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[Red. Rusted red soaked all down their throat, and he remembers the way it gummed up between his phalanges, sweet and tomato-scented. He remembers the way their body bucked and how their head burst open like paint-filled water balloon, cracked apart with the skull opened the way a geode -

But that, uh...never happened. Right?

That slate was wiped away a long time ago.

Humans are fragile, and they're soft, and they bleed so, so easily. Frisk had bled. Bled over him, over his jacket, and coughed and apologized for the inconvenience of it.

The arches above his sockets curve downward, faintly.]

Yeah. Yeah, I get it. I heard that spiel from "Chara" already. Don't need to hear it from you.