A/N: This chapter is pretty graphic. Pacifist Frisk is not faring well in the brutally unforgiving Underground.
Chara isn't as active this chapter, until...well. I'll let you read and find out. Things take a turn from the bad to "fuck this shit" toward the end.
Edit: Whoopsie! I totally forgot to put breaks between paragraphs in there. Sorry if it originally came off as a bit of a cluster!
Sixty-fourth reload.
They reach a bridge, maybe a quarter mile into the forest, before anything finds them. It follows them for a short while, before Flowey stiffens in his pot and whips his head around.
"We're being followed," he whispers. But it isn't until Frisk reaches a bridge, barred by a gate-like structure (that's spaced far too wide to stop much of anything), that something stirs behind them.
They whirl, so quickly that Flowey nearly goes flying. A skeleton is what's waiting behind them, dressed in a heavy black jacket. His voice, after a strained pause, is drawling and low.
Pleasantly, he says: "Hiya."
Their chest tightens. There's another stiff pause, in which no one talks, before the monster cocks his head.
"Not great with greetings, are you?"
The skeleton is lolled back lazily on his heels, and has a wide, menacing smile that features a gold tooth, hands in the pockets of his black shorts. He's, to put it mildly, not at all what Frisk was imagining for what lay on the other side of the door. They were waiting for something terrifying. Something bloodthirsty. The sort of thing that Toriel was afraid would tear them apart.
"Heh. Relax, kid," he says. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
Frisk doesn't move.
"It's been awhile since a human passed through here." Sans tilts his head again. His lips—if he even has any—really don't open or close. He somehow talks through that smile. "You look a lot like the first one we ever had."
Frisk glances down at Flowey, who nods.
"Buuuut...anywho." The skeleton sticks out a bony hand. "I'm Sans. Sans the skeleton." But they don't reach out to reciprocate, and Sans huffs (somehow, considering he probably doesn't have lungs) in annoyance. "Buddy. When somebody's acting nice and hospitable to you, it's all you can do to return the favor. Especially around here...hospitality's a rare thing to come by."
"Sorry."
"Ah. So you do talk."
"What lies beyond this forest?" Frisk says.
Sans looks surprised. "Well," he says, "up ahead there's a town called Snowdin. Assuming you can get past my brother."
"Papyrus," Flowey says knowingly.
Sans, impossibly, smiles wider. "Ah, yes. I remember you too, bud."
"Frisk," Flowey says urgently, "keep walking. We've got bigger things to worry about."
"Oh, hey, little buddy, are you saying you don't have to worry about me? Because you and I both know that's not true."
"What's he talking about?" Frisk asks uncertainly.
"Where are you going anyhow, kid?"
"...Up."
"Up," Sans repeats, appearing to not understand. Then he laughs, showing he does. "Oh dear. Aren't they all."
Frisk is confused. Toriel never talked like this—never with this sort of flexibility and cool ease about the past. As if she could recall the sixty-three timelines before the one in which Frisk finally got away.
Uncertainty, Frisk ventures, "You remember?"
"Remember what?"
Flowey goes, "Frisk, don't—"
"The resets," the child persists. Their soul, very briefly, pulses crimson. "Every time they'd reload."
"Oh. Yeah. Last one that could do that was the first one, though, so it's been awhile." Sans says nonchalantly, briefly closing his eyes. "I guess that brings me to my next point."
When he pops open his eye sockets, the left glows with a menacing, burning red iris. The right, meanwhile, is completely empty.
Frisk opens their mouth, right as Flowey screams, and something hot splits Frisk's soul apart and their body crushes Flowey's pot as they drop to the snow.
Sixty-five. Their eyes ache when they open them.
Sans is waiting at the bridge—for them, they now know, when they meet the skeleton's eyes and he laughs outright, overjoyed.
"So," Frisk says. "What was your next point?"
"Just testing to see if you'd remember." Sans looks delighted. "I think I'm gonna like you, kid. It's boring when they don't remember."
"Will you help me escape, then?"
"Don't count on it," Flowey mutters sullenly.
