The rows of desks stretch to the horizon every way you look. You know you must be in some kind of building, but you can't see any walls, or doors, or windows. Just desks, upon desks, upon desks, students hunched over each one, the air filled with the scratchings of pencils like a million maddened whispers. Somewhere, someone is weeping, but you can't tell who it is. Everyone here looks the same.

You look down at your paper, trying not to be sick. You're just starting to work on long division in school, but even though Sans is teaching you some extra fun things you can do with solving for x at home, what you see on your page is like nothing you've ever encountered before. You don't even know what half the symbols are, let alone what to do with them. As you stare, they move and shift, and one of the symbols unravels, stretching a black tendril off the paper to wrap around your wrist. With a cry, you jerk your hand away.

A book slams down on your desk, cracking the surface in two. You throw yourself back just in time to keep your knees from being crushed, toppling off your chair in the process, and you find yourself staring up at two people in suits.

Their faces are missing. What they have instead would have been better suited on a statue somewhere: cold, featureless expanses of stone carved into some semblance of human features that fool no one.

"Are you cheating?"one of them asks you, with a voice like the dead of winter.

"No!" You try to tug your paper out from beneath the book, but the tome is too heavy and the paper won't budge. "I think I have the wrong test."

"Nobody has the wrong test. That would mean we made a mistake. We do not make mistakes." The other's voice oozes like mud over you, and you can feel its slime on your skin. "Your education is inadequate."

"But it's not!" You struggle to your feet, casting desperately around for someone, anyone that you know, but the strange students scribble on, indifferent to your distress. There's no sign of your mother or your classmates anywhere. "Toriel's a great teacher! This is just way too hard for elementary school! And everyone's the same." You gesture at the identical rows, your distress rising. Every single test on every desk is identical. "Mom says everyone needs to learn the way that's best for them. This is wrong."

"These excuses are pathetic." Winter's words sting as they slap against your face, like tiny pellets of ice. They score your skin, leaving scratches in their wake. "You are pathetic. You are clearly not learning in the care of the monsters."

"We must remove you," Mud agrees. "You will be taken into our custody."

You back away, your breath coming ragged as your gaze darts from one to the other. "No… No, please. I want to stay with my mom."

"And why would the Minister of Education want a stupid, foolish little failure like you?" Winter asks. "Why would the Queen?"

"You are an embarrassment. You pathetic, worthless brat. Your very presence taints the royal house. Best come quietly, before you make a spectacle that humiliates her even more."

Your shoulders sag as their words press against you. They're right. The Queen deserves the best. The monsters deserve the best. How can you be the Ambassador they deserve if you can't even finish your homework? They're right. You are pathetic. Worthless. How could you ever have thought that anyone would want you?

Think, now. Is that your logic, or theirs?

The voice startles you, but your attempt to move makes you stumble, and you look down at your feet to see that the equations have crept off the paper again, twining around your ankles. At your notice, they tighten suddenly, and a sharp tug pulls you off your feet. Your cry echoes around the room, to be met with a chorus of shushing from the others that stings your skin like switches. Desperately, you scrabble for purchase on the legs of the other students' desks as the equations drag you toward a hole that's opened nearby. The students kick your hands away and return to their endless writing.

These aren't good odds. The boy crouches next to you as you catch hold of your fallen chair right at the edge of the hole. He adjusts the glasses that are ever-so-slightly too big for his face as he examines the equations binding you, and points to a figure in the line of writing wrapped around your leg. But there's a flaw in the reasoning, right here. Do it now, Frisk. The gap is closing.

Crying out, you kick desperately, and the line of figures snaps right where he's pointing. He grabs your hands and drags you away from the hole.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mud reaches for you, but you're already on your feet and running, holding fast to the boy's hand as you go.

Your footsteps echo like gunshots through the endless examination hall, and the students have finally taken notice. As one, the infinite rows of children raise their heads, turning blank faces toward you. Mouths open, blots of darkness yawning impossibly wide, and they scream. Your voice joins theirs as the sound pierces through your mind, ripping your thoughts to shreds.

