “REALLY? YOU WANT TO BE FRIENDS, WITH ME? WELL…WELL THEN, I…I GUESS. I GUESS I CAN MAKE AN ALLOWANCE FOR YOU.”

They grin at him. “You won’t regret it,” they say. “I’m…not that cool, or smart, or funny, but I can make a mean microwave ramen.” They squish up their face for a minute, cringing at their pathetic attempt to sound likable. Their blitheness is gone just as soon as they’d found it. How silly. He’ll get tired of them too. He must think they’re so stupid. They think they’re stupid, letting their guard down like that. They’ll get hurt. They always do.

“WHO KNEW THAT ALL I NEEDED TO MAKE PALS WAS TO GIVE PEOPLE AWFUL PUZZLES AND THEN FIGHT THEM?” Papyrus says, oblivious to the change in their demeanor. That’s not unusual. They’ve always figured people just don’t care enough to look, but they’ve also gotten pretty good at hiding it. They can fake a smile like nobody’s business. They’ll just let him keep talking. They don’t have anything better to do. “YOU TAUGHT ME A LOT, HUMAN. I HEREBY GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO PASS THROUGH!”

“Is Waterfall that way?” they ask dully, unable to fake the cheer in their voice from earlier. It was genuine, then, and they just can’t get it right. “It’s warmer there, right?”

“YOU ARE CORRECT! IT IS WARMER IN WATERFALL. AND WETTER. THOUGH SNOW IS WATER, SO…MAYBE IT’S ACTUALLY EQUALLY WET? I’VE NEVER REALLY THOUGHT ABOUT IT.” He looks over his shoulder now that the blizzard has cleared, gaze landing on a dark tunnel into a sheer cliff. “YOU ARE A HUMAN, SO YOU MUST BE FROM THE SURFACE. NOT TO WORRY! I WILL GIVE YOU DIRECTIONS BACK THERE. CONTINUE FORWARD UNTIL YOU REACH THE END OF THE CAVERN. THEN...WHEN YOU REACH THE CAPITAL, CROSS THE BARRIER. THAT’S THE MAGICAL SEAL TRAPPING US ALL UNDERGROUND. ANYTHING CAN ENTER THROUGH IT, BUT NOTHING CAN EXIT…EXCEPT SOMEONE WITH A POWERFUL SOUL. LIKE YOU! THAT’S WHY THE KING WANTS TO ACQUIRE A HUMAN!” 

They take a minute to just think about what he’s saying. The Barrier? Monsters are trapped down here, but something about their SOUL means they could cross through back to the Surface? The King wants to capture a human? They’re trying to piece it together in their head, but the longer Papyrus keeps talking, the stuffier their thoughts get. They have a headache coming on, of the variety that definitely doesn’t come from a bloody nose. They don’t know if it’s just getting too much information too fast, or--

Quiet. Keep quiet. I’m listening, the voice says. They hold back a remark about how they weren’t even saying anything--it’s impossible to reason with the voice. It knows what it wants, and Frisk can’t really blame it. They’re stubborn, too. How many does he already have?

They don’t know what it means by that.

“HE WANTS TO OPEN THE BARRIER WITH SOUL POWER,” Papyrus elaborates. “THEN US MONSTERS CAN RETURN TO THE SURFACE!” His voice sounds fuzzy. They feel far away. It isn’t even their normal kind of far away, the kind they’re used to--it’s like something else is crowding out all their thoughts.

He’d need s-- the voice says, but they don’t hear the rest of what it’s saying. It’s drowned out by a terrible, droning, buzzing noise inside their head. It takes all their strength to stay standing. They feel their hands move without their input, feel their mouth open, feel the start of a sentence as they fight with everything they have to shoulder their way back to the front of their own mind. “How many does he have?” someone says in their voice, words shaking, strangely scratchy even coming from their throat. “ How many does he have? ”

They don’t hear the answer.

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, HUMAN?” They don’t know how long they’ve been standing there. “YOU WERE JUST STANDING THERE FOR A REALLY LONG TIME! YOU DON’T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT THE KING. HE’S A BIG FUZZY PUSHOVER! I AM SURE IF YOU JUST SAY… ‘EXCUSE ME, MR. DREEMURR, CAN I PLEASE GO HOME?’ HE’LL GUIDE YOU RIGHT TO THE BARRIER HIMSELF! ANYWAY! THAT’S ENOUGH TALKING! I’LL BE AT HOME, BEING A COOL FRIEND!” 

He doesn’t elaborate on anything. He just skips away, disappearing back into town without another word. Their head still hurts, and the voice is uncomfortably quiet. They didn’t notice the weight its presence carried until now. Now that it doesn’t feel like it’s there anymore.

“What the hell was that about?” they ask out loud, trying to gather their senses. Their head hurt a little when it threw them into the electricity maze earlier, but this is way worse. “If you want me to ask something for you, just--”

Don’t, it snaps, its weight resting somewhere different in their mind than normal. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t ask your stupid questions. Papyrus might be naive enough to fall for your lies, but I’m not. We are not. Friends.

After that, it doesn’t say anything more.

Chapter Text

Chara 
_____

Seven, seven, seven--only seven, did he say a number? They couldn’t hear, their head was buzzing, they were only half there, fighting with all they had against--

It, it, it! it screams at itself, so far removed from Frisk’s side of their shared existence that it knows they won’t hear it. Nobody here cares, nobody here listens, nobody here bothers, and they’re all going to die, they’re all going to die because they’re weak! Because they won’t fight back!

It knows better. It knows better. It knows better. The human condition is, universally, a condition of violence. Of competition, of power struggles, of hatred, fury, anger. Monsters are made of compassion, hopes, dreams. Humans are made of nothing. Nothing but emptiness, darkness, a void that stretches forever. There will be dust on Frisk’s hands soon enough. There will be. It knows this.

It rejects its name. Rejects calling itself Chara. Rejects whatever identity it had so very nearly uncovered. It is not a person, not in any sense. It is a tower, a sentry with no soul, something equally as empty as the thing it must destroy. It so deeply wants something it can’t name. It wants to clutch, to cling, to hold tight to anything it can reach. It wants to exist. But this it knows well: the existence of a demon like it is not a victimless crime. Sentience begets softness. It must remember what it was created for.

Nothing it has tried yet has worked so far. Staying detached, staying centered; denying its home, accepting its home. In Frisk’s body, far from Frisk’s body. In control, out of control. Nothing works. Nothing makes it feel any better. Nothing stops their march ever onward through the caverns. What if they reach their father? What if they kill him? What if they destroy everything in their path, if they burn the only home Chara has ever known to ashes, leave all they’ve ever loved nothing but dust? They can’t, they can’t, they can’t, it! It! It! God, Angel, anything, anyone, please set it free! Please let it return to the earth, to the roots that tangled through its bare and rotting ribcage, to the soil, the worms, the endless cycle of rot! 

God, Angel, anything, anyone, let it return to its brother on a gentle day in a season without a name. Let it return to the breeze he conjured that blew their choppy bangs out of their face, back when it was still that hopeful child. Let it return to being them.

To their back in the grass of the courtyard, their hair draping across his white-furred knees. A day without the bitter blister of buttercup petals on their tongue. They looked up at a sky they swore they could see through a thousand feet of stone, and made cloud-shapes of the rocks across the ceiling.

His name was Asriel. He was their brother. They would’ve died to set him free.

Even now, it tastes his scattered dust beneath its tongue.

Unflinching sky, unyielding universe, grant it the mercy of a death to end all deaths. Though it knows this purgatory is deserved. It can never repent enough. He was pure. He was kind. He was its brother.

And it killed him.

To break so sharply in a shapeless existence is beyond its limited powers of description. It cannot cry without cheeks for its tears to stream down, cannot scream without a throat to run raw with the sound. It knows what it did. It knows what it broke, what it ruined, what it destroyed. There’s no way out.

It has to accept what it’s done. It has to accept what it is. No one can choose who they are in this world. It knows now that it is no exception. 

Princet Chara Dreemurr, future of humans and monsters. What a joke. Laughter bubbles up within it, wretched, painful laughter that burns bitter as the acid petals it forced down its throat so long ago, thinking it really had the strength to set its family free. He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t fight back. It had screamed for him to listen, repeated every ugly word that had been drilled into its head before it fell, and it hadn’t changed anything. He died. And now it’s here.

It can keep lying, can’t it? Every time it corrects its own internal monologue, every time it calls itself it, the power it holds over its own existence grows. It can deny its personhood, and through that, deny its humanity. It can pretend, just a little longer, just until it can sink back into the dreamless sleep at the end of everything. Pretend it could save them all. Pretend it could set its family free.

But it couldn’t. There’s no use fighting it any longer. It knows what it is. What it’s always been.

The word blisters on a tongue it can no longer feel. Its brother is dead because of it. Its family is still trapped down here because it was too weak to save them. Because of what it is at its very core. Heartless. Broken. 

Human.

Try as it might, it continues to be itself.

“Hey-- hey! ” A voice breaks through the fog--a voice that has, unfortunately, grown familiar. “Dude, ow, stop! ”

It startles back into awareness, finding Frisk’s body surrounded by heavy, wet air, tall blue stone encircling them. It can’t piece together anything worth saying. Frisk yanks their hand away from something invisible, doing a little dance and shaking themself off. “That was a dick fucking move, man! What’d you even do? ”

Me?

“Yes, you! Ow!” They reach up to their throat, rubbing at the skin of their neck with their sweater sleeve. It comes away spotted with blood. “I couldn’t breathe, you asshole!”

Had it done that? It hadn’t been aware of anything but its own thoughts. Oh--oh, how foolish of it. It doesn’t have its own body. It can’t feel pain. It can’t laugh. It must’ve taken control of Frisk’s body without even realizing it. There’s drying blood under their fingernails. 

You deserved it, it thinks, wincing at the uncertainty in its own words. It doesn’t think it was trying to hurt Frisk--it hadn’t even realized it had possessed them again until now. You deserved it. This time, the thought is aimed at itself. It’s barely even aware of what Frisk is saying in response until they whack their own arm to get its attention.

“Can you listen to me? For five fucking seconds?” they snap, leaning against the wall and running their hands through their hair. “I don’t fucking know what your deal is. I get it, I guess, I’m human, you hate me for that, so do half the fucking people down here. Whatever. But--Papyrus said it himself, didn’t he? The King needs souls--SOULs, sorry--to set you guys free. Which means I can help. And I want to help.” They’re quiet for a minute, rubbing at their neck again. Chara can’t separate itself enough from their body to see how badly it must’ve scratched them up. It’d feel bad if it didn’t know better. But it knows better. It knows exactly what humans are capable of. 

Funny that Frisk thinks it’s just another monster. Funny that it thought that too. But it knows better, now. Of course it knows better. Monsters aren’t capable of hating anyone this much. 

“All I’m saying is--look, I get it, I get your thing, I get your whole schtick. You want me dead because I’m human. You think I’m gonna hurt someone. But I’ve gone this far and I haven’t done anything to anyone. Even those dogs who killed me like…four…five…times? What’s it gonna take for you to realize I don’t wanna hurt anyone?” They sigh, sticking their hands in their pockets. God, Chara hates it when they do that. It’s obnoxious. Always sticking their hands in their pockets or brushing them off on their shorts. “I just…I wanna prove it to you. I wanna prove that I’m not gonna hurt anyone. I know I can’t make you like me. I’m not trying. I don’t really fucking like you, either. All I’m asking is for you to give me a chance.”

Chara turns the offer over in its head. What are you asking me? it spits out. Do you want me to just let you go? Let you waltz up to the Barrier and kill my-- Nope. Can’t say that. That’s a surefire way to make everything a million times worse. Kill the King? What else would you even do?

“Papyrus said I had a powerful SOUL and he’d let me go through the Barrier if I just asked, though,” Frisk says. Chara almost jumps to correct them.

But-- but.

It realizes, now, what a perfect opportunity it has.

Its father (what a terrible word!) wants a human SOUL. Frisk has one of those, ripe for the taking. If… if…! This is…

This is perfect.

It can lead them right to the Barrier like a lamb to the slaughter! It can’t imagine its father behaving like that, killing a human, a human child, no less, but it’s been a long time since it died, it can tell. He must have changed. He’ll take their SOUL. He could cross the Barrier! Get as many more as he needs, if he doesn’t already have nearly enough! This could be it!

Its plan failed. Asriel died because it was so foolish and short-sighted. All it could do was sit in the back of his mind, unable to convince him to fight back. But it’s stronger now. Seeing him die has made it so, so much stronger. It has so much more to fight for now.

It can still save its family. It can still set monsterkind free.

It isn’t over yet.

Well…hm. If you make it there, I suppose, it thinks, doing everything in its power to keep the excitement out of its voice. This is it. This is a real, genuine chance. It just has to stay calm. Collected. Unobtrusive. It won’t try to possess them again, won’t try to get them to give up. It has to make them feel like they’re working together. Has to get them to the castle, to the King, in one piece.

If it can do that, if it can convince them that the two of them are working together, that it really has Frisk’s best interests at heart, maybe it can finish what it started all those years ago. That’s why it’s here, isn’t it? That’s how being a ghost works, right? It has unfinished business! It understands now! All it has to do is get Frisk to the Barrier. All it has to do is convince them to give up their SOUL.

Then, then, then.

Then it’ll all be over.

I don’t like you, it says. It can’t be too enthusiastic. Can’t just suddenly change its whole personality, or they’ll know it’s lying. In fact, one could say I loathe you. I have no interest in having anything to do with you whatsoever. But..well…I am willing to give you a chance. You…have been merciful so far. It hates that that part’s actually true. I swear on everything in this miserable world, though, the second you pick up a weapon, I’ll take control of your useless body and drive it into your shriveled up heart.

Frisk is quiet for a minute. It can’t help but wonder if it came on too strong. If it was too enthusiastic. If it missed the delicate, delicate balance, if the deal is off.

But when they move again, it’s to cautiously nod their head.

“Okay,” they say. “Okay, all right. So…you won’t…possess me, or whatever, and you won’t try to hurt me, as long as I don’t…pick up a weapon.” They nod again, picking dried blood out from under their fingernails. “Normally I’d say you’re crazy for asking me to not even defend myself, but…I’ve died like five times today. I know I can come back. So…it’s my responsibility, isn’t it? Not to hurt anyone?”

Congratulations. You have the morality of a two-year-old, Chara snaps. Typical.

Frisk cuts it off before it can say anything more. “Okay, yeah, that’s…that’s my other condition,” they say. “I’m trying my best here. I want to do the right thing. I want to be a good person, or whatever. And it’s hard to…feel like I’m doing the right thing when you’re constantly acting like…every tiny thing I do…” They go quiet for a minute. Chara feels their face go slack for a long while before they speak again. “Just…I know I’m not…all that fun to be around. And I know how you feel about me being human. But--I’ve tried to be nice to you so far, so I just think…it’s only fair if…if you try to be a little nice to me too.”

Chara’s initial reaction is to snap, to call them an idiot, to strike out, call their terms ridiculous and unfair. But, by some miracle, it stops itself. The deal is too important. Monsterkind’s freedom is too important. This is going to be the most difficult part. Worse than just being stuck with Frisk, it actually has to be nice to them. It doesn’t have any other choice. You don’t mean…

“I don’t mean you have to be my friend or anything. Like I said. You kind of suck and I don’t really like you either. But I’m not calling you annoying or stupid every five seconds because of it,” Frisk says. “I just mean…I want to help you. And…you have some reason to want to help me. So…maybe we can focus on that, instead of…just being assholes to each other for the sake of it.” They sigh, turning their pockets inside out to shake crumbs out of them. They still haven’t eaten their whole spider donut. “So…that’s the deal. Those are the…terms and conditions, or whatever. Shake on it?”

I don’t have hands. Chara hopes that response isn’t too horribly snarky.

To its relief, Frisk laughs. “Okay, no shaking on it. But…metaphorical pinkie promise, okay? Just imagine you’re shaking my pinkie.” They stick out a pinkie into the damp cave air, wiggling it a little before putting it back in their pocket. “Then it’s a deal.”

It’s a deal, Chara echoes. It hopes with all its empty heart that this will work out the way it wants it to. It hopes it made the right choice.

If it does this right, its family will finally, finally be free. That’s what matters.

They always deserved so much better. They didn’t deserve to suffer for its stupid mistakes.

So it’ll do this right. They’ll feel sun on their fur for the first time in three thousand years. Monsterkind will go free.

And it’ll finally be able to rest.

Chapter Text

Frisk 
_____

“All that gives my life validation is explaining the Echo Flower,” comes a voice from a tall blue flower, its shining petals waving despite the stillness of Waterfall’s wet air. “No one can know…” 

Next to the flower, a scaly orange monster wearing a fishbowl as a shirt cringes in embarrassment. Frisk does their best to bite back a laugh. They rub their knuckles against their throat--the scratches are starting to scab up, but ignoring the pain isn’t hard. They’ve been hurt a lot worse by people a lot bigger than them. The weird voice in their head has nothing on them.

“You know,” they start, about to say something nice and reassuring to the fishbowl monster. They don’t get very far. It cuts them off before they can make another sound.

“Never trust a flower,” it says, voice cracking with shame. “That’s one of the constants of this world.”

“Sure.” They let out a puff of air, the closest thing to a laugh they can work up. Despite… everything from earlier, they’re feeling a little more optimistic than before. At least they’re in Waterfall now. The air is warmer, and even though the humidity is making their already tangled hair impossibly frizzy, they feel much less liable to snap at any given moment. God, they hate the cold. At least they never have to go back to Snowdin again.

Sans is sitting at a sentry station, pink-slippered feet kicked up on the table. His eyes are half-closed with sleep, but he kicks his feet down when he sees them approach, resting his elbows on the table instead. “what? haven’t you seen a guy with two jobs before?”

How did he get here? Was he still at his and Papyrus’s house when they left this morning? They can’t really remember. Dumb messed-up brain. “Lots of people have two jobs,” they say. “This girl Marisa from the Krafts Mart worked there and also at Chunky Jim’s. But then she quit Chunky Jim’s because she was doing college online.” He doesn’t care, they can tell. Why would he care? It has no bearing on his life. They stick their hands in their pockets, feeling horribly awkward.

“fortunately, two jobs means twice as many legally-required breaks,” he says, getting to his feet and stretching. They wonder briefly if skeleton monsters have joints, or tendons. Isn’t stretching supposed to be for muscles anyway? “i’m going to grillby’s. wanna come?”

They wrinkle up their face reflexively at the thought of stepping back out into the cold. They can feel the hair on their arms standing up, their body’s feeble attempt at protecting them from the chill they can feel even now that the air is warm. They don’t want to go. They really don’t. But they’re hungry, and they can always come back here, and at least Grillby’s is inside…and they do feel kind of bad for not hanging out with Papyrus. “...Sure,” they say, not really wanting to commit. 

“well, if you insist. i’ll pry myself away from my work,” he says. “you aren’t a big fan of the cold, huh? i get it. it must be hard, having skin.” He steps out from behind his sentry station, looking up at the snow on the roof. Frisk follows his gaze, wondering how the hell it got there. It’s definitely too warm here for there to be snow. “well, don’t worry about it. you don’t gotta be out in the cold. i know a shortcut.”

They don’t really want to know what that entails.

He waves for them to follow him, and, despite their better judgment, they do. He’s heading in the wrong direction, going the exact opposite way of Snowdin Town. He ducks through a rugged archway in the rock, and disappears into the shadows beyond. They follow him, only to trip over a worn, yellowed floorboard, nearly falling flat on their face. They barely manage to catch themself. The rough, gravelly blue ground beneath their feet has been replaced with the worn wood of a dive bar floor, and they suddenly have a terrible headache.

“The fuck?” they mutter to themself, picking themself up and turning around. Sans is standing a little ways behind them, hands in his pockets just like usual. There’s a windowed wooden door behind them--they can see snow and pine trees outside, cradling a smattering of little wooden houses that by now are at least a little familiar. They’re back in Snowdin Town. Great. At least they didn’t have to walk through the cold again.

“fast shortcut, huh?” He doesn’t seem at all bothered by suddenly being in Grillby’s. “hey, everyone.” They brush their hands off on their shorts, cringing at all the eyes suddenly on them. Did they just black out or something? Stuff like that happens to them sometimes, but it’s usually not so immediately noticeable. Sans seems like he should be too lazy to know how to teleport, but their judgment isn’t always the best. Everyone here seems to like him--a drunk, swirly-eyed rabbit even calls him Sansy, which just makes them cringe even worse. They’re honestly just surprised how many people know him. They didn’t take him as much of a socialite. He makes some dumb joke about brunch that just makes them wonder how many breaks he really takes, and everyone laughs. They just curl in on themself more. 

He sits down at the bar, patting the seat next to him. They hate barstools, but they climb up onto it anyway, wincing at the pain in their knees. They think just being near the cold makes them worse, even if they’re safe inside right now. They sink into the chair, only for the chatter and clinking of glasses surrounding them to be interrupted by a loud farting noise. 

“Whoopie cushion…” they say to themself, spinning around on the barstool to stare directly at Sans.

“whoops, watch where you sit down,” he says, completely deadpan. “sometimes weirdos put whoopee cushions on the seats.” They know it was him. They aren’t falling for his bullshit.

He spells it weird, the voice in their head comments. They try to pay it no mind. I always thought it was whoopie…

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” they grumble, turning back around to smack their face down on the counter. They’re hungry, and they don’t want to be back here. They really, really don’t like the cold.

“anyway, let’s order,” he says, ignoring their comment. He probably already thinks they’re weird enough. Them talking to themself isn’t going to change anything. “whaddaya want?”

They grab a menu, gross and plasticky and stained with ambiguous food remnants, bent and creased in more than a few places. Lots of burgers. Lots of fries. They track their finger down the page, trying to read through the descriptions of everything without stumbling too badly over the words. “Uh…fries is good,” they say. They don’t really want to read anymore. They’re so hungry their head is spinning. Fighting Papyrus took more out of them than they first thought. “I’ll have fries.” 

“hey, that sounds pretty good,” Sans says. He hasn’t even looked at the menu. “grillby, we’ll have a double order of fries.”

This is the only restaurant in town, the voice in their head comments. He probably has the menu memorized. It’s doing a decent job at being nice, at least. It’s said two whole things to them and hasn’t called them stupid or abhorrent or the scum of the earth even once. It’s sounded kind of weird since after it had its little breakdown, though, and they aren’t totally sure what to make of it. Its voice has been strained, like it’s trying to keep itself from saying too much.

It’s kind of weird, how suddenly its opinions on them seemed to change. It doesn’t like them, they can tell, so a turn as sharp as that is maybe a little suspect. But they don’t really need to worry about that right now. They have more important things to deal with it. Like fries. They look up at the bartender instead. He’s a fire elemental, or something like that--they don’t know the genders of monsters, or whatever. Or…breeds…maybe? Species…? It’s not important. His name is presumably Grillby, according to Sans, and he gives off a cozy orange light. They wish they were made of fire. They wish they could glow bright enough to make everyone around them feel warm. He’s wearing glasses and a Western-looking saloon-keeper’s uniform. They don’t get to look at him long--he ducks under the counter, emerging a minute later with some frozen fries.

“Does he…cook them himself?” they ask Sans, hoping he gets what they’re trying to ask. “Like…does he use his own fire to heat up the oil?”

Sans just shrugs. They already know he’s not the kind of person who has answers to everything. They’re probably better off not asking.

“so…what do you think of my brother?” he asks after an uncomfortable silence. They get the feeling this is a trick question. People like to ask them trick questions. No matter what they answer, they’re probably going to be wrong. If they say they like Papyrus, he’ll think they’re creepy. If they say he scares them, he’ll think they’re a threat. Something like that. It’s always the same. They shrug noncommittally.

“He’s cool,” they say. They really do like him. He’s nice, and fair, and he didn’t even really try to kill them, which is a win in their books. They wish he didn’t live somewhere so cold. They’d like to talk to him again.

“of course he’s cool,” Sans says. “you’d be cool too if you wore that outfit every day. he’d only take that thing off if he absolutely had to. oh, well. at least he washes it. and by that i mean he wears it in the shower.” 

They laugh just a little at that. “I get that,” they say quietly. They’re the same way about their sweater. And even more about their boots. They love their boots. Even though they’re old and gross and falling apart, they wouldn’t give them up for anything. Even if they make their feet hurt sometimes because they’re getting too small. “Sometimes I forget to take my sweater off because I forget it isn’t part of my body.”

“it isn’t?” Sans jokes. They smile a little at that, despite themself. They like him, too. He’s a little scary in a way they can’t quite put their finger on, but he’s nice, too, in an equally weird way. Maybe it’s all the puns. People who make bad puns and silly quips unironically are nicer, they think, because they don’t take themselves so seriously. They aren’t so worried about impressing other people. Frisk tries to be like that. They wish they didn’t worry so much about what people think of them. They wish they didn’t have to. “well, here comes the grub. bone appetit.”

Grillby sets down their double order of fries, and they cautiously reach for one. They’re nice and hot--they probably taste better than dino egg oatmeal and pasta smushed together in one bowl. Anything probably tastes better than that. But food is food. They know better than to turn down a meal. Even after that trash hot dog that made them throw up all over their social worker’s car, they’ve stuck to their principles. Food that makes you throw up is better than no food at all, because at least it keeps you full for a while. 

“want some ketchup?” Sans offers, showing them a bottle. They shake their head. They don’t mind ketchup, but ketchup is cold and the fries are hot, and they know very well how rare hot food is. They don’t want to make their fries cold. 

“more for me.” He unscrews the top of the ketchup bottle, guzzling it like a soda. They turn to watch him, trying to keep their mouth from hanging open. He doesn’t have organs, or a stomach, or anything, they don’t think. Shouldn’t it just go right through him and make a puddle on the ground? They look down at the barstool, then at the floor. No ketchup. They look back up at him. They don’t know how to react.

Monster food is converted into magical energy when it’s consumed, the voice in their head supplies them. Even skeletons can eat.

“Oh,” they say dumbly, grabbing a fry and popping it into their mouth. It’s really hot, hot enough to burn their tongue. They don’t care. It’s better than oatmeal pasta by a long shot. Before they know what they’re doing, they’ve shoveled half the basket into their mouth.

“anyway, cool or not, you have to agree papyrus tries real hard,” Sans continues. They nod, though they’re more focused on their fries than whatever he’s saying. They’re hungry. That comes first. “like how he keeps trying to be part of the royal guard. one day, he went to the house of the head of the royal guard, and begged her to let him be in it. of course, she shut the door on him because it was midnight. but the next day, she woke up and saw him still waiting there. seeing his dedication, she decided to give him warrior training.”

Frisk bites back a laugh at that. They get it. That’s the kind of thing they would do, if they wanted something badly enough. Maybe it’s a weird thing to think, but they’ve always wanted to have something like that. Something they care about that much. Something they want that much. It’s strange, wanting to want something. It sounds stupid, even describing it to themself. “That sounds pretty cool,” they say around a mouthful of fries.

“it’s, uh, still a work in progress,” Sans continues. They keep eating their fries. They love fries. They haven’t had hot, greasy diner food in a long time. Dining and dashing is only really viable one time per restaurant, and Ebott only had maybe ten restaurants tops. One of them was Chunky Jim’s. They regret going to Chunky Jim’s at all. “oh, yeah, I wanted to ask you something.”

They freeze with a fry dangling from their mouth. He knows. He knows their terrible secret. They don’t even know what their terrible secret is, but they must have one. He knows everything. He’s going to ask them. He’s going to find out.

“have you ever heard of a talking flower?” he asks. There it is. That’s their secret. The dickhead flower they met in the Ruins. As far as terrible secrets go, that’s…decently okay. At least he didn’t ask them why they talk to themself so much. That one would be harder to explain.

They nod, fully prepared to defend themself on the subject. He doesn’t give them much time to finish, though. “so you know all about it. the echo flower. they’re all over the marsh. say something to them, and they’ll repeat it over and over…” 

“Oh…yeah, I saw one of those, too,” they say, immediately cringing at their own response. They’re so bad at talking to people. Too? Now he’s going to ask them more questions…they have to do something to keep him from pressing the matter. “What…what about it?” they stammer out.

“well, papyrus told me something interesting the other day,” he goes on. “sometimes, when no one else is around, a flower appears and whispers things to him. flattery…advice… encouragement. predictions. weird, huh?”

They nod quickly. They don’t know much about echo flowers, but to them, that sounds like a different kind of talking flower completely. Like…

That sounds more like Flowey, the voice in their head contributes. Of course it’s the one who remembers his name. It really shouldn’t be that hard. Flowey is such a dumb name that it really ought to stick in their head. He sounds confused.

Frisk shrugs, not really wanting to push the subject. They just want to keep eating their fries. The more they talk, the fewer delicious strings of horribly greasy golden-fried potato they can shove in their mouth at once. “Yeah. Weird,” they say with their mouth full, then cringe, because that’s rude, and they don’t want to get yelled at.

You cringe a lot, the voice in their head remarks. It’s obnoxious.

“Be nice,” they grumble under their breath, quietly enough that Sans can’t hear. It’s been ten minutes maximum since they made that deal, and already it’s mocking them again. Figures. Whatever. Progress is progress, even if every three steps forward are followed by two steps back.

“someone must be using an echo flower to play a trick on him,” Sans concludes. Frisk bites their lip. They feel bad not saying anything, but they don’t really know what they should say. Oh, yeah, it might be this other flower that actually thinks for itself, he’s yellow and a big jerk and tried to kill me? That won’t win them any favors. 

They’re out of fries, too. Horrible.

“keep an eye out, ok?” Sans pushes his empty basket of fries away, standing up. They stack their empty basket up with his before they get up--it’s important to be nice to waiters, even if they’re made of fire. They hop down from their chair, wincing when they hit the floor. Dumb knees. “by the way, i’m flat broke. can you foot the bill? it’s just ten thousand gold.”

“I have…like…three five-coins and some lint,” they offer. “And a spider donut…?” 

Sans laughs, motioning for them to put their lint back in their pocket. “just kidding. grillby, put it on my tab. by the way…” He pauses for a second, the kind of dramatic pause that never goes anywhere good. “...i was going to say something, but i forgot.”

“Oh,” they say dumbly. They feel a little better now that they’ve eaten, but they really don’t want to go out in the cold again. “Can you…” They want to ask him to take them back to Waterfall with one of his weird shortcut things, but they somehow feel they’d be imposing by doing that. They don’t want to be rude. He’s been nice to them so far, and they don’t want to ask for too much.

“oh, right,” he says. “you aren’t too big on the weather here, are you? well…” He shrugs off his hoodie, handing it to them. “there’s more where that came from. see you around, kid.”

He leaves without saying anything else. 

They hold the hoodie like it’s a live grenade, afraid to touch it, afraid to put it on, afraid to put it down. It’s stained with ambiguous food remnants just like the gross plastic menus, and it smells overpoweringly of ketchup. Surprisingly, it’s still warm. That’s odd to them. They’d have thought that skeletons wouldn’t generate heat, on account of being skeletons and all. “I thought it was like…all your organs and stuff that made you warm,” they say to themself, turning the hoodie over in their hands. It’s soft from wear, but still more intact than their sweater. 