Sans chuckles. "Listen to your flower, kiddo. I'm not interested in playing hero. Just sitting back and watching."
Frisk takes in a breath, disappointed that their facsimile ally fell through, and blows it out. "So. Snowdin, you said?"
"That I did." Sans rolls his shoulders. "I wouldn't count on getting there safe, though."
The human widens their stance minutely, back stiff. Sans laughs. "Breathe, kid. I'm not gonna kill you again. But something tells me you're not the violent type."
Frisk doesn't respond.
"Thought so," says Sans, satisfied. "Which is unfortunate, for you, really, because I can name all of the non-violent types down here on one hand. It's lucky you ran into one of them firsthand."
"You?" Frisk can't help themselves. Is that some kind of joke? They wouldn't put it beside this mysterious skeleton, with his lazy demeanor and menacing smile.
"Hey, I told you: I was testing you. And believe me, I went easy on you."
"And if I died for real?"
Sans shrugs, blasé. Frisk swallows.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm kinda supposed to be on the watch for humans. It's my job." Sans chuckles to himself. "Not that I need to. They usually come to me first."
"You sure you don't wanna come?" Frisk asks.
Sans eyes them. "To Snowdin?"
"No." They gesture vaguely forward, to the east. "Out. With me."
"What, and watch you die over and over? No, thank you. I can do that from here."
Frisk tilts their head.
"I've kinda been stallin' ya, kid. But I guess it was inevitable, anyways." He shrugs. "So. Ya know."
Their hairline, which has just begun to prickle with panic, breaks out with a full-blown sweat when they hear, distantly:
"SANS!"
"Oh no," Flowey whispers, in a knowing voice, and Frisk has never been so afraid.
For everything Sans is, Frisk soon learns: Papyrus, the source of the voice and Sans' younger brother, is everything Sans is not.
Where Sans is light-hearted, casual, and on the lazy side, Papyrus is hot-headed, serious, and fiercely energetic. Where Sans speaks softly, Papyrus shouts and emotes vividly. The only thing they're matched in, besides being of the same blood (or however skeletons are related), is their capacity for cruelty, Frisk comes to realize.
Because Papyrus is also strong. Much stronger than Toriel, or perhaps just as strong, but frenzied and more bloodthirsty and more willing, so he hits Frisk like a freight train. They barely ready a dodge before an enormous bone punches right through them. Right through the stomach, piercing them with the ease of a hot knife through butter. It's agonizingly, excruciatingly painful and their soul doesn't rip apart fast enough to keep them from screaming through the blood filling their mouth. Flowey wrenches away.
Their eyes open not long after, slowly and reluctantly. Sixty-six.
Sans does nothing when Papyrus kills them. He stands off to the side, propped up against the wide bars laid across the bridge, hands in his pockets. Once, when they're about to die, they look up, right into his eyes.
His smile gets wider. It's the last thing they see before they die.
After spending another night in the Ruins, taking turns to listen for Toriel's footsteps, they find Sans the next day.
"Morning," he says. "You clean up well for someone that just got turned into a shish kebab by my brother."
"We should hide," Flowey says, looking up at them. Frisk nods.
"What?" Sans taunts. "Assuming I don't give you away?"
Flowey turns to glower at him, while Frisk steels their back. They feel their soul pulse with heat. "You wouldn't do that," they say, "would you?"
"Do I seem like the kind of guy who'd throw you under the bus? Come on." Sans pushes back from the bars. He gestures over his shoulder. "I'll even show ya where to hide."
Frisk follows behind. They still have the stick, and it clicks over the boards of the bridge.
"Thank you, Sans," they say.
"Don't thank me yet, kid. And don't mistake me. Because we aren't friends."
"I know."
"Oh, shit," Sans says, and comes to a stop so abrupt that Frisk runs fully into his back. They nearly drop Flowey—just manage to catch him at the last second.
"Sans," says that awful voice, which creeps across Frisk's back like a pair of fingers playing along their ribs. "Where have you been? Have you been slipping on your watch?"