Don't listen. Block it out. Try Fibonacci - that always works for me.

"One," you whimper. "One...two...three...five…"

"DISGRACE!"

A word slams into you from behind, and you scream again as your skin goes brittle beneath the chill of it and cracks beneath the force of the blow.

"MORON."

"WORTHLESS."

"FAILURE."

"IDIOT."

"BRAT."

They drive into you in an endless stream, ice alternating with slime. The words slice over you, wearing you down until you're bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts. You're crying now, your pace slowing as the smaller boy tugs you ever onward.

Don't stop, Frisk. You can't stop now.

"But it hurts!" you wail.

I know. But you have to keep going. You have to. No matter what. Just keep going and we'll get out of this eventually-

Without warning, the inky strands of a clinging net envelop you, and the boy's dark eyes are wide with fear as the net tears you away from him, your fingers slipping from each other's grasp. He runs after you, but the net is being reeled in too fast, and you can do nothing to help. The net has been woven from insults and lies, and the words that make up the mesh ooze with toxic ichor that sinks into your skin and whispers its needle-sharp poison directly into your thoughts.

Worthless fool no one loves you no one cares they'll leave you once you stop being useful they'll leave you all alone in the dark they don't really love you they just want to keep you mollified like the stupid little cow that you are spoiled little nuisance that nobody really wants…

Every word digs into your soul, prying a little more of your strength away until you stop struggling against the net. They drag your limp, unresisting body to the first wall that you've seen in this place, and dump you into a niche cut roughly into its surface. Then, as you watch, paralyzed, they begin to seal you in. Cruel words form the bricks that they stack before you, each one clinging to the next and fusing into an unbreakable whole.

NEEDY. BRAT. BABY. PATHETIC. WORTHLESS.

"No…" you whisper, barely enough strength left in you for even that. "Please…"

But there's no point in pleading. A plea can only work if it moves something in someone's soul, and there is nothing within the creatures that are sealing you into this tomb but hopelessness and despair. The light is fading fast, and crushing fear steals the breath from your lungs and the strength from your limbs. They're leaving you alone in the dark. Forever.

That's not a very accurate statement, you know. You're never really alone.

Your fingers twitch, and you grope for his hand in the darkness. He takes it, holding tight as the word-bricks scrape over your head, the light almost gone now. You close your eyes against the dark, focusing on the feel of his hand in yours, and his strength feeds into your soul. The spots of ghost light dancing behind your tightly-closed eyes take on a violet cast as his other hand wraps around yours. He is so very small, but more than capable of tugging you back to your feet.

You wobble, leaning against the wall for support. You're tired, so very tired, and you can feel your determination leaching from you through the cuts and frost burns that still score your skin in a cruel latticework.

"I don't know what to do," you whisper, holding tighter to his hand. You don't dare speak any louder. Words have hurt you enough in this awful place, and the thought of supplying more weapons for those creatures to wield against you makes you ill. "I'm so worthless."

Well that's not accurate, either, he tells you. There's no anger, or irritation, or sarcasm in his voice. Just frank observation. You know that, too. You're just letting them get into your head. Which makes sense, given the environment.

"What?" you ask, feeling even more foolish.

In answer, his arms wrap around your waist in the dark, his little stick-arms hugging fiercely. You know you're not worthless. You're good, and funny, and kind, and the sort of person who goes to the library and learns about the reproductive habits of snails because you know other people would find it interesting. You stick to things even when they're hard. Even when everyone else is telling you you shouldn't. That's not worthless at all, Frisk. You're one of the cleverest people I know.

From him, it's the ultimate compliment. His words wash over you, a gentle balm that soothes your hurts and sinks beneath your skin, bringing strength back to the shattered core of you. Your arms go around him, one hand resting on his head, as he presses it against you. You can't see a thing, but the feel of his wiry curls giving ever-so-slightly beneath your hand is all the reminder you need to be able to paint the picture of him against your closed lids.

