Frisk… can you hear me…?

Frisk, wake up…

Stay determined…

The first thing that came to mind was "Where am I?"

The second would have to be "What on earth is that smell?"

Frisk rubbed the crust out of her eyes and pried them open. At first, she started to freak out, believing she was blind; but as her eyes adjusted, it became clear that the room was just dark. She was tucked under what had to be a blanket, and her head was rested on a pillow, although they both smelled like and seemed to be covered in a thin layer of dust. But the smell that really stood out was the scent of burnt cinnamon, which for some reason wafted strongly throughout the room.

A quick evaluation of her surroundings and Frisk came to the conclusion she was in a bedroom, tucked in a bed, dressed in only the torn blue overalls she fell in (not the new jacket or ribbon from Flowey, sadly), barefoot, and with Flowey wrapped around her neck, asleep.

Toriel. Toriel must've brought her here. But why didn't she kill her? She had the open opportunity to cook Frisk then and there, but she didn't. Why?

Frisk took a deep breath. The 'why' didn't matter, she decided; it only mattered that she was still alive, and that she had to get out of the Ruins before anything else tried to kill her.

Carefully, quietly, Frisk untangled Flowey and lay him on the pillow, then swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood up. She swayed a little, the bruises on her head throbbing a little, but managed to regain her balance. With the tiny light filtering in from under the door, she saw the outline of a lamp on a desk across the room, and she switched it on. The lamp illuminated the room in a warm yellow.

The source of the burnt cinnamon smell happened to be a black, dry-looking pie in the middle of the room. It looked extremely unappetizing, but Frisk picked it up anyway for the sake of being polite, as it obviously had been made for her. She placed it on the table and looked for something to carry it in. It was food after all, and if she got hungry later on, she'd need it. She found a plastic bag of dulled crayons and a small black knapsack, so she emptied the bag of crayons, zipped the pie inside, and placed that in her new knapsack. After that she went to the big wooden closet and opened it up. Examining her old, saggy overalls with distaste, she browsed through the clothing in the closet so she could find something cleaner and warmer.

Everything within the closet was striped. Striped shirts, striped dresses, striped jackets, striped button-ups… everything. And with only one color coordination; red and black. Frisk didn't have to be picky. Everything looked the same; black, with red stripes, all the same size. Kid-sized. Frisk-sized.

Frisk finally pulled out a black sweater with a single red stripe across the middle. She had a feeling she'd need something warm; Flowey said it'd get colder later on, as it was underground after all. It was long sleeved and turtle-necked, and made with thick, warm-looking wool. After that she took a pair of stockings and slipped a pair of boy's trousers (for the deeper pockets, of course) over them, to make extra sure her legs wouldn't freeze. To finish it off she grabbed some clean socks to put over the stockings and pushed her feet into some clunky black boots. Pretty complicated dressing session, but it was better than freezing to death. And the color black was well known for attracting the heat.

Frisk combed her hair with her fingers and turned back to the bed, where it seemed Flowey was just waking up.

"Hmm… Frisk…?" He stretched his stem and looked up at her with tired eyes. "...Where…?"

"Toriel's house." Frisk explained.

"Tori…?" Suddenly his eyes shot open and he jumped up. "Oh my gosh! Frisk, we're not dead! Oh my gosh! We have to leave-now!"

"I know." Frisk shouldered the knapsack and stretched out her arm to him, inviting him to slither onto her shoulder again, which he did. "But first I want to thank her."

"T-Thank her?! She almost killed you!"

"But she didn't! She saved me! She wants to help us! Why else would we have woken up in a warm bed in a nice room?"

"So… so she can…" Flowey seemed frustrated. "Ugh… I don't like what you're doing, Frisk. If she burns us alive, I won't say I told you so."

Frisk gave him a wobbly smile. Come to think of it, thanking Toriel did seem pretty intimidating… remembering the tall, furry monster that pursued her through the Ruins, shrieking and stomping… Toriel had tried to kill her. But waking up safe told Frisk that something stopped the Caretaker's flickering red fire from touching one hair on Frisk's head. Frisk didn't know what that was. But she couldn't just run off without acknowledging Toriel's kindness.

Frisk looked back to Flowey, but he wasn't paying attention to her anymore. He was gazing around the room with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he saw something about it that Frisk couldn't see.

"What's wrong?" Frisk asked him quietly, bringing him slowly from his daze. He made a gesture that Frisk assumed was the closest thing a flower could get to a shrug.

"Nothing." He answered with a strange sincerity. "It hasn't changed one bit."

The door to Frisk's room opened directly into a well-lit long horizontal hallway that, on the left, ended three doors down in a wall and a mirror, and on the right, ended five feet into the front room. Walking into the front room, Frisk was greeted with the smell of burnt cinnamon (although much fainter than the smell in her room), stained beige shag carpet, a couple of dead potted plants that drooped sadly to the floor, and a slowly decaying staircase leading down, protected by a frail wooden railing that looked as though it'd collapse at any moment. Directly across the room where Frisk stood was an entrance into what was supposedly a parlor. Frisk decided that was the best place to find Toriel.