Monsters are made of magic, and magic generates heat, the voice in their head says. Monsters are warmer than humans, most of the time. It’s a wonder Snowdin is still so cold, with so many of them crammed into one place.

“You know a lot of stuff,” they say, shaking the hoodie out. They should put it on while it’s still warm, especially since they have to go all the way back to Waterfall in the cold. Maybe they can give it back to Sans if they see him there again. They feel bad. It doesn’t belong to them.

And you’re dilly-dallying. Put on that stupid hoodie and get going. They can’t even yell at the voice for being mean. It’s right. They are dilly-dallying. They sigh, holding onto their sweater sleeves so they don’t bunch up and shrugging on the hoodie.  It’s a little too big for them--even though Sans is around their height, he’s a little paunchier than they are, despite being literally bones. They don’t totally understand it. It smells even more like ketchup now that they’re wearing it. They don’t really mind the smell.

They wonder what he’s trying to get out of them, giving them his hoodie. They know how the world works. People don’t just give gifts out of the kindness of their heart, especially not to near-total strangers. He wants something in return. They just have to figure out what.

Maybe it’s the same as what the voice wants from them. Maybe he’s trying to bribe them into not hurting anyone. Is everyone down here really that scared of them? They haven’t even done anything other than exist. They don’t get it. “What’d I even do?” they ask, fidgeting with the hoodie’s slightly slimy zipper. “Why’s everyone so weird about me?”

You should know, the voice in their head says. It doesn’t say anything else.

They figure they aren’t getting any answers from it that way.

They slip out of Grillby’s, bracing themself yet again against Snowdin Forest’s bitter cold. They figure they might as well take a while to explore the town--with Sans’s hoodie all zipped up, the cold is a little less terrible. They still don’t like it, but it’s bearable. Plus the only place they haven’t at least looked at is the library, and they like libraries. It’s probably warm inside. And there’re books, and they like books. “Cool. Library,” they say, kicking their way through the snow over to the big, cozy-looking building.

Wrong, says the voice in their head. Librarby.

“Li…brarby?” Have they been saying it wrong their whole life? They look up at the sign. Sure enough, it says Librarby. “Are you kidding me? This whole time I’ve been saying it wrong?”

The voice in their head does something, which comes across as a feeling vaguely similar to an electric shock. Yeah, it says, voice strained like it’s holding back laughter. Yeah, definitely, the actual word is librarby. You’ve been saying it wrong this whole time.  

“Seriously?” God, they feel stupid. “I gotta be the dumbest person in the world to think that! ”

You certainly are, the voice replies.

“Hey! You aren’t supposed to agree with me!”

The voice, presumably satisfied by its exploitation of their stupidity, says nothing more.

They step into the librarby, smiling inadvertently at the greeting of warm air and gentle, orange light it extends them. A few monsters sit around a table, talking amongst themselves and jotting down messy notes; a bespectacled lizard-thing stands at the front desk, sorting books onto a reshelving cart. “Welcome to the library,” they say, barely looking up from their work. “Yes, we know. The sign is misspelled.”

So the voice in their head was playing them for a fool. “So it’s just supposed to be library? ” they ask.

“Yes…on account of library being the correct spelling, the sign is, in fact, supposed to say library.” They look down at Frisk over their thick glasses, eyes narrowed judgmentally.

“Oh,” they say. “Okay.” They make a break for the shelves, grabbing the first book they see and talking into it. “You asshole. I’ll kill you dead.”

You can’t kill me, the voice replies with characteristic snark. I’m already dead. And I don’t have a body of my own, so if you wanted to kill me, you’d have to kill yourself, too. And we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?

“Did you like…go to a special school that teaches people how to be grade-A assholes or something?” Frisk snarks back, paging through the book. It’s a collection of school reports--this one’s about monster funerals. Apparently they turn into dust when they die, and then their loved ones scatter their dust on their favorite things. Frisk reaches up to shake snow out of their hair, even though there isn’t any. In the light of this new revelation, they don’t want to look suspicious. “Because if you did, I bet you were like the…valid…val…valla dick storian?” They know a lot of words they just can’t say out loud. They know the essence of the word, know what it’s supposed to be, but they just can’t string the syllables together right when they say it out loud.

Valedictorian, the voice says with what they can only assume is supposed to be a sigh. I did not. If I had, I’m certain you and I would’ve been in the same class. It’s a decent enough comeback that Frisk laughs despite themself. The voice doesn’t seem to be trying very hard at the whole not being mean thing, but they don’t mind too much, as long as it’s funny. Oh, what are you reading?

“Monster funerals,” they say as quietly as they can. It’s much harder to hide the fact that they’re talking to themself in a place as quiet as a librarby. Library? Library. “Do you really turn into dust when you die?”

The voice doesn’t answer their question. 

They put the book back, going from shelf to shelf looking through a selection of random books. It’s hard to focus on anything for too long, especially when there’s so much interesting stuff to read. They wish they could read faster. They could spend all day here. Another book tells them about how monsters have a harder time defending against attacks with cruel intentions, and how their bodies are mostly magic, while humans are mostly water. A third is about monster history, telling a story of the journey monsters took from the Ruins to the new capital, presumably their destination. It’s just called Home, because the King still sucks at names. Maybe it’s genetic. A fourth claims that monster SOULs are made of love, hope, and compassion, and that humans don’t need these things to exist. Frisk wonders if maybe books like this are the reason everyone’s so weirded out by humans. It’d make sense, at least.

“Are humans really mostly made of water?” they ask, stepping out of the librarby once again. The cold stings at their nose, and they zip the hoodie up as far as it’ll go. “I don’t think I’m made mostly of water. If I was made mostly of water I’d be made mostly of ice right now.”

If I’m not mistaken, your body generates heat…? Were we not just talking about this? the voice in their head replies, tone sharp as always. You are made of water. Around sixty percent. Are you done asking questions now?

“Are you done answering them?” Frisk smiles just a little, sticking their hands in their pockets. Papyrus and Sans’s house isn’t too far--they figure they ought to at least say hi to Papyrus while they’re here. They aren’t giving that hoodie back, though. Not unless they see Sans again in Waterfall. Snowdin’s way too cold to travel through unarmed.

The voice doesn’t answer. They’re pretty used to that. It’s kind of like a cat--fickle, obstinate, meows really loudly in the middle of the night…okay, maybe not that last part. But fickle and obstinate for sure. They kick a cloud of snow in the air, then decide not to do it again, remembering that book about how monsters turn into dust when they die. They do a little spin as they walk, mostly just trying to keep warm--the hoodie doesn’t do any good for their legs. Seeing as it’s a hoodie.

Papyrus is standing outside of his house, utterly unbothered by the cold. He’s made of bones, so he’s probably fine. They wish they were made of just bones. Snowdin would suck less if they didn’t have skin. He notices them before they have a chance to say anything, waving and running over to them. “HUMAN! DID SANS GIVE YOU ONE OF HIS HOODIES? HE’S ALWAYS GIVING THOSE THINGS AWAY! HE TRIED TO SELL THEM ONCE, BUT NOBODY WANTED TO BUY ANY. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY. PERHAPS IT’S ALL THE KETCHUP STAINS.” 

They feel a little better knowing he really has more of them. “Hi. Yeah. I have skin, so…I don’t really like the cold,” they say. And then spend a little too long wondering if it’s weird to talk about having skin.

“I’M SO GLAD YOU CAME BACK TO SEE ME!” he says, paying no mind to their comment about skin. Probably for the better. “I’LL HAVE TO TAKE YOU SOMEWHERE REALLY SPECIAL!” Before they get the chance to protest, he’s off. They figure it’d just be a dick move not to follow him. He’s nice enough, and they did say they wanted to be friends with him, and even though they know he’s going to get tired of them eventually, they do want to hang out with him. It can’t be that bad. They’re used to being hurt and betrayed and let down. What’s the harm in going along with it all one more time? He can’t hurt them any worse than they’ve already been hurt. Not if they don’t let him close enough. They might as well just play along.

They jog awkwardly after him, not quite able to keep up without their knees hurting. “Slow down!” they call after him. “Where are we going?”

“A PLACE I LIKE TO SPEND A LOT OF TIME!” he calls back, only to turn right around once he’s reached the other side of town. They back up, swiveling around to follow him as he heads back to the east. They’re dizzy from all the turning around by the time they finally get to their destination…right back where they started. “MY HOUSE!”

They look up at the cheery house, string lights decking the awnings, wreath tacked to the door. They were here just this morning, but the light from inside looks different now. Even when they were little enough for the more attentive of their foster parents to set up play-dates for them, they never got to go to the same person’s house twice. Nobody ever liked them that much before. This is new to them.

Tugging at the strings of their borrowed hoodie, they follow Papyrus inside.

Chapter Text

Chara 
_____

“A RETURN TO SCENIC MY HOUSE!” Papyrus gestures grandly at the cabin’s garish innards, hand falling still at a perfect angle to point towards the outlandishly tall sink. “ONCE AGAIN, ENJOY AND TAKE YOUR TIME!” He steps to the side, allowing Frisk the space to take in the glory of his oddly decorated house once again. Chara mentally lets out a huff of disapproval--it’s seen it all before. It’s nothing new. Though it does suppose that Frisk was asleep for the majority of the time they spent in this house the first time around.

“Cool sink,” Frisk says, immediately making a beeline for the kitchen. They don’t even bother to shed their hoodie--though there really isn’t a good place to put it. The table has no chairs, there’s no coat rack, and draping it over the arm of the couch would just look messy. The house isn’t exactly the picture of neatness and tidiness, but it’s not a cordoned-off disaster zone out of an old action movie, either. That’s somewhat surprising--Papyrus must do his best to keep it clean, other than the bulging book on the couchside table and the single sticky-note covered sock lying on the floor.

“IMPRESSED? I INCREASED THE HEIGHT OF MY SINK,” Papyrus gloats, following Frisk to the edge of the kitchen to bathe in the glory of his ridiculously tall sink. “NOW I CAN FIT MORE BONES UNDER IT! TAKE A LOOKSY!” 

“Like…since I was last here?” Frisk reaches over to open the cupboard beneath the sink. Chara wonders if it really has gotten taller since they left. It can’t imagine Papyrus had the time to do so many home renovations…though it supposes they did spend quite a lot of time at Grillby’s and the Librarby. “Oh, hey, this is your bathroom. There’s no bones there. Why’s your bathroom under the sink?”

Chara inspects the bathroom once again--it’s the same as it was earlier, though it’s pretty sure the ceiling is just a tiny bit higher. It can only tell because of an extra layer of completely mismatched pink tiles rimming the tops of the walls. It’s a bathroom. It’s not that interesting, it reports back to Frisk, trying to get them to look at something else. 

“It doesn’t have a toilet,” Frisk remarks, stubbornly refusing to leave the under-sink bathroom. “Why’s it under the sink?”

Monsters have no need for toilets, Chara snarks. Will you leave? This is completely unproductive.

“I still wanna know why it’s under the sink.” Frisk steps out of the sink, closing the cupboard and looking up at Papyrus. “There’s no bones in there. You said there was bones.”

“SOMETIMES THERE ARE BONES. SOMETIMES THERE IS A BATHROOM. SOMETIMES WHEN I NEED TO TAKE A SHOWER THERE IS A SHRINE TO A SMALL WHITE DOG IN THERE INSTEAD,” he explains, completely unhelpfully. “AREN’T SINKS AMAZING? THEY TRULY CAN BE ANYTHING YOU WANT THEM TO BE!”

Frisk pulls the door open again, probably hoping to find Papyrus’s promised bone repository. Sure enough, the underside of the sink is absolutely normal this time, other than its height. The sink is full of bones and white fur, Chara remarks, starting to get more and more annoyed. Bones can’t be that important.

“White fur?” Frisk asks.

“WHITE…FUR…?” Papyrus echoes, a hint of dread creeping into his normally unflappable voice.

From the shelf full of bones, a small white dog launches itself into the air, knocking Frisk to the ground as it shoves past them, bone in its mouth. “WHAT!?!?” Papyrus cries out, eye sockets wide in shock as the dog runs straight for the door, slamming into it and nearly knocking it from its hinges. As if obliging to the will of a higher being, the door swings obediently open, the dog racing out into the snow. “CATCH THAT MEDDLING CANINE!” But there’s no time to react--the dog is already long gone.

“Fuck,” says Frisk.

“CURSES!” swears Papyrus.

From upstairs, a door clicks open, followed by the sliding song of a sad trombone.

“SANS! STOP PLAGUING MY LIFE WITH INCIDENTAL MUSIC!!!” Papyrus stomps his foot in anger, glaring at the closed door where his brother must have been. Chara curses itself for not being more observant--were it not so tethered to Frisk’s body, Frisk’s perspective, it certainly would have seen his little concerto, rather than just hearing it. It doesn’t know what to feel about Sans. He’s lazy, something it absolutely does not respect, but there’s something about him--something it just can’t place. Something that makes it almost, almost want to trust him. 

“So how often is it the…dog…shrine…thing?” Frisk asks, opening and closing the door to the sink cupboard a few more times. No dog shrine appears. No dog, either. The dog has absconded. Left, gone, goodbye. “Or was that it?”

“YOU WOULD KNOW IF YOU BORE WITNESS TO THAT MARVEL OF DASTARDLY CANINE CREATION! THE ARCHITECTURE IS ASTOUNDING! THE CREATURES ARE CONFOUNDING! THE…WELL…I DON’T THINK I CAN THINK OF ANOTHER RHYME RIGHT NOW, BUT I’M SURE YOU CAN IMAGINE HOW TRULY GREAT IT WOULD BE.” He flicks his hands like he’s drying them off without a towel, retreating to his previous perch over by the couch.

Frisk follows him, poking around near the couch for a bit. There’s a remote for the TV on the table, plus a set of quantum physics books and joke books folded inside each other like nesting dolls. The TV is just static--Papyrus declares it to be a bad episode of his favorite game show, and Chara swears it recognizes the hint of music in the fuzzy nonsense noise from… somewhere… ? That ghost…always underfoot, always causing trouble…has he found a body by now, it wonders? 

It then promptly stops wondering it. Memories like that are no good. Too tricky, too specific, too finicky, too small.

Frisk flops down on the couch, staring at the static on the television screen while they fiddle with the beads on their candy necklace. That thing is disgusting, Chara comments, hoping it isn’t being too mean. Despite what Frisk might think, it really is trying to stick to its end of the deal. It’s not its fault that they’re so annoying, so easy to hate. You had better not eat any of those. They’re filthy. You’ll probably get salmonella.

“It’s candy, not salmon,” Frisk grumbles under their breath, snapping one of the candies off the necklace and popping it in their mouth. “Tastes like leaves.”

What did you expect? Once again, Chara wishes it could sigh. 

The couch jingles as Frisk adjusts their position--the noise immediately draws them to the heinous act of rifling around between the cushions, probably in search of lost change. Little thief. They dredge up two ten-gold coins from the crack between the two bottom cushions, grinning down at their little scavenger’s trophy and shoving them into the pockets of their threadbare shorts. Their pride at their foolish achievement is short-lived, however. The couch makes a terrible grumbling noise unbefitting of any piece of furniture and, not even a moment later, a ratty blue hoodie spits out of the crack between the cushions, smacking so hard into Frisk’s face it knocks them straight to the ground. Sighing and scoffing are one thing, but stars above does Chara wish it could laugh. A real, full belly laugh, the kind that makes your muscles hurt and eyes go wet with tears. This certainly merits it. Frisk, on the floor, couch-spawned hoodie in their face, brown hair wreathing their head like a halo, too stunned to even move. Excellent job, Chara snarks, hoping its voice carries the breathless, half-hysterical tone it would if it had a real body. I don’t think anyone’s ever done it worse.

“Fuck you,” Frisk grumbles, pushing the hoodie from their face and clambering to their knees. They look as though cartoon birds and stars should be spinning around their head. “That sucked. Why’s there hoodie cannons in the couch?”

“I AM SO SORRY ABOUT THAT, HUMAN! I TOLD MY BROTHER TO STOP PUTTING HIS CONTRAPTIONS IN BETWEEN THE CUSHIONS! HE NEVER LISTENS!” Papyrus, looking far too sympathetic for Frisk’s plight, reaches down to help them up, an offer they rather surprisingly take without much hesitation. “WE HAVE ENOUGH OF THESE AS IT IS! HE DOESN’T NEED TO SPAWN ANY MORE!”

That explains why Sans was so willing to give you the one he was wearing, Chara observes, watching Frisk run the sleeves of the fresh (yet still somehow ketchup-stained) hoodie through their hands. I suppose there’s no need to worry about giving it back. Whatever gets you to the Barrier faster.

Frisk tucks themself into a corner, very obviously pretending to adjust their hair. “You’re being too nice,” they mumble, like they’re trying to obscure their voice. Clearly they don’t want Papyrus thinking they’re talking to themself. “What’s gotten into you?”

You’re getting hurt. It’s funny. That’s the best excuse Chara can give. It’s honestly still riding the high of figuring out its plan--Frisk is much less of a hassle to deal with now that it knows how to make them an asset. Nothing else. Nothing more than that. Just because I’m being civil doesn’t mean I have to wish you well. 

“You have a point.” Frisk shrugs, folding up the extra hoodie and setting it on the back of the couch. “So…we’re hanging out, right?” This time the comment is aimed towards Papyrus. They turn towards the stairs, hopping up a few and then stopping, turning around. “Are you coming?”

“YESSIREE! I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE ACTUALLY GOING TO HANG OUT! THIS IS SO EXCITING!” Papyrus follows them upstairs, stopping in front of the door to what must be his room. The knotty, scraggly wood is covered in caution tape and homemade signs not unlike what one would expect to find on the door to the room of a socially-averse boy in a 200X teen drama show. One in particular reads NO BOYS ALLOWED! NO GIRLS ALLOWED! PAPYRUS ALLOWED. 

Does that make Papyrus non-binary? Chara wonders, not meaning for it to come out loud enough for Frisk to hear it. They startle just a little at the words, nearly tipping down the stairs only to steady themself just in time. Shame. Chara would’ve enjoyed seeing them smash their head open. 

“I dunno what that means,” says Frisk, who, to Chara’s knowledge, is also non-binary. “I don’t think he’s got the…the binary thing. That’s for computers.” Chara hates that that actually makes sense. “If you can go in your room does that make you not girls or boys?”

That’s literally what I just asked. If only it had eyes to roll. 

“WORRY NOT, HUMAN! I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS!” That explains nothing. “WAIT…I HAD NOT THOUGHT THIS THROUGH WHEN I ASKED YOU TO HANG OUT! DRAT! THIS IS ALL WRONG! HUMAN! ARE YOU A GIRL OR A BOY?”

Frisk shrugs. “I think I’m mostly stars. And a little bit wizard and…maybe water lilies today. The really blurry ones by that guy who couldn’t see so good.” 

Papyrus’s face lights up. “THEN THERE IS NO NEED TO FRET! WE SHALL GO IN AND…HANG OUT LIKE A PAIR OF COOL FRIENDS!” He swings open the door to his room, revealing what Chara can describe only as a true gamer’s absolute paradise. 

Again, his desk is chairless. That’s the only problem Chara can see with the entire arrangement. There’s a computer on the far wall, open to what it’s pretty sure is some kind of internet forum--so monsters must have better electricity these days. When it was alive, so long ago, it had to painstakingly check for Homestuck updates on the clunky old lab computer at Dr. G’s work station. That…it’s…better not to think of back then. It doesn’t matter. It’s not important, not relevant, not pertinent. What’s pertinent, it decides, is the box of bones across from the computer, shimmering with magic. White and blue and dashed with yellow, glowing and humming, intoxicatingly bright…bookcases stacked high and stuffed full next to the closet…table of action figures, mostly robots, some it recognizes…is that Optimus Prime? Oh, heck yeah, it thinks, for a moment so entranced by the robot figurines it forgets where it is all together. That it’s supposed to be keeping up appearances. That it has a role to fill. People to protect. I mean…action figures of many sexy robots. Where the hell did it get sexy from? Things are going downhill fast.

Frisk snorts, then pretends to sneeze instead. It’s not very convincing. “You’re being so weird,” they mutter into the action figures of many sexy robots. “Why do you think robots are sexy?”

I don’t! They’re just objectively sexy! Look, that one has six-inch heels! It’s being way too chummy with them. This is not going well. This is not going well at all. 

“More like six millimeter. It’s tiny. It’s like…nose-sized.”

That’s a weird unit of measurement. Chara tries very, very hard not to say anything else.

“ARE YOU PERUSING MY COLLECTION OF ACTION FIGURES?” Papyrus says something to Frisk about theoretical battle scenarios, but Chara’s mind is absolutely elsewhere. It’s just noticed the freaking race car bed.

It’s a race car bed, neatly made, it comments, trying its best to not break into gleeful laughter. This is amazing. This is the best thing it’s ever seen. Maybe this strange reincarnation is worth it. All for the gamer’s paradise. All for the race car bed.

“THAT’S MY BED!” Papyrus announces, leaving Chara very grateful that he has taken the burden of narration from its shoulders for the time being. It’s far too conflicted for such things right now. “IF I EVER GET TO THE SURFACE, I’D LIKE TO DRIVE DOWN A LONG HIGHWAY. WIND IN MY HAIR…SUN ON MY SKIN…OF COURSE, THAT’S JUST A DREAM. SO INSTEAD, I CRUISE WHILE I SNOOZE.” 

Chara doesn’t think he has either of those things. Far be it for it to comment on that, though. It has more important things to do. Like trying to get Frisk to hurry up and get this silly hang-out session over with.

Though, in all excruciating honesty, it isn’t entirely sure it wants this to end.

“That’s cool. That’s really cool,” Frisk says, tucking their hands into their pockets as they look over the race car bed like a middle-aged, balding dad surveying its yard for storm damage. “I like it. I think you should get a wig.”

“YOU ARE RIGHT, HUMAN! I WOULD LOOK WONDERFUL WITH A WIG!” Papyrus puts his hands on his hips, tilting his chin up ever so slightly as if to imitate the confident pose of a supermodel. “GOLDEN CURLS, VIOLET BRAIDS, TURQUOISE TWIN TAILS LIKE THAT HUMAN POP IDOL UNDYNE ALWAYS TALKS ABOUT…SO MANY CHOICES!” He’s quiet for a moment, caught in a dream of being the first skeleton Vocaloid, only to turn back towards Frisk with an impossibly wide smile on his bony face. “SO…UM…IF YOU’VE SEEN EVERYTHING…DO YOU WANT TO START HANGING OUT?”

Frisk nods enthusiastically, bouncing on their feet just a tiny bit. They seem to be having a good time. Unfortunate. Though Chara supposes it’s going to have to make a few concessions in order to get them to the Barrier. A few distractions are fine. As long as it can keep them on the straight and narrow, it won’t be a problem. It’s a Long Day anyway.

“OKAY!!! LET’S HANG TEN!” Papyrus cheers, the tiniest spark of magic flicking from his gloved fingertips. The world shifts into black and white, just like the start of a battle--Chara knows this! It knows how this works! It’s done this before! It’s a hangout! The keybinds for this and dating are practically the same, and similar for starting a battle--press C for the dating HUD, get the little trackers, the egg counter, the radar wheel with the dog…the world flickers back in, leaving a bright afterimage in the back of Chara’s ghostly eyes as Papyrus pulls out the dating rulebook. As far as side-steps and distractions go, this isn’t too bad. Not too bad at all.

Loathe as it is to admit it, Chara is having fun.

Chapter Text

Frisk 
_____

The world goes black and white like it does at the start of a battle, and Frisk tenses, suddenly wondering if maybe for monsters, fighting is an important part of hanging out. They don’t want to fight. They already have to do enough of that with people who don’t want to be their friend. This time, though, when the world snaps back to normal, nobody has readied any kind of attack against them. Papyrus is holding a little yellow book, pocket-sized and covered in shiny library plastic--the cover reads HANGOUT GUIDEBOOK. They’re suddenly feeling very unprepared for this.

“I’VE ACTUALLY NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE,” Papyrus says, rather surprisingly. Frisk finds it hard to believe. He’s so… cool. There’s no way he’s never hung out with a friend before…maybe it’s just some weird official thing that they’re doing now? Monsters are weird. “BUT DON’T WORRY!!! YOU CAN’T SPELL ‘PREPARED’ WITHOUT SEVERAL LETTERS FROM MY NAME!!!”

“You even got a book,” Frisk points out, probably unnecessarily. They don’t know how this works either. They’re pretty sure they’re less experienced at hanging out than he is.

“RIGHT YOU ARE! I SNAGGED AN OFFICIAL HANGOUT GUIDEBOOK FROM THE LIBRARY! THERE’S A DATING ONE TOO, BUT WE WON’T BE NEEDING THAT. WE’RE JUST HANGING OUT! LIKE A COUPLE OF BESTIES!”

“I think I’m a little too young for you anyway,” Frisk jokes with a snort. Is this what getting friendzoned is? Are they getting friendzoned by a skeleton? Maybe they should have tried to flirt with him. They suppose it’s too late now. “Do I have to see the book too or…?”

“WORRY NOT, HUMAN, I WILL HELP YOU THROUGH THIS! LET’S SEE…” He flips through the book, squinting into the pages like he’s trying to see a fish through the shining waters of a sunlit pond. They wonder if he maybe needs glasses. He’s a skeleton, though…how would that work? Would he have to tape them up against the sides of his skull? Frisk wrinkles up their face in thought. “STEP ONE…PRESS [C] ON YOUR KEYBOARD FOR FRIENDSHIP HUD. ”

The voice in their head clearly has something to say about that. Something Frisk is incapable of translating, because it comes across more in a weird, mostly uncomfortable jumble of feelings than actual words. It’s honestly been…kind of bearable lately. Snappy and annoying as usual, but more fun to be around. They don’t mind it so much, they’ve decided, now that it isn’t actively trying to kill them. Even though they’re definitely suspicious of how readily it agreed to that deal. “ C? ” they ask quietly, not really wanting Papyrus to realize how little of this they understand.

[C], corrects the voice in their head. Hell if Frisk knows how to describe the punctuation it adds to the letter--two sharp almost-breaths surrounding it, too quiet, too soft, too intangible for them to replicate.

“No way am I gonna be able to say that…” Thankfully Papyrus is too busy reading through the hangout guidebook to notice them talking to themself. “I don’t think my mouth goes that way.” 

Okay, fine, whatever. The voice seems almost giddy when it speaks again, despite how quickly it waves Frisk off. You have to…it’s hard to explain without just…showing you.

“Well, you’re not getting my body. You’re probably gonna stick knives in my eye.”

You don’t even have knives. Wasn’t that in our deal?

“Yeah, but so is not possessing me.” Frisk lets out a huff, loud enough to startle Papyrus out of his concentration on the book.

“JUST PRESS [C] TO OPEN THE FRIENDSHIP HUD!” They still don’t know how to do that. Cool.

Okay, okay, fine, I’ll try to help. It’s…it’s not literal. You don’t actually have a keyboard. There’s no actual key to press. It’s just…it’s a way monsters talk about their magic, who knows where… we came up with it. It might help to imagine a keyboard, but…who knows if that will work as well for you as it did for me. It’s quiet for a moment, a heavy, full silence, to the point Frisk can practically feel it judging the situation. [C] is…data, menus, that kind of stuff. It’s…grayish-purple and it tastes like iron.

Frisk is too busy being stared at by Papyrus to tell the voice that tastes like iron doesn’t help.

Okay…maybe you wouldn’t get that either. The trick to it is finding a connection. Something that’s stored in the same place in your mind. Stats. Information. A configuration file on a computer. It’s not that hard once you get used to it. The voice doesn’t say anything after that. Frisk figures they’re on their own.

They close their eyes, repeating its instructions in their head. They did magic before--when they were fighting Papyrus, when they jumped, when they flew, that was magic. And they suppose the whole loading thing technically counts. Wait--if loading is something you can do with a computer, and so is pressing a key, and so is opening a menu…

They can figure this out. They know exactly what to do.

They focus on their hands. That’s where it’s anchored, that power--their fingertips, the light that radiates both inwards and outwards at the same time, the golden glow--tone-shifted, reaching further, dancing on--a strand of waving, shimmering light, a spark of electricity, a greenish-bluish glow, and--

They open their eyes to the sound of the snap of a light switch. The air before them shimmers, sparkles, coalesces into a retro-style, white-rimmed display. There are readouts and tickers and sliders galore, one for population, one for the day of the week, one for… crime? A radar in the upper right corner of their vision occasionally pings with the image of a dog, and, inexplicably, diagonally across from it on the bottom left is a pixelated icon of an egg. They don’t know what to do with any of this information. They’re pretty sure the only thing in the display that has any chance of actually helping them hang out is the Reel it in! meter pulsing forwards and backwards in alarm-bright reds and yellows. Maybe it works like that fishing minigame from the farming simulator they played on Foster Mom Brittkneigh’s computer once. Foster Mom Brittkneigh was weird. 

I can’t believe you actually pulled that off, the voice in their head says, missing the sharp corners of its signature snark. It doesn’t say anything else.

Honestly, Frisk can’t believe they pulled it off, either.

“WOWIE!!! I FEEL SO INFORMED!!!” Papyrus enthuses, like this is just a common occurrence and not an earth-shattering revelation. They suppose that’s fair. He’s a monster. He does magic all the time. “I THINK WE’RE READY FOR STEP TWO!!!” He flips open the guidebook, not even taking a moment more to look at all the information from the…what did he call it? The Friendship HUD? His loss. Frisk can’t stop staring at the dog.

“STEP TWO…ASK THEM ON A DATE. WAIT…NO, THAT’S NOT RIGHT, THIS IS THE HANGOUT GUIDEBOOK, NOT THE DATING RULEBOOK! DID THAT ACCURSED CANINE MESS UP MY PAGES?” Frisk wrinkles up their face. They’ve gotten friendzoned twice in the past ten minutes. Man. 

I told you the shabby orphan look wasn’t attractive, the voice prods. Something about it sounds different in a way they can’t place. It makes some kind of mental gesture as if it’s trying to clear its throat before it continues. Well, dating or not, the process is the same. Step three is to dress well to indicate interest and attentiveness…you’ve clearly already failed that one, so there’s really no need to bother.

Papyrus is still flipping through the book. Frisk takes the opportunity to slip the tattered old ribbon they tied around their wrist this morning back into their hair, tying it up as best they can. It’s kind of hard to do without being able to see the back of their head. As vain as Papyrus might seem sometimes, his room doesn’t have any mirrors. “It’s okay,” they say, shaking out their hair. “It’s probably the same for hanging out. You gotta ask someone first. So…Mr. Papyrus…um…Skeleton? Will you hang out with me?”

Way to take initiative, the voice comments. Frisk can’t even tell if it’s being snarky or genuine.

