songs for the fallen

frisk's flower field

CONTENT WARNINGS: This chapter contains descriptions of a panic attack and very minor allusions to child abuse. 

Frisk
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 Their phone rings. They almost don't want to answer it. They know they're in trouble before they even hear Alphys's voice. They've walked into one of those dumb dark rooms again and they can't see two inches in front of their face, even enough to see their own (stupid and sweaty!) hand, and from what Chara has just said in the back of their mind, they already know what they're up against. "Okay, I'm back! A-another dark room, huh? Don't worry! M-my hacking skills have got things covered!" They can hear static and clanging over the phone--they have the brilliant thought to throw their hands in front of their face right before the entire room is consumed by a blinding flash of light.

When the lighting bolts clear out of their vision, they can tell they're on yet another TV set. There's a timer hanging on a wall and an obstacle course set up across a few pillars and platforms, and the main area of the room is full of a bizarre collection of objects. Some kind of old-fashioned movie box...a basketball, a glass of water, a dog? The setup is weird, like they're seeing it all from the wrong angle, but they step forward anyway.

"Are you serious?" Alphys says over the phone.

"OOHHHHHH YESS!!!" comes Mettaton's voice from a crackly loudspeaker somewhere over their head. They look up, trying to see if he's anywhere near the actual set--and there he is, poised at a suspended news anchor's desk, rectangular body haloed by the backside of a half-translucent frame. They can make out the shapes of city buildings and windows and spires, lit from behind by tall stage lights, and through the frame they spot the red light of a camera, pointed right at them.

This is just ridiculous.

"GOOD EVENING, BEAUTIES AND GENTLEBEAUTIES!" the stupid robot (who is, inexplicably, wearing a gaudy red suit) announces, reading off a shuffle of large-print papers. "THIS IS METTATON, REPORTING LIVE FROM MTT NEWS!"

"It's literally just a floating desk," Frisk grumbles, squirming out of the way as a weird fish-monster tries to pin yet another wire mic to their shirt. No way. Not again. "Get that thing away from me or I'll say the c-word on live television."

C-word? Chara pokes at them, more enthusiastic than they've been for a while. They seem like they have something on their mind. Frisk, that's just vulgar.

"CODSWALLOP!" they shout at the top of their lungs, dodging the stupid fish's wire mic yet again. "Ooh, there's more where that came from! Carabiner! Corgi! Cretaceous period! Fuck you! I did not consent to having my likeness broadcasted!" They snatch the microphone out of the fish monster's hand as Mettaton finishes his introduction (which they haven't heard more than the first few words of), chucking it into the lava and giving their would-be stage manager a glare sharp enough to kill.

"AHEM." Mettaton coughs robotically, swiveling around to face them. "DARLING, I TOLD YOU TO CHOOSE SOMETHING TO REPORT ON. WE CAN'T HAVE A NEWS BROADCAST WITHOUT A GOOD STORY, NOW, CAN WE?"

So that's what they're supposed to be doing.

They shake themself off, brushing pebbles out of their hair with their fingers and putting on their best stage smile. They hate doing this. Hate putting on a show for people. It makes them feel so gross. But Mettaton has problems that need solving, and if they solve them, he'll let them go, and then they can at least take a damn nap.

So they do a little spin in the center of the room, deciding to go for the dog. They waste no time in marching over to it, kneeling down and offering it their hand to sniff. "Hey, little guy," they say quietly, scratching behind its little white ear. "You wanna be on TV?"