hadriel_logs | In my head, I am still there

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In my head, I am still there

Who: Fruks and anyone of the nosy sort.
What: A small child holes up in a library with indecipherable notes from a man who doesn't exist. Nothing goes wrong.
Where: The librarby.
When: Evening of the 20th, through to the 21st.
Warnings: Ten year olds have all the existential queries, really.

i. ssssSSSHHHHH!

[With the discontent rumblings (and...explosions) of the past few days beginning to die down, Frisk decides, in a token flash of alacrity, that some personal space is necessary.

Or- no. Not really. What's needed, more than anything, is a break from the cycle they're in. A rinse and repeat of getting up, trying to clean streets that are never really going to be clean, having dinner and going right back to bed. They've been in such a cycle before. It never ends well for anyone. Sans left them a hot dog, a month ago.

Sans left Chara a hot dog. Things aren't going well.

Still, better things to focus on. Things like the fact that large, white bookshelves prove to be over twice Frisk's height in many places, and problems like how many of the books and papers within reach are filled with nothing but nonsense, or information that doesn't help. They don't really need to know about the statistics of immigration throughout the year 201X, thank you, or The Most Ridiculous Laws Still In Place Today, even if it's kind of funny, that wearing hot pink pants is illegal on Sundays.

Hence, climbing said bookshelves is fine. It's fine. It's- its fine until they reach the top.

Then it's just a matter of contenting themselves with the view for a few hours, until they figure out how to get down.]

ii. Can you even call this a librarby, I didn't get a chocolate on my pillow or anything.

Whilst it does take most of the night to traverse the many, many shelves for something even close to useful- as well as sort out the issue of how one gets both up and down from such fixtures- inevitably Frisk makes a small pile for themself in corner, just beneath one of the many luminous light fixtures. It's not the most comfortable position, but it is out of the way.

From there, it's a matter of opening each book in turn, and burying their nose into it. It would be in bad form to leave permanent marks on the paper, but a small, lead pencil to write in the margins, and they think- well, it should be okay, right?

It would be okay, if anything they'd found so far was useful. The most recent book lands back on the pile with a loud smack, and the child slumps back against the wall, rubbing their eyes. If it feels like they've been at this for hours

That's likely because they have.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Things aren't going well.

He's tired. More tired than usual, perhaps, but that's what he gets for utterly failing to keep Papyrus safe, yet again. Not just from the thing that nearly tore him to shreds - a witch, he's learned those things're called - but from his own integrity. He sent a line of femurs shootin' on through her, and he didn't think that'd be enough to -

For what it's worth, Sans didn't think it'd be enough either. And if Papyrus falls to that, if he's forced into that corner, who the hell is Sans to judge a couple of kids for the very same, huh?

Who the hell is Sans, anyway?

Last thing he expects, when he's off in the library, debating whether or not to follow up on Kate's offers to learn healing magic, is to actually find one of said kids just kinda parked on one of the shelves. Not even by the shelf, but on it, sittin' on one of the upper levels like it's no problem.

The issue of how they got up there is nothin' compared to the issue of how they expect to get back down. Sans cocks his skull, regarding them with the mildest hint of concern.]

You doin' okay up there, kiddo?

[They're slow to respond, head eventually dipping forwards to look down at him. You really don't look to them like the bookish sort, Sans; that, more than anything, is what makes his presence so surprising. A joke book in a physics book in a joke book a philosopher makes not.

But he's here anyway. Waving, they rock forwards slightly, eyes glancing over the shelves and books they'd...somehow traversed, slowly pondering their current plight. They can get down if they try, they suppose. It's not a huge problem.]

Just thinking.

[Well, they got one thing right; he ain't a big reader these days. Mostly it's car magazines and tiny physics books and things he got stowed away behind in his workshop. But even those old things have acquired a fine patina of dust, if only the regular sort born from disuse.

Sans keeps his stare and his grin neutral as he joins in on the speculation as to, uh, just how they landed themself up there.]

You need some help gettin' down?

No.

[...

Mind, they aren't going to move, at the moment. Perhaps they'll just- wait. For Sans to collect whatever it is he needs, to amble away; out of sight and out of mind. No reason to bother him with this; they'll- they'll figure it out, eventually.]

Um, thanks. [Tacked hastily on the end, before he presumes they're being rude.]

[Well, then he ain't gonna push it. Still, color him a mite curious - there's that old scientist rearing its unwanted head again, the need and the drive to ask questions even as he'd like more than ever to just let things lay where they are and be on his merry.]