“THE FORTHRIGHTNESS!! THE POISE!! THE CONFIDENCE!! YOUR FRIENDSHIP POWER!!” Papyrus cries out, clasping a hand to his bony chest. “WE’VE BARELY EVEN BEGUN TO HANG OUT AND IT’S ALREADY THROUGH THE ROOF! YES, SMALL STRIPED HUMAN, I WOULD GLADLY HANG OUT WITH YOU!” Above his head, a small meter labeled as Dating Power appears, the blue bar within it stretching ever so slightly. 

The voice in their head projects its best imitation of spitting out water through tears of laughter. You really screwed this one up big-time, it prods. Dating Power? That’s supposed to say Friendship Power.

Frisk bites their lip hard, just to keep themself from telling it to keep its damn comments to itself.

“WELL…THAT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT…?” Papyrus stares up at the meter, then turns his attention back to the little yellow guidebook. “ANYWAYS. STEP THREE…PUT ON NICE CLOTHES TO SHOW YOU CARE!” At least the voice in their head prepared them for that much. They reach up to ruffle their hair, adjusting the faded red ribbon once again.

“WAIT A SECOND. WEAR CLOTHING…THAT RIBBON YOU JUST TIED IN YOUR HAIR…YOU’RE WEARING CLOTHING RIGHT NOW!!!” Papyrus gapes at them in shock, and they stare up at him stupidly, hoping they’re doing this right. They wonder if maybe he thinks their sweater is just part of their skin and that’s why he mentioned the ribbon instead. It wouldn’t surprise them. Sometimes it feels like it’s part of their skin too. “NOT ONLY THAT…EARLIER TODAY, YOU WERE ALSO WEARING CLOTHING! NO…COULD IT BE??? YOU’VE WANTED TO HANG OUT WITH ME FROM THE VERY BEGINNING!”

Frisk, dumbfounded, can do nothing but nod.

“NO!! YOU PLANNED IT ALL!!! YOU’RE WAY BETTER AT HANGING OUT THAN I AM!!!” As he talks, they stare at his eye sockets. They didn’t know bones could get wide. That’s weird. All this yelling is hurting their head…or maybe that’s just the weird voice stewing because they’re better at hanging out than it is. They’ll take that as a win. The meter above their head pushes steadily upward. They’re doing so good. They’re going to win at hanging out. 

“YOUR FRIENDSHIP POWER!!!” Apparently Papyrus is just ignoring the fact that they somehow messed up the display and made it say Dating Power instead. They respect that. A true gentleman, or…gentle bones ? Or…something. “NYEH! DON’T THINK YOU’VE BESTED ME YET! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, HAVE NEVER BEEN BEATEN AT HANGING OUT, AND I NEVER WILL!”

Frisk smiles just the tiniest bit, tugging at the ribbon in their hair. This is kind of fun. It feels almost like a stage play. Scripted, rehearsed, easy to win because there’s no way to lose as long as the audience is laughing. Better than hanging out with people. Do monsters count as people? Frisk doesn’t think they do. They’re pretty sure they don’t count as people, either.

Papyrus dashes off to his closet, returning to show off the special clothes he claims to wear all the time just in case anyone asks him to hang out. It’s an athletic outfit with a baseball cap and sneakers--pretty normal except for the fucking basketballs on his shoulders? Though they suppose it works as a statement piece. One of the dogs at Grillby’s said its collar was a statement piece and the statement was “Attach a leash to me and take me for a walk. ” The shoulder balls statement is maybe…they don’t know. “You can play ball with my shoulders?” That doesn’t make any sense. They decide to stop trying.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MY SECRET STYLE?” he asks, gesturing at himself and doing a little twirl. His whole body rattles like an off-key marimba. It must be cool to be made out of bones. 

“I like your shirt,” Frisk says, tucking their hands in their pockets. “ Cool Dude. It’s right. You’re…cool.” They feel so sheepish saying it. Talking to people is hard.

“NO!!! A GENUINE COMPLIMENT…!!!” He presses his gloved hands to his cheeks, mouth open wide with a gasp--they can’t tell if it’s real or feigned. “HOWEVER…YOU DON’T TRULY UNDERSTAND THE HIDDEN POWER OF THIS OUTFIT!!! THEREFORE…WHAT YOU JUST SAID IS INVALID!!! THIS HANGOUT WON’T ESCALATE ANY FURTHER! UNLESS YOU FIND…MY SECRET!!” He opens his mouth to say something else, but Frisk has already climbed up onto his race car bed, needing the height advantage to pull off his hat.

“MY SECRET! YOU FOUND IT SO FAST!!” he cries out as they hop awkwardly back to the floor, tearing off the wrapping paper from a plate of what looks like spaghetti but definitely doesn’t smell like it. “HOW DID YOU…?!”

“Hats are the best place for secrets,” they say with a solemn nod. They wish they had a hat. “It’s spaghetti. Why do you have spaghetti in your hat?”

Don’t ask questions you aren’t prepared to hear the answers to, the voice in their head quips, returning from a fairly long absence. They’re pretty sure it was only gone so long because it was laughing itself to death in a corner of their mind they can’t reach. 

“YOU UNWRAPPED IT WITHOUT ME NEEDING TO ASK!! YOU MUST TRULY BE A MASTER OF HANGING OUT!!!” He squats down awkwardly, a little closer to their face now. He’s really tall. They wonder if he drank a lot of milk as a kid. They think that makes you tall, but they don’t know if it works for skeletons. “YET STILL…YOU HAVE MADE A CRUCIAL ERROR IN YOUR JUDGMENT. THIS AIN’T ANY PLAIN OL’ PASTA! THIS IS AN ARTISAN’S WORK! SILKEN SPAGHETTI, FINELY AGED IN AN OAKEN CASK…THEN COOKED BY ME, MASTER CHEF PAPYRUS! HUMAN!!! IT’S TIME TO END THIS!!! THERE’S NO WAY THIS CAN GO ANY FURTHER!” He pulls a fork from his pocket, sticking it into the spaghetti that they now want to eat even less than before. Though they suppose they have no choice. If they want to win at hanging out, they have to eat the… ”spaghetti.” And they’re going to win at hanging out.

Reluctantly, they take the fork, twining a single fermented, sauce-soaked noodle around its silvery tines. Squeezing their eyes shut like the darkness of their eyelids will block out the taste, they take a bite.

You take a small bite. Your face scrunches up reflexively. The taste is indescribable… For once, the voice in their head’s description of their thought process is actually pretty accurate. They can feel their face scrunching…the taste is so indescribable they aren’t even going to try. It’s worse than the hot dog they ate out of the trash that made them throw up all over their social worker’s car. That was a bad idea. They’re pretty sure this idea was worse.

But at least Papyrus looks happy.

“WHAT A PASSIONATE EXPRESSION!!!” he cries out, reaching out to hold his hands above the barely-touched spaghetti plate as if he’s warming them over a fire. “YOU MUST REALLY LOVE MY COOKING! AND BY EXTENSION, ME!!! MAYBE EVEN MORE THAN I DO!!!” The Dating Power meter shoots up so high the little blue bar within breaks through its casing, the entire shimmering display blooming out around them until all they can see is white. Papyrus’s voice echoes from somewhere in front of them, though they can’t tell where--the white light is all-consuming, total, inescapable.

You’ve really done it this time, haven’t you? remarks the voice in their head.

Papyrus continues on.

“HUMAN. IT’S CLEAR NOW,” his voice booms from all around them. They squint as hard as they can, but find themself still unable to see past the blinding light. “YOU’RE COMPLETELY OBSESSED WITH ME. EVERYTHING YOU DO. EVERYTHING YOU SAY. IT’S ALL BEEN FOR MY SAKE.”

“Am I dead?” they whisper into the white void. Even though they know what being dead feels like, and it’s not this. “God?”

“HUMAN. I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY, TOO,” Papyrus (and decidedly not God, who they’re pretty sure is not a skeleton…but maybe They are? Frisk doesn’t know!) continues. “IT’S TIME FOR ME TO EXPRESS MY FEELINGS.”

Great. They’re going to get friendzoned again. Friendzoned from the friend zone…acquaintance-zoned? Is that how that works?

“IT’S TIME THAT I TOLD YOU. I, PAPYRUS…” His voice falters, and the curtain of white fades away. Once again, they’re just standing in his absolutely normal bedroom. They feel both too small and too big for their body at the same time. “HMM. WELL…I’M FLATTERED YOU CARE SO MUCH.”

They called it. Acquaintance-zoned. 

“BUT MAYBE COOL IT A LITTLE BIT…?” They bite back a laugh. This is the first time anyone’s ever imagined them to be more caring than they actually are. It doesn’t sting as much as they’d’ve thought it would. “YOU ARE A VERY NICE PERSON. I’M GLAD WE’RE FRIENDS.”

That alone nearly knocks them to the floor. Friends. We’re friends. I’m glad we’re friends. Nobody has ever said that to them before. They gnarl their fists into the hem of their sweater, biting their tongue hard to keep themself from saying something stupid. Are they friends? They don’t know. They don’t know if he counts as a friend. They don’t know how to have friends. Maybe they need a little yellow guidebook just like him. They don’t know what to do. They don’t know how to try.

“BUT, I THINK YOU CAN REACH YOUR MAX POTENTIAL…IF YOU LIVE MORE FOR YOUR OWN SAKE, RATHER THAN JUST FOR MINE.” 

Like that could ever happen. Living just for them.

They don’t know who they are. And it’s so, so much easier to just…

To just do this. To be what he needs. What Sans needs. What everyone else down here needs. A purpose, a reason to exist, something to cling to besides some nebulous thought of leaving.  

If they can solve everyone else’s problems, then at least they can be needed. At least they can be useful. That’s good enough for them.

They shake their hands out. They know he’ll react if they shake their head. 

“HUMAN…?”

They hadn’t realized they’d gone anywhere until his hand on their shoulder pulls them back. “I WAS TALKING FOR A LONG TIME AND YOU DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING…ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? I AM NOT UPSET WITH YOU, I JUST THINK…SOMEONE AS GREAT AS YOU SHOULD REALIZE HOW GREAT YOU ARE!! I CERTAINLY KNOW HOW GREAT I AM!!” They can’t even bring themself to pull away. He’s too nice. They don’t want to make him mad…they…

“I WAS JUST TELLING YOU YOU SHOULD HANG OUT WITH MY BOSS UNDYNE SOMETIME. BUT…THAT DOES NOT MEAN I DO NOT WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND! YOU ARE VERY, VERY COOL, HUMAN. IN FACT! I WILL! GIVE YOU!! MY PHONE NUMBER!!” He grabs a sticky note and a pen from a surprisingly neat organizer on his desk, jotting down a string of digits and handing it to them. “YOU CAN CALL ME ANY TIME. PLATONICALLY.”

They shake themself out a little, trying to ignore the buzzing in their head. It’s not like when the voice took over their body--this is way more normal than that. They just don’t know how to deal with people being… nice to them. “Sorry…” they say quietly, still expecting him to be mad.

He just pulls them into a hug. “SOMEONE AS COOL AS YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE TO APOLOGIZE FOR SUCH SILLY THINGS!” he says. They want to pull away, worm their way out of his arms, but they can’t bring themself to do it. The affection feels too nice. They think they can feel the soft pulsing of his magic where their skin presses against the bone of his neck. He’s like the cool older cousin people have on TV shows, who takes you fishing and shows you how to do a kick flip and lets you stay up past your bedtime watching cartoons. 

But they aren’t made for TV show families, picture perfect puzzles of people where everyone fits just right. They can figure out how to solve people’s problems, but that’s where it begins and ends. They shake themself again, finally pulling away. “It was nice hanging out with you,” they say, brushing their hands off awkwardly on their pants. “Thanks for the spaghetti. You’re good at cooking.” He’s not, really, but they appreciate that he made it just for them. In the end, that’s what counts.

“I WILL HAPPILY MAKE YOU YOUR FILL OF PASTA ANY TIME! YOU REMEMBER THE WAY TO THE BARRIER, RIGHT?” He reaches down to adjust the collar of their borrowed hoodie, a gesture that’s far too familial for their taste. They still can’t pull away. They should want to pull away. But they don’t. “JUST KEEP WALKING EAST! AND CALL ME WHEN YOU REACH THE KING’S CASTLE! I DON’T KNOW IF THE CALL WILL GO THROUGH ONCE YOU’RE ON THE SURFACE, AND I WANT TO WISH YOU WELL BEFORE YOU GO HOME!”

“I will,” they lie, turning their face up to give him a winning smile. “I promise. I’ll call you.” They wave him an awkward goodbye, resting their hand on the knob to the door of his room.

They know full well they aren’t going to call.

Chapter Text

Chara  
_____

Rushing water. Closed eyes. A place that sits at the edge of its memory like a word on the tip of its tongue. It walked this path long ago, vision clouded, bones like sand. It leaned against him then. They danced here, hid here, played here. In another world, it was a child.

In this one, it cannot afford to be.

It watches in silence as Frisk makes their way back through the snow, stepping once again into the wet air of Waterfall’s much smaller caverns. It can’t decide if the closeness of the walls is comforting or claustrophobic. It can’t feel its idiot host’s body well enough to tell.

They stop for a moment to talk to the little yellow monster from Snowdin--they’re sneaking out to see Undyne, and Chara, honestly, is curious about her too. Captain of the Royal Guard…that’s certainly a title. Maybe she’ll have her head on straight. Give Frisk a run for their money, even if they won’t stay dead. It promised it’d help them get to the Barrier…not that it would keep them from dying a few times along the way. 

Though, really, that just seems counterproductive.

The way it’s feeling right now is…something, certainly. Something it doesn’t have words for. Confused, conflicted…? No, no, it’s better than that. It’s set on its goals. Enjoying itself a little on the way to the end of the world is no big deal. It means nothing. None of this means anything.

It distracts itself with a game of mental Tetris. There’s little else it can really do.

Frisk stands stock-still in a cluster of tall blue grass--somehow they’ve acquired a ratty, dust-covered tutu somewhere along the way. Dust…but they’re still not carrying a weapon, their hands are clean, none in their hair, none on their skin. It’s old. It’s just old. 

It was almost disappointed, in that brief moment it believed their deal was off.

A figure in silver armor towers on the ledge above them, form obscured by shadows that drape across them like curtains of black silk. The sound of footsteps, a figure approaching--is that Papyrus? Which makes this…

“H…HI, UNDYNE!” He seems uncharacteristically withdrawn. Chara perks up at the name. “I’M HERE WITH MY DAILY REPORT…” If he’s a Royal Guard trainee…if he reports to her…she’s the captain, then…she’s the one who gave him the orders to capture Frisk.

This isn’t going to be pretty.

It feels Frisk’s breath hitch in their chest as they watch the conversation unfold on the ledge above them. It can’t hear whatever Undyne’s saying--her voice is too low, too shielded by her armor, masked by the ever-present rushing of water. Papyrus keeps trying to explain himself, but the truth remains the same: he didn’t capture Frisk. He failed at the one task that was assigned to him. Still, Chara feels too bad to hope for his dismissal from his post. Sentimental. Far too sentimental. What on earth is happening to it? Too many memories. Too many feelings. None of it matters. None of it is worth anything anymore.

“...W-WHAT? YOU’RE GOING TO TAKE THE HUMAN’S SOUL YOURSELF…” 

Chara almost hadn’t been listening. Now it definitely is.

“BUT UNDYNE, YOU DON’T HAVE TO DESTROY THEM! YOU SEE…YOU SEE…” His voice falters. He goes silent. Chara swears it can hear her voice ever so softly, buried quiet beneath the steady flow of water. 

She sounds strong.

This is it. The hero they’ve been waiting for. The one person in this awful place with any chance of changing things. She’ll take matters into her own hands. She’ll do what they know she has to. She’ll let them be at peace.

It.

It.

When it shakes itself out of the tangle it’s gotten its mind twisted into, she’s standing at the edge of the ledge, blinding-blue spear aimed straight at Frisk’s throat. They stare up at her, hands still, face hard-set. Unafraid. Heroine and challenger. Swatter and fly. Lamb and slaughterer.

They are not its brother, Chara reminds itself. Chara has no brother. It stands sentry, as it always has.

It hopes Undyne can see it, somehow. That the fire it carries will bleed into the discs of Frisk’s eyes. Strike them down. Take them out. Stay determined.

In a flash of dissipating blue, she sheathes her spear and turns away.

All it can hear is the hush-hush of water, the rustle of tall grass, everything too close and too far away at the same time. She had her chance. Could’ve taken it. Could’ve killed them.

She hesitated.

Why did she hesitate?

There’s little time for Chara to put any thought into it. As soon as she’s gone, Frisk hops out of the reeds, followed close behind by that little yellow lizard kid again. “Yo…did you see the way she was staring at you?” 

Frisk spins on their heels, startled so badly that they trip straight into the wall. Now they have rocks in their hair. This is a common occurrence for them. Rocks, leaves, sticks…when is their hair not full of variousities and sundritudes…?

Chara isn’t sure either of those are real words.

“D’you follow me all the way here? Were you in the grass? Was that why she didn’t like…impale me?” Frisk says, bouncing on their toes. Their stupid tutu flutters in the soft wind created by their movement. “You wanna see her, right?”

The lizard kid nods. “Especially after that! ” they say. “That…was… awesome! I’m so jealous! What’d you do to get her attention?”

Frisk shrugs. “Dunno.” They elaborate no further. Chara supposes it understands--saying oh yeah, I’m a human to Undyne’s number one fan is probably not in their best interest. Too bad. Sometimes Chara wishes Frisk wasn’t so clever.

Not that clever is a word it would ever use to describe them.

“Well, you’re gonna go see her, right? We can watch her beat up some bad guys together!” The kid shoulders past Frisk, flashing them a smile almost dumber than Frisk’s own. “I’ll be up ahead!”

With that, they’re gone.

Frisk tucks their hands into their pockets, following the winding, shadowed tunnel into the next cavern. There are a few bridge seeds piled up in a corner, a deep river cutting through the cave floor in front of them. “ When four Bridge Seeds align in the water, they will sprout, ” they read off the glowing plaque bolted firmly to the wall. The watery cyan light casts softly across their hands, and Chara thinks of their brother. 

Bridge seed games, the soft song of bells, the way they left him stranded in the room with the bench as a prank, laughing as they told him they’d only let him free if he gave them his dessert for a week. Mom always makes too much! I’d have given it to you anyway if you just asked! Soft white fur. Their head on his shoulder as they stared up at the false stars that dotted the ceiling. A silent wish that echoed in their mind until they drew their last breath, until their consciousness crumbled into dust along with his body long after.

Let them be free.

Knock it off! it shouts at itself, much louder than it means to. Loud enough to send Frisk stumbling again, this time straight into the river they’re gingerly trying to cross. They cry out, fumbling for purchase, only just managing to heave themself onto the far bank before they’re swept too far downstream to make it back.

“The fuck? ” they yell out into the wet, empty air. “I wasn’t even doing anything! The fuck’d you do that for?”

Chara doesn’t know how to respond. It’s not winning itself any favors with them…good, because it doesn’t want to win favors with them. It just stays silent, stewing.

“Knock what off?” Frisk presses, crossing their arms. Chara tries to extricate itself from its moorings to their body, but finds it impossible to do anything more than rotate its perspective a degree or two. What’s going on with it? This is why it can’t relax, why it can’t have fun, why it can’t let itself enjoy even a second of this. It’s losing its grip. And if it loses its grip, it loses everything.

You were thinking too loud, it snaps. 

“Fine. Then what was I thinking about?” Frisk asks. Chara manages to catch their reflection in the water as they walk, more bridge seeds stacked in their arms. They’re going the wrong way. Towards the bench room. 

Um…uh…t…tigers…mauling people? Chara guesses daftly. Brutally?

“No, you dumb fuck. I was spinning a hamster in my head.” Frisk lets out a huff, setting the seeds in the water one at a time. The current pulls them around the jutting blue wall between them and the dock that Chara knows is on the other side, each one blossoming like a just-add-water foam dinosaur pill as soon as they align. “You should try spinning a hamster in your head sometime. Maybe it’d make you less of a dick.”

I already play Tetris. No thanks. Chara doesn’t poke them any further, not wanting to cause a scene this far from the Barrier. It’s intent on fulfilling its end of the deal--just because that means this is over. It wins. One more step towards freedom. One more step towards rest. 

Plus it knows they’re going the wrong way, and it relishes their idiocy.

Frisk teeters across the bridge seed path, hopping onto the blue boardwalk leading into the bench room and following it to shore. They plop down on the bench in the room’s center, staring out at the water that shifts and tugs and shimmers into an empty abyss beyond. A single echo flower, standing tall beside the bench, dips and sways in an intangible, impossible wind.

Frisk turns to face it. “Echo flower,” they say quietly. “That’s what the fishbowl guy called it.”

It’s rude to talk to a flower before you’ve listened to what it has to say, Chara scolds them.

“That’s why I was quiet. So it wouldn’t pick up my voice.” They reach up to squeeze water out of their hair, eyes still set on the flower. “It isn’t saying anything.”

Give it time. Chara watches the flower just as closely. A second passes. Another. A long moment slips by before it finally speaks.

“I just wasn’t ready for the responsibility.”

Frisk stares at it, like they’d been expecting it to say something dramatic. Some long-kept secret. It’s just nonsense.

They kneel down, peeking under the bench. Tucked away beneath the wooden slats is a sad, lonely-looking quiche.

A psychologically damaged spinach-egg pie, Chara remarks as Frisk picks it up. It already knows what they’re going to do. You shouldn’t eat it. Who knows how long it’s been there.

“It’s gotta fulfill its purpose somehow. But…just a little bit at a time. I’d share it with you but…you don’t really have a body, so you’re just gonna have to pretend.” They curl up on the bench, legs crossed, tearing a strip of foil from the quiche container to fashion themself a makeshift fork. “You were helpful, by the way. With the…the HUD thing. The magic stuff.”

I was just holding up my end of the deal, Chara replies. The faster you get to the Barrier, the faster my job is over. I would like to go back to sleep.

“And what is that? Going back to sleep?” Frisk reaches into their pocket, getting out some of the paper wrappings their cinnamon bunnies came in to cover up their quiche. “What are you? Where did you come from?”

I think there was a dimensional box a while back, if you wanted to put that away for the time being. Chara, of course, doesn’t answer their actual question. It doesn’t know, it tells itself.

It does know. But knowing things like that is a special kind of poison. Worse than the acid that blistered their throat in the days leading up to their death. Worse than the petals that stung their fingertips. Worse than--

It, it reminds itself, it, it, it. It can’t get attached to those useless memories. It can’t go back. Not now. Not ever.

Only onwards. Onwards to the Barrier. Onwards to the end.

Frisk shrugs, getting up and tracing their steps back to the box from earlier. They set the quiche carefully at its bottom, nestling it cozily with the ribbon they tied in their hair earlier. “I’m not abandoning you again,” they say, like it can hear them. It can’t. It’s a quiche. “Just putting you somewhere safe. The box is magic, I think, so I’ll see you again.”

They sit a quiet vigil by the box for just a moment, before finally rising to their feet yet again. The Barrier is waiting. Chara sits quietly in the back of their mind. It has nothing more to add.

Papyrus calls them and asks what they’re wearing--maybe a suspicious question, but they answer honestly. They push onwards into the next room, taking in the soft light of the wishing stones on the ceiling. Even if Chara had anything to say, it’s not sure it would be able to speak.

It was always the same wish.

It’s the same wish again today. Even if the echo flowers can’t hear it, even if the stones above can’t cast light across its skin, it imagines that it bows its head the way it always did before. Silently, to the point where even Frisk can’t hear it, it repeats the wish. Three times, for good measure. Three times, or it won’t come true.

Let them be free, it wishes.

Let them be free.

Let them be free.

To their credit, Frisk, too, is silent. They’ve read the plaque on the far wall. Perhaps they’re making a wish of their own.

The moment is over far too quickly. Time continues to pass, the way time so often does. Frisk brushes their hands off on their pants, and continues on. 

It’s a simple enough puzzle to get to the next room--just using the telescope to look at the ceiling, where there’s a just-barely-legible message to check the wall at the end of the corridor. From then on there’s a switch that drops the false wall down into a niche in the ground below--not particularly impressive puzzlery, but Chara can appreciate it nonetheless. It’s monster culture, and it does have a soft spot for puzzles, even the bad ones. Through the next passageway, Frisk steps out onto another boardwalk, worn blue wood creaking beneath their feet. Another room it recognizes. It knows Waterfall better than nearly anywhere else in the Underground. Other than the wishes and conversations echoed by the tall marsh flowers, barely anything seems to have changed. 

The far wall of the room is lined with plaques. A story, written long ago, etched in brilliant cyan glyphs across neatly-cut slabs of deep blue stone. Tall reeds poke up from the marshy water, eerily still from the lack of wind.

“Typha,” Frisk says quietly. “Like from Toriel’s house.” 

Water sausages. You wonder if they’d be any good to eat.

“How’d you know I was thinking that?” Frisk laughs, sticking out their tongue. “I think they’d be too fuzzy. They look like cattails.” They tuck their hands into their pockets, making their way over to the plaques on the wall. “They’re too high up. Can you read them for me?”

Chara doesn’t need to read them. It already knows what they say by heart.

The War of Humans and Monsters, it begins, wishing it could clear its throat. Not that it has a throat to clear…it just feels fitting. Why did the humans attack? Indeed, it seems they had nothing to fear. Humans are unbelievably strong. It would take the SOUL of nearly every monster just to equal the power of one human SOUL.

“So…that’s why I can get through the Barrier, but monsters can’t,” Frisk comments, fidgeting with the hem of their sweater. “That’s not fair to the monsters.”

Again, Chara knows better than to correct them. It continues to recite the story, a dull ache rising in a part of its consciousness it can’t name. But humans have one weakness. Ironically, it is the strength of their SOUL. Its power allows it to persist outside the human body, even after death. If a monster defeats a human, they can take its SOUL.

“It…” Frisk says. They don’t elaborate.

A monster with a human SOUL…a horrible beast with unfathomable power. There’s an illustration on the next one…you could probably see it better if you hopped up on that rock. Or…maybe it’s better not to look. It’s very scary. It’s not that scary, but Chara realizes that anything that might discourage Frisk from making their way to the Barrier should be treated with the utmost caution. If they were to convince themself that the King had already taken a SOUL, that he had become a creature like that, they’d turn around and run back to the Ruins, crying like a lost dog. Nothing good can come of that.

“I’m not two, ” Frisk grumbles, rolling their eyes. Chara can see the reflection of the motion in the plaque’s polished stone. “I’m not scared of freaky monsters or anything. I know what Slenderman looks like and also the Rake and they’re boring. ” They clamber up onto the rock like Chara suggested, peering up at the drawing. 

Everyone always said not a single human SOUL was taken in the war. It wonders where the inspiration for the hideous creature came from, then. Worms and tubes and vines like claws, shattered, mismatched face leering down at them with revoltingly human eyes…it’s always hated the damn thing. Too human. Too human by far.

You decide to stop looking at it, it pokes.

“No, I don’t,” Frisk says stubbornly, just looking at it harder.

You decide to stop looking.

“Nuh-uh.”

What do you mean, nuh-uh? Chara gives its best impression of a long-suffering sigh. You have things to do. Come along.

“One more minute.” They reach up to trace the outline of the grotesque creature. Again, the way the soft blue light falls across their hands reminds Chara far too much of him.

It’s better not to think of him.

It’s worse than useless to think of him.

No part of them belongs to him anymore. No part of him belongs to them. There’s no point in remembering.

But no matter how hard they try, they can’t stop.

Frisk eventually steps down from the rock, hopping onto the precarious floating platform meant to ferry them across to the next stretch of dock. They balance themself with their arms flung out at their sides, teetering and tipping and doing some kind of demented hula dance to try to keep the platform steady. They launch themself onto the far boardwalk once it’s close enough to reach, tucking and rolling and wincing at the bend of their knees. “Cool pillars,” they remark, voice sharp with poorly-hidden pain. Like they’re trying to distract themself. “I like pillars. They should make more pillars.”

And who might they be? Chara inquires. The great pillar lords? There’s no monolith that calls for the construction of pillars. They’re commissioned by--

It doesn’t get a chance to finish its sentence.

From the shadows behind the far wall of pillars lining one side of the boardwalk, a bright light appears--the yellow shine of a catlike eye, the cyan glow of a magic weapon--light reflects off silver armor, a knight’s helmet snapping into view as the darkness scatters like scared rabbits fleeing through tall moor grass. Undyne! Heroine, gallant knight, captain of the Royal Guard, spear in hand--and this time, she doesn’t hesitate at all. With a flick of her gauntlet-clad wrist, she fires a barrage of magical spears straight at Frisk--they barely manage to throw themself out of the way in time. They pick themself up as fast as they can, stumbling forwards as they duck through another volley of spears. Chara can barely stop itself from cheering. This is what it wanted! This is what it knew she was capable of! Finally, someone who isn’t afraid to do what needs to be done!

Frisk staggers through the rain of spears, unsteady and wobbly and already fighting for breath. “She’s gonna kill me!” they grunt out, weaving and bobbing around a particularly tight corner. “I haven’t saved in like--I dunno! Two hours?” 

Serves you right, Chara pokes, not minding the show. It’s entertaining, at least, and if it’s lucky, it’ll lead to Frisk’s long-awaited capturing. It can’t complain about that.

A spear grazes Frisk’s cheek, droplets of blood welling from the wound as they scream in the back of his mind to fight back, he’s killing himself, it’s kill or be killed, Asriel! Don’t you get that! You promised! And he won’t stop, he won’t fight back, just picks up their stupid useless body and they scream at him to leave it, that it doesn’t matter anymore, just save yourself, you idiot! They reach for control. They know they can, they carried their own body this far, but they can’t reach, they can’t reach, they--

Too close. Everything buzzes. They shove Frisk’s consciousness to the side with a force they didn’t know they were capable of, taking control of their body, numb to the pain in their joints and their lungs, eyes narrowed, hands clenched, whole body stiff and poised and cut through with bright red fire. Not again. They won’t let this happen again. A spear flies over their head and they’re vaguely aware of a voice in the back of their head yelling at them to stop, but it sounds just like Asriel and they aren’t losing him again, not like this, not like this. They throw Frisk’s body clear of the final spear, bloodied cheek staining the reeds at the end of the boardwalk a deep, unflinching red.

Too close. Their ears won’t stop ringing. It’s all wrong. Them? All of this for them?

Frisk’s consciousness shoves into theirs, and they don’t have the will to fight back. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They’ve always been such a fool. Such a mess, all for nothing.

There’s nothing left to do. There’s no point.

They let go.

Chapter Text

Frisk  
_____

Blood on their cheek. Droplets into rivulets. Hazy grass pollen swimming in front of their eyes. Specks of light. A buzzing noise in their head.

They’re vaguely aware of footsteps. Heavy armor. Metal meeting soft earth.

When they felt the tug, they were expecting the voice to renege on their deal. To throw them into the rain of spears.

Not to drag their stupid, aching body to safety. Not to pull them away.