Papyrus pauses, cocking his head. He's as tall as Frisk remembers, and wears menacing black and red armor which looks custom, full of sharp angles and jagged points. A long, thick scarf is piled around his neck. Like his pupils, it's as red as blood.
"What have you got there, brother?"
"Sorry, kid," Sans whispers to them, sounding anything but. "Guess we were too late."
It doesn't take long. Flowey tries to climb out of the pot and pull Frisk to safety, but his roots aren't strong enough after so many resets of inactivity, and one sharp, blinding pain in their leg and Frisk whispers their goodbye.
Sixty-seven.
The worst part about resetting are the few moments after they open their eyes, the voice from whatever dreams they've had still resonating in their head, and can't remember where they are or what's happened. Down here, sometimes they feel like it's the only peace they get.
Flowey's climbed from his pot, something Frisk has only seen him do once before. He trails dirt after him.
"I figure," he says, "if I'm going to be of any use to you, I should stretch my roots."
Frisk giggles. Flowey smiles. "What?"
"Nothing." They take his pot and scratch another tally into the ceramic, using the toy knife they found in the Ruins. Sixty-seven tallies doesn't take up a ton of space. It, in fact, looks rather small, but nothing has felt bigger in their entire life.
Frisk sits back, listening. The Ruins are as quiet as they remember, as is their head. These days, the voice only pipes up when they die.
"Okay," They sigh. "So. This isn't gonna be easy."
Flowey just laughs. Frisk, in spite of it all, feels warmth fan out across their chest.
"We got this."
They take shelter in the Ruins for the night, which is becoming a habit these days, sleeping beside the gate. One is supposed to be keeping watch, but they both doze off. Toriel never comes, anyways.
The next day, Papyrus rips Frisk's legs clean off of their body, one at time, which is grueling, because the first one isn't enough for them to die just quite yet and they're left flailing in the snow as Papyrus looms over their squirming body.
The pain keeps them suspended in a place of consciousness, precarious on an edge between life and death—they are not, however, dead, and can hear Sans, sitting at the sentry station, and laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.
They make it all the way to eighty deaths, never quite reaching a hiding spot in time.
On their eighty-first reload, somehow, they make it. Papyrus' footsteps are heavy up ahead, but they're ready. They sprint right past Sans, who's in the middle of saying something, and get behind the boulder. Their hands are violently shaking, they realize, when they squat down.
Flowey is shivering, too, a bad habit he's gotten into these last couple of resets especially. They're never quite sure if it's from the cold or from watching them die so many times, but Frisk brushes the snowflakes off of his leaves, just in case. He looks up at them with an exhilarated smile, which they're sure they match.
Papyrus' footfall comes to a stop, right behind the boulder. "Brother," he says, in that raspy voice of his.
Flowey looks at them, eyes wide. He mouths something, so jittered and quick that Frisk can't make it out.
A bated moment passes. Then Papyrus says, emphatically, "Greetings!"
Frisk releases the longest, most anxious breath they've ever held. "'Sup," Sans says.
"Why aren't you at your post, Sans? Were you sleeping again?"
"I mean, unless I started sleepwalking, I don't think so."
"Sans," Papyrus huffs, "do not get short with me."
"Whoa, hey, Pap, if that's a dig at my height—"
"Oh dear, I didn't even realize." Papyrus snorts. "Not that you could get much shorter, lest you want to disappear from my sight."
"Don't you go turning into another me, bro."
"Please! Like we need another...and at the risk of losing the great Papyrus, too!" He says this with a flourish.
"What a shame," Sans deadpans.
Frisk tilts their head a bit. It occurs to them that they've died so many times at Papyrus' hand that they've never heard him speak to this length.
"So," Papyrus says.
"So," Sans repeats.
"Sans." Papyrus sounds impatient. "Have you found any humans?"
"Oh. I dunno. Why do you ask?"
"SANS!"
"Oh my God, bro, relax. I'm messing with you."
"I am perfectly aware that you are messing with me, bro. You don't seem capable of not messing with me."
"It's part of my charm and you know it."