Whatcha doin' in here?

[...Is he not going to go anywhere? Sitting on a bookshelf is hardly as comfortable as it looks, they hope he knows, and slowly, Frisk shifts further towards the edge, feet pointing down as they attempt to gain leverage on the next shelf down.]

Researching. [And in a slightly more accusing tone:] Whatcha doin' in here?

[Aside from making them wonder if they should just- stay in place, and not cause a scene.]

The same.

[Researching is an interesting word for it. Not sure what a kid like them would have to research. Frisk inches along, and he's startin' to get the subtle feeling that they're not really wantin' to talk to him at the moment.

But he can't get if he don't give, huh? Why not try for a little honesty?]

Lookin' into healing magic, actually. Seems like somethin' hand to know.

[Very subtle. Absolutely.

Although it really doesn't take much to gain their interest, half hanging off the ledge as they speak up, only just a little bit wheezy.]

Like magic hot dogs?

You got my little, uh...

[He hesitates to call it a gift, really. He ain't much sure what to call it at all. Magic hot dogs can heal 21 HP in a pinch, sure, but they can't always rely on somethin' like that to save them. Can't rely on a slice of pie now that Papyrus is better.

So he moves on. This time the note of concern is decidedly more pronounced.]

You sure you don't need help there, kid?

Gave it to Chara.

[Not because it was a bad hot dog; far from it. Just because- well. In the long run, that's where it'll do the most good. For a person who really needs it.

Just as his help should probably be reserved for the same. They go to wave a hand at him before realizing just how bad an idea that is, hand slapping back down on the wood as their entire body wobbles. Still, they manage to shake their head, practically- heh, falling over themself in their attempt to assure him otherwise.]

It's okay! I'm okay.

Y'know I gave 'em one too, right? One for each of ya.

[Somehow it ain't the least bit surprising that they gave it to Chara. Still, there's of pang of somethin' like regret in the pit of his SOUL at the thought.

Messed up again, didn't he?]

Don't break your neck up there.

I know. [Haven't thanked him for it yet, but at least they spare something of a smile his way.] They needed them more, though.

[Like Frisk needed the pie, remember? Maybe later, they'll need the hot dog more as well. For the moment, they need...concentration.

...One....step....... to the next shelf.

....

Four more to go.]

Don't worry.

Edited 2016-12-24 04:34 (UTC)

Y'know you're allowed to have somethin' for yourself here and again. Yeah?

[Yeah, sure, like Frisk needed the pie. Only how'd that work out again? 'Cause he's got some pretty clear memories of the kid still havin' it on hand weeks later. Not that he ain't grateful for it, mind. But it speaks to somethin' he don't wanna look at that they didn't so much as touch it in the interim.]

I mean, hey. If you don't like 'dogs, you can just let me know. Papyrus ain't a big of fan of 'em either. Too greasy.

I like 'dogs.

[Did he never see what happened, when their pockets were full and they asked for more, anyway? They used to think, if they were real sneaky, one day they'd get him to stack over thirty. It never happened.

...And maybe it never happened for him, either.]

Monster food doesn't spoil. [An awkward shrug; gaze focused on what they're doing, rather than looking at him.] If Chara keeps it, they won't go hungry.

Yeah, which is why there was one for both of ya. What if you get hungry, hm?

[But, 'course, that's the acceptable kinda loss, huh? It's all right if Frisk goes hungry. But if Chara goes hungry? Unforgivable.

Cripes but this is the last thing he came here to do. Arguing with a kid about the concept of a gift. Sure, it was theirs to do with as they liked. But is there anything in the world they're gonna hold onto for their very own?]

[They stop, just long enough to look back at him as they respond.]

Doesn't matter. I promised they wouldn't.

[A personal promise; something just for themself.

And it was so, so much easier in the Underground, where sometimes, people gave them food, or they had money in their pockets- they could even find things on the ground.

Promises like that are harder to keep in Hadriel.]

So they won't.

[Man. Haven't they heard about how he hates promises?

Heh, well. Maybe they haven't. There's a pretty good chance.]

So, just so I'm clear - you don't matter? That's the takeaway here?

[That's cheatin' a little bit. Twistin' their words up. But he already ain't inclined to agree with what they're sayin', and it's just gettin' worse from here.]

[And here he was, thinking he wasn't here to start arguments with children.

I wasn't talking about that. They've said that before, for all he likes to twist their words about. Still don't really know what he wants to hear, either; confirmation, perhaps? No, yes, they did. No, they don't.

