It's a pain, sometimes, when they've only been injured, and monster food can heal the wounds, but clothing doesn't have the same luck. In Snowdin and Waterfall, at least they could try to clean up straight away, but they remember (vividly, like it's right there in front of them, can taste that disappointment and feel the fabric under their skin as they tie knots in their sweater or roll up their pant legs to hide the evidence) that in Hotlands, things always dried really, really quickly. There was no chance to salvage dark red into washed out, muted brown smudges. The stains stayed. There was nothing Frisk could do about them.
Dust is so much worse. Dust gets everywhere, and it doesn't matter how much they wash, doesn't matter if the world has just reset, they can still feel it. A fine powder, a rough grit, like sand between their teeth, stinging their eyes, under their finger nails, coating the ridges of their ears-
Dust is so much worse.
Dust and blood?
Haha.
It's a nightmare.
And Frisk doesn't have it in them to scream. Some part of them, they think, or they don't, must be screaming, at least a little. Some part of them is screaming on the inside, pounding against metaphorical walls, kicking and writhing in agony. But it's all muted.
It's all muted.
Sans turns to dust. Chara scrambles to cover them, somehow, knocks them to the ground in their rush, and Frisk's gaze sticks at where Sans was, where "Sans" is, and what they see blurs between the person reaching desperately out to them, and the (dark. darker, yet d̢̧͟a͠r҉̧ķ̸̵̴͢e͟͟ŕ̴̡̛) creature that stands there now.
No tears. No sound. They stare blankly, and wait for the rest of them to catch up to the rest of the world.
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It's a pain, sometimes, when they've only been injured, and monster food can heal the wounds, but clothing doesn't have the same luck. In Snowdin and Waterfall, at least they could try to clean up straight away, but they remember (vividly, like it's right there in front of them, can taste that disappointment and feel the fabric under their skin as they tie knots in their sweater or roll up their pant legs to hide the evidence) that in Hotlands, things always dried really, really quickly. There was no chance to salvage dark red into washed out, muted brown smudges. The stains stayed. There was nothing Frisk could do about them.
Dust is so much worse. Dust gets everywhere, and it doesn't matter how much they wash, doesn't matter if the world has just reset, they can still feel it. A fine powder, a rough grit, like sand between their teeth, stinging their eyes, under their finger nails, coating the ridges of their ears-
Dust is so much worse.
Dust and blood?
Haha.
It's a nightmare.
And Frisk doesn't have it in them to scream. Some part of them, they think, or they don't, must be screaming, at least a little. Some part of them is screaming on the inside, pounding against metaphorical walls, kicking and writhing in agony. But it's all muted.
It's all muted.
Sans turns to dust. Chara scrambles to cover them, somehow, knocks them to the ground in their rush, and Frisk's gaze sticks at where Sans was, where "Sans" is, and what they see blurs between the person reaching desperately out to them, and the (dark. darker, yet d̢̧͟a͠r҉̧ķ̸̵̴͢e͟͟ŕ̴̡̛) creature that stands there now.
No tears. No sound. They stare blankly, and wait for the rest of them to catch up to the rest of the world.
What else are they supposed to do?]