"Pretty much the only thing you got going for you, I can say that."
"What, and you're much better with that foofy costume?"
"What?" Papyrus sounds genuinely hurt. "You said you loved my battle body just last week!"
"I do. It's just foofy as all hell, that's all."
"At least I'm trying. Unlike some of us."
"Does trying involve getting dressed up and practicing evil laughs while making breakfast? Because if so, I'll fucking pass."
"You. Are so. Useless," Papyrus grits out.
"Please," Sans spits right back. "We both know you're just riding on my coattails."
Frisk flinches—they're terrified that a fight will break out, when the words being exchanged should hold heat to them, but it sounds far too casual to be an actual argument. It's banter, they realize. Probably how the two of them talk to each other all the time.
"Well, brother, this foofy costume is my ticket into getting into the Royal Guard. It boosts morale, which is great for hunting humans—Undyne said so! And she's been...off her game, as of late. It's concerning."
"Her human-hunting game?"
"Precisely."
"Bro. No offense, but do you see any humans around for her to hunt? That might be why it's 'off'."
"That's beside the point, Sans! God. Do I have to do all of the human hunting around here? Does anybody care about leaving the Underground anymore? Sometimes, Sans, sometimes I swear, I feel like I'm pulling all of the weight."
"Whoa, bro. It really sounds like you're…"
"Sans." It's a warning.
Sans' voice gains speed and vigor, excited. "Working yourself—"
"Sans—"
"Down to the bone."
"Shut up!"
"Oh, come on! You're smiling."
Papyrus sounds to be, too. "I am, and I hate it!"
Sans snorts, and Frisk shoots Flowey an incredulous look. This is the same skeleton who's obliterated them so many times? Who's mutilated them beyond recognition? This huge dork?
After Papyrus' metallic footsteps stomp away and they emerge, Sans is leaning against the sentry station. "Okay," he says. "So I have to ask you something."
They tilt their head.
"Out of curiosity—are you keeping track of how many times my brother annihilates you?"
With a smile, Frisk holds up the side of Flowey's pot, exposing the row of scratches. Sans lets out an incredulous laugh.
"Holy shit. You got guts, kid, I'll give you that." He rolls his shoulders back. "Or maybe you're just too stupid to know when to give up."
Frisk doesn't know why, but that makes them giggle. "Maybe."
Sans just sighs. "Humans are fucking weird," he mutters to himself, turning away.
Flowey looks up at them with a smile. "We did it, Frisk. We survived."
"Yeah," Frisk says, laughing. They pause, then laugh again, with more volume and energy. "Yeah, we did."
"Congratulations," Sans says dryly, from where he's returned to sitting. Flowey cuts him an angry, sidelong look.
"Be quiet," he snaps, but immediately, Frisk is shaking their head.
"No," they say. "Be nice. Always be nice."
The flower sighs. "Sorry."
Frisk walks over to Sans, who has an elbow on the station to keep his head propped (he already looks to be dozing off). "What direction is Snowdin?"
He eyes them. "Only one way to go, kid. Just follow the traps and you're there."
"Okay. Thank you."
"So, I have another question," he says, pointing at them. They tilt their head. "What's your plan? To get out of here?"
Frisk doesn't reply.
The skeleton clicks his non-existent tongue. "I see. Just kinda wingin' it, is that right?"
"Don't know."
He shrugs. "It's fine, kid. Do I seem like the kinda guy that plans things, ever?"
Frisk goes silent again. They stare at Sans for almost an uncomfortably long time.
"Will I see you again?"
Sans bobs an invisible set of brows. "Miss me already?" They just shrug, looking at him still, and he says with a sweep of the hand, "Yeah, yeah, you'll see me. I'm around Snowdin more than I am around here."
"Okay."
"We should get moving," Flowey whispers to them. They nod, flooded with sudden gratitude, because they can never quite thank him enough for his quiet, almost unsolicited support.