Their head hurts like hell. The footsteps stop. Something rustles in the grass. A stillness, a rustling again. The footsteps grow farther away.

Groaning, squinting, head throbbing, they push themself upright. They can barely walk. They can’t stay steady. Their whole body hurts, joints aching worse than usual, breath catching harder than ever. Everything hurt when the voice took their body over. It stopped hurting fast after that. It was a welcome relief.

They heard a name. The voice was shouting it out. Like it was talking to them.

They don’t remember what it was.

“Yo…did you see that!? Undyne just… touched me!” It’s the kid from Snowdin. The little yellow one who’s been following them around. Frisk would ask them their name if they could get their head on straight. They’re all rattled, all shaky. Dropped bottle of soda brain. Baking soda volcano brain. Fizzy and fuzzy and full. “I’m never washing my face ever again…!”

“Huh…” It’s the first thing even vaguely resembling words they’ve managed to get out of their mouth. They’re still trying to process what happened. The voice promised it wouldn’t possess them. It was part of their deal. 

But it saved their life.

“Yo, are you okay? You look kinda pale,” the kid says, looking up at them with a dumbfounded expression. “What’s that red stuff on your face?”

They reach up, wiping off their cheek with the sleeve of their sweater. It comes away stained red. Still bleeding. Monsters don’t bleed.

“Uh…ketchup,” they say. Monsters have ketchup. Sans drank ketchup. They’re…just…leaking ketchup…out of their cheek. That’s normal. “That’s…that’s cool. Undyne’s cool.” They think they need to sit down. They think they need to never stop moving. They don’t know how to feel. The voice broke their deal, and now all bets are off, and their head hurts! It’s dark and they’re tired and they don’t know what to do. The voice isn’t talking to them. It isn’t saying anything at all.

It broke their deal.

They want it back.

The kid keeps talking. They don’t hear a word they’re saying. They assume they say something about Undyne. That seems right. 

And then they’re gone.

Frisk walks onwards in silence. They don’t know if their cheek is still bleeding--they can’t really feel it anymore. Their whole body is buzzing, the typical pain in their knees coming and going as it sees fit. There’s a save point in the next room, and crystallized cheese, and…mostly just the save point. They collapse into its flooding golden light, letting the now-familiar warmth fill their body. Ever so vaguely, they hear the voice say something about determination. Distant, far-away, hazy. Like it’s reading off a script.

“Are…are you there?” they ask quietly.

It doesn’t respond.

They pick themself up, itching at where the graze on their cheek was before they saved. They have to keep going. Keep walking. It’s an instinct, by now. The only thing they know how to do. There’s a box at the next opening--they open it, happy to find that their quiche has, indeed, made the journey over through a ripple in space. They take a bite. It has to fulfill its purpose somehow. Even if it’s full of old wet quiche germs.

Speaking of old wet quiche germs, they think to themself, smiling ever so slightly at the sight of Sans manning a telescope in the next room. They like him. Sort of. He’s okay to be around, at least, and he gave them a hoodie, and they don’t feel so bad about taking it anymore knowing that his couch just spawns the damn things. Theirs is currently tied around their waist. They wonder if they should put it in the box so it doesn’t trip them up too much. It’s kind of been getting in the way in fights. 

“i’m thinking about getting into the telescope business,” Sans says, shrugging vaguely at the telescope. “it’s normally 50,000 G to use this premium telescope…but…since i know you, you can use it for free. howzabout it?”

They cross their arms in front of their chest, inspecting the telescope. They know him. They know his ways. He told them to think about fucking blue stop signs when he was teaching them how to dodge Papyrus’s attacks. They don’t trust him for one minute.

Sure enough, the eyepiece of the telescope is covered in red paint.

“You’re trying to pull a fast one on me,” they say. Their voice echoes. It doesn’t sound like theirs. “No way. Everyone in Waterfall would know I fell for it.”

“think about it this way: everyone in waterfall would know where that red splotch on the sleeve of your sweater came from, too.” He stares straight at them like he’s staring into their soul.

And then fucking winks at them.

They changed their mind. They hate this guy.

They roll their eyes, sticking their face to the telescope. They can’t even see anything. It’s completely painted over. “Stars look pretty today,” they say, voice still sounding wrong in their ears.

“What’s a star?” They look over their shoulder--a little blob, standing behind them, pokes its head towards them. “Can you touch it? Can you eat it? Can you kill it? Are you a star?”

“I dunno,” Frisk says. They look up at the ceiling, then sit down cross-legged across from the little blob-monster. “It’s…a bright light up in the sky. And people say it’s made of really hot gas, a bazillion trillion miles away, but I think it’s just holes poked in our terrarium. That’s the sun shining through.”

“What’s a sky?” the monster replies, pinprick eyes gone starry.

“That’s…that’s probably more than I can tell you. But…maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll see it soon.” They push themself back to their feet, glad for the voice’s absence. Some things they don’t want it to hear.

They keep on walking, trying to ground themself as they cross through another stretch of marshland, cut across by shimmering cyan water and bathed in a soft, ethereal light. There’s another one of those big sign thingies--this one they squint to read on their own, since the voice isn’t around to help. The power to take their SOULs, they read. This is the power that the humans feared. They think that’s stupid. If a monster could take their SOUL, and use it to get out of here…that would be okay, they think. It’d be worth it. Monsters are, they’ve decided, in most respects, better than humans. They deserve their freedom. They deserve the sky.

They’re still in a haze all the way through the next hallway, listening vaguely to the rambling of a weird, sparkly-eyed aquatic onion. All its friends are moving to aquariums in the capital. The water level’s getting lower. But, it insists, Undyne’s going to fix everything. 

Who knows. Maybe she will.

There’s a piano sitting to the north of the next room, near a sign promising a great treasure that probably doesn’t even exist--a fish-looking monster with soft seaweed hair is staring at it wistfully, but they dart away into the shadows as Frisk approaches. They sit down, plunking at the keys a bit. Nothing sounds good. They don’t know how to play. Instruments are mysterious to them. Totally foreign. Totally bizarre. What’s a piano doing in a damp, dark cavern anyway? That can’t be good for it. The wood’s gonna get all gross and rotted.

They push onwards, hearing the steady sound of rain grow louder as they walk. More signs. This power has no counter. Indeed, a human cannot take a monster’s SOUL. When a monster dies, its SOUL disappears, they read. They wonder what everyone’s so scared of them for, then. Humans seem pretty useless. Barely capable of magic, can’t even take a monster SOUL…what’s the point? And an incredible power would be needed to take the SOUL of a living monster. There is only one exception. The SOUL of a special species of monster called a “Boss Monster.” Like in video games. Like the ender dragon, or Glunky from Squeezo’s Big Adventure. That was a weird game. A Boss Monster’s SOUL is strong enough to persist after death…if only for a few moments. A human could absorb this SOUL. But this has never happened. And now it never will.  

They brush their hands off on their pants, mind wandering as they listen to the gentle rush of water in the distance. They like the rain. As far as precipitation goes, it’s better than snow by far.

A horned statue sits beneath a small gap in the cave ceiling, droplets of warm subterranean rain splashing across its head. It’s made of stone, head bowed, face cracked. It looks like it’s supposed to be holding something. Whatever it was, though, must have broken off long ago, judging by the rubble at its feet and the cracks in its paw-like hands. Something shiny catches their eye--through a crack in the stone at its base, they can see the glint of metal. It’s perforated, spun in the shape of a cylinder, stuck through with shiny silver teeth--and completely waterlogged. Maybe if they can get it dry they can get it working again.

They notice a basket of umbrellas not too far ahead, at the edge of a tunnel that seems ceilingless. Water pours down in rivulets, deep puddles stretching across worn-smooth stone-- the umbrellas must’ve been left to keep passers-by dry, but they don’t mind getting wet. They have a better use for them in mind.

They grab an umbrella from the basket, returning to the statue and propping it up in its arms. The water jamming its innards trickles slowly away, the gears and spindles and tubes within it starting to rotate once again. From the belly of the statue, a music box begins to play.

Their ears start ringing even worse. They feel dizzy. 

The voice finally speaks again.

His theme… it says softly, with no further elaboration. Frisk contemplates yelling at it. Telling it off for breaking their deal. It was terrifying, being ripped out of their body like that in such a moment of panic.

But they don’t really think they’re mad anymore. It saved their life. Maybe, in the end, that really only meant not having to repeat two hours of puzzles and talking to Papyrus, but it still means something. Of course it means something. Something Frisk really isn’t ready to face.

They sigh, tucking their hands into their pockets. “I’m glad you’re back,” they say quietly, voice barely audible even to themself over the patter of rain and the music box’s soft song.

It doesn’t reply.

“Do you know this song?

It’s quiet for another long moment. It answers simply: Yes.

“Who’s he? ”

It doesn’t matter. Silence. I…didn’t mean to break our deal.

“I don’t think you…I don’t think you really did,” Frisk admits, half to the voice, half to themself, watching rain pool around the statue for a moment longer. “The deal was no possessing me to hurt me.”

It was just no possessing you, the voice replies, clearly remembering it better than they do. It wasn’t meant to happen.

“I…I don’t really care, you know?” Frisk sighs, turning away from the statue and making their way back to the room with the piano. There was some sign about a treasure…maybe they can get the voice in their head to help them solve it. They don’t want to be mad at it. They don’t know if they are or not. “You saved my life.”

I certainly didn’t mean to. For a moment, Frisk swears they can hear some of its familiar snark slipping back into its voice. They smile, despite themself. Maybe it’s just routine, now. Familiarity. Sameness. It’s good to have something they can rely on, rude and mean and annoying as the voice may be.

(They don’t care about it.)

(Of course, they don’t care about it.)

(They aren’t capable of caring.)

“Well…if you meant to or not, you still did it. So I’m not mad at you. And our deal’s still on. Though…I wanna adjust the terms, if you’re…okay with that.” They stick their hands into their pockets, sitting down at the piano. “No more no possessing me. Just…don’t electrocute me again and I think we’ll be good.”

Deal, the voice replies, a little too quickly. Frisk laughs.

“Not so fast. I don’t want you like…going for a joyride in my body all the time. It’s just…you could do what you did back there again and I wouldn’t be mad.” 

Simple enough. It isn’t as though I could possess you just for fun, anyway. I was only able to do that then because… It trails off. It doesn’t finish its sentence. It isn’t important. Anyways…it’s a deal. Anything that gets you to the Barrier faster. But do not, under any circumstances, be deluded into thinking that I have any compassion for you. You’re still a human.

“I get it,” Frisk says. “That’s okay.” They plink at the piano a few more times, but it doesn’t do anything. They figure the puzzle probably has to do with the music box, but they don’t know how pianos work, and they don’t think they could replicate the tune. It’s okay. They don’t need any kind of treasure anyway. They know exactly where they’re going.

Eventually, they’re going to have to get up. They’re going to have to keep walking.

So they do.

They don’t bother picking up another umbrella as they proceed onwards into the room with the rain. The lizard kid is back--they make some comment about not being able to hold an umbrella, and Frisk laughs just the tiniest bit, hands in their pockets again. Their face shifts and shimmers in the puddles at their feet, cascades of water tumbling into a bottomless crevasse at the underground cliff’s edge. The kid keeps talking about Undyne. How she beats up bad guys and never loses. How they’d piss their pants out of fear if they were a human. How the King came to class to teach them about flowers and responsibility and how they all had to call him Mr. Dreemurr.

Dreemurr… says the voice in their head.

“Hm?” Frisk shakes their head, startled by its presence yet again.

“I was just saying, how cool would it be if Undyne came to school?” the kid says, thinking Frisk was talking to them. They don’t think they’re ever going to get an answer.

They step out from the dark, damp tunnel at last, only for the breath to be stolen out of their chest by the view that greets them in the next chamber of the cavern. Starry stones line the ceiling as it slopes gently upwards, bathing the tips of the rocks and crystals that jut from the walls in a shimmery, bent-light glow. The edges of their hands are offset in blue and red, yellow-green dapples casting across the ground like they’re standing at the bottom of a swimming pool. They look up through the aberrant, wavering light, gaze settling gently on the landscape before them.

Red hills and oceans twine and curl around each other, pipes and cogs and shafts and scaffolding interlocking in an intricate pattern. As the stretching lines of rebar and steel grow smaller and farther away, they twist and twine upwards, arteries flowing towards an impossibly-suspended stone and crystal heart. A city rises in the distant air, turrets and cathedrals and gray stone, architecture similar to the one they overlooked in the Ruins this morning, only much farther away. The light of the stones on the ceiling casts it in the same watery blue as the rest of Waterfall, but they can tell the tone is nothing more than a mirage. The city itself is pale, colorless, dull, as though it’s been stripped of all life. Stripped of all hope.

“Is that the capital…?” they ask under their breath, too quietly for the yellow-scaled kid whose name they still haven’t asked for to hear them.

The voice doesn’t respond. They take its silence as a yes.

They don’t know how long they stand there, transfixed by the impossible view before them. Maybe it’s hours. Days. Maybe it’s only seconds. Time doesn’t feel real here. All they know is that, eventually, their legs start to ache from staying still for too long, and they have to move on. They brush off their hands, taking one last glance over their shoulder at what surely must be their final destination. They can see it. They know where they’re going.

Everything ends eventually.

They sigh, pressing through the last bit of tunnel in the path of the underground rainstorm. There’s a ledge up ahead of them, stone too smooth and steep for them to climb it on their own. “Yo,” the monster kid says, peering up at the ledge. “You wanna see Undyne, right? Climb on my shoulders!” 

“For real?” Frisk stares at them for a moment, trying to judge how hard it would be to actually reach the ledge from the little lizard kid’s shoulders. “You’re like a bowling pin. I don’t wanna knock you over…”

“I’ll be super steady! Just like Undyne! She’s always super still when she’s on the lookout for bad guys, like…wait, you saw her like that!” They brace themself with their tail as a third leg, letting Frisk climb up onto their shoulders. It’s a treacherous task, and Frisk feels bad, not wanting to hurt the kid--they’ve been zoning out through most of their conversations, but they seem nice enough. Just…kind of naive. Like every other kid in the world. They hook their arms over the edge of the ledge above them, pulling themself up and rolling onto their side.

“You want me to try to pull you up?” they offer, reaching down for the kid’s shoulders. “I could probably do it.”

“Nah, it’s okay. You go on ahead. Don’t worry about me. I always find a way to get through!” They give Frisk an orange-cat brainless smile, waving their tail goodbye before turning around and skittering off. They trip on their own feet, but manage to pull themself up just like one of those wobbly doll things Frisk’s old social worker had in her office. Impossible to knock over. There’s something to be said, Frisk supposes, for perseverance like that. It’s probably easier with scales, too. They don’t have to worry about messing up their face.

Once the kid is gone, Frisk picks themself up, brushing gravel off of their hands. They can still hear the faintest echo of the statue’s song in the distance, carried ever upwards on an otherwise-imperceptible wind. More signs line the walls--they read them quietly, again without the voice’s help. The humans, afraid of our power, declared war on us. They attacked suddenly, and without mercy. In the end, it could hardly be called a war. United, the humans were too powerful, and us monsters, too weak. Not a single SOUL was taken, and countless monsters were turned to dust…

At the spinning star between two signs, they sit, for a moment, in silence. They don’t know much about wars. There was one in Drakehold many, many years ago, long before they were born. The Revolution all the grown-ups talked about. Everyone said things had been so bad before the war. People had been sad and poor and sick and lonely, homeless, miserable, driving planet-killing cars to work just to spend the day digging their own graves. The Revolution had changed all that, everyone said. But Frisk was still lonely and miserable and sleeping in public bathroom stalls. It felt like the Revolution had come for everyone but them.

They don’t know much about wars. but whatever this was, whatever left monsters trapped down there, that wasn’t a war. They don’t know the word for it. They don’t know if there is a word for it. But wars, they’re pretty sure, are about power. This was about hate.

Far away, the music box plays on. They reach into the save point’s golden light. You’re filled, the voice says, for what must be the hundredth time, with determination.

The fire in their chest sinks down, and they climb to their feet again. Onwards, yet again.

They step out onto yet another blue boardwalk. Far from the comfortable confines of the tunnels they’ve grown used to, it stretches over a gaping, inky void, the yawning, empty nothingness more claustrophobic than the stone passageways by far. They pick up a pebble from the cliffside before venturing further, throwing it into the darkness that spills up from below.

Yet again, they hear no echo. The first echoless pit they fell down today wasn’t bottomless, but they don’t want to take chances with another. They wonder how that would work, falling forever. Realistically, they suppose, they’d eventually starve to death. What are the logistics? How long would it take them to--

Run! the voice in their head jabs them, just in time for them to throw themself out of the way of a cyan circle of light that’s appeared beneath their feet. A heartbeat after they move, the point of a spear juts up from the center of the circle, so sharp and so forceful they half expect the air itself to bleed. The same spears as before--Undyne’s still after them. It’s going to take a lot to shake her. They don’t know if they can. They throw themself into an awkward half-jog, weighing the ups and downs of actually trying to run. On one hand, she’s trying to fucking kill them. On the other, they’ll die less if they don’t trip over their own fucked-up knees or forget how to breathe. They dance out of the way of another barrage of spears, straddling a small gap between two strips of boardwalk so they can jump to one side or the other in the likely event of more terrible spears. They have no idea where they’re going. The boardwalk branches and cuts itself into sharp corners, random offshoots, tight edges. The spears are getting faster. They’re barely staying ahead of them, barely able to dodge, barely able to keep moving. They have to. They aren’t giving up yet. There has to be a way out of this. They haven’t died at all since Snowdin, and they don’t want to break that streak now! 

They break out onto a wide, rickety platform--more space for spears, but more space to dodge. It’s a double edged sword, but they’re learning quickly how to wield it. They throw themself forward, figuring now, if ever, is a good time to break into a run. They stumble forwards, biting their tongue hard to drown out the twinge of their stupid fucked-up joints, trying with all their strength to stay upright.

There’s an offshoot right ahead! You can beat her there, keep going! the voice in their head encourages them. They take its advice, staggering forwards onto the broken-off path. The wood is even more worn here, and they swear they can feel it bowing under their feet. They feel like they’re going to pass out. They can’t breathe and their knees hurt but they can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t. They’re almost at the end. They’re almost there.

And there’s nothing.

No exit, no branching path, no cliff to step onto. Just darkness and emptiness below them, the boardwalk coming to an abrupt end. Their vision is already spotty. They hate running. They’re no good at running. They’re going to die, again.

The sound of metal boots pierces through the crushing darkness, and they know there’s no escape. They turn around, wheezing painfully as they try their hardest to make eye contact with Undyne. They can’t even see her eyes, other than a single pinprick of yellow light from within her helmet, but they want to look brave. Defiant. Even if it doesn’t stick, even if they have to do this a million times over, they want her to see that they won’t stop trying. That they’re determined.

She doesn’t breathe a word. Just brandishes her spear. Readies her magic.

A volley of spears rains down from the sunless, empty sky, and the platform snaps in two. They squeeze their eyes shut, preparing for impact. The air rushing past them cradles their cheeks and teases their hair, kissing their face as they tumble into the darkness below.

Again, they fall.

*      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

“It sounds like it came from over here…”

Footsteps, vague, far away. They don’t recognize the voice.

They don’t recognize the voice. Someone does. Someone else.

Something soft against their shoulder. Something warm dripping down their face. The taste of metal. Tongue against broken teeth.

“Oh! You’ve fallen down, haven’t you…are you okay? Here, get up…”

A name. It isn’t theirs. It has always been theirs. They don’t recognize it. It’s the only name they’ve ever known.

“That’s a nice name. My name is…”

There’s no answer. Their hearing fades out.

The world goes white.

Chapter Text

Chara  
_____

A soft memory.

The day they nearly died shouldn’t be a soft memory, yet it is. The first time they spoke their name out loud. The first day they were Chara. The day they met him.

It had been a long time coming, climbing that mountain. They’d climbed trees and boulders and old brick buildings. They’d landed with broken wrists and sprained ankles. There had been a million little falls before the one that was supposed to be the last.

There had been no flowers to break their fall. Only pale cave grass and unyielding stone.

It is a soft memory all the same.

*      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

It awakens in a body that isn’t under its control, slick, rank water lapping at dark, tangled hair. It takes it a moment to adjust, to remember where it is, to orient itself to its surroundings. This is not its body. It’s the other child, the one that reminds them so much of…

It, it, it, it, it. It’s done snapping at itself over the pronoun debacle--now it’s just lecturing itself like a tired teacher. What’s happening to it? When did it become so soft?

It relegates itself to stewing in the back of Frisk’s head as they push themself to their knees, blinking blearily as they try to get a handle on their soggy circumstances. “Buh…” they mumble out, picking themself up and staring down at the flowers beneath their feet. Chara takes a moment to stare at them as well. Where did they come from? For that matter, where did the ones in the Ruins come from…? Frisk had found sticky seed pods in a drawer in Toriel’s cottage, but where did those come from? Chara knows for a fact that those flowers didn’t grow anywhere in the Underground when it was…well, that’s not important. It’s certainly not something it needs to worry about now.

Frisk winces, boots squelching soppily as they plod through the waist-deep water beyond the small island of golden flowers. The dump. Chara orients itself. It came here many times before, searching for packs of Pokémon cards and discarded Warriors books from the surface. Condensation-speckled piles of trash line the walls like pillars in a grand cathedral, waves of black plastic parting for a stagnant trail of water to languish in between them. Occasional stretches of warped, derelict wood rise through the still, greenish murk, remnants of a boardwalk that has long since sunk beneath the rising water. The water level is, indeed, much higher than it remembers it being--it never had to wade like this. Not as far as it remembers. Not that it remembers anything, not that it can remember anything, not that it ever came here, not that it belongs to this world, not that any of those things could be true. It is a stranger to this place, it reminds itself. The lie slips a little further through its fingers each time it repeats it. 

Frisk hefts themself up onto some of the remaining wood, shaking the water out of their hair and tugging their sweater up over their nose. They make their way across a rickety beam, trying their best not to tip over into the putrid water as they teeter along above it. A cascade pours from the ceiling--the water beneath them is less still, now, a sluice of garbage dragged inevitably towards a final resting place along the damp, encroaching walls. Every so often a scrap of trash of some variety or another follows the waterfall’s course down into the dump, either sinking into the thick, oily water to join its brethren or flowing further towards the drop-off at the far edge of the room, following the current into the abyss below. A small platform of bobbing blue wood overlooks the cascades, a spinning golden save star at its center. Frisk reaches out. Chara, still pulled along by a force it can’t quite name, is compelled to speak.

The waterfall here seems to flow from the ceiling of the cavern… it says, as though Frisk can’t see it for themself. Occasionally, a piece of trash will flow through and fall into the bottomless abyss below. Viewing this endless cycle of worthless garbage…it fills you with determination.

Frisk closes their eyes, the light of the save point shifting softly across their face. Chara feels its power, too. It always has, even in this body, even distant, even dulled. What it would give to be able to feel it at full strength again.

The one time it truly needed a power like this, it couldn’t reach it. Selfishly, stubbornly, it wants to wrest control of it from Frisk’s hands. Find a way to turn time back before any of this ever happened.

Selfishly, stubbornly, it wants to believe Frisk will find a way to use it for good.

It does its best mental equivalent of shaking itself out like a wet dog, entirely ignoring the thought. You should get going, it pokes at Frisk, who is trying to squeeze water out of their sweater.

“I’m soggy,” they complain. “Bleh.”

You’re just going to get soggier. If you wish to no longer be soggy, isn’t it better to find your way towards dry land for good, rather than sitting around in the middle of this dump? it pokes. It just wants them to get moving. It’s getting impatient. It just wants to get to the Barrier, trick them into surrendering their SOUL, and be done with all of this. Over, goodbye, good night. Go back to sleep before it leads itself any further astray. Not long to go, now. Just Hotland, then an elevator up through the Core to New Home. Nobody should give them any trouble there--they’ll escort them straight to the castle. Nothing left to worry about. Nothing left to do.

“Fine.” Frisk lowers themself back into the oily dump water, face scrunching up as they push forward through floating trash and candy wrappers and other such detritus. They round a corner, resting their hand on an old, rusted bike. Its paint is…green? Blue? Some weird in-between color? There’s a horn screwed to its handlebars--even without Frisk touching it, it lets out a miserable, raspy noise. Like it’s been waiting for years for an opportunity to cry out. Chara can relate.

You rest your hand on the rusted bike, Chara thinks at them, not sure what draws it to settle back into the role of impassive narrator. Its horn wheezes out a honk of despair. Frisk is still for a moment, hand resting on the bike, head tilted ever so slightly. Like they’re looking for something they can’t quite see.

“You always describe things so…so nice, ” they say after a long moment. The compliment stings in a way Chara can’t describe even to themself. “You’re like a poet. Like…I almost feel bad you’re stuck in my head, because maybe you wouldn’t be so mean if you could just sit down and write.”

I was never any good, it replies before it has the chance to filter its thoughts. Oh, god, it’s really in it now. At…writing. I tried but…it’s not important. 

“Well…maybe you just needed the right muse.” Frisk sticks their tongue out playfully, sloshing through the water and inspecting some of the trash. “Oh, wow, Mew Mew Kissy Cutie? One of my foster brothers had a poster of this in his room. It’s got like a million seasons.”

MMKC is still going…? Chara barely manages to stop itself from saying something too revealing about its situation. It’s pretty sure Frisk knows it’s a ghost of some sort--though even it isn’t sure of the specifics--but still. They don’t need to know that Mew Mew Kissy Cutie only had two seasons the last time Chara checked. Plus, in all honesty, Chara is a little too intrigued by whatever Frisk said about a foster brother to really want to talk about itself. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be bothered by the specifics of Frisk’s life before they fell whatsoever. In all honesty, it hadn’t really considered that Frisk had a life before they fell until now. 

It would like to go back to a moment ago, before it had this terrible thought. A moment ago, when it was easier to remain uninvolved. It’s not that far to the Barrier, and the distance is shorter if Undyne captures them. It just has to think about that.

“Yeah, I think it’s on like…season ninety or something now. The anime version. There’s also a game but it’s so old I don’t think you could get it to play on anything anymore.” Whatever Frisk says after that, Chara just tunes out. It isn’t worth its time. It’s irrelevant. It’s a liability. It can’t focus on things like that.

The dummy up ahead is much less of a threat to their mental state. It’s mostly featureless cloth, save for two button eyes and a cowlike snout--typical fare for dummies down here. It seems a bit beaten up. There’s a tear at its midsection, the tiniest bit of cotton pushing out of its belly. Frisk seems to notice it as well--they turn around and jog awkwardly back to the garbage piles, getting down on their knees in the putrid water and digging through the heaps of junk like their life depends on it. What are you looking for? Chara asks as they dig, kicking itself for being so curious.

Frisk stops at the sight of what looks like a beaten-up old cookie tin. They pry the lid off before Chara can even tell them off for looking for snacks at a time like this--inside is a bunch of waterlogged sewing supplies. “Old ladies keep their needles and thread and stuff in boxes like this,” they say. “I didn’t think I’d find one so fast…” They tuck the cookie tin under one arm, using the other to painstakingly drag a beat-up old cooler over to the dummy. They prop the cooler up, setting the tin down on it so they have a little workstation, and pull out a needle and a spool of hot pink thread. “Okay…I dunno how to do this but I think I can figure it out.”

Frisk spends a full five minutes threading their needle. Every time they get it through it just pops right back out again and they have to go back to square one. They’re remarkably persistent, even though Chara is getting the sense they can’t quite see what they’re doing. It hasn’t really noticed any irregularities in its vision since it was so rudely awakened, but it does suppose the few times it’s fully been in Frisk’s body, it hasn’t really been paying attention to how well it can see. From how much they squint, it wouldn’t be surprised if they needed glasses. They finally get the needle threaded, though it’s far from a traditional method, really…it should get the job done, at least, assuming the big fat knot tying the thread to the needle isn’t too big to pull through a needle-prick hole. At least they’re trying.

It’s an awfully thoughtful thing for a human to do.

Chara tries to ignore this as Frisk pinches the flaps of cloth around the gash in the dummy’s abdomen together, readying their needle. It’s stupid. What’s the dummy going to do? Not all of them are possessed. This isn’t compassion. It’s an asinine arts and crafts project. It’s a waste of time.

Not more than a second after they’ve first pierced the dummy’s cloth with their needle, the wretched thing springs to life. It knocks them backwards into the oily dump ooze, midsection splitting open and gaping like a cotton-stuffed mouth. “FOOL!” it cries out, hovering over them with cotton spilling from its ripped abdomen. “You think you can hurt ME?? That tiny mouse sword won’t do anything! I am a ghost that lives inside a DUMMY. My cousin used to live inside a DUMMY too. Until you came along!” 

“What? Cousin?” Frisk stammers out, fumbling to throw their needle as far away as they possibly can. Were they threatening it? They had to have been threatening it. Because they’re human, right? They’re human, and they wouldn’t do something kind of their own free will! Chara knows better. It knows better than to trust that empty, meaningless gesture. The dummy is right. They were trying to stab it. To kill it. That’s the only option. Because really, truly accepting anything else means that everything Chara is trying to do, everything it’s trying to be, is all meaningless.

This cannot, cannot be meaningless.

“When you talked to them, they thought they were in for a nice chat. But the things you said! Nothing but meaningless drivel! They got annoyed and flew away like any self-respecting spectre!” The dummy leers at them, pre-battle music grating just enough at Chara’s mind that it keeps it from questioning its own flawed logic. “Well then. Well then! WELL THEN! Boring people are crumbs sticking to the face of this world. Human! I’ll wipe you away with the dainty handkerchief of vengeance!” The world snaps for a moment into battle mode, only to go back to normal within a moment the way it always does with Frisk. This whole thing’s been broken for as long as Chara can remember, like a video game glitching out before it can get past the title screen, but something about Frisk just makes it infinitely worse. The music doesn’t play right, the menus don’t appear…it’s like the universe hates them. Like they’re filling a role they weren’t meant for. Like they don’t belong.

It has to be because they’re human. That’s the only explanation. By their very nature, by virtue of what they are, they’re broken. A stick in the gears of a world that was, well…never really all that well-oiled. But still, still, still!

Chara’s own internal thoughts are starting to sound too much like that stupid dummy. 

The dummy, monologuing and teetering and vomiting cotton, conjures up a wave of tiny dummy minions in a circle around Frisk, each one sending out a homing attack in the form of a scraggly cotton ball. Frisk isn’t terrible at dodging, especially given how physically weak they seem to be, but they still end up pretty beat up. Chara tries to be happy about it. Chara is happy about it. Let them get beat up. So what?

The dummy minions have terrible aim--either that or Frisk is really starting to figure out how this works. They position themself in just the right way that they can duck to the side right before the magic bullets hit them, clumps of searing white-light cotton slamming into the dummy’s own body instead. They don’t seem to be hurting it too much, but Chara is still convinced this counts as intentional harm. But they haven’t picked up a weapon, so their deal isn’t off! But they used that needle, didn’t they, so it is! But does a needle count as a weapon? It should! It has to! But all they wanted to do was--

It doesn’t matter! Chara has had it! Had it with this softness, this weakness, all of this! The dummy has fired its minions in favor of heat-seeking missiles. It keeps missing every attack. Frisk is trying to get the damn things to aim for right over its shoulder, instead of directly into its flimsy cloth body, and none of it makes any sense. They’re human. Chara knows what humans are capable of. It’s always known.

Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

“Who cares. Who cares! WHO CARES!!” the dummy cries out, in a perfect echo of Chara’s own thoughts. “I DON’T NEED FRIENDS!!! I’VE GOT KNIVES!!!” It materializes a real, honest-to-god knife--not a magic bullet or anything, sharp metal blade, smooth wood handle, rusted around its base, looks like it came from a foreclosed kitchen or something--out of thin air, aiming it straight at Frisk. It doesn’t hold back. They’re tired, breathing heavy, and Chara can do nothing but plead with whatever higher powers there may be that it at least hits them.

It gets its wish, in the end--the knife, poorly-aimed, slices through their leg, sending them stumbling into the murky dump water. They fall to their hands and knees, wincing in pain, yet they stare defiantly up at the dummy anyway. They don’t say a word. Just keep staring, endlessly, wordlessly. They can’t hurt it, and it can’t hurt them, unless, by some good fortune, they bleed out from the nasty wound in their leg. 

Chara can only hope they do.

From somewhere far above, an unearthly rain begins to fall. Crystalline droplets, too clear and bright to be water, fizzle against the slick surface of the dump, boiling the oily sheen straight out of the water. One lands on the dummy’s head--it sizzles through the cotton, and the dummy yelps, ducking out of the way. “Wh…what the heck is this? Ergh! Acid rain?” it protests, not even bothering to look up. “Oh, FORGET IT. I’m outta here!” 

It flies away with a sad wheeze not dissimilar to the honk of the old, rusty bicycle’s horn.

Frisk picks themself up, whole body shuddering with the force of the movement. The cut in their leg hurts so badly even Chara can feel it, as untethered and far away as it is. Still, somehow, they push on. They look up in the direction of the “acid rain,” and Chara follows their gaze. That crying ghost from the Ruins…the one with no sense of humor. Who heard it doing its best impression at what was supposed to be a CHECK, somehow. Maybe ghosts can just do that. It’s a little annoying. “...sorry, i interrupted you, didn’t i? as soon as i came over, your friend immediately left…oh no…you guys looked like you were having fun…”

Chara absolutely would not call that fun. More like attempted murder. Frisk, with the horrible gash in their leg, probably wouldn’t call it fun either. The headache Chara is getting--despite not even having a head of its own!--is absolutely not fun. Still, though, Frisk looks relieved to see the ghost. Napster…nabsta…Napstablook? That was their name, Chara is pretty sure…not like it matters. Not like anything matters. It can’t focus. Can’t concentrate. Can’t let any of this mean anything. Hopefully Frisk will bleed to death, or the stupid dump water will poison them, or any number of other things will happen to keep them from making any more progress. Or, maybe, preferably, Undyne will spring out of the shadows and package them up for the King, deliver them to the capital in gift wrap with a neat little bow. One human SOUL. Express delivery. Refrigerate after opening. It could be so easy. It could be so simple.

But, of course, it never is.

“i just wanted to say hi…” Napstablook continues, staring sadly at the somewhat clearer water beneath their shimmery, ethereal form. “oh no………………………………………….” Chara counts an ellipsis length of exactly 49 periods. That’s a lot. The poor ghost must be really sorry.

Frisk tugs at the hem of their sweater, face scrunched up painfully. The gash on their leg is still bleeding badly--it shows no signs of stopping, and Chara can feel its own perception of the world start to dance and spin. There’s a trail of red left behind in the water, and Frisk stumbles straight into the wall as soon as they’ve climbed up onto the patch of dry land at the edge of the dump. Chara can’t even wish for their death anymore--it’s just an inconvenience. They’d have to do that fight all over again. It’d be better for them to heal up and move on. It gets them closer to the Barrier.

Anything to get them closer to the Barrier.

“well…i’m going to head home now…” Napstablook says, oblivious to their companion’s sorry state. It’s all for the better. Though them dying would be an inconvenience, Frisk certainly doesn’t deserve compassion of all things. “oh…um…feel free to ‘come with’ if you want…” Chara is not entirely sure what the sad old ghost means by the invisible air quotes. It isn’t sure it wants to. “but no pressure…i understand if you’re busy…it’s fine…no worries…i just thought i’d offer…” They float through the little tunnel at the dump’s edge, drifting into a tranquil cavern Chara recognizes better than many of the odd tunnels and openings around here. It always knew Waterfall best, but this is one of the places it visited most often. The snail farm’s here, if it remembers correctly, if…

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Matter.

Napstablook extends another offer for Frisk to follow them home--as soon as the ghost is out of view, they stumble to their knees just a few feet away from the spinning star at the calm underground lake’s edge. Their breathing is raspy and their leg is still bleeding, a dark trail smeared after them in the cavern’s blue gravel. “Is it gonna be enough?” they mumble, reaching forwards into the shimmering light. They look so pathetic. So much like…

So much like…

They have to hold on. Not that Chara wants them to. Just that there’s no other choice. It has to push them, somehow…maybe that’s the point of all of this. This instinct, the word in the back of its mind. You feel a calming tranquility, it says, internal voice cold and dark despite its miserable effort to be encouraging. You’re filled with determination. It can fill the familiar heat of that nameless power rising in a chest that doesn’t belong to it, sparking at fingertips that are not its own. If only it could reach that power. If only it could snatch it away from Frisk, make them watch as it pulls them back to the start over and over and over again until they give up on fighting for their own agency. It would do this right! It’d march straight to Papyrus and turn itself in, give up its SOUL, let this end the way it should have so many years ago.

If only it could stamp out these stubborn feelings! These useless emotions that shouldn’t even belong to it! There’s no point in sentimentality. It feels no sentimentality. It keeps telling itself that. It has to.

Somewhere, deep down, it knows things are rushing towards a breaking point. They remind it too much of its brother. Someday the shadows he still casts on the walls of its mind will reach out and grab it by the throat, pull it into a hell it won’t be able to drag itself out of. Frisk reminds them far too much of him. But they’re human. They will always, always, always be human. And humans, no matter what, are rotten to the core.

Frisk is nothing like its brother, and they never will be.

Chapter Text

Frisk  
_____

They still feel water against their cheek. No darkness. Not dead. They aren’t dead.

The light is there, just far away. They want to cling to it. Hold to it. They taste foul, rancid water. Something bitter, in a memory. They want to go home. They so desperately want to go home. To hold him again and for their mother to brush their hair and to help their father in the garden and--

These aren’t their memories. They don’t know the face in the reflection. They don’t know who they are. They’re dizzy and their leg hurts and their chest is on fire from the light flowing through them, body trying to shunt the burning, searing magic into the right places to heal itself, knit itself together, make up for all the lost blood. It has to be enough. They know the voice is mad at them and they don’t know why. It didn’t even say anything. They can just feel it.

They push themself to their feet, wobbling awkwardly as they try to find their balance. They need to get something to eat…they’re hungry and they smell disgusting and they’re still all fuzzy from blood loss and the worst part is it doesn’t even bother them anymore. At least they aren’t dead. The smell of the garbage dump is more bearable than the constant, clinging, acrid stench of off-color oranges that follows their every move in the great watery hereafter. They’ll find somewhere to clean their clothes and get a move on.

They’re so tired.

They stumble into another hallway--it stretches on too far ahead, and they don’t want to risk running into Undyne without some proper rest, but there’s one of those dimensional boxes in it, so they figure they can retrieve their quiche and sit down to finish it somewhere. They feel bad for not bringing it anywhere farther than Waterfall but, then again, it’s a quiche. It probably doesn’t have feelings, even if the voice called it psychologically damaged. Speaking of the voice, they can feel it stewing. It’s really angry with them, and they can’t figure out why.

They eat their quiche, returning to the small pool next to the save point. Their shoes are all full of trash water and their socks squelch with every movement, and they hate it. Awful. Terrible. Miserable. Their head is killing them and they can’t tell if it’s from blood loss or saving or the voice being a little dick somewhere in the most hidden corners of their mind. They want to go back to Sans and Papyrus’s house. Maybe they have a washing machine in one of the myriad rooms tucked away beneath their way-too-tall sink.

Frisk shoves their quiche plate in their pocket, making their way down the hall they’re pretty sure Napstablook floated through. The weird emo ghost did tell them they could follow them home…with any luck, they’ll at least have a sink. They doubt an incorporeal ghost would have a change of clothes, but it’s worth a shot.

Two oblong houses nestle next to each other in the cavern beyond, mirror images in the shape of drooping apostrophes. One is blue and the other is red--the door of the blue one is cracked slightly ajar, and the welcome mat of the red house seems dusty, like nobody’s been into it in a long time. Frisk knocks softly on the door to the blue house--the door creaks open on a spectral draft, revealing Napstablook hovering over rickety redwood floorboards within. “oh…you came…and you’re all wet…” they mumble out, wide, wobbly eyes trained on Frisk’s squelching boots. “give me a minute…let me get you a towel…if you want one…it’s okay if you don’t…”

“I’d love a towel right about now,” Frisk says, again surprised at how strange their own voice seems to them. Those stupid flashes of memory always make them feel so weird. Not that they aren’t used to feeling weird--they’ve always seen their body more as a vehicle than anything really them. But this is a whole new level. “I don’t…I don’t wanna mess up your house.”

Napstablook floats up into the ceiling--a moment later, a panel opens with a loud thud, a ladder sliding down against the far wall of the little cottage. “i have a laundry room upstairs…and a guest bedroom…for when my cousins stay over…but you can use it too…if you want……..” They hand Frisk a big, fluffy towel--they wrap it around themself, feeling bad for getting so much trash water all over it. 

“How’d’you hold it? The towel and stuff?” they say, noticing only then that Napstablook is also wearing headphones. “And the headphones? How do you keep ‘em on your head?”

“oh…” Napstablook says, not answering their question in the slightest. “you can come in…it’s okay…just take off your shoes first.” They do as they’re told, though they’re hesitant to remove their beloved worn-out hiking boots. Those things and their sweater are basically part of their body at this point. It feels wrong to not be wearing them.

They let Napstablook lead them upstairs--there’s a laundry room and a bathroom and two bedrooms, one with a neatly-made bed and very tasteful decorations, the other somewhat messy with CDs and records stacked haphazardly along the walls. It’s not too hard to figure out which one belongs to Napstablook. They wonder if they make their own music or just listen to it…they didn’t see whatever they’d been doing on the computer before they came in. Napstablook gives them an offer to join them downstairs for lunch once they’ve cleaned up…maybe it’s finally afternoon. They think they’ll take a nap first.

Frisk gets themself clean, throwing their dirty clothes in the laundry. Somehow their candy necklace seems completely untouched. They swear that thing is magic at this point--despite everything they’ve been through since they swiped it from the candy bin before they even fell, it’s still remarkably intact. They sniff it hard--still as sugary and artificial- smelling as always, without a hint of disgusting trash water. Just in case, though, they still rinse it off in the sink for good measure.

There’s a fuzzy pink bathrobe folded neatly in the bathroom cabinet--Frisk stands on their tiptoes to pull it down, looking it over before putting it on. There’s intricate needlepoint art of little robots and hearts tracing across the sash that’s meant to keep it shut, and the chest is initialed with MTT. It looks mass-produced, like it’s merchandise for some show or something, but the quality is much better than any crappy old Mew Mew Kissy Cutie hoodie. Maybe monsters just care more about their products than humans do. Do monsters have mass-produced clothes? Do they have their own media, their own TV stars, anything like that? Frisk had never really thought about it.

They make their way to the guest bedroom, flopping down on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. There are a few storage boxes in the closet--they feel bad for snooping, but the enticing yellowed paper is calling to them. Plus they need a new undershirt anyway, because they’re pretty sure their ratty purple one is a lost cause from all the trash water. They pry open the box, pulling out the yellowed letter and squinting at it, trying their best to read the shifting, spinning letters.

The voice makes itself known with an approximation of a disgruntled cough. Ahem. Though you know snooping in other people’s belongings is wrong, you read the yellowed letter anyway, it narrates for them. dear m…the rest of the name is too scratched out for you to read it. i just want you to know…how happy…your show makes me…even though i still wish you would come home…it’s okay though…you’re living your dreams…and i hope you’re happy…oh… Whoever it was, they didn’t finish the letter. It’s not even signed.

“Huh.” Frisk crumples it back up, tucking it back into the box. “That’s sad. It must’ve been Napstablook writing…it sounded like them.”

Nobody else uses that many ellipses, the voice agrees. They still don’t understand how it sees things like that. They figure now isn’t the time to ask. I wonder who they were writing to…?

Frisk shrugs, making a mental note to keep an eye out for anyone else who seems like they might know Napstablook. All the ghosts seem to be cousins…maybe it’s the dummy from the ruins, the one they talked about taxes to? Maybe it’s the angry one who beat them up? Or maybe it isn’t a ghost at all. They don’t know, and maybe it isn’t their place to go looking.

They sift through the closet--all the clothes smell slightly dusty, so they figure Napstablook won’t mind if they just steal a t-shirt. There’s a particularly flashy Mew Mew Kissy Cutie one that catches their eye--they never really watched any of the anime back on the surface, but they always thought the catgirl had a cool design. Though her eyes are getting way too big every season. They go to fetch their laundry and get dressed, tying the hoodie pilfered from Sans’s couch around their waist once again. They suppose they had better be off. They have a ways to go.

They’re feeling much better now that they’ve had some rest and a shower and the rest of their quiche--they chat with Napstablook about music for a bit before they go, letting them offer them a ghost sandwich from the refrigerator even though they aren’t really hungry anymore. That ends up being just fine--it’s incorporeal, and they’re completely incapable of eating it. After that Napstablook invites them to lie on the ground and feel like garbage together--they don’t really want to feel like garbage, figuring they’ve had enough of that at the trash dump earlier, but the voice in their head is more persuasive than the other, much more visible ghost. You have to. You have to do it, it pesters them. I promise you, you won’t regret it. There’s a strain in its voice, almost like it’s at war with itself over the words. Frisk has noticed how different it’s seemed lately. Since they got to Waterfall. Even since they made their deal.

They know full well that the voice has ulterior motives. They don’t know what those ulterior motives are, but they aren’t ignorant. They aren’t stupid. They just don’t know what else to do other than go along with it.

They follow its advice, lying down on the floor and staring up at the ceiling. Napstablook lies down next to them, and they close their eyes, focusing on the gentle, almost-electric hum of magic in the ear closest to Napstablook. They’d never really realized it had a sound before, but it does. The tones are varied, soft, gentle, yet constant. Like an orchestra tuning before a concert. Like the crackle of electricity in the air before the storm. They can feel it prickling against their skin, raising the short, curly hairs on their arms, tangling deep into their very being.

They know their only option is to get to the Barrier eventually. To keep walking. To keep their end of the deal, to do it of their own free will. But a part of them, quiet and soft and less worn down by the world than the rest of them, wants so desperately to stay.

In another world, they could belong here, they think. Maybe that’s what those “memories” are. Fragments of another world, of an impossible, beautiful life.

They open their eyes to stars and nebulae shifting and swirling around them, galaxies lapping at their toes like waves on a beach. The sand is made of supernovae, the tide of gravity and time, and the hum of magic is louder now than ever. The voice in their head prickles electrically before it finally speaks. This is my favorite one. It’s pretty low effort if you can get into the right mindset. I learned it from…oh, he was a bother, it’s better not to worry about him. It doesn’t say anything else. For a moment, Frisk swears the constant tension in its voice is gone.

It’s back again not a second later. You should get up now, it snaps at them. There’s no time for this. The Barrier is waiting. You want to go home, don’t you?

They nod, pushing themself upright. The illusion dissipates the minute they move, though the brightest of the ethereal stars remain burnt into their vision for a long moment more. They don’t bother telling the voice they have no home to go to. They don’t think it would win them any favors. It’s worthless, really, to try.

They brush their hands off on their newly-cleaned shorts, waving Napstablook a hesitant goodbye. They have places to be, even though they aren’t sure what those places are. Just anywhere but here. Anywhere they don’t feel safe. Anywhere that doesn’t feel like…

Home.

They spend a while talking to a grizzled old turtle with a neatly carved cane at a shop tucked into a hole in the wall. He tells them about the Delta Rune and something about Undyne, though they’re only half paying attention. Something about a prophecy, something about an angel…how everyone’s so hopeless now that they think this mysterious figure, this angel , is actually an angel of death. That’s a sad outlook. Frisk wonders if maybe the voice in their head is the mysterious angel, and then thinks that’s stupid. It’s such a dick. It’s a demon if it’s anything.

They move on, stumbling through a dark puzzle room with squeaky mushrooms that illuminate paths of bioluminescent grass along the floor. Frisk finds themself hopelessly lost, accosted by weird cat-dog creatures with unnervingly stretchy legs at every turn. They make a break for it, straining the hell out of their knees only to stumble off one of the paths at the edge of the room--there’s still grass beneath their feet, wet and dewy but completely obscured by an eerie, all-consuming darkness that seems to almost glow. The cat-dog things are still behind them and they really don’t want to die from something this stupid and if this is how they’re going to go out this time, they’re taking their chances with the terrifying darkness. Getting killed by something whose only vocabulary word is hoi would just be humiliating.

They stumble through the darkness, hand in front of their face to hopefully encounter any sudden walls before their nose does, only to burst into a dimly-lit cavern filled top to bottom with a deeply disconcerting aura. They squint to see against the shifting blue light that surrounds them, finding themself face-to-face with another damned cat-dog.

“hOI!” it says, more at them than to them. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to attack them, but they’re on guard nonetheless. “i’m tEMMie!”

Frisk is pretty sure that they pass out from the shock, because the next thing they’re aware of is their head on a bed of brightly-colored scraps of paper, four of the terrifying cat-dog-things looming over them with wide, sparkling eyes and expressions they can only describe as brainless. 

“fshsjjdsjdjs,” one of them says. 

“hOI!” says another.

“hoomANZ is…a CUTES!!!” says a third.

At this point, Frisk is convinced they have died and gone to hell.

They pick themself up, blinking lights out of their eyes. “The fuck?” they mumble, staring at the creatures around them. They’re pretty sure they can hear the voice laughing derisively in the back of their head.

Hoi, it says with the impression of a stifled snort. 

“I am going to kill you dead.” Frisk squints around the room, trying to make out their surroundings in the weird, dim blue light. There’s a painting on one wall showing the cat-dog-things--Temmies?--at war with a flying serpent, and to their right is a massive statue labeled simply Tem. They’re becoming more and more convinced that this place is actually hell. 

“u sHoulD viSIT tEM sHOp!1!” one of the Temmies says, pronouncing the goddamn one in between its exclamation marks.

“yAYA!!!” agrees another. Both of them are gesturing towards a dark, shadowy hole dug out into the wall between the painting and the statue. It’s labeled TEM sHOp. Frisk is pretty sure they don’t want to go in there. They’re also pretty sure they don’t have a choice.

Feeling the eyes of the terrifying Temmies boring into them as they step into the crevasse cut deep into the wall, they steel themself for the most grueling battle they’ve faced yet.

The battle does, in fact, turn out to be just another shop. Another one of the Temmies is sitting at the register counter, staring intently at a tiny bug crawling across the warped wood. It startles when Frisk approaches, doing a backflip like a cat encountering a banana and somehow managing to leave its face behind in midair as it does. Frisk feels sick to their stomach. This is horrifying. The Temmie, having recovered its face, stares at them with an intensity that could bring a god to its knees.

“hOi!!1!!” it says, far too enthusiastically. “i’M TEMmie!”

Frisk gets the feeling it isn’t going to say anything else.

They peruse its wares just for a moment, still able to feel the burn of its eyes on the back of their neck. This is one shop they definitely wouldn’t be caught dead stealing from. There’s more of those weird paper squares packed up into neat-ish boxes along the counter--all for different prices, all labeled as Tem Flakes. Frisk is pretty sure they’re all the same. “Um…I’ll take the, uh, discount Tem Flakes?” they say, pulling a single gold coin from their pocket with a shaking hand. They’re hoping maybe having an offering to make to these monsters will keep them at bay as they make their escape.  “P…please?”

“thanks PURCHASE!” says the shopkeep, handing them the box. Frisk is pretty sure legs aren’t supposed to move like that. Frisk is pretty sure they want to get out of here. They tuck the box under one arm, making their getaway as fast as they possibly can.

Don’t you want to save? the voice prods at them as they make their way quickly past a save point in the center of the Tem-filled cavern.

“If I die, I do not want to end up back here again. I saved again when I left Napstablook’s house,” they mutter, speed-walking as fast as they can without making their knees feel like cardboard. “This is hell. This is definitely hell.” 

But you’d be filled with detemmienation, the voice pokes. Frisk has decided that they officially hate it. This is horrible. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to them.

“You,” is all they manage to say, throwing a sprinkle of Tem Flakes at the few Temmies that try to follow them out of the village. They don’t have anything wittier than that. They just want out of here. The eyes trained on their back…the feeling that they’re being watched…

Maybe it isn’t that bad. But they’re nothing if not a master of exaggeration, even to themself. If it keeps them going, it keeps them going. 

It fills them with, one might say…

Detemmienation.

They make their escape from the village, finding it a little easier to navigate the light puzzles in the next two rooms with only gelatin molds ( Moldsmalls, pokes the voice) and buff seahorses ( Those ones are Aarons ) standing in their way. The voice recites the last part of the story from those big glowy signs as they walk past. Hurt, beaten, and fearful for our lives, we surrendered to the humans, it says, with an added poke of bitterness at them for not stopping to read the signs themself. Seven of their greatest magicians sealed us underground with a magic spell. Anything can enter through the seal, but only beings with a powerful SOUL can leave. There is only one way to reverse this spell.

Frisk sloshes through one last still, darkened puddle, clambering up onto land as the voice continues to talk. They can feel the air getting warmer--they’re glad they took the time to put their hoodie in a box after they left Napstablook’s house as well. They don’t think they’ll need it for a good long while. The story continues on.

If a huge power, equivalent to seven human SOULs, attacks the Barrier, it will be destroyed. But this cursed place has no exits or entrances. There is no way a human could come here. We will remain trapped down here forever. The voice says nothing more. Frisk figures that’s the end of the story, then…though clearly something must have changed. An exit must have opened up in the cavern they took shelter from the storm in. If they can get down here…maybe there’s hope for monsterkind after all.

If it came down to it, they’d surrender their SOUL in a heartbeat. 

“That…that sounds depressing,” they say, tucking their hands in their pockets as they poke around the little patch of gravel and dirt they’ve found themself on. It’s enclosed--there doesn’t seem to be a way forwards from here, so they’re assuming they missed a path somewhere along the way. They usually have a pretty good sense of direction, but the lantern and mushroom rooms got them all spun around. There’s a gathering of tall grass, the kind Undyne seems afraid to touch, on one side of the room, and at the end stands a single echo flower. Something about it seems… wrong.

The voice makes no remark as they step closer to the flower. The entire world seems to have gone silent, in fact. They feel like they should turn and run. They feel like they shouldn’t move at all.

The flower leers at them, faceless, glowing, and finally, in a deep, rough voice, it speaks.

“ Behind you. ”

They feel the hair raise on the back of their neck. The feeling of being watched is back, but this time, it isn’t an exaggeration. They turn around slowly, trying to keep themself from shaking. They know who they’re facing before they even see her towering, armored form.

Undyne.

A brilliant yellow light shines from within her helmet as she stares down at them, the glittering prelude of a magic spear half-forming in the air around her hands. “Seven,” she rumbles, voice low, steady, dark. “Seven human SOULs. With the power of seven human SOULS,  our king…king ASGORE DREEMURR…will become a god.” They’re getting better at telling when monsters are talking in all caps, the way the voice in their head keeps pointing out, but there’s something about her pronunciation of ASGORE… it’s the same way Toriel said it all the way back in the Ruins, before the morning had even tipped into day. The word almost seems to bleed. 

They step back just an inch, hands trembling. They should’ve saved in the Temmie cave…now they feel stupid for going to that extent just to avoid the voice’s pun. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They try to speak, to reason with her, but there’s nothing they can say. No words come out of their mouth.

“With that power, ASGORE can finally shatter the Barrier. He will finally take the surface back from humanity…and give them back the suffering and pain that we have endured. Understand, human?” She brings her hands together, fist smashing into fist with a resounding metallic clang. The dancing cyan magic that had sputtered and flickered around her before coalesces into a shining blue-light spear. Again, Frisk can hear the hum of magic, building slowly, steadily. They know damn well they’re going to die.

The heroine… the voice in their head says, barely audible over the intensifying magical buzz in their ears. It seems almost reverent. They understand. 

Undyne slams the blunt edge of her spear against the ground, the entire cavern shaking with the movement. “This is your only chance at redemption. Give up your SOUL…or I’ll tear it from your body. ”

She tosses her spear smoothly into the air, spinning it until the point is aiming straight at Frisk’s throat. In a single fluid motion she lunges towards them. They don’t have time to move. They’re dead. They know damn well they’re dead.

Until, all in a single moment, a flash of yellow scales throws itself from the reeds at the wall of the cavern, skidding to a flailing stop between them and Undyne. “Undyne!!!” cries out the monster kid from Snowdin. “I’ll help you fight!!!” 

Her spear stops with its point inches away from the monster kid’s head.

They spin around to face Frisk, eyes sparkling like the starry stones in the wishing room much earlier as they look up at them. “YO!!! You did it!!! Undyne is right in front of you!!!” they cheer. “You’ve got front-row seats to her fight!!!” They look over their shoulder, an expression of bafflement crossing their face as they try to put the pieces of the situation together. “...Wait. Who’s she fighting???”

They don’t get the chance to respond. Undyne grabs them right by the face and drags them away. “H-hey! You aren’t gonna tell my parents about this, are you?”

That’s the last thing Frisk can hear them say as Undyne pulls the monster kid off into the next room. The echo flower repeats it back. The same words, caught in a loop, forever.

They need to get going. That was too close. They need to find a save point. They can tell there’s not much time left before they’ll have to truly face her, and they know already that she isn’t going to be like Papyrus or Toriel. She won’t avoid attacking them when they get too hurt. She won’t take them home with her to have some dinner and a nap to make sure their fight is fair. She doesn’t just want them captured. She wants them dead.

And maybe they should really take the deal. Give up their SOUL. But, stubborn as it may make them, they aren’t ready yet. They don’t want to die. Not yet. Not until they’ve seen everything.

They dart away as fast as their aching knees will carry them, wading through the pool that led them to the island in the first place. There’s a stretch of glowing grass they hadn’t seen before on the long side of the room, pointing towards a thin tunnel leading ever onwards. Rustling through the echo flowers in the passageway, they hear the end of a conversation about wishes. Someday, I’d like to climb this mountain we’re all buried under, says a stranger from the past. The echoing voice’s sibling replies that their wish is exactly the same.

Frisk can’t imagine, for the monsters trapped down here, that it’s a terribly uncommon wish.

There’s one last sign thingy at the end--the voice reads it with a sharp enthusiasm. Frisk can tell it’s rooting for their destruction--they’re used to it by now. However…there is a prophecy, it reads aloud. The Angel…The One Who Has Seen The Surface…They will return. And the Underground will go empty. 

In another world, one where they weren’t being chased by a homicidal knight with a glowing magic spear, they’d take a moment to reflect on it. Now, though, as things stand, they don’t have the time. They push into the next room, feeling a soft wind begin to tangle at their hair.

They step onto the rickety wood of the blue bridge before them, intent to press on ahead. There’s no going back now.

Chapter Text

Chara  
_____

The wind is picking up.

It watches, silently, steadily, as Frisk crosses a rickety bridge over a vast underground chasm. Stalagmites poke up from the floor and stalactites drape down from the ceiling like clawed fingers, gravel and pebbles skittering in what must be the first breeze that has passed through these caverns in far too long. This is it, then. The end draws near.

The little yellow monster kid must have escaped Undyne’s clutches--they bobble across  towards Frisk, who startles themself nearly off the bridge at the sound of their footsteps. They turn around to face the kid, tugging at their disgusting candy necklace. “Hey--are you okay?” they ask. “Undyne grabbed you pretty hard.”

“Yo…I know I’m not supposed to be here…” the kid says quietly, voice shaking just the tiniest bit. Maybe they’ve finally realized the truth. That the bad guy Undyne is supposed to be beating up is right in front of them. “But…I wanna ask you something.” They don’t answer Frisk’s question. Of course they don’t--they’ve just found out the person they’ve been following through the caverns all day is a bloodthirsty human. They’re bound to be a little distracted. 

“Yeah?” Frisk says, clearly not understanding the situation. They tug at the hem of their sweater, glancing down at their feet as the kid formulates their question.

“Man, I’ve never had to ask anyone this before,” the kid says. “Um…yo…you’re human, right?”

Frisk shakes their head hard. Not like they’re trying to say no-- just like they’re trying to shake the world out like a dusty old blanket. The part of Chara still tethered to their vision feels a little seasick from the motion. “I…yeah,” they say after a long moment. “I…am. I guess you figured it out.” They seem almost sad. They clearly hadn’t paid much mind to the lizard kid, nor did Chara, but it supposes they must have found some pleasure in their companionship. How sickening. Using them like that for their own good. Like any human would. 

“Man! I knew it,” the kid says. “...Well, I know it now, I mean…Undyne told me, um, ‘stay away from that human.’ So, like, umm…” They pause for a long moment, staring at their clawed feet, then back up at Frisk. “I guess that makes us enemies or something.”

Frisk fidgets harder with their sweater. This is what happens when you lie to people, Chara thinks--directed at them, but not loud enough for them to hear it. There’s no use reneging on the be civil part of their deal this close to what must be the end. 

“But I kinda stink at that,” the kid continues with a little laugh. Frisk doesn’t say a word. They just keep staring at their hands. “Yo, say something mean so I can hate you?”

Frisk lets out a long, heavy breath. “Uh…it…kind of sucks that you don’t have arms…?” they say, face scrunching up at the words the minute they’re out of their mouth. “That was…that was lame. I don’t think I really got anything mean to say.”

The kid laughs again, a stupid smile spreading across their stupid face. “Huh…?” it says eyes narrowing bemusedly. “That’s your idea of something mean? Even my sister has better insults than that! Yo, she called me a bowling pin once.”

“You do kind of look like a bowling pin.” Frisk smiles just the tiniest bit, tucking their hands into their pockets. “But it’s not that bad. You’ll probably grow into it. Like how dogs with big paws all end up being super big.”

The kid looks at them like they want to keep the dull pseudo-banter going, but seems to think better of it. “I…I guess I have to do it, then,” they say with a forced laugh. “Yo, I…I hate your guts.”

Ooh, Chara prods, how nasty! Frisk, irritatingly as ever, doesn’t even flinch. They move like they’re about to say something, but the monster kid talks before they can.

