songs for the fallen

frisk becomes a lamp

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.