He barely reaches your chest, and the frames of his glasses dig into you a little right above your heart, but you don't mind. He never really got a lot of practice with hugging. Always so focused on the facts, he sometimes states things in ways that seem cruel or callous, when he's only just saying what he sees as the truth. You suppose it can be hard for others to see past the misunderstandings to the soul inside, and though you can understand why they might have turned away from him, you feel sorry for those others, for they missed something truly beautiful. If they'd only persevered, they'd have found someone sensitive, and clever, and remarkable. Someone who thrives on hugs as a flower thrives in the sunlight, and never fails to see the good in people, no matter how much they struggle in life.

His need gives you strength, and you take a slow, steadying breath. Softly, you drop a kiss on the top of his head, letting him know that you're okay now. So to speak. You're still sealed into a wall in the dark, but you're not alone. As long as you're not alone, you can deal with can persevere.

"So. Any bright ideas?"

He loosens his hold on you, though he keeps your hand in his. Yes. But we need to be able to see.

You should have known he'd have a plan. And the last part, at least, you can take care of. You reach for his other hand in the darkness, catching hold and clinging fast. Squeezing your eyes tightly closed, you concentrate hard, letting your soul feel for the monsters beyond the wall. It's been a long time; you've almost forgotten the sensation. But not quite. With a wrenching tear, your soul drags free of your chest, bathing your tiny prison in crimson light.

He blinks at you through his thick lenses, a grin of admiration blossoming on his face. Okay. That is clever. Freeing his hands from yours, he pulls out a worn and tattered notebook.

The book is an old friend. You've spent many hours, in the Underground and in the year afterward, curled up in a quiet corner, poring over the frayed and ragged pages. It lives in the Sanctuary now, but that doesn't stop you. Often times, a penitent will find you already there, sitting across a statue's feet with the notebook in your hands. There are so many thoughts and ideas clamouring to be free, scrawled in a chicken scratch that only you and he can read. The words that fill the pages are equal parts fear and outright wonder, right up until the final page, which ends in the middle of a sentence.

He sits cross-legged with the book in his lap, hunched over it as he scribbles fiercely on a blank page so fast that his words are a nearly indecipherable smear. You barely have time to read over his shoulder, catching only a glimpse of what he's writing - which appears to be about you - before he tears out the page and slaps it against the wall of your prison. Beneath his hand, the wall shudders, and collapses in upon itself.

This time, you're ready. You grab his hand, and he's barely able to hold on to the notebook as you flee from the trap. Your soul burns like a beacon in the darkness as you race between the rows of students strung together like paper dolls, each one pointing at you, their mouths open in silent screams. Behind you, the creatures are coming, casting desks and students aside with impunity as they pursue you.

Ahead, there is, at last, and end to the infinite landscape. With a rumble that you can feel through the soles of your feet, the ground drops away into nothing, bearing the students with it. You cannot go forward, and you cannot go back into the arms of the waiting creatures. You skid to a halt at the edge, drawing the smaller boy close to you as you glare at the faceless things. They are in no hurry, now. They know they have you trapped. But your arms tighten around your companion nonetheless. You've come so far. You can't give up now.

Let go, he urges you.

"No." Your jaw clenches as you position yourself between him and the approaching things. "I won't let them take you. They'll have to fight me first."

Frisk, let go. I have an idea.

You look down at him, and he grins at you, his eyes bright behind clouded lenses. Despite your hurts, and the creatures bearing down on you, you cannot help but return the look. He is in his element now, and there is a strange, wild kind of joy in knowing you are smarter than those who would tear you down.

You let go, and he drops, notebook in hand. You crouch next to him, a hand on his shoulder as he scribbles in the book. You can see where he's going with it, now, the idea spreading on the paper in long, wild strokes, and you give a cry of delight. "Sans just showed me this when I was planning my science project. I know this! You need to change this bit here, and it'll work."

Without missing a beat, he crosses out the part of the equation you're pointing at, and makes the requisite recalculations. There! Help me!