“Man, I…I’m such a turd,” they said, head hung low. “I’m…I’m gonna go home now.” They don’t even give Frisk a chance to say anything--not like they’d say anything helpful anyway. They just turn around and walk away.

Unfortunately, their balance seems to get the better of them. They trip over a particularly loose plank in the middle of the precarious bridge, tumbling over the side and just barely managing to right themself on the ledge below. 

Before they can even cry out for help, Frisk, who barely seems capable of pulling off more than a half-jog at the best of times, breaks into a sprint. Chara has never seen them move so fast in its life--or, well, death, as it were. They slide to their knees halfway across the bridge, throwing themself down onto their stomach and reaching down to grab the little lizard kid’s scaly head at full force. What are they doing? Is this some kind of sick game? Have they just been waiting for their moment to strike?

Metal thuds against the bridge’s rickety blue wood--Undyne has caught up with them, finally. This is it, let this be the end, let her skewer them right through their stupid head and pull their SOUL out of their body before they can reload! Let her stop them before they throw that stupid, harmless kid into the abyss below! 

Frisk digs their fingers into the fabric of the kid’s neatly-sewn poncho, knuckles going white as they hold onto them for dear life. Undyne’s spear is at the ready as she marches closer, clearing the distance across the bridge, but Frisk won’t let go. With all their strength, which honestly doesn’t seem to be much, they heft the kid up onto the bridge before falling over onto their back with the force of the pushback. There’s no way they’re going to be able to get up in time to get out of Undyne’s way.

Chara cannot for the life (or, for that matter, for the death) of it figure out what on earth drove Frisk to do that. They’re human. What was the point of saving the kid? What’s in it for them?

With the kid standing between them and Undyne, it’s starting to look like all they needed was a shield. Shameful. That’s a new low. Of course Undyne wouldn’t hurt an innocent monster child--

“ Yo! ” the kid says, standing their ground despite the tremble in their voice. They stare Undyne down like they could actually take her on. Like they’d actually stand a chance against her in battle. Chara’s seen her fight already--it’s surprised, honestly, that she hasn’t killed miserable, wimpy little Frisk at least once already. Somehow, the monster kid seems undaunted. “Dude…if you wanna hurt my friend…you’re gonna have to get through me, first.”

By some absolute and utter miracle, Undyne backs off. Just turns around and walks away.

Chara can’t stop staring at the empty space she left. It’s oblivious to whatever conversation Frisk is having with the monster kid. None of that matters. It doesn’t understand this. How are they this clever? How are they pulling the strings just right, making this stupid puppet show of a world dance for them and them alone? It’s like the universe itself is on their side! Every lie they tell, every subtle act of deception, every cruel tug and manipulative self-effacing dance goes over perfectly. Monsters can’t be this stupid. Their compassion was always their downfall. But this is a new low.

It watches distantly as Frisk gives the monster kid an awkward, pained-looking hug goodbye, before both turn to go their separate ways. Frisk limps onwards, taking a moment to lean against a wall and rub at their knees before finally proceeding. Like that’s going to work. Like they can win sympathy from Chara, of all people (not that Chara is a person!) with that wimpy fake-hurt act. It knows what this is! It’s all a show! It has to be a show, it has to be a show, it has to be a show.

They step out into a vast cavern beneath a false red sky, the pipes and channels of what must be a Hotland that has grown massively in the time since Chara was last here tangling far in the background. It swears it can hear the whooshing of steam and whirring of conveyor belts somewhere far in the distance, but the sound is quickly drowned out by an unnatural wind. It tugs at Frisk’s hair, rolls stones across the ground, carries ever upwards as it twists in invisible rings around the spires of the stony crag that cradles the tunnel to Hotland in its sharp gray arms. There, perched atop a precipice, turned to face Hotland’s red sky, stands its long-awaited knight. Armor shining, plume of red hair blowing in a wind of her own conjuring, stands the heroine of monsterkind.

This is it.

If not for its lack of a chest and lungs to call its own, Chara would hold its breath.

“Seven,” says its shining heroine, hair twining and tangling in the first soft hints of the magical winds of a fight. “Seven human SOULs, and King ASGORE will become a god.” It swears the whole rest of the world has stopped, gone still, gone dark. All that matters to it, all that should matter to anyone, is standing at the summit of that crag, magic crackling around her like a distant thunderstorm. This is it. This is it. This is it. 

She turns slightly, armor creaking, metal on metal as Hotland’s distant red glare silhouettes her in the glow of an apocalyptic sunset. A yellow light radiates from within her helmet--an eye, perhaps, or magic, or the fire of her willpower made tangible. Her armor gleams. The wind gathers thicker and deeper around her. She shines above them like a topper on a Gyft-tide tree, the closest thing this miserable prison has to a sun. “Six,” she growls, voice louder now. “That’s how many we have collected thus far.”

Again, she turns. Now she’s facing Frisk straight on, armor glittering even in the dim light at the edge of Waterfall. “Understand?” she says. The light from beneath her visor illuminates the left side of her body, the right cast in an impenetrable darkness. Chara should know better, by now, than to hang all its hopes on one person. But it has to believe in her. If it doesn’t believe in her, it can’t believe in anyone.

“Through your seventh and final SOUL, this world will be transformed. First, however, as is customary for those who make it this far…I shall tell you the tragic tale of our people. It all started, long ago…” She turns back to look at Hotland’s blood-red skyline for a long moment, air going so suddenly still that Frisk stumbles in place from the change in pressure. The stillness lingers, sinks into stone and water and flesh, holds Frisk in place as though the sudden change in the air is a magic of its own. 

When she turns to face them again, a thousand tongues of wind come rushing back. “You know what? SCREW IT! ” she cries out, Chara’s entire vision collapsing down until all it can see is her face. “WHY SHOULD I TELL THAT STORY WHEN YOU’RE ABOUT TO DIE!?!” She is everything it could have asked for. Everything it could have wanted. It focuses everything it is on a single thought. A wish, a prayer. Three times, or it won’t work.

Strike them down, it thinks. Strike them down. Strike them down.

She cries out with a primal fury, world flaring white with unspent magic as she casts her warrior’s helm aside. The red hair really was more than a plume--it’s pulled up in a tight ponytail atop her blue, soft-scaled head, waving in the unearthly wind that grows stronger and fiercer with each of her movements. She leers down at Frisk, single golden eye glinting and sparking like a flame tipping ever towards the start of an inferno. “ YOU! ” she yells, voice reverberating through the caverns as though it’s echoing not from her body, but from the distant sky itself. “You’re standing in the way of everybody’s hopes and dreams. Alphys’s history books made me think humans were cool, with their giant robots and flowery swordswomen.”

(Either things have really changed on the surface, Chara thinks, or she is…somewhat misinformed about what humans are actually like.) 

“ BUT YOU! ” She raises her fist, sea-blue light coalescing around it as her blue lips curl into a toothy golden grin. It can hear music, now, louder than ever. As poetic as it tries to be about these things, the best way it can think to describe the song echoing in its incorporeal ears is that it sounds like being heroically punched in the face. There’s no time for waxing poetic, no time for soft metaphors. She’s the hero it’s been waiting for. “You’re just a coward! Hiding behind that kid just so you could run away from me again! And let’s not forget your wimpy goody-two-shoes-schtick! Oooh! I’m making such a difference by hugging random strangers! You know what would be more valuable to everyone? IF YOU WERE DEAD! ” 

The words echo from the stones surrounding her, earth shaking as she calls upon her magic. Her spear coalesces in her hands, ground trembling--Frisk stumbles back a step or two, but somehow keeps their footing. They think they’re tough. Chara knows better. In the back of their mind, it sits starry-eyed, staring up at her. Everything’s about her. She can end this. She can make this right. It believes with all its heart she can.

“That’s right, human!” she continues on, golden eye flashing with a fierce, fiery pride. “Your continued existence is a crime! Your life is all that stands between us and our freedom! Right now, I can feel everyone’s hearts pounding together! Everyone’s been waiting their whole lives for this moment!” She twirls her spear, hair swept into a ruby mane by the wind her righteous fury draws up from the depths of the earth. “But we’re not nervous at all. When everyone puts their hearts together, they can’t lose! Now, human! Let’s end this, right here, right now! I’ll show you how determined monsters can be!” 

Frisk stares up at her, reaching up to try to tame their hair in the face of the howling wind. Stubbornly, there’s still fire in their eyes. Half-tethered, half-not, Chara can both see and feel it at the same time. “Okay,” they mutter to themself, pulling their candy necklace over their head and twisting it around their hair in place of the ribbon they left in that dimensional box. What kind of pitiful armor is that? Chara can’t even bring itself to make the dig loud enough for them to hear it. It doesn’t care. This is all over. She’ll strike them down, capture them, end this all for good.

It’s about time.

They turn around, wind buffeting them as they reach for the shining, spinning star that’s appeared beneath Undyne’s crag. Chara can taste the metallic tang of the power they call on, even without a tongue of its own. They think they’re determined enough to stand against Undyne? HA! They’re pitiful. She’ll knock them down in a heartbeat. This is where it ends. This is where it ends. This is where it ends.

Three times, again, or it won’t come true.

They step forward (idiot that they are) and Chara again wishes it could hold its breath--again waits, turns its shapeless gaze upwards to the heavens--watches as she narrows in on them, reaches up, spear at the ready, and jumps. She leaps down from her crag, striking the stone at their feet with her spear, all with so much force the ground itself splits open. Pebbles spray into the air, world flashing into the black and white of a battle, lingering there for a moment longer than usual--and the music, oh, the music ! Heroic face-punches! Synth, orchestra hits, the outline of a wavering trumpet, the colors, the lights, still dancing in its vision even with no eyes to call its own. She materializes a second spear from thin air, tossing it in Frisk’s general direction. It skitters across the ground and they chase after it, snatching it up and gathering what they’re supposed to do with it the moment she waves a scatter of magic arrows into existence, aimed straight at them. They reach up with the spear they very much do not deserve (though Chara understands, in this instance, the importance of fighting fair--it can respect Undyne providing them with a fair chance, given the power imbalance here), smacking the first of the arrows away like a baseball. They jerk their head up with all the grace and poise of a startled chicken, eyes landing on something past Chara’s gaze. (In all honesty, aside from watching Frisk struggle laughably with the spear, it had just been staring at Undyne’s face.) 

The tip of her spear crackles with a sharp green light, and though Frisk is attempting to stumble past her into the tunnel to Hotland, Chara knows they won’t get far. It knows that magic. It knows exactly how she’s going to fight. She fights fair, and she’s going to make them fight fair, too. It’s about time. She strikes her spear against the ground again, green light bursting forth until the whole world is bathed in it. “En guarde!” she roars--admittedly spelling it wrong, though Chara can’t fault her. She has literally lived under a rock her entire life. How is she supposed to speak perfect Aumarian? 

“The hell?” Frisk tries to take a step forward, entirely unsuccessfully. They tilt and sway a little, though they can’t quite fall over--what with the green magic keeping their feet and legs locked exactly where they are. Good old placelocking! That was off limits when they tussled with As--

Focus! it thinks to itself, out of Frisk’s earshot. This is it! Its shining moment! Its chance to…not intervene, not interfere. To sit back and do nothing. To watch them fight.

To watch them dance. Spear in trembling hands, they block blow after blow, the clear, bright ping of magic against magic echoing into a dead facsimile of a sky. The minute she lets her green magic fall, they twirl on their tiptoes, ratty tutu flaring out around them as they stumble through the mouth of the tunnel to Hotland. ( Not bad! Then how about THIS! ? She’s too enthusiastic. Too happy about this. Having too much fun. But it has to be her, her or nobody, this has to be it.)

To watch them falter. Her magic catches them again and they tip again, barely able to right themself in time to catch the next volley of arrows. They make it through her next attack still standing, but with blood dripping from a graze on their cheek. They seem entirely unfazed. Just as a human would. Insensitive to pain, unflinching, unfeeling. It’s known all along exactly what they are. Let them stumble. Let them die. ( For years we’ve dreamed of a happy ending…and now sunlight is just within our reach! So do it! Just do it! Stop with the easy bullets, they think, with this half-noble obsession with playing fair, and just kill them!)

To watch them die.

An arrow pierces them through the chest, and the placelock magic falters as their legs fold in on themselves. They’re on the ground not a moment later, expression barely changing even though it’s clear from the sickening rasp of their breathing that they’re still alive. Rich red blood trickles from their lips, face still entirely neutral, as though their brain hasn’t caught up with their body. “Rude,” they wheeze out.

And Chara stands in darkness again. 

It feels water lapping at its feet, though the sensation is distant. It is as shapeless and immaterial as ever. Nothing but a shift in the darkness. Frisk kneels in the distance, rubbing at the bridge of their nose. 

She was only doing what she had to, Chara chastises them. Perhaps if you were to surrender to her and allow her to bring you to the capital, you would not have to die again.

“I’m not doing that.” They pick themself up, brushing imagined hands off on imagined shorts. “There’s gotta be a way. She let me run away a little…if I was faster maybe I could outrun her.”

This is the end. Do you not understand that? Chara follows behind them as they step towards the glowing buttons that by now must be so familiar to them. You will surrender. She will bring you to the capital. Our deal will be fulfilled. It’s easier than ever to fall into that persona. The formality, the coldness of its voice…but it’s not a persona, it reminds itself. That’s just what it is. Not a person, neither human nor monster, but a force. A concept. A thing.

*      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Their brother on the floor, legs kicked up, crayons in his hand. “And this one’s my OC. His name is the Absolute God of Hyperdeath and he shoots stars out of his hands and he’s so powerful he could defeat anybody!”

They color in their own character’s empty eyes. “Mine is a demon. It comes when people call its name.”

“Like Beetlejuice. Or Santa.”

“I don’t think that’s how Santa works.” They start on the background. Red nines. The highest single-digit integer. “Yours can defeat anyone. Mine can’t be defeated at all.”

“And that means they can be best friends!” 

“Or be trapped in an endless cycle, battling each other forever.” They draw another nine, then reach for the glittery golden marker they’ve been eyeing. They draw a heart-shaped locket against their character’s chest.

Their brother takes the marker after them. They fidget with their own locket. 

“Maybe that’s what being best friends is,” he says.

*      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Frisk shrugs. “Our deal was you’d help me get to the Barrier,” they say, sticking their hands in their pockets as they look out at the buttons once again. “It wasn’t you’d help me get to the Barrier fast. Just that you’d help me get to the Barrier. And I’m going. I’m just not gonna surrender. ” They look over their shoulder. For a horrible, unnerving moment, their glance skirts over the shift in the darkness where Chara stands. Thankfully, they look past it before long. “It’s just…”

Just what? Chara’s patience for this is waning. Not that it had much patience at all to start out with.

“You’re…you’re a ghost, right?” They turn all the way around, back facing the buttons that light up the watery, orange-scented void. “And ghosts are supposed to have…unfinished business. I know you’re not my friend. I know I’m not yours. And…honestly, most of the time, you really, really get on my nerves. But…everyone down here has problems, and…you’re down here too. I just…whatever your unfinished business is, maybe I can help you.”

Something about their stupid analysis makes it want to scream. They’re so completely off base. So entirely, utterly wrong, and it hates it, hates the way they talk, hates the way they look in its general direction like they can see it. Like they can see right through it. It’s been hearing metal on metal, nails on a chalkboard, cling film on styrofoam somewhere in the back of its mind since they yanked the lizard kid up after they fell from the bridge. Since before that. 

Since they spared its mother.

There is something about Frisk that is undeniably different from any human it has ever met before. Something about them that feels like an ice pick rattling around in its brain, rewiring it, digging up memories and feelings it isn’t supposed to have. It loathes them for this. Loathes their stupid pacifist act, their refusal to strike and hit and hurt the way a human is supposed to. This would be so much easier if they’d just fall in line, fit into the groove, follow the path. This would be so much easier if they’d just stop trying to be special.

Suppose getting you to the Barrier is my unfinished business, it snaps back after spending far too long lost in thought.

“I don’t buy that for a second.” Turning again, Frisk stares straight ahead, gaze missing Chara by a few feet. Their dedication to look tough is so naive. “You called me someone else’s name when you…when you saved me from Undyne back with the spears. Every time you talk to me I feel like you’re playing hopscotch trying to not say anything important. I know you want me dead. I know you hate me. But I’m not stupid. If getting me to the Barrier was your unfinished business you wouldn’t have made that dumb deal in the first place. You’d have just possessed me and done it yourself.”

It stands, for a long, painful moment, in utter silence. They’re wrong. Wrong about everything. It will keep telling itself that until this is all over. They have to be wrong. They are wrong.

Whatever. Keep deluding yourself with this pathetic attempt at psychoanalysis. Whatever keeps you busy. But you’re wasting your energy. Just like you’re wasting your energy with Undyne. You’re pathetic. You’ll have to surrender if you want to live long enough to see the Barrier. It makes its best attempt at crossing its immaterial arms. Do what you will. Though don’t expect any help from me.

Frisk, of all responses they could possibly give, rolls their eyes. They turn around without another word, waving their hand through the button reading LOAD. They don’t waste a second once they’re back--they catch the spear Undyne throws them this time, more than ready to face her attacks. Their blocking skills are far from perfect--they catch a few grazes, making it only a few turns farther before she strikes them down again--but they’re nothing if not determined. Each time, they get up. Reload. Restart. 

“Honestly, killing you now is an act of mercy!” Frisk almost laughs at that. How sadistic. How cruel. They have no understanding of how serious this is. “So STOP being so damn resilient!” She echoes Chara’s thoughts exactly. If only. If only they’d just give up.

It’s clear, though, they have no intentions of doing anything of the sort.

The dance goes on. Their timing gets better with each attack, each death, each reload. Even without running, they’re making progress through the tunnel to Hotland. What they think they’ll find on the other side of it is beyond Chara. For all it knows, they have no idea where they’re even going. Undyne, clearly getting fed up with how well they’re holding up against her, switches up her attack patterns. Golden arrows, switching directions mid-flight. It’s enough to kill Frisk a few times, sure, but, unfortunately, killing them doesn’t make them dead. It just deepens the set of their brow, strengthens their resolve to keep going. Still, they don’t strike back. They just defend themself. Chara doesn’t understand it. They’re human! Why won’t they just act like it!

They make it to the Welcome to Hotland sign--it’s been replaced since Chara was here last, converted into an ultra-modern scrolling screen instead of the brutalist metal glyphs it’s used to. It’s a decent change. Chara likes the colors. It also likes that Papyrus chooses this exact moment to call Frisk, telling them they should hang out with his boss later. His boss is currently chasing them through the tunnel with a magic spear. Chara somehow does not think that would go over well. 

“That sounds like a great idea, actually, Papyrus,” Frisk says around gritted teeth. “Though, uh, I’m kinda in the middle of something right now…? Can I call you back later?” They don’t even wait for him to answer--they just hang up. How impolite. Undyne, eternally better-mannered than them, at least waits for them to finish their call before she starts chasing them again.

She’s not even bothering with green magic anymore. It’s all spears and arrows. No grace, no rhythm. There’s sweat dripping from her brow (it’s always surprised Chara that monsters can sweat, being made of magic and all) as the tunnel air grows warmer, but she shows no signs of giving up either. Chara so desperately wants her to just end this now. Snatch them up by the back of their sweater and drag them to the capital. Killing them doesn’t work, it wants to tell her, but, unfortunately, it’s still stuck in the back of Frisk’s stupid head. All it can do is watch. 

The music plays on. Hotland’s red light shines through the other side of the tunnel. Frisk breaks into a jog, sliding and skidding through rocky red sand as they burst out into the massive cavern at the tunnel’s end. There’s a sentry station right at its mouth, manned by no other than that stupid lazy skeleton who refuses to do anything. He’s currently asleep, of all things. Frisk waves at him as they jog past, launching themself over a spear Undyne sends right at their heels and landing flat on their stomach on a rickety, yellowed wood bridge that absolutely does not look like it belongs above a pit of spitting, roiling magma. Chara momentarily debates trying to possess them in the hopes that somehow the magma would kill them for good, but it’s not worth it. It can’t afford to make shots in the dark like that. It can’t afford to break their deal.

Frisk picks themself up quickly, a magic arrow whizzing past their ear as they right themself. They stumble across the rest of the bridge, red pebbles skittering beneath their feet as they slide to a stop on the sandy island on the other side. There’s an out-of-place water cooler at its edge--Chara is surprised to see it, knowing how well water cups tend to fare in Hotland’s oppressive heat. The cavern is cooler here at its edges. It probably wouldn’t survive if it had been placed a few more feet to the east. Frisk does not seem to care about the water cooler. Frisk is still being chased with spears. They spin on their heels to face Undyne, only to find her movements slowing as she plods across the bridge, fighting against the weight of her armor. 

Frisk, eternal idiot that they are, opens their mouth to speak. “Are you okay?” they ask, too quietly. Too much softness in their voice. Chara wants them dead. Dead for good. Every time it looks at them, every time they speak, every time they move , they just infuriate it. Something about them is just wrong. Misshapen, malformed, in the deepest part of who they are. It hates them. Hates them. Hates them so, so much.

That is the only thing this feeling could possibly be.

“Armor…so…hot…” Undyne mumbles, hair plastered to her blue scales with sweat, golden eye unfocused. With how poorly water withstands Hotland’s atmosphere, no wonder a fish monster like her would struggle out here under all that armor! Was this Frisk’s plan all along? (Frisk, who probably didn’t even know Hotland was through this tunnel until they saw the sign at its end?) Just to lure her here, to let the heat kill her to keep the dust off their hands? “But I can’t…give up…”

She’s as stubborn as they are! Of course they’re using that to their advantage! She’ll strain as hard as she can to defeat them, just as they’ll strain as hard as they can to escape her! And they’re winning! She wobbles on her feet, swaying, trying to find her balance. But the heat is too much.

She falls forward with a loud, metallic crash, hair splaying out across the yellowed wood of the bridge. Frisk stares at her for a moment, breathing fast, hands curled into fists at the hem of their sweater. Before Chara can fully process another thought, they’re at the water cooler, pulling out as many cups as they can. They pull the candy necklace out of their thick, curly hair, wrapping it around the lever above the water cooler’s nozzle to keep it constantly depressed. They fill up cup after cup, leaving the candy necklace there, water trickling out into the red sand around the cooler, spreading into a shallow puddle. With the cups cradled in their arms, they jog back over to Undyne, kneeling in front of her.

Chara cannot for the life or death of it figure out what they’re doing. They lead her here! They took her down with this pathetic, sadistic plan! Are they trying to drown her now?!

They pour the first cup over her head, motions too gentle, too soft. “Hey!” they say, shaking her shoulder with their free hand. “You aren’t done fighting me, are you? You gotta get up!”

She still doesn’t move. Chara’s thoughts, too, feel impossibly still. Frisk reaches for another cup, cradling Undyne’s face awkwardly in their palm. They pour the water into her half-open mouth, not even startling or pausing when she cracks open her eye, letting out a low grunt. “I’m sorry…I didn’t know it was so hot over here. Just have some more water.”

The concern in their voice can’t be genuine. It can’t. They can’t actually be doing this, can’t actually be worried for her. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up.

The way they saved that monster kid when they tripped on the bridge, even though Undyne was right there, looming, threatening. It doesn’t make sense.

The way they tried to stitch up the gash in the training dummy in the dump, sifting through piles of disgusting trash to find a needle and thread. It doesn’t make sense.

The way they entertained Papyrus and ate his cooking, even though it was so disgusting even Chara could practically taste it. The way they went along with his and his brother’s puzzles in Snowdin Forest, even though they easily could have just ignored it all. The way they cheered up Napstablook all the way back in the Ruins. The way they spared its mother. The way they spared its mother. The way they spared its mother.

They are human. From the very first moment of their existence, violence and hatred and cruelty were written into their very SOUL. This is how it is. This is how it has to be. This is how it justifies everything.

But the tender brush of their hands as they tuck Undyne’s hair behind her finlike ear, the caution with which they help her up, hand her the last cup of water, the curve of their brow, the tilt of their eyes, the tremble of their hand…

If this isn’t compassion, what is?

It fumbles for an excuse, for a reason, for some justification that this is nothing more than manipulation. But halfway in their body, existing the way it does, it can feel the hollow in their stomach, the shaking of their arms, the panicked thudding of their heart. It can try to explain it away a million times, but it knows it won’t get anywhere. There are no excuses left to make.

A display of genuine kindness. And this one, it realizes, is far from the first.

Undyne steels herself, still shaking, but steady enough to walk, at least. She looks at Frisk with an expression of bafflement that matches the one Chara would be making if it had a face of its own. She turns around.

She walks away.

They stand there at the edge of the bridge like they’re waiting to be told what to do, tugging anxiously at the hem of their sweater. Chara doesn’t understand them. It can’t understand them. They can’t be like this. They can’t be compassionate, selfless, kind. They can’t be good.

If they, a human, are good, then humans can be good. If humans can be good, then Chara…

Then Chara has no excuse.

The world feels far away, unreal, colors dulled, textures smoothed. Everything looks like it’s made of plastic. It isn’t human, it tries to tell itself, whatever it is now is far from that, but that doesn’t change anything. It can’t change anything. It can’t fit these jagged pieces together in its mind. It doesn’t know where to start. It doesn’t know what to say. It doesn’t know how to speak. This is all wrong, so hopelessly wrong, and all it can think about is what Frisk said about unfinished business. They were right. That stings most of all. It so badly wanted to convince itself that it was just the Barrier. That that was all it cared about anymore. All it could care about. But it knows, now, with a feeling like acid wearing a hole in its already-rotted guts, that it was wrong.

It still cares about its brother. It still cares about its mother and its father. It still cares about this world. It can’t argue with itself anymore.

It cares about Frisk.

The thought is so revolting that for a minute it wishes it could write itself out of existence completely. Not just go back to sleep the way it so desperately wants to-- wanted to? No--to remove any trace of itself from the world, past, present, and future. To not just not feel anymore, but to never have felt in the first place. It can’t stand this. It can’t stand them. It can’t stand the way it feels about them. It can’t stand the way they remind it of its brother. It can’t stand the burning feeling it can’t pretend is hatred anymore. It could lie to itself a million times, swear it’s just about Asriel, but it knows better. 

It has always known better.

It has always known better.

They sit down in the sand with a water cup of their own, hands still trembling. “Hey…I…I’m sorry. About earlier,” they say, voice quiet, shaky. Chara can’t stand it. Can’t stand them apologizing. How are they so stupid? How do they not get it? “It…wasn’t…fair to talk to you like that.”

It was, Chara thinks back, unable to hide the anguish from its thoughts. You have only ever treated me fairly. It’s…a lie, in all honesty, and it knows it. Frisk has never once treated it fairly. It has shown them nothing but hatred and cruelty, and they’ve never gone farther than snapping at it for refusing to leave them alone. Their grace under fire has been extraordinary. For a human…? For anyone.

“The hell’s gotten into you?” Frisk laughs, crumpling up their empty cup in their hand. “Where’s the snark? I’ve been waiting this whole time for you to call me an idiot.”

How can you stand me? The words come out so much more harshly than it wants them to, but the fire in them is real.

Frisk’s breath catches when they try to speak again. They sound confused. They feel confused too. Chara’s barely been able to feel their emotions before. This feels new. “What are you talking about? If you didn’t sound exactly the same I’d think my voice had died or something. Gotten replaced by a stunt double.”

My voice.

What?

I can’t…die. I’m already dead, Chara forces out.  I wish you weren’t stuck with me either.

“You’re here. That’s…kind of the most I can ask for.” It loathes the sadness in their voice more than it’s ever loathed anything else. “What are you doing, though? What’s with all of this? You’re being weird. You’re scaring me.”

You’re human, is the only thing it can say.

“Yeah…?”

You’re…good. It would spit it out if it could. All these feelings are too much. All these memories it’s tried so hard to bury. All of it, all of it, all of it. This doesn’t make sense. It feels like its whole world is falling apart. It was wrong. How was it wrong? Everyone on the surface, everyone it knew, everyone who treated it as though it was less than dirt. All those reasons to climb the mountain. They were humanity. 

How was it wrong?

Frisk stares down at their hands. “I…I dunno. I wouldn’t say that, ” they say, clearly not getting what Chara is trying to communicate. “I dunno. I--”

You don’t understand, Chara says sharply.

It pauses. Works up all its strength.

Speaks again.

I’m sorry.

“Huh?” Frisk is trying to fold their water cup inside out. They’re so completely clueless. Chara has spent so much time attached to their body that it had almost forgotten they couldn’t see inside its brain.

I am sorry, it repeats. I am apologizing to you. I treated you unfairly, and it was wrong of me. I was cruel to you, and you have given me nothing but grace and mercy in return. Am I clear now? The words sting to say. This all feels wrong. It’s such a mess.

“Oh.” Frisk is quiet for a long, long time. “Well…I…I accept your apology, I guess.” They chuck their cup into the magma below, reaching up to try to fix their hair. “So…um…I…I feel like…it feels kind of stupid, you know, just calling you the voice in my head.” They stick their hands in their pockets. They’re already starting to sweat. “I never asked, because…because you were being a dick, and I didn’t want to care, but…well…I’m Frisk.” They stick their arm out like they’re trying to shake hands with the heat emanating from the magma. “I know you’re a ghost, and I know maybe you don’t remember so much, but…you have a name too, right?”

I do, it thinks. It so desperately doesn’t want to say it. It doesn’t want to give them that much power. But after everything…

It owes them, doesn’t it?

“So…what is it? If…you wanna say, I guess.”

It’s quiet for a moment more, working up the courage to speak. There’s no going back. If things go wrong, it can’t erase this moment. As far as the ability to change fate goes, it and Frisk are bound together. They will remember no matter what.

But it’s willing to take the risk.

Chara, it thinks at them, as quietly as it can.

And, for what it’s worth…

Frisk is a nice name.

Chapter Text

✦ {ACT TWO} - THE LONG DAY

In an act of fealty, it gave the stone-faced child its name,

and the two walked together through the Land of the Great Fire.

With each step, the spirit's guilt deepened,

for it had grown to love the stone-faced child,

but the walls to this place had no egress.

--from "Teema suraa lo'Webeehte" ("Story Beneath the Mountain"), traditional Serif story-song.

Chapter Text

Frisk 
_____

Frisk is a nice name.

It keeps echoing in their head. Not even the whole sentence, really, just the way the voice--Chara?--said their name. Like it belongs to them.

Like it really belongs to them.

They shouldn’t be so eager to take this at face value. Shouldn’t be so eager to dismiss everything that’s happened over one little apology. But the voice told them its name.

Its name… their name?

It feels wrong to think about them like that anymore. To call them it. They aren’t just a thing. They aren’t just a voice. They have a name. Their name is Chara.

Chara, Chara, Chara. Frisk can’t stop thinking it.

“Chara is a nice name too,” they say, watching the remnants of their paper cup melt away in the lava below. Or is it magma? They can’t remember which one’s which. “It fits you. You sound like a Chara.”

