Prompt: Frisk & Papyrus - Genocide route
Their knees sink into the snow, coldness immediately invading their bare legs.
It hurts, stings even. But not as much as the thoughts swirling through their head.
'I don't know whether I want to do this,' they say, but only on the inside. Their voice probably wouldn't work even if they wanted it to. 'I don't know whether I can do this.'
'You have to,' it whispers back. It sounds like honey and blood and death. Like their own voice.
Frisk barely thought such a thing was possible.
'He's going to kill you,' it says. 'If you don't do something they're all going to kill you.'
The wind is blowing, snow everywhere. It's hard to see through the mist, but Frisk doesn't need to see anything to know what is waiting for them ahead.
The toy knife trembles in their hand.
'Why are you making such a big deal out of this now?' they ask, malicious and disappointed and way too real for comfort. 'You killed her didn't you? You killed all of them already...'
'I don't know...' They get up as if pulled by an invisible force. Like strings on a puppet. Like being driven by an unseen determination. They know this is their own fault. 'He's different. He doesn't want to hurt us.'
'Idiot!' it hisses, right beside their ear. As intangible as a shadow, but similarly attached to one's person. Impossible to shake loose. 'It's a trap. They await you with open arms and stab you in the back when you're not looking. They're all the same... Trust me.'
Everything feels dull. Like they're perceiving the world through a haze. Like standing next to their own body.
They're not entirely in control anymore. Another part of them fades away.
Or is that just a convenient excuse they use to not admit this has been their own doing all along?
'I don't know if I can do this...' they repeat meekly.
A figure looms in front of them, arms stretched wide. Frisk would like nothing better than to run towards it and fall into that embrace.
Sob their apologies and beg for forgiveness.
Ask if they can still be a good person after all they've done.
But the force is there, filling their head with cotton, wrapping around their soul like a smothering blanket. Solidifying their hold on the knife. Making sure the killing blow will be effective. They want this.
'Don't worry," they whisper. 'It will all be over soon. It will only hurt for an instant.'
They nod with blurry vision, tears in their eyes.
'Forgettable.'
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