Together, you tear the page from the book. It takes both of you, for as the page parts from the binding, it grows, twisting and folding over on itself until a paper airplane the size of a small boat rests on the edge of the precipice. The faceless creatures can see you're up to something now, and their paces quicken, but they're too late. He jumps in ahead of you, reaching back to take your hand as you give the plane a massive shove, and you topple on top of him as the plane plunges over the edge into the abyss.

But not for long. As your cries echo into the emptiness, you cling to one another, and with a lurch that leaves your stomach far behind, you are airborne. Exhilaration kicks its way through you, and you hug him tightly around his waist as the plane seems to respond to your ebullient mood. You cannot hold back the whoop of triumph as the nose of the plane lifts, and you soar toward freedom.

"You did it!" you cry over the rushing of the wind. "I can't believe it! You actually did it!"

No. Though he's clearly as thrilled as you are with the success of your experiment, there's an undercurrent of regret beneath his words as he leans into you. I couldn't have done it without you.

"I just helped a little with the calculations," you tell him. "Nothing you couldn't have done yourself."

Calculations are one thing, Frisk. But it takes determination to go through with a plan this crazy. He glances over his shoulder at you with a wistful grin. But I knew I could count on you to persevere.

As you soar ever higher, the darkness lessens into featureless grey. It becomes almost a mist that clings to you, until you can barely see him. You hold tighter, and his hands cover yours. "I don't want to let go," you tell him, your hushed voice tense with dismay.

It's okay, he says. No matter what else happens, this ride was worth it.

"No. Please!"

Goodbye, Frisk.

The grey swallows you, and the plane turns into mist. You're falling, flying, tumbling through the unending nothing, until you plummet out of sleep into waking.


You're still falling, and you land on something soft and unhappy that squeaks a loud protest as you tumble from the bed. Still half lost in dreams, there is little room in your head for any coherent thought. All you can think to do is listen to the subconscious voice in your head that tells you here is comfort and safety and affection, and cling for dear life.

"Frisk?"

The soft voice in the dark is lacking its usual brashness and bravado, but you recognize it all the same. On its heels, you also register the feel of the softly pebbled skin beneath your hands, and you breathe a sigh of relief and no small amount of embarrassment as you ease your death grip on your companion.

"Sorry, Artie. I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Yo, that tends to happen when you fall on someone and then squeeze them," Artie retorts, but despite the flippancy of their words, there's concern rather than irritation in Artie's hushed voice. You can hear rustling in the darkness, and then you throw your hand up to shield your eyes as a blinding flashlight beam sears through the shadows. Artie holds it tightly with one foot, since their mechanical arms are lying in a twisted pile in the corner, and you can finally see the concern in your friend's face.

"Sorry," you say again, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. "I fell."

Artie tilts their head, their frown deepening. "Normal people fall out of bed, Frisk. You're not normal. You beat Undyne in a fight. You don't do clumsy."

"I didn't really beat her," you demur, trying your best to deflect the topic. "Technically, I just didn't lose."

"You know what I mean," Artie sighs. They shift a little closer as you sort yourself out from the tangled sleeping bag. Sleepovers with Artie happen at least once a week, and Toriel's offered to let them have their own room, but it's an awfully big house for such a little monster kid, and both of you are happier when Artie stays on your floor.

Well, usually.

You stop fussing with the sleeping bag when Artie's tail wraps around your waist. Their chin comes to rest on your shoulder, and you slump in defeat, wrapping your arms around them again. For someone who was so oblivious when you first met, Artie's gotten really good at seeing right through you.

"I heard you crying," Artie says quietly. "You had a bad dream again, didn't you?"

You draw back, and very nearly deny it out of habit. The words are on the tip of your tongue when the look in Artie's eyes stops you. Memory creeps forward into the shadows of the night, slipping another image behind your eyes. Instead of the shadows of your cozy room in the big house, Artie is silhouetted against a much deeper darkness, lost against the vastness of the Underground. Trembling, they stand firm before a looming armoured figure, putting themself between her and you.

You could tell Artie that you're fine. But they deserve better than that. You lower your head and give a tiny nod.

They hand you the flashlight, and you cling to that little brightness in the dark. "You have a lot of 'em, don't you?"