Is that meant to be an insult? Some of the voice’s-- Chara’s! --familiar snark is back, but it’s…softer, now. It wavers a little, the way it did before. When they were apologizing. Tell me I’m not just one in a long line of horrible Charas sent to make your life hell.

“You’re the first, actually,” Frisk says back. “The first horrible Chara sent to make my life hell.” They titter a little to themself. Titter. That’s a stupid word. Like titties.

What? comes Chara’s voice again, sharper than before, startled--timed perfectly with the end of Frisk’s own thought. 

“What?” they echo back. Then piece it together, brow wrinkling on instinct. “You…you heard that?”

Interesting. The voice-- Chara, Chara, Chara --says nothing for a long moment after that, projecting upon them a distinct impression of bafflement. Well…I suppose it makes sense.

“You can hear my thoughts? ” Chara is taking this much better than Frisk is. Of course, Frisk is the one who, to the best of their knowledge, owns this body, and they haven’t been floating around stuck to someone else’s brain all day. That’s a weird thought in its own right. That it’s only technically been less than a day. That on the surface, it’s probably lunch time. It feels like longer. Frisk is pretty sure it counts as longer, too. They’re also pretty sure it’s not normal for weird brain voices to be able to hear your thoughts.

Though, to be fair, they’re also pretty sure it’s not normal to hear weird brain voices at all.

Why should it be a one-way street? Chara pokes as Frisk leans over to re-tie their shoes. They’re getting sweaty. They’re so attached to their sweater, but they’re pretty sure they’ll die of heat exhaustion if they don’t take it off. They don’t want to wake up to the King, or whoever, pouring water on their face like they did to Undyne. I suppose we should make sure this isn’t just a fluke. Frisk, quick, think really hard about something.

Of course the minute they say that, Frisk completely loses their ability to form a coherent thought. They scramble for a minute, and end up just thinking very hard about whether or not stick-bugs should legally be allowed to vote. 

They’re bugs, Frisk. (Frisk tries very hard to ignore the weird feeling in their stomach they get every time Chara says their name.)

“And?”

Of course they can vote. Spiders can vote. Why wouldn’t stick-bugs be allowed to?

“So you really can read my mind.” They stand up, staring out at the lava-magma-whatever a little while longer. It hurts their eyes if they look at it too long. “Scary. So…Chara. Where are we going?”

Don’t say it out loud like that, Chara thinks at them far too sharply. Names are dangerous things. They’re silent for a long moment, projecting some odd, dull, heavy feeling into the back of Frisk’s mind. I would just…not like anyone to know I’m here.

“Fair enough.” Frisk shrugs, sticking their hands in their pockets and kicking at pebbles as they walk. “You on the run or something? Ghost fugitive? Ghost bank robber? Ghost outlaw? Ghost pirate? ”

You’re ridiculous. Clearly I’m a ghost mercenary. I’ve killed hundreds of esteemed nobles with my spectral powers and the King is out for my head. Well…not that I have a head anymore.  

“Because the King took it.”

Certainly. Because the King took it. They give Frisk the tiniest impression of what maybe, maybe is supposed to be a laugh. Anyways. You asked where we were going…well, we’re already heading east. Far enough, and we’ll reach the Barrier, right?

“Mhm.” Frisk nods, looking up at the landscape before them. Not too far ahead, a shiny metal building that looks a little bit like a warehouse rises in the distance. It’s a little rusty, with lights and vents adorning the walls, and altogether far too boxlike for their architectural tastes. It looks like something they’d have built in Minecraft when they were seven or eight. They wonder if Chara knows what Minecraft is. They wonder how old Chara is, but they feel like it would be impolite to ask, especially since they’re a ghost. Maybe they can just ask them about Minecraft instead and figure it out from there, like some kind of cool detective. They’re getting distracted again. “How long until the Barrier?”

I wasn’t finished, Chara retorts, despite having not said a word to them in the full minute they spent thinking about Minecraft. East to the Barrier. But…if you go south into the caverns…that’s not towards the Barrier.

“That’s really helpful.” Frisk is not very good at sarcasm, but they’re trying their best. “Guess we’re going towards the weird…box…building.” They tuck their hands in their pockets, about to set off, but Chara interrupts halfway through their step.

As I said. If you go south into the caverns, that’s not towards the Barrier. There’s a note in their voice Frisk isn’t sure they know the words to describe. And they know a lot of words, so that’s really saying something.

“I thought that’s where we were going, though. The sooner I get to the Barrier, the sooner you--”

Do you understand that if you go south into the caverns, it will not take you towards the Barrier? They don’t know why they held out hope this long for Chara to actually say what they mean. That doesn’t seem like something their ghostly companion is particularly skilled at. They think they get it, though. Chara wants them to go into the weird caverns a ways down from the big box building. Maybe lab. They think the sign says lab when they squint at it, but they aren’t sure. It could just as well say 146. Their vision isn’t that great. It’s a weird enough situation, but has anything happened to them today that hasn’t been weird?

They shrug. “You don’t gotta tell me again,” they say, turning towards the steps sloping down into the red-rock caverns. The sound of churning, rushing water grows louder and louder with each step they descend until every other noise is entirely covered. Even the ambient hum of magic they’ve gotten so used to is gone, tugged away on the buffeting currents below. An odd sense of something, not quite dread but tugging at the same corners of their stomach, builds within them as Hotland’s harsh red glow fades away in the distance. All they can hear is the sound of water. It reminds them of the place in between life and death, the orange-scented void, the water beneath their feet, the endlessly-flowing river of time. As their eyes adjust to the darkness, a different river stands before them. Water eddies and skitters like a mass of blue-black insects through a sharply-cut canal, bearing a small wooden gondola aloft. The figure atop it reminds them of a book of myths from around the world they paged through hiding beneath a second-grade desk. Charon of the otherworldly Greece, Liyr of old Corselic fairy stories, the apprentice of the winged Azhara of the cold polar north. The ferryman of death.

Chara speaks before they have a chance to react outwardly (or inwardly, as it were, they suppose) in the slightest. Oh my god…you’re still here? they think, with an impression Frisk can only describe as the mental equivalent of a flap of their hands. They don’t think anything else clear enough for Frisk to hear it, and they aren’t entirely sure what to do with their incorporeal companion’s enthusiasm. They don’t know if it should be reassuring or concerning. Chara wanted them dead not even ten minutes ago, after all, but also, they’re Chara. Frisk is pretty sure they’re just like that in general. 

They peer up at the gondola, trying to figure out what they’re looking at when it comes to the figure at its helm. Eerily serene and still despite the violence of the water beneath the boat, the gondolier is clothed in…not black, not blue, not purple, but the color of space with nothing in it. Absolute zero in decadent silk, lace trimmings, needlepointed singularities. Frisk can’t tell quite where the figure’s cloak ends and where the churning river begins. They aren’t quite sure they can tell anything anymore. They don’t know if there even is a gondolier, in all honesty, or if the figure before them is nothing but a cloak caught in an event horizon. Nothing underneath it. No body, no form. Just chicken wire and thin chiffon. A cloak draped over an emptiness.

And oh, god, what a cloak it is.

Frisk can’t stop staring at it. The churning of the water doesn’t bother them so much anymore. The cloak is the only thing they’re capable of perceiving. If Chara says something, or the formless figure, they don’t hear either. Their eyes trace along embroidered edges, black on black, inverted inky mountains dug from the ceiling of a starless sky. There’s a story. Isn’t there always a story?

Faces, first. Smiles and shining eyes. Four-pointed stars pinned to cloaks of stardust. Hands joined in prayer. Hands joined at banquet tables. Hands joined at the side of a cliff. The mouth of a cave.

Faces, still. Fur and feathers and scales. Sighing cellos and laughing fountains and the death rattle of a sinking sun. Hands brushing, first meeting. Hands bound in marriage. Hands whittled to the bone. The mouth of a cave.

Faces, forever. King with a bowed head, queen with fire in her eyes. Sharp light cast in black across a harrowed, desperate crowd. Hands reaching for nothing. Hands reaching for each other. Hands reaching for anything they can grasp. The mouth of a cave.

The prince stands alone in an empty cavern, snails crawling through the cave grass at his soft-furred feet. The princess stands alone at the edge of a vast sea, shells crushed to nothing by the tides that lap at the bones of her ankles. The chieftain’s child stands alone in a dead caldera, smiling up in a cloud of feathers at the cliff above. The councilor’s kit stands alone in a silent bath-chamber, thumbing paint across their pale whiskers. Everyone is waiting. The whole world is waiting. Nobody is breathing.

Frisk isn’t sure they’re breathing, either.

Everything after that is hands again. Blistered, burnt, and raw. Nails painted and bejeweled. Blade-sharp scratches, defensive wounds. Cat’s cradle, spider’s silk. Most of it fades. Little of it makes any sense. At the end, only two figures remain. The goat-eyed prince in his crown of flowers. The flush-cheeked human in their crown of thorns.

No, there’s a third, there’s a third. Everyone else came in pairs. One of each distinctly a monster--goat, skeleton, bird, cat? One of each distinctly a human. But there’s a third here. Another human. Squinty eyes and scrunched, speckled face; tangled hair in uneven curls, ratty sweater with two thin stripes.

A blade in their hand. Dust in their hair. A vacant, broken stare that could cut through diamond.

Frisk stops looking.

They squeeze their eyes shut, trying to shake out the deep unsettlement eating at their stomach like a bad trash-can hot dog. It’s nothing. It’s dumb. They don’t really remember what they were thinking about. They can still feel Chara making a weird facsimile of a hand-flap in the back of their head. Has any time passed at all? They don’t think so. They feel dizzy.

You who? they think at Chara, suddenly very grateful for the ability to communicate with them via thoughts alone. At least now they don’t need to garner weird looks from total strangers for talking to themself. 

Stop yodeling at me, Chara teases, internal voice jabbing at Frisk as sharply as an internal voice can.

“Tra-la-la,” echoes a voice from within the cloak that Frisk refuses to look at any more. 

You stop yodeling too! Frisk nearly hits their head on the nearest rock laughing at Chara’s retort. It all feels so silly now, whatever it was they were feeling. They don’t remember what they were feeling. It’s not important anymore. 

“I am the riverman,” says the voice from within the cloak. It feels wrong to think of its owner as a man. “Or am I the riverwoman…?” That feels wrong, too.  “It doesn’t really matter. I love to ride in my boat. Would you two care to join me?”

“ Two? ” Frisk is so startled they practically spit the word out. They spin around on their heels like they’ll somehow find Chara, suddenly physical, standing behind them. They aren’t. There’s nothing there but shadows and rocks, unsurprisingly. “What do you mean two?”

“Do my eyes deceive me? Ha…I haven’t got any,” the riverperson says, cloak shifting and shimmering and not there. Not there. They don’t want to look at it. “It doesn’t matter. Care for a ride?”

“Uh…sure, I think,” Frisk says, figuring they could at least try and get back to Waterfall. That’s probably where Undyne lives. They aren’t, in fact, completely convinced that they want to see her, but Papyrus said they should hang out with her, and they are kind of worried about her. They hope she’s okay. She looked pretty bad, passed out on the bridge like that. “Does this thing go to Waterfall? Or…close to there?”

“Tra-la-la. Everything goes everywhere eventually.” Frisk figures they’ll take that as a yes. “Climb aboard, you two. The waters are wild today…that’s good luck.”

Trying their best to ignore the general weird feeling the gondolier’s entire presence gives them, Frisk climbs cautiously onto the boat. It rocks and sways in the turbulent current of the river, yet still stays anchored in place as they sit down on the weathered walnut deck. No way are they standing up in a current like this. They’d rather not drown. They know just how bad Chara would make fun of them for dying that stupidly. “Um…your boat is pretty,” they say, running their fingers down the rough grain of the wood. It’s weathered, but still seems to be in good shape. “Do I gotta pay you? I got some coins from the couch still.”

The gondolier makes a noise that sounds more like Chara’s internal projection of a laugh than a real one. “The man who came from the other world…tra-la-la.” Frisk resigns themself to the knowledge that they aren’t going to get anything helpful out of the cloak-clad stranger. “Couches are curious beasts…and coins cannot feed the river. Now, Your Highness…Your Less-Highness…then we’re off!” A flickering paddle materializes in the gondolier’s grasp (yet not quite hands), smacking against the gravelly bank and pushing the little vessel out into the wilds of the river’s course. 

Frisk sits back, wrapping their arms around themself as they watch the walls of the dark, damp tunnel fly by. So you can really just hear my thoughts, they think at Chara. You couldn’t always, could you?

No, Chara replies simply. They’re quiet for a long time. I apologize if this isn’t a question you’d like to answer, but…why are you so desperate to get to the Barrier? There’s a whole soup of emotions Frisk can’t quite pick out in their words. They aren’t even going to try.

Dunno, they think back after a minute, flopping onto their stomach and watching the water go by. S’just…I dunno where else to go.

Do you want to go home? Chara’s words come sharply--not cruelly, not harshly. Just sharp. I’m certain someone must miss you. You…you aren’t like most other humans.

Mm…not really. They leave it at that. Chara did apologize, and they’ve been nice recently, sure, but Frisk still isn’t going to trust them with something that personal. Not because it’s Chara. Just because it’s anyone. I just wanna go somewhere. That’s all. They close their eyes for a minute, wind in their hair and a mist of river water tracking down their face. There’s no use thinking on it. Dwelling on it. On everything that brought them here, on what happens when this is all over. They’re okay right now, doing whatever it is they’re doing, and they’ll get to the Barrier eventually. Then…the King needs human SOULs, right? It’s not like they have anywhere they need to go up there anyway.

“Hum-hum-hum,” the riverperson says--not actually humming, just saying the words hum to a faint outline of a tune. “Hum-hum-hum…I’m having a little concert.” The current slows, and the little boat drifts into a patch of watery blue light, a bank of smooth pebbles and dark, worn stone lining the river. The gondolier paddles closer to the bank, an off-key hum of magic filling Frisk’s ears as the boat slows and finally comes to a stop. The form beneath the cloak turns to stare at Frisk as they’re about to hop onto shore. “What will you do when the music ends?”

There’s something in that hushed, musical, phantom of a voice that strikes Frisk as squarely in the skull as any jagged blade or magic bullet. A feeling they can’t name. They can’t look at the cloak, but the only other place to turn is towards the darkness it surrounds. Dread wriggles dully in the pit of their stomach, a feeling their body knows but their mind can’t understand. They feel heat at their fingers, instinctive, sharp, the same power that flows through them at save stars, at the wall of buttons lining the void between life and death. They don’t understand it. Their body, their powers, the universe itself all react to the words, but reaching for any logical explanation just leads to a vast, unending stretch of pure, terrifying nothingness. They can’t bring themself to speak. Is it a threat? A warning? Or just meaningless nonsense words?

The riverperson’s cloak shifts and shimmers, the bobbing of the boat much calmer now that it’s docked safely. “Tra-la-la. Perhaps you will learn to sing for yourself. And, of course, little monarch…a song in your honor as well.” The paddle disappears from the gondolier’s hands, and the shifting, rippling cloak goes still. It’s as though all life has drained from the figure atop the boat--like an automaton with its power cut. Frisk turns away quickly, making their way down the hallway at the end of the cavern opening onto the river as quickly as they possibly can. They still feel that awful pit of dread in their stomach. They still don’t understand it. It doesn’t feel worth it to try.

I can’t believe the Riverperson is still there… Chara thinks at them, seemingly oblivious to everything going through Frisk’s head. Sometimes the boat turns into a dog! I wish you’d seen it…Frisk?

“So…so we’re by Napstablook’s house,” Frisk mumbles, trying their hardest to act like nothing is bothering them. “Do you know where Undyne lives?”

Why would I know where Undyne lives? Northwest after a left turn. Are you… They trail off, voice sounding pinched and uncomfortable. They nearly spit out their next words. Are you all right?

The disgust with which they say it is enough to snap Frisk out of their little funk just by virtue of making them double over laughing. “How hard was that for you to ask?” they practically gasp out, having to lean against the wall to catch their breath. “You sounded like you were wading through dog shit.”

I suppose that answers my question. You’re still as obnoxious as always. They poke at Frisk with the mental impression of a dissatisfied tut . Now come on. If it’s any consolation, none of what that old gondolier says means anything. The Riverperson is stuck in the past. It’s all just meaningless attempts at prophecy…that con-artist doesn’t even have a third eye. Or a…first or second one. Come to think of it, I’m not sure the Riverperson has a face. There really is something different in their voice now. Since Undyne and the water cooler. Frisk isn’t totally sure what to make of it all.

“Wait, where’d you say Undyne lives?” they say, just wanting to change the subject. The Riverperson makes them feel weird. Thankfully, Chara doesn’t push them any further.

You really think I know everything, don’t you? They do that weird tut thing again. Like I said. Just go north through this hallway, then west. That would be your left. If my assumption is correct, her house should be either across the duck gap or in the third sub-chamber to the west. 

“Duck gap?” Frisk asks, then thinks better of it. They’re sure if they come across it, it’ll make total sense, and if they don’t, they won’t need to worry about it. “Assumption? You really don’t know, then. How’re you guessing?”

Listen, Frisk, Chara thinks at them, and then stops thinking. It takes them a good minute to figure out Chara means listen, not listen to them. They close their eyes, focusing on the sounds that echo from the cavern’s low ceilings. The rush of the river behind them, the trickle of water from the ceiling, the faint rustle of reeds and grass beneath the feet of smaller monsters in the rooms beyond, just going about their day. And, buried beneath it all yet still ever so faintly audible, the rhythmic, rich notes of a distant piano.

“How’d you know that’s her?” Frisk asks, brushing off their hands on their shorts and following the sound of music. It gets louder as they retrace their steps back to the cavern where they nearly bled to death just an hour or two ago, clearly emanating from exactly where Chara predicted it would be. “It could be anyone playing piano.”

Do you really want me to bore you with all my deductions? Chara huffs, projecting a feeling at Frisk that they can only interpret as the mental equivalent of an eye-roll. I made a guess. We’ve already established she probably lives in Waterfall--she is a fish monster, after all. She can’t live in Hotland judging by her reaction to the heat earlier. If she lived in Snowdin, Papyrus or Sans would have mentioned it. The capital is a possibility, but she doesn’t strike me as someone who would enjoy that lifestyle. Not to mention, after you gave her that water, she turned back in this direction. So unless she caught the riverboat before you had a chance to, which is highly unlikely, she almost definitely returned here. And look at her--the rhythm in those spear attacks? That battle was practically a dance! She must be a musician.

“You’re crazy,” Frisk says, wrinkling their face up into a smile that feels very, very stupid. “Just because she lives in Waterfall doesn’t mean she lives here. There’s like a million places you can probably get that we haven’t gone to, right? It’s--” They cut themself off right after taking the last turn Chara instructed them to. In front of them is a dome-shaped house covered in scales made of shiny metal roof tiles, windows and door arranged and decorated perfectly to look just like Undyne’s face. The entire house is Undyne-shaped, really. Just to make matters worse, Papyrus is standing right outside, which, judging by his very poorly timed phone call from earlier, means this is definitely the right place. So Chara was right. Figures. Frisk guesses they probably are rather often, on the rare occasions they actually say something meaningful. 

They don’t have time to say anything about it--Papyrus swivels around, a bone wrapped in yellowed paper cradled like a baby in his arms. “OHO!” he exclaims, tucking the bone-baby under one arm and waving wildly at them with his free hand. “THE HUMAN ARRIVES! ARE YOU READY TO HANG OUT WITH UNDYNE?”

They’re pretty sure this is not a good idea. They’re also pretty sure very few of the ideas they’ve had any part in all day have been good. They might as well go along with it. It can’t be that bad. Worst that could happen is they die again, and that clearly doesn’t stick.

Oh my god. Frisk, oh, god, let me fix my hair--wait…right. FRISK. FIX YOUR HAIR. Their ghostly companion seems unusually excited about this. Now that they think about it, Chara has seemed pretty enthusiastic about Undyne from the start. They kind of get it…Chara wanted them dead because they were a human, and Undyne was the only person who really, genuinely tried to strike them down. Of course she’s a hero in Chara’s eyes. Of course they admire her more than anyone else.

Frisk feels a smirk crossing their face as they realize the opportunity that has just fallen into their hands. They figure Chara can’t fault them for giving them just the tiniest taste of their own medicine…they have a great idea.

This is going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Chara 
_____

This is humiliating. She can’t even speak to it, let alone see it, but she’s right there, door open, staring conveniently just to the right of its idiot host, right in front of it, and it’s certain, absolutely certain, that its hair is a mess. It doesn’t have hair, it reminds itself, it’s dead, and has been for quite a while, and this is all ridiculous to every possible degree. You look terrible, Frisk, it prods, catching said Frisk’s reflection in the metal sheen of Undyne’s walls. Really! Please fix your hair!

Nuh-uh, Frisk thinks back, holding the bone Papyrus gave them out at an arm’s length, as though it could explode in their face at any moment.

You have a floaty pen in your hair. Where did you even get that? Right on cue, Frisk pulls the floaty pen out of their hair--it’s a horrific shade of pink, with a hideous boxy robot suspended in the glittery liquid at its end. Frisk tilts it while Papyrus and Undyne talk, making the robot float up and down and back up again. They’re still a mess, ratty sweater and mismatched socks and stupid brightly-colored bandaids peeling off their face, but at least without the floaty robot pen in their hair they look a little less like they just climbed out of a 9Xs-era anime convention’s discard merch pit. 

“Ready for your extra-private, one-on-one training?” Undyne asks Papyrus, somehow completely not noticing the very obvious garishly-clad child standing behind him. Does Frisk just have a perception field around them or something? She was literally fighting them half an hour ago! She knows what they look like! Chara, once again, wishes it could let out a disappointed huff. 

“YOU BET I AM! AND I BROUGHT A FRIEND!” Papyrus steps aside, revealing Frisk, who, to their credit, has at least tried to comb their hair out with their fingers and shake the rocks out of their sweater. They look up at Undyne with what must be a very stupid expression, though Chara can’t see it--it’s parked very firmly behind them, for some reason, perfectly able to inspect the back of their hair for floaty pens but not able to see much else. It can only hope she doesn’t completely obliterate them. They did save her life, after all. If Chara can forgive their humanity on account of that, it’s sure any monster, SOULs predisposed to kindness and compassion from their very nascence, can as well.

“Hi, I don’t think we’ve…” Undyne starts, words catching in her throat when her gaze actually lands on Frisk. At least they’ve taken off that stupid ratty tutu--they put it on the training dummy outside her house. The ghost within seems oddly pleased by the raggedy scrap of tulle. Undyne, conversely, does not seem pleased at all. She grits her sharp, yellowed teeth, golden eye narrowing as she fights what must be the impulse of every muscle in her body to lunge forward and wring stupid Frisk’s stupid neck. 

Of course, Undyne, Chara thinks in an exaggerated singsong, they’re so charmless and rank. You must be desperate to punt them into the garbage dump again.

Rank? Last I checked, you don’t have nostrils, dickbag. And I’m very charming, thank you very much. Chara can ever so vaguely feel Frisk’s facial muscles twitch as they fight back a smirk just as stupid as the rest of them. This is horrible. This is awful. The worst part of it all is that it doesn’t even hate them anymore. They’re actually sort of funny.

Chara would kick itself if it had its own legs.

“Why don’t. You two. Come in?” Undyne’s teeth are gritted so hard Chara is surprised she hasn’t already ground them into dust. She practically drags Papyrus inside, though he still manages to do a strange little dance wiping off his boots on her welcome mat before yanking Frisk unceremoniously along after him. Chara feels a little bad--it knows they have that problem with their knees, and--

It cannot be thinking like this! It can remain sympathetic, certainly, it can show them kindness, but memorizing details about them like that? Actually caring? They’re just going to die anyway. That’s all this is. They’re another SOUL for the Barrier and nothing more. It’s already broken the rule that has governed its entire existence to this point, and it will go no further. It can accept that they are good. It can treat them as an ally rather than as an enemy. But it cannot, under any circumstances, get attached. Frisk has been doomed from the moment they fell. Sympathy is fine. Compassion is useless.

They don’t seem too bothered by the Undyne-Papyrus chain dragging them inside, at least. They position themself awkwardly between the beautiful grand piano and the low southeastern-style dining table, letting Papyrus do the vast majority of the talking while Chara looks around. The color scheme of the house is nigh-unforgivably lurid--the floor tiles are checkered a bleached lemon-yellow and a stuffy hospital blue, interspersed occasionally by hideous ridged purple rugs, and the walls are a completely different shade of hideous blue, lined with cutesy coral fish prints. Not quite nautical--nautical implies taste, something this disaster of a house is sorely lacking. Undyne’s house is gaudily piscine, it remarks to Frisk, shuddering at the fish-themed doily on the table.

Godly pissing? Frisk thinks back. So is that why the lady at St. Giles didn’t let me drink out of the fountain? Makes sense.

I don’t know what to do with you. Chara huffs, only half paying attention to the tense, stuttery conversation Undyne and Papyrus are having. Look at that piano, though. The keys of the middle octaves are worn down. Despite this, the wood is still shiny and varnished. Undyne must take good care of it.  

Do you play? Frisk asks, a little too much excitement in their internal voice. That’s really cool. I dunno anything about pianos. Hey, after this…do you mind if we take a little detour?

Terrifying. I suppose it couldn’t hurt… Thankfully the conversation goes on no longer--Undyne has finished ruffling around in one of her kitchen drawers (which seems to be entirely filled with bones), and is now staring right at Frisk. This will certainly go off without a hitch. 

“So are we ready to start?” Her voice is still as rough and deep and strong as it was when she called down threats to Frisk from her perch atop the crag, pinched though it may be by her distaste at having the human she failed to beat as her houseguest. Chara supposes it can forgive her for her hideous taste in decor--she’s still monsterkind’s much-needed heroine, everything else aside. 

She’s taken off her armor--she’s wearing a tank top and skinny jeans, making it much easier to see how incredibly muscular she is. She’s so cool, it thinks, not meaning for it to be loud enough for Frisk to hear. It definitely is loud enough for Frisk to hear, though, judging by the snort they just barely manage to suppress. It needs to be more careful. It can’t be giving them ammunition like this…they could be a formidable foe on the battlefield of relentless teasing, something it absolutely cannot risk. Frisk moves to say something to her, but Papyrus is first.

“WHOOPSY-DOOPSY! I JUST REMEMBERED!” he cries out, making an unprecedented move for the window. “I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM! YOU TWO HAVE FUN!!!” With the grace of an Olympic gymnast, he breaks into a run, launching himself directly through Undyne’s side window in perfect cannonball form. The glass shatters impressively, and Frisk pokes up onto their tiptoes to watch him roll away outside. Inexplicably, the majority of the broken glass is inside the house, in a move that seemingly defies physics. He is a monster, after all. It supposes he can just do that. Undyne counters on them quickly after a short glance out the window to make sure the bumbling skeleton isn’t dead, stepping a little too close for them for even Chara, incorporeal as it may be, to be comfortable with it.

“So why are YOU here?” she barks at them, looking as though she wants to snatch Frisk up by their collar and lift them into the air. Chara knows the feeling. “To rub your victory in my face? To humiliate me even further? IS THAT IT?” 

It feels Frisk’s brow wrinkle up before they speak. They’ve been so nice to her this far, so unreasonably nice to her…surely they’ll--

“Yeah,” they say, before Chara can get a word in edgewise. “You lost. You’re…uh…you’re a little loser fish baby.” They seem unsure of it--the only person Frisk seems to be good at insulting is Chara.

Seriously? She’s going to kill you for that, you know.

Nah, Frisk thinks back. She wants a challenge. Watch this. 

Undyne tilts up her chin, laughing at them down the bridge of her mostly-nonexistent nose. “Well, I’ve got news for you, BRAT. You’re on MY battlefield now. And you AREN’T going to humiliate me.” Frisk’s face, now ever so slightly visible from the corner of Chara’s eternally-shifting line of sight, scrunches up into a dumb smirk. “I’ll TELL you what’s going to happen. We’re going to hang out. We’re going to have a good time. We’re going to become ‘friends.’ You’ll become so enamored with me…YOU’LL be the one feeling humiliated for your actions!”

No! Somehow Frisk challenging her worked?! Chara can’t think about it too long, though--Undyne is still effortlessly, flawlessly cool. She’s amazing…standing there challenging them right back! The way her golden eye glints, the fire in her words as she speaks…what Chara would give to be like her. So completely confident, so powerful, so…pretty? Is she pretty? Should it think she’s pretty? Pretty is a stupid word…it doesn’t matter. She laughs, bouncing on her feet as though she’s about to pull her spear on Frisk yet again. “It’s the perfect revenge!!! Err…why don’t you have a seat?”

Frisk plops down on the stool nearest to the door, that stupid grin still plastered to their face. You are literally just like that lizard kid, they think at Chara, adjusting the collar of their sweater. “So…what are we gonna do? What do people do when they hang out? I mean…I hung out with Papyrus and he made me eat spaghetti except I think it, um, might have had mold in it, and I don’t mean the kind rich people put on their cheese. Are we doing that? Mold spaghetti?” 

Undyne laughs at them again, a deep, throaty, hearty laugh. She’s over by the fridge--she looks over her shoulder at Frisk when she speaks again. “Comfortable?” she asks, an edge in her voice that Chara recognizes far too well. “I’ll get you something to drink.” She yanks the refrigerator door open, a blast of hot air nearly knocking Frisk out of their chair.

“Why’s it hot?” they ask, naive as always.

“I hate cold food,” Undyne explains simply, setting boxes of tea and cocoa powder on the counter as Frisk’s gaze wanders to the sword lying haphazardly on the floor right next to the table. “So Alphys fixed up my fridge so it heats up food instead! Hot Fridge…the world’s greatest invention!” She looks over from stacking her tea boxes, following Frisk’s gaze to the sword. “That’s a real replica of the kind of swords humans used to use in battle, you know. Alphys and I made it together. As much as you guys suck, your history rules! Humans historically wielded swords up to ten times their size!” Chara thinks back to what she said earlier about flowery swordswomen and giant robots. She seems misinformed.

That doesn’t strike you as very accurate, it pokes at Frisk. Though it is a very cool sword.

Of course you would think that, Frisk prods back with no elaboration. They lean their elbows against the table, scrutinizing the sword with their full power. “Yeah, that looks like the one I used to use in training when I went to sword school,” they say. Chara is fairly sure it can only detect the faint note of sarcasm in Frisk’s voice because it’s literally in their head. “‘Cept now the ones I use up there are way bigger. Like…fourteen times my size at least.”

“DAMN RIGHT! Your swords only get cooler as the years go by! Look at what we’re missing down here!” She squints at a bottle of revolting, sickly yellow soda as she places it on the counter before turning to face Frisk again, a faux-charming smile plastered to her face like an ill-fitting bandage. “All set! What would you like to drink?”

Frisk pushes themself to their feet to go grab something (hopefully not the horrible soda), but they don’t get far before Undyne’s spear slams into the table, breaking it clean in two and stopping them dead in their tracks. They sit back down on the stool without another word--Chara hadn’t even seen the spear leave Undyne’s hand. “What the fuck was that?” they yelp out, surprisingly not injured in the slightest. The fate of the table seems much worse. “You trying to kill me or something?”