The parlor seemed to be conjoined with the dining room, as a roughly made wooden dining table with four chairs could be found in the corner. On the other end was a fireplace constructed of loose stones, with two huge reading leather chairs set in front of it; one flat and worn, the other looking brand new, covered in a sheet of dust. There were a few ratty children's blankets and pillows on the ground, an open storybook splayed across the pillows, the papers oily and browned as though time hadn't been kind to them. The parlor was empty, but not for long.

Toriel entered through a doorway on the left; the kitchen. Her hands were covered in a black dust that smelled of burnt cinnamon, and she was wearing a torn apron, stained with batter. When she saw Frisk, she did not scowl or yell, but instead gave her a warm smile.

"It is good to see you have awoken, Chara." She giggled in her rough, low voice. "Asriel and I have made butterscotch cinnamon pie! We left a piece in your room. How did you like it?"

Frisk was taken aback. Who was this 'Chara'? Did Toriel mistake Frisk for someone else? And who was this 'Asriel' she spoke of? There didn't seem to be anyone in the house except for the three of them.

But when Toriel looked down at her side, and began to talk openly to someone that wasn't there, Frisk understood. There was no Asriel.

Frisk didn't want to be the one to tell Toriel that, though. For her sake and Flowey's, she played along. "It was delicious, thank you. I left the empty plate in my room."

"Very nice!" Toriel clapped her hands like an excited child. Then she gasped. "Oh! It is just about eight o'clock!" She raised a stained paw to her mouth and called out. "Asgore! Come down into the hearth room for family time! It is time to read a story!"

Toriel skipped over to the flat reading chair and plopped down, lifting an imaginary child that Frisk assumed was Asriel into her lap and hugging herself.

Flowey leaned over to whisper into Frisk's ear, his voice strangely sad. "Just as I thought. She's gone insane. Listen, Frisk, Toriel thinks you're Chara, so for both of our sakes, keep up the act. Call her 'mother' and listen to her stories. We'll leave after she goes to bed."

"How do you know that'll work?" Frisk whimpered. She didn't want to make a wrong move. If Toriel was as crazy as Flowey made her out to be, it might be dangerous to get on her bad side.

"Because… It doesn't matter how I know. Just play along."

"Chara?"

Frisk looked up at Toriel again, who was patting her leg, inviting Frisk to climb onto her lap. Frisk did. Toriel's lap was bony underneath all that fur, as if she didn't eat very well. Frisk tried to swallow her nausea as Toriel wrapped her in her bony arms, humming.

The goat woman took a thick, worn blue book from the mantle of the fireplace and opened up to the middle, where a bookmark had been poking out. Frisk swallowed again when she noticed the bookmark was a jagged chain. What kind of a mother did Toriel think she was?

"'The Legend of Humans and Monsters, Chapter Seven'." Toriel read lovingly, smoothing out the pages with her clawed hands. "This is the story of mommy and daddy, my darlings, so listen closely! Hmm… 'King Asgore produced a steel battleaxe from the folds of his cloak, and raised it high for all monsterkind to see'…"

"...'Shouting out a battlecry for all monsterkind to hear, and forging a path for all monsterkind to follow, preparing them for the war of their freedom'." Flowey recited to Frisk from memory when Toriel had fallen asleep in her reading chair, the book still open in her lap. Frisk had climbed off Toriel's bony legs not long after she'd fallen into unconsciousness, sneaking away into the front room, and now Flowey was explaining to Frisk the Legend of Monsters and Humans through the monsters' point of view; something Frisk had never before considered. "You see, we never wanted to hurt you in the beginning. Hundreds of years ago, we lived together in harmony. But the King of Monsters and the King of Humans had a disagreement somewhere along the line and that lead to a major dishevelment within the two kingdoms. Humans and Monsters became racist toward one another, each blaming the other for the smallest mistakes. Finally, the anger too far kindled, Humans declared war upon Monsters, and they won despite our best efforts. They sealed us Underground with a magic spell-the Barrier."

"But that's not my fault." Frisk reasoned. "It's been hundreds of years. Why do you all still hate us?"

Flowey sighed, shaking his head. "We don't attack you because we hate you, Frisk. We're just... desperate."

Frisk entered her room one last time to check for anything she'd need. It didn't look like there were any articles of clothing or pieces of junk that screamed significance, so she turned back around; but suddenly, she felt something stir within her, something thoughtful, telling her to go back.

The bedside table, Frisk. Look inside. A voice whispered, just a slight breath at the back of her mind. Feeling as though this was some sort of conscious of hers, Frisk did as it told her to do.

Inside the bedside table were a few decaying papers, displaying various crayon drawings. Sitting atop these pictures, like a paperweight, was a gold heart locket. Frisk felt Flowey's breath catch in his throat, as she picked it up into her hand, smoothing away the dust and allowing the gold to catch a glimmer of light from the lamp.

Take care of it, Frisk.