"Not that many," you say.

"But they're bad?"

"Sometimes." You play the flashlight beam across the ceiling, picking out the glow-in-the-dark stars that Sans helped you arrange up there. They're not the familiar constellations you see outside at night; they're the patterns in the glittering gems above Waterfall. You find them comforting to have above you. Sans remembered them all by heart, and it was one of your first projects that you worked on when he started helping you with science.

The memory of another child with a love of science and a desperate need for hugs wraps its ghostly arms around you, and the beam of the flashlight illuminates your smile. "They're not always all bad. Some bits of them are good."

"And some bits aren't?" It's not really a question that requires an answer. Artie was there back in the beginning, back when one of your closest friends and family members was still trying very hard to murder you. Standing up to Undyne is hard for anyone at the best of times, but Artie had idolized her. Having to turn against their idol to save you couldn't have been easy, but Artie had persevered. They're good at that. It's helped them through their apprenticeship with Alphys, and with all the trial and error (mostly error) they've gone through as they try to figure out the mechanical arms that will help them work on the technical stuff that just can't be done with feet, no matter how adept they happen to be.

"Some bits are not so nice," you admit.

Artie looks down, frustration writ across their face as they avoid looking into your eyes. "Yo, I don't know if I ever said it, but… But I'm sorry I was so keen on trying to fight you. Back when, y'know, I didn't know you were…you." Frowning, they kick at a pillow near their feet. "I'm sorry everybody was trying to fight you. You're nice, and it sucks that you dream all this bad stuff now."

Your smile broadens, more genuine now. You can appreciate both Artie's bluntness, and the positivity behind their earnest words. It helps, more than a little. "It's okay. I know how you really feel." You lean past them to your bedside table, pulling a handful of ribbons out of the drawer. Artie brightens a little, turning so that you can better reach the spikes on their crest.

As you wrap a ribbon around the first spike and work it into a jaunty little bow, their tail curls around you again. "I still wish I could do something about your dreams," they tell you.

"Artemisia," you tell them, in your best Toriel-being-stern impersonation. They turn to look over their shoulder at you, wide-eyed, and you bop them gently on the nose with the ribbons. "You are doing something."

"Oh," they say. Then, a moment later, "ohhhhhh." That gets a little giggle out of you as you continue adding ribbons to the rest of their crest. Artie snorts, bumping their head against your shoulder. "Still. If I'd known you were this awesome, I'd have helped you fight Undyne from the start. I just didn't know you were...I mean…" They pick up a stuffed dog with their toes and bring it close, hugging it with both legs. "Humans are scary."

Your fingers still as you work on the last bow. "Even me?"

"Nah. Not you, dude. But you've always been really monstery for a human. And I'm starting to be less scared of 'em, thanks to you. I guess that's why the king made you Ambassador, huh?"

The words sink straight to your heart, warming you and chasing away the last of the shadows. "That is the nicest thing anyone's said to me this month," you say, and mean it. It's been a long month of people telling you what you're doing wrong as Ambassador.

"Bradley?"

"Bradley."

Artie's tail eases its grip on you just a little, and they rest their head in the space beneath your chin. "Man," they say, their words tight with anger. "I really need to get Alphys to fix the pressure sensors on my arms, fast."

"Why?" you ask. You know it's been an ongoing issue - Artie's been banned from touching delicate things until they sort the problem out, since powerful metal arms and no way of knowing how hard you're squeezing something are an unfortunate combination, which they've learned the hard way - but you're not sure why it's so urgent. They're adept at getting by without them for most things, and Alphys's keyboards are industrial-strength durable. No matter how hard Artie types, they're very difficult to damage.

The answer, when it comes, is not what you were expecting. "Because I'm so mad that I can't hug you right now," they say.

"Oh," you reply softly, and wrap your arms around your friend. Their tail tightens around you, and you hold them closely in turn, each of you giving comfort in your own way. Learning to live with monsters has sometimes required some ingenuity and creative thinking on your part, but the longer you persevere, the more you can't imagine living any other way.