Little harder to run away when they're still a good few meters off the ground.]

Guess so. [They need to get down faster. One more shelf, and they might just jump.]

[Kids. Predisposed to jumping these days, aren't they? Or is that...falling?

They never answered him. Never told him why a kid climbs a mountain from which travelers are rumored never to return. Funny how that shakes out.

He contemplates their words silently. Then he shakes his skull.]

Nah. I don't buy it. Just kinda wanna know why you don't ever seem to want a single thing for yourself. Don't seem to matter what it is. Slice of pie, a hot dog - heck, even just a break every once in a while.

But nah, Frisk don't get a single thing like that, do they?

Why, cause you didn't want the pie? Cause you gave me a hot dog?

[They're being too loud; it's a library, and their voice is just shy of echoing. Still loud enough, they think; far too loud and too-]

I said it doesn't matter.

[Or is it only fair if they don't matter when he decides they don't? When they're just a word, with a number shoved behind it?]

And it doesn't.

[Hypocrite.]

[Okay. All right. He's pushin' them too hard. He lifts his hands, palms out, and shuts his eyesockets.

If he were capable of takin' in a deep breath, he'd do so. As it is, he does the skeletal equivalent.]

That ain't what I'm sayin' at all, kid.

I'm sayin' that...

[Fuck. He's got no clue how to do this, not any of this. He tilts his skull back and studies the ceiling, until finally, dryly, he chuckles.]

Just sayin', kid. You got...you got mass and volume, same as anything else in the world. You know what that means?

[You matter.

Haha.

They make a face, staring at the ceiling and gripping the wood beneath their fingers. Tight. Tighter still. So maybe, they don't really have a right to be angry. And maybe, maybe, Sans is just- doing what he does. He tries to help, and when things go bad, he always...sabotages himself. Takes it as a reason why he shouldn't have tried at all.

Frisk is starting to understand why he does it.]

...If you didn't want to know Chara's name.

Would you even know mine?

[Yeah. They figure the punchline before he even says it, and that's probably for the best. Even as far as terrible nerd jokes go, that one's pretty bad.

Don't make it any less true.

Can't blame 'em for askin' the question, even as it stings. Fuck, but - yeah, it's more than a little true, huh? He didn't go about gettin' to know either kid all that well, and is it just him, or is it more than a little fucked that he feels like he knows Chara, the kid who slit him in two, better than he knows Frisk?

Maybe 'cause he and Chara have a bit more common ground. The morbid humor helps, for one.

Or maybe you really do just grow up learnin' to hate your reflection the most.]

I should'a asked your name way before we both ended up here. I should'a done a lotta things, kiddo. Startin' with your name and endin' with treating you like something besides what I figured you were.

A threat. An anomaly.

[But wonder of all wonders, that ain't what they are at all, is it?]

Funny, how I missed the most obvious thing. The most important thing.

You're a kid, Frisk. You're just a kid.

And I missed that.

[He'll have to take it from them; being LV 4 is terrible. It's over LV 3.

You killed some people on purpose, didn't you?

That's probably bad.

Frisk knows it's bad. Fifty percent, twenty percent; both of those are failing grades. What's Sans supposed to say to that? What changes the mind of a being like them?

Nothing much, they don't think. The more dust that's on their hands, the less it matters. And maybe, in a terrifying sort of way, they miss that. They miss it even more now, after what they've done than before it, because nothing, nothing, is worse than knowing it could have almost just been self-defense.

That's

Probably bad.]

Can I get down now?

[Hardly more than a whisper.

Kids aren't that great at hiding their emotions; they're not supposed to be, at least. Sans seems to like it well enough when they laugh, but they've never, ever bothered him with their tears. It doesn't matter- haha, there it is again!- if he wants them to emote or not, nobody likes tears. Nobody likes a crybaby. So if they're quiet, if they don't look, then he won't know, and that's all that need be said.]

You don't have to h- I just-

Can you...can you turn around?

[Well, that's the thing. They're LV 4 now. And somehow, impossibly - he gets along better with a kid who's at LV 20. Where's that make a lick of sense?

He kinda gave up on logic a while ago, at this juncture. But the kid asks nicely. Can you turn around? And his first thought is one of insufferable grimness, a thought all nice and couched in his own personal, dark brand of ironic humor.

Promise not to jump?

But hey.

He just really hates promises, y'know?

He nods, wearily.]

Sure. Sure thing, kid.

[He turns around.]

i.

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