Sans has his eye sockets slightly narrowed, looking them over. Frisk realizes that, they hope they run into him again, sometime in the future. It's a strange thought to have, but they hope they get to know him more than the brief minute they have to talk to him during each reset. Maybe he's not their friend, and maybe he doesn't save them from Papyrus, but he doesn't seem interested in hurting them, either. And that's good enough for them.
Still looking at him, they finally say, "Thank you, Sans."
Sans just smirks, but he's frowning, too. Gripping Flowey tight, they head into the forest.
Up ahead, they find Doggo (the voice informs them of this), a dog monster who's near-blind and carries a pair of swords that seem eternally in the en garde position. It's an easy battle, one that floods Frisk's soul with relief as Doggo aimlessly swings his sword over their soul, demanding for them to reveal themselves.
The voice offers the option to pet him. Except when Frisk reaches out, Doggo interrupts their turn with a loud bark of "MOVING!"
They escape with a finger missing, and a deep, bloody gash to the leg. "You gotta be careful," Flowey hisses as they limp through the snow. "Don't trust anything around here. Okay?"
"Sorry," the human coughs, spitting out blood onto the back of their hand. Their soul flares red the entire, stumbling path to the next save point.
Knowing the mouse might one day find a way to heat up the spaghetti...it fills you with Determination, the voice says in their ear as they touch the golden star. Frisk, despite it all, smiles to themselves.
I haven't given up on you, they think to it. Touching the save point drags the two bloody lips of the cut on their leg back together. There's no scar left behind.
After that, it's relatively smooth. They avoid monsters they encounter, who are as bizarre and unfriendly as those in the Ruins, sparing and dodging, sparing and dodging, all the while navigating the traps. After Doggo, there are few more mistakes, and Frisk starts to brim with hope again.
After passing over a bridge, they encounter more dogs, two this time, and wearing black robes. They barely catch a glimpse of enormous battleaxes before their soul's pulled into battle.
They dodge, rolling in the snow in the process, which compels one of the dogs to wonder, "Are you a lost puppy?"
Frisk lets out a very un-doglike giggle. Which is a mistake.
"Human," one of them hisses, like a curse. The dogs raise their arms in sync, and the end is, blessedly, quick; Frisk's stomach is ripped apart. Their intestines spill from the seam and they fall face-first onto the steaming, bloody snow.
Eighty-one.
Frisk doesn't rest after coming to beside the microwave.
The dogs, Dogamy and Dogaressa, are nearly blind like Doggo, and Frisk is thinking it'll be easy to convince them that they're a dog this time. But they can smell Flowey, too. Eighty-two comes quickly, ending with their head dropping onto the snow behind them.
When they open their eyes again, the last thing they remember is Flowey, screaming right as darkness came.
Stay determined, the voice insists.
They get to the bridge. The dogs loom on the horizon. This time, Frisk resolves to run.
Axes fly again, cleaving in a way that nearly divides their soul in half, so they spare and flee as quickly as their legs can carry them. The dogs shout to each other that the smell is gone, and give up chase after just a few hundred feet.
"Thank God," Flowey whispers, jostling in Frisk's arms, as they run and run and don't stop until their legs give out, catching on something in the snow.
Not a trap—a tree branch, which finally gives their battered heart a rest. Nonetheless, they drop Flowey, and he skids a considerably distance on the snow.
Flowey rights himself before falling, looking to them in concern. "You ok—?"
Frisk interrupts by laughing.
"Frisk?" Flowey ventures uncertainly. But the child claps their hands excitedly. There are stars in their eyes.
"We did it!" they cry.
The flower dissolves with relief, before smirking to himself. "Interesting attitude of somebody who just narrowly avoided being murdered."
They beam, revealing the gap between their teeth. "We made it past Papyrus."
"You got that right." He grins back. "I'm proud of you."
"And the dogs, too. We're on a roll."
"Please. You're on a roll. You're a rockstar, Frisk."
Smiling, they high five him, which is a little strange considering the leaves and all. Their soul is so bright that it lights up the snow ahead, like a lantern.
Up ahead in a clearing, they encounter Papyrus and Sans again, arguing about something, which catches them off guard. The two skeletons separate for a crucial moment, spotting Frisk