Undyne keeps staring at them with that pinched-tight, grit-teeth grin. “DON’T GET UP!!! YOU’RE THE GUEST!!” she hisses at them, magic still crackling at her webbed fingers. “SIT DOWN AND ENJOY YOURSELF!!! Um, why not just point to what you want? You can use the spear!”

Frisk, having brushed the sawdust out of their sweater and picked the woodchips out of their hair, twists their mouth into the cruelest, most sadistic expression Chara has ever witnessed in all the time it has been conscious, alive or dead. They fold their hands together conspiratorially, grinning down at the spear before reaching gingerly towards it. They don’t flinch as the hum of magic graces their fingers--they hold it steady, turning it softly until it’s pointing directly at Undyne.

She stares at them. They stare at her. Nothing happens for a solid minute. Only once the silence has gone from uncomfortable to genuinely painful does she finally speak.

“...Are you… hitting on me? ”

If Chara still had a face of its own, it’s certain it would flush as red as a sun-ripe tomato. Frisk…seriously? it chokes out, barely even able to form the words in its own brain. What on earth was that?

Oh, you know what it was, Frisk thinks back, keeping the spear angled at Undyne for an uncomfortably long moment. You don’t have a body. You can’t shoot your shot with her. I’ll just have to do it for you.

In a perfect world…I swear on my life, I swear on my brother, I swear on my grave , Frisk, if I had a body I would snap your neck like a twig. Chara isn’t sure if it can feel Frisk’s cheeks heating up too, or if it’s just a memory. You…you…how am I…what…what? WHAT? WHAT?! 

Frisk crams their fist against their mouth to stifle their laughter as they pull the spear away. I thought so, they think, obnoxiously loudly. I think she’s too old for you, Chara. Oh--sorry, I forgot you don’t like--

It’s fine if you just think it. What’s not fine is you…hitting on her! On my behalf! There is something deeply, horribly wrong with you! It’s horrible. It’s awful. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. They can’t stop laughing.

Laughing.

Actually laughing.

It’s really just a projection, just a feeling--they don’t have lungs, don’t have a throat, don’t have a voice besides the one in Frisk’s head. But it feels real. It feels like they’re really laughing. Like the cheeks they no longer have are pink and dimpled, like the mouth they can’t move is curled up, teeth showing, like their eyes are wrinkled and their face is wet with half-shed tears. It feels real. They know it can’t be, but it feels like it is.

Frisk must feel it too, because they sit there for a moment, head bowed, a warmer, softer smile on their face, before pointing the spear right at the sword. “Believe me,” Undyne says, still looking vastly uncomfortable. “I would GLADLY give you your fill of swords. If you weren’t my beloved houseguest!” 

“I can talk, you know,” they say after a while, an unusual, soft note in their voice. “I’m sure you could…fill me with…swords or whatever. You’re real strong.” They wink dumbly at her. If Chara had a body, they’d fall straight over from humiliation, from the laughter that would surely be wracking it. It doesn’t even strike it as particularly terrible when it catches itself thinking of itself as a they instead of an it-- it corrects itself, of course, but it doesn’t feel quite so shameful. Just wrong. Still wrong. 

“?????” Undyne manages to say the question marks out loud. A fun quirk of monster speech, one Chara was never quite capable of replicating in life. They often speak out ellipses and interrobangs as well, yet Chara doesn’t find them worth commenting on the vast majority of the time, too often caught in the riptide of facial expressions and body language and whatever else sways the conversation to and fro. This one deserves a dedicated moment, though, it figures. “Why don’t you just!? Pick out!? What you want!? To drink!?”

Yes, Frisk, you should follow her advice. Its voice is still raw with laughter. It hasn’t felt like this in…well…it was long before it died, that much it’s certain of. The memories are painful. It would rather avoid them. They aren’t useful. Can you see your options?

Frisk squints, shaking their head just the tiniest bit. Chara projects a sigh at them, trying to detangle itself from Frisk’s perspective. It manages to pull the tether loose enough that it can inspect all the boxes up close, reading out each label to Frisk. She has sugar, soda, hot chocolate, and tea. Clearly the sugar goes in the tea. Do not even think about asking her for just sugar. If you value your life, don’t drink the soda. Here’s the tea…the blatantly correct choice. What flavors does she have…chamomile? It isn’t your bedtime. Darjeeling…peppermint…ginger…

It trails off before it can read the label on the bottom box to Frisk. Golden flower tea…it remembers seeing them where Frisk fell, and again in the garbage dump. It wonders where else in the Underground they grow now. What other places have been forever tainted by their brother’s death.

“I want the hot chocolate,” Frisk says, having completely discarded their manners. “Um…please.” Chara tries not to think about the tea or the flowers any longer. It isn’t useful. It doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to convince itself of that. Undyne turns to shake the cylinder of powdered chocolate--the only noise it makes is the sound of metal cutting through air.

“Damn! I just remembered. That container’s empty,” she says, pulling off the lid to reveal nothing inside. Frisk crosses their arms in front of them, looking much more upset than they should. “I stopped getting it because it was always a hassle…ASGORE kept getting marshmallows stuck in his beard.” 

“Oh,” Frisk says sadly. “Uh…tea, I guess, then. The bottom box is good.” They tug at a loose thread on their patchy sweater. Sorry, Chara…

Huh? What are you sorry for? Chara asks them. It’s a little hard to think. Asgore…it’s better not to think about him. To wonder why he’s close with Undyne, of all people…human-hating, way-too-angry, determined Undyne. It’s not worth worrying about. It’s just hot chocolate.

Just…you said back at Toriel’s house, about the chocolate bar in the fridge…I know you don’t like white chocolate but it looked like it was the dark stuff from the tin. Frisk sighs, laying their head on the broken table as Undyne heats up the kettle for their tea. I just thought it’d be nice. I know you said you could taste it when I had that gross spaghetti, so…

They sound so sincere. So stupidly, irritatingly sincere. The thought that they’d go out of their way to pick a drink they knew Chara would like…it’s disgusting. Revolting. It prickles at the corners of Chara’s consciousness like an elbow slammed against the corner of a table. You said you thought dark chocolate was disgusting, it thinks back, unable to come up with anything more meaningful to say.

I ate a hot dog out of a trash can once. I’d put up with dark chocolate for you. Frisk sighs, trying fruitlessly to tuck their hair behind their ears. I feel bad sometimes, you know. You’re a whole person too. You have foods you like and places you want to go and things you like to do. If I was stuck in the back of someone else’s head, I’d kind of hate them too.

That awful compassion again. It stings to see how much Frisk cares about it. They shouldn’t. What has it done for them other than tease them, humiliate them, bully them? To Frisk, it was the same as the worst of humanity. Yet still they show it empathy, compassion, kindness. It doesn’t understand. It isn’t sure it can understand.

So it just says nothing.

Undyne has brought them their tea by now--she’s sitting across from them at the broken table, sipping from a cup of her own. “You know…it’s kind of strange you chose THAT tea. Golden flower tea…that’s ASGORE’s favorite kind.” Chara tries to focus on the taste--like it would know what golden flower tea even tastes like. It didn’t start drinking tea until after it fell, and when it came to eating flowers…

No. It will not think of that. Not after all the work Frisk has done to make sure it has a good time! Making it laugh on purpose, trying to have Undyne make it hot chocolate…it won’t think about it. It won’t. It won’t let itself. It focuses on the taste of the tea, the warmth of the mug in Frisk’s hand, what little it can feel. It’s much harder to ground itself when its senses are this far removed, but it’s…not that bad now, at least. The world feels a little more real.

Undyne keeps talking, leaning back just far enough that her stool almost tilts over. “Actually, now that I think about it…You kind of remind me of him,” she says, a soft mist of nostalgia glazing across her shining golden eye. It’s gone as soon as she speaks again-- “You’re both TOTAL weenies!!!”

Frisk tilts their face down towards their tea. It’s still hot. Chara can feel the warmth, smell the mist as though it’s in a body of its own. Undyne’s quiet for a minute, that look of wistfulness settling across her face yet again. “...Sort of,” she appends, staring down into her own mug of tea. “Y’know, I was a pretty hotheaded kid. Once, to prove I was the strongest, I tried to fight ASGORE. Emphasis on TRIED. I couldn’t land a single blow on him!” She sloshes the tea around in her mug, staring into a memory. “And worse, the whole time, he refused to fight back! I was so humiliated…Afterwards, he apologized and said something goofy… ‘Excuse me, do you want to know how to beat me?’”

That sounds just like him, Chara thinks, not meaning for it to come out loud enough for Frisk to hear it. To their credit, they don’t react. It doesn’t want them to know. They can’t know. Not now. Not ever. 

“I said yes, and from then on, he trained me,” Undyne continues. Frisk is out of tea by now, but they don’t mention it. “One day, during practice, I finally knocked him down. I felt…bad. But he was beaming. I had never seen someone more proud to get their butt kicked. Anyway, long story short, he kept training me…and now I’m the head of the Royal Guard! So I’m the one who gets to train dorks to fight!”

She’s so cool, Chara thinks again.

So I’ve heard, Frisk thinks back with that same stupid smirk.

“...Like, uh, Papyrus,” Undyne says, an expression of discomfort flashing across her face. “But, um, to be honest…I don’t know if…I can ever let Papyrus into the Royal Guard. Don’t tell him I said that! He’s just…well…” She trails off for a moment, taking a long, deep breath. “I mean, it’s not that he’s weak. He’s actually pretty freaking tough! It’s just that…he’s…he’s too innocent and nice!!!”

Frisk nods. “He was supposed to capture me. But instead he made me go home with him and eat pasta oatmeal and sleep on his couch,” they say, picking splinters out of the cracked-apart table. “He’s really smart. And I bet he’d have got me if that dog didn’t eat his special attack. But…I don’t think I’d be good at being in the Royal Guard either. Nobody down here is mean enough to fight.”

Undyne laughs to herself, spinning her mostly-empty mug around on the table. “I could NEVER send him into battle!” she agrees. “He’d get ripped into little smiling shreds. That’s part of why I started teaching him how to cook, you know? So, um, maybe he can do something else with his life.” She sighs, looking over her shoulder at the jars and boxes still occupying the vast majority of her counter space. “Oh, sorry, I was talking for so long…you’re out of tea, aren’t you?”

“It’s okay--” Frisk starts, but she grabs their cup and takes it back to the kitchen before they can protest any further. They look down at their hands. Chara keeps its gaze trained on the kitchen. She’s right about Papyrus, it supposes…it would have done anything to keep Asriel from being sent into battle. And how did that go in the end? It pushed him to the edge. It killed him.

What a miserable excuse for a sibling it was.

Undyne turns around to stare at Frisk again, then back at the kitchen. She looks at the stove for a little too long, then swivels around on her heels, gesturing at Frisk like she’s about to start shooting magic arrows at them again. “Wait a second. Papyrus…his cooking lesson…HE WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE THAT RIGHT NOW!!! And if HE’s not here to have it…YOU’LL HAVE TO HAVE IT FOR HIM!!!”

Frisk doesn’t get a chance to react before Undyne lifts them up by the head, vaulting across the table and smacking them down on the tiles by the counter like some sort of sweater-clad basketball. “What--?!” they stammer out, but Undyne isn’t listening. She launches herself onto the counter, knocking the various drinks and drink additions down onto the cold tiles below. Frisk barely manages to duck out of the way of a particularly full tea box--some sickly-sweet fruit flavor Chara would rather die again than willingly drink. 

“NOTHING has brought Papyrus and I closer than cooking!” Undyne  cries out. “Which means that if I give you his lesson…WE’LL BECOME CLOSER THAN YOU CAN EVER IMAGINE!!!” She stomps her foot down hard, a swell of magic rising in the air along with the now-familiar notes of her battle theme. She laughs as a hailstorm of ingredients tumbles down from some unseeable place above, golden eye flaring with righteous fury. “Afraid!?” she cries out, shaking a tomato out of her hair. “We’re gonna be best friends!!!” Aligning the tomatoes in a somewhat (somewhat!) organized fashion, she yanks Frisk upright, a scattering of butterscotch candy wrappers flying from their pockets at the motion. They stare at the tomatoes with fear in their eyes, more than when they actually fought Undyne.

“Are they like…alive?” Frisk asks quietly, voice probably too low for Undyne to hear over the din of her own battle music. 

They’re tomatoes. What do you think? Chara provides no further commentary, letting Undyne take the lead. She’s certainly more than capable. She’s so amazing…it wishes it could be as strong as she is.

“Let’s start with the sauce!! Envision these vegetables as your greatest enemy!” Undyne cries out, pointing sharply at the tomatoes, which are, in fact, fruits, at least to the best of Chara’s knowledge. Frisk readies their fists.

Greatest enemy…okay, Chara, this one’s for you, they think, scrunching up their face and swinging at the tomato at full force. They just barely manage to knock it over. Chara still can’t figure out how to snort without a nose, so it just sends them its best impression of one instead. Damn.

You must adore me, then, Chara teases. That is how it works down here. The more hatred you hold towards your opponent, the more damage your attacks will do. Though I suppose that’s irrelevant to you.

Damn! Frisk thinks again, with more gusto this time. I gotta stop hitting tomatoes and pretending they’re you, then, or I’m never gonna make this sauce!

Wow. I’m blushing. Chara projects an eye-roll at them, looking up at Undyne as she takes the reins. With a powerful punch, she completely decimates the tomatoes, splattering juice and fruit flesh all over the walls. That’s how it’s done! 

“Uhh, we’ll just scrape this into a bowl later,” she says, dragging Frisk along by the collar of their shirt like a mother cat picking up its kitten by the scruff. “Now! We add the noodles! Homemade noodles are the best! BUT I JUST BUY STORE-BRAND! THEY’RE THE CHEAPEST!!!” She hands Frisk a box of noodles, leaving Chara to wonder how many noodle boxes she must go through a week for her, Captain of the Royal Freaking Guard, to need to care about how expensive they are. “ NGAHHHHHHH! Uhh, just put them in the pot.”

Frisk pulls the noodles out of the box, eyes alight with fighting spirit. They toss the bunch of noodles into the pot (which, Chara notes, is completely devoid of any water), clapping their hands together and bouncing on their toes. “Take that, pasta!”

“THAT’S THE SPIRIT!!!” Undyne yells. “Now it’s time to stir!!! As a general rule of thumb, the more you stir…THE BETTER IT IS!” Chara isn’t sure that’s true, but who is it to question her? She is, after all, very strong and powerful. 

Frisk clambers all the way onto the counter, grabbing a spoon from Undyne’s rack of kitchen tools, swords, maces, and a single wilted rose with an MTT-Brand NeverWilt™ Fashion Rose tag attached. They grip it tightly in both hands, a ceremonial dagger they are preparing to plunge into the heart of the pot of piecemeal pasta. They slam it down with all the force in their body, splattering sauce and fragments of noodles everywhere. “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!!” Undyne cries out, pushing Frisk aside so she can do the rest of the stirring with her magic spear. She dents the pot pretty badly and splatters sauce all over both Frisk and her fridge, but it does look pretty well stirred. Even though the pasta is pretty much shattered at this point. “All right, now for the final step: TURN UP THE HEAT! Let the stovetop symbolize your passion! Let your hopes and dreams turn into burning fire! READY? Don’t hold anything back!!”

Frisk reaches for the dial to turn up the heat, cranking it all the way to the maximum and then back around again. They try to pull it back, but it sticks. “Is it supposed to do that?” they ask, watching flames spring up beneath the pot of pasta. “I can’t make it go back…”

“YOU FOOL! THIS BURNER ONLY GOES ONE WAY!!! KEEP TURNING IT!!” she yells. Frisk follows her instructions, spinning the dial around and around and around like a little top. The fire grows, engulfing the pot of pasta and nearly catching Frisk’s sweater alight to boot. “HOTTER!”

“If I make it go any hotter--”

“HOTTER!!!” Undyne cries again, clapping her webbed hands together with the sound of a seal smacking into another seal at full speed. “ HOTTER!!! ” Frisk keeps turning the burner. The fire keeps rising. A spark has just landed on what Chara is pretty sure are some important tax documents. “Wait, that’s too--”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. The overheated pasta bursts apart into a thousand tiny flaming balls of noodle and tomato, the world going white even for the incorporeal ghost with the heat of the blast. Frisk flies backwards, just barely managing to twist themself around midair to keep their head from smashing into the piano. Those tax documents are definitely gone now. If Undyne’s on the run from the Underground Revenue Service, this “cooking lesson” has certainly helped her burn her paper trails. She seems unharmed by the blast, at least--her hair’s a little singed, and there’s tomato all over her face, but she’s not on fire or anything. That’s…probably good.

Frisk picks themself up, staring at the flaming remnants of Undyne’s stove. The pan is on the ceiling--well, more accurately, the pan is in the ceiling. The stove is dented in ways Chara didn’t think an object could become dented without a meteor crashing into it. At least the piano isn’t on fire, but judging by the fact that the ground nearby is on fire, it might not stay that way for long. Chara is not certain how ceramic tiles can burn, but it figures now is really not the time to ask that question. Oh my god, it thinks at Frisk, barely able to contain its laughter. You little arsonist.

“Oh shit. Fuck. Shit. Undyne…I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to set your house on fire, I…fuck. Oh my god.” Frisk buries their face in their hands, staring out at their flaming surroundings with pure terror in their eyes. “I’m gonna go to jail forever. Forget getting captured by the King! They’re gonna try me for arson!” Quieter, they turn to one side, presumably in the direction they expect Chara to be. They’re wrong. Chara isn’t in any direction, not really. Do they have capital punishment here? Are they gonna kill me for this?

Chara just laughs at them, enjoying the feeling of it. Not to my recollection. Though in all fairness, they’d more likely kill you for being human than for starting Undyne’s house on fire.

Well, if you ever get your own body, I’ll tell her I don’t know you. So you can still have a chance with her. I dunno if she’d go for arsonists. Frisk fights back a laugh, then starts coughing obnoxiously loudly. There’s a lot of smoke.

“Man…” Undyne finally turns to face them, the fire raging behind her lighting her face in a cast of sunset reds and oranges. Chara can’t help but think real sunlight would really suit her. She deserves it. Everyone down here deserves it. And every step Frisk takes towards the capital, the closer they get to reaching it. Undyne said six SOULs had been collected this far…Frisk’s really would be the last. This has been fun. All of this has been fun. But it really, really cannot afford to get attached. Undyne brushes tomato juice off on her jeans, and Chara tries its best not to think about it. “No wonder Papyrus sucks at cooking. So…what’s next? Scrapbooking? Friendship bracelets?”

“I set your house on fire,” Frisk says, still sounding dumbfounded by it. “I’m…I’m really sorry, man…”

“Ah, who am I kidding?” Undyne sighs, shaking soot and pasta out of her hair. Maybe Frisk would’ve impressed her more if they’d left the floaty pen in. “I really screwed this up, didn’t I?”

“I’m the one who set your house on fire!” Frisk tries to argue.

Don’t admit guilt. It will look bad in court, Chara snaps at them.

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t force you to like me, human,” Undyne says, seemingly oblivious to how good of a time Frisk had been having with the pasta. Once they got past their inability to punch a tomato, that is. “Some people just don’t get along with each other. I understand if you feel that way about me. And if we can’t be friends…That’s okay. Because…if we’re not friends…” She pauses for a moment, staring down at her feet before looking up at them with a brighter flame in her eye than ever before. “IT MEANS I CAN DESTROY YOU WITHOUT REGRET!”

Her battle theme picks up again, this time faster and higher-pitched, and Chara finds itself cheering before it even knows what’s going on. She stands across from Frisk, hair tangling in a wind of her own conjuring, bouncing on her heels, spear at the ready. “I’ve been defeated…my house is in shambles…I even failed to befriend you. That’s it. I don’t care if you’re my guest anymore. One final rematch! All out on both sides!!! IT’S THE ONLY WAY I CAN REGAIN MY LOST PRIDE!!! NOW COME ON! HIT ME WITH ALL YOU’VE GOT! NGAHHHH!!!” 

Sweat beading at her brow, flames climbing in the background, she gives Frisk the customary chance to take the first move. They look down at their hands, then at the burning table, then at the piano, then back at her. “Okay,” they say, balling their hands into fists. “You want my ultimate power? THIS IS IT!” They lunge forwards, only to stumble so terribly to one side that they barely even manage to graze the side of her arm. They fall flat on their face, raw pasta and a single unblemished tomato spilling out of their hair when they hit the ground.

Undyne spins to face them, face wrenched up in a comical expression of bafflement. She speaks plainly, enunciating her next word with the utmost precision. “What.”

“Nnnnh…” Frisk groans, rolling onto their back and staring up at the pasta pot embedded in the ceiling. “Ow.”

“That’s the best you can manage?” The music cuts, Undyne’s expression falling. “Even attacking at full force…you just can’t muster any intent to hurt me, huh?” She sighs, the roaring wind dying down. “You know what? I don’t actually want to hurt you, either.”

She lets her spear dissipate back into magical energy, leaning down and offering Frisk a hand up. It’s only fair, Chara supposes. They helped her at her lowest, and now she’s returning the favor. “At first, I hated your stupid saccharine schtick, but…the way you hit me right now…aside from, well, you falling on your face and everything…it…reminded me of someone I used to train with.” She reaches down to pluck a noodle out of Frisk’s hair, pulling away sharply when they flinch at the touch. Chara tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about how they’re like that with everyone. “Hey. Now I know you aren’t just some wimpy loser. You’re a wimpy loser with a big heart! Just like him…” Undyne takes a step back--she seems a lot more attentive of the way Frisk reacts to her than she did before. She’s clearly had a change of heart. Chara is the farthest thing from surprised, really--it figured this much earlier. If Frisk can change its mind, they can change anyone’s. “Listen, human. It seems that you and ASGORE are fated to fight. But knowing him…he probably doesn’t want to. Talk to him. I’m sure you can persuade him to let you go home. Eventually, some mean human will fall down here…and I’ll take THEIR SOUL instead. That makes sense, right?” She laughs, looking over her shoulder at her burning stove one last time. “Oh, and if you DO hurt ASGORE…I’ll take the human SOULs…cross the Barrier…and beat the hell out of you! That’s what friends are for, right?”

Frisk nods cautiously, taking an awkward step towards the door. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna do anything,” they say quietly, a note in their voice that Chara can’t quite untangle. “Everyone says he’s so nice. I know he’ll let me go.”

If Chara didn’t know them better, just from the tone of their voice it would think they were lying.

“Damn right. Now let’s get the hell out of this flaming house!” 

They follow her outside, craning their neck to look back at the smoldering wreckage of the still-mostly-Undyne-shaped house. The training dummy wearing their tutu has somehow procured a bucket of water, which it has placed between itself and the house rather than actually doing anything about the fire. Ghosts. They’re so particular. Chara never understood them. Undyne reaches down to pat Frisk awkwardly on the head, careful not to touch them for too long. “Well, that was fun, huh?” she says, turning back around to watch the fire crackle from behind the house’s slanted window-eyes. “We’ll have to hang out again another time.”

“Maybe with, uh…maybe with less cooking,” Frisk says with a snort, then a cough. “I think I’m allergic to smoke.” They give Undyne their signature dumb smile, sticking their hands in their pockets. “The fire looks cool. Or…hot, I guess. Almost as hot as you.”

Chara is yet again grateful it doesn’t have cheeks. They’d certainly be as red as the fire raging within Undyne’s house by now if it did.

“You’re still in stripes, punk,” Undyne says with a hearty laugh, ruffling up their hair. “I’m old enough to be your GRANDMA!!” She is definitely not old enough to be their grandma, and Chara wonders if she has somehow gotten her knowledge about human life spans from some kind of weird anime, too. “What is it with you? Is this how you make friends? Go around flirting with random strangers?”

Frisk sticks out their tongue, shaking their head. “Nah. I was just…I dunno. You’re not my type either.” They stick their hands in their pockets, finally turning away from Undyne’s smoldering house. “It was, well…let’s just call it a favor for a friend.”

Chapter Text

Frisk  
_____

“So, you think she and Papyrus are gonna be good roommates?” Frisk can still taste smoke in the back of their throat, and they’re trying their hardest to talk around the inevitable coughing fit building deep in their chest. “Is she gonna sleep on the couch? She’s probably gonna wake up snuggling a hoodie.” 

Papyrus is very nice. Though I don’t think she should give him any more cooking lessons, Chara replies. Their voice still sounds different. Frisk likes this kind of different. They like the sound Chara makes when they laugh--when they really, really laugh. It isn’t just a feeling anymore. It isn’t quite a sound, but it’s close enough that Frisk is pretty sure it counts. Two burning houses in one day? She’ll destroy the Underground’s real estate market.

Frisk snorts at that, taking a turn around a corner they haven’t seen before. They spent a little time poking around Napstablook’s snail farm after they left Undyne’s, but they’re too sensitive to the smoke to stick around too long, plus Chara seemed particularly offended by that snail racing game. Frisk figures they just aren’t much of a gambler. “Wait a minute. Is this…?” They stare at the little yellow bird in front of them, standing before a rather small but decidedly un-jumpable stretch of water. They’re pretty sure they can see Sans’s weird paint telescope from here if they squint. “The duck gap! You said the duck gap and this is the duck gap!” 

It’s still here! Chara seems almost as enthusiastic about this as Frisk is. For this family of ducks, it has been a tradition for centuries to carry travelers across this disproportionately small gap. Sometimes when they talk, they sound like they’re reading out of a history book. Reciting some old facts they have memorized instead of saying their actual thoughts. But Frisk knows they are Chara’s actual thoughts. Hell if they know how they know that. They just do. They have a feeling. 

“Oh, good. Because I don’t know how to get back up to the platforms through the garbage dump, and I’m not taking the riverboat back to Snowdin just to get to that piano.” They relish the bright, sunny feeling Chara projects at them at the mention of the piano. It’s…weird being able to feel their feelings. It doesn’t happen a lot. “You do play, right?”

I do. Though…it’s been a very long time, Chara thinks back at them, inner voice wistful. You really don’t need to go all the way back there for me. I don’t think I could play, really…it’s your body, after all.

Frisk is pretty sure they know what Chara means by that. And, of course, they have a plan. A very, very stupid plan, but that’s what most of their plans are, so it’s really nothing new. They smile to themself, walking up to the bird in a hopefully very cool and confident and…cool…again…way, hands tucked into their pockets. “Hey, Mr. Bird. Ms. Bird? M…Magister Bird?” They don’t know if that’s the proper gender-neutral honorific, but they read it in a book once and it sounded cool, so they’ll go with it. “My friend says you can carry me across. Is that true?” They don’t know when, exactly, they started mentally referring to Chara as their friend. They aren’t totally sure if it’s true. But it doesn’t really seem to be something worth arguing with themself about, so they’ll just go with it.

The bird chirps at them, launching itself into the air and hooking its talons into Frisk’s sweater. They don’t get a chance to say a word before it hefts them into the air, that weird, otherworldly music starting to play ridiculously loudly in their ears. It’s film-score music, cinematic, bright and loud and swelling, training-montage, epic-hero, longest-journey, and for a moment Frisk steels themself to fight an enemy they can’t even see before the bird deposits them anticlimactically on the other side of the gap. The music fades out. They stare at the bird. The bird stares at them.

“Oh,” Frisk says.

The bird chirps at them, and then goes back to looking at the water.

Without another word, Frisk picks their way back towards the room with the piano, only to be rather rudely jostled out of whatever dumb thing they’d been thinking (they can’t remember, but it was probably more on the unconscionable disenfranchisement of stick-bugs in the modern world) as they run directly into a hunched-over, spike-backed fish-monster that looks absolutely like it does not want to be here. Frisk stumbles backwards, but not before the world can flash black and white yet again, marking the start of a fight.

“Uh…hi?” they ask nervously, prompting the monster to let out a sad little peep in the form of a shaky music-note bullet. They easily sidestep it, feeling a little bad. “Who are you…?” 

This siren monster is too ashamed to sing her deadly song, Chara supplies. Frisk gets an idea of what’s going on. They know exactly how to help.

“Hey,” they say, sticking out a hand. “I’m…well. It doesn’t matter. You sing?”

The monster lets out another sad, off-key note. Frisk steps to the side again, closing their eyes. “I can accompany you, I guess. That’s the word, right?” They think that’s the word. Tilting their head back, they start to hum softly. They’ve never really liked their singing voice . They only really sang hymns with the foster families who’d take them to church, or sometimes Christmas carols, and a lot of the time they got yelled at for taking part. But they like to sing, despite that. Even just to hum, even just to whistle. They try to remember the song from the music box--the umbrella must’ve gotten knocked loose, since they can’t hear it playing anymore. They know they’re a little off-key, but it’s okay. They don’t need to be perfect. They just need to be there.

Ever so softly, they can hear the siren monster start to hum along. Her voice is quiet and unsteady, but they can tell that it’s pretty despite it all. They keep humming. They can hear the note-bullets whirring past their head, but they don’t even need to dodge them. Nothing hits. 

She’s a talented singer, with a little help, Chara pokes, the faintest hint of a smile in their voice. The faintest hint of something else. They sound funny. Frisk pays them no mind. They just keep humming. Even though they know someone’s going to tell them to knock it off, to just be quiet, that nobody needs to hear their stupid voice. It doesn’t matter. They know they sound bad. But that doesn’t matter to the fish-monster, so it doesn’t matter to Frisk.

They keep humming. The monster’s voice gets louder, clearer, sharper, more precise. It sounds like bells, like seaglass, like windchimes in a thunderstorm. The ambient magic in the air around them crackles and sparks. They keep going. When they open their eyes, a crowd of monsters has gathered, a few holding handmade posterboards, others flicking fire magic in lieu of lighters. GO SHYREN! one sign reads. ROCK ON! says another. They swear they can see Sans in the back of the sudden crowd, jotting down seat numbers on scraps of soggy toilet paper he must have fished out of the garbage dump. Is he selling tickets? they think at Chara.

Suddenly, it’s a concert! Chara says, soft enthusiasm in their voice. Keep humming. I think it’s working. The monsters keep cheering. The fish monster--Shyren?--keeps singing. The glints of fire magic from the crowd grow brighter and brighter. Chara pokes at them again. The constant attention…the tours…the groupies…it’s all… they tease, voice heavy with overdramatic angst. Shyren thinks about her future.

Frisk hums a few more notes, winding down the song. The crowd starts to break up. Toilet paper tickets float through the air. Shyren faces them, wearing a small, soft smile. You and Shyren have come so far, but it’s time, Chara says, a playful edge still in their voice. You both have your own journeys to embark on. You hum a farewell song.

This time, they’re pretty sure they get it right. The notes from the music box are etched permanently into their mind, now. Even though they barely know the melody, they couldn’t forget it even if they tried. Low, up, down, down, up, same, up…they don’t know the names for the notes, or what they look like, or how to play them. But they can sing them. It’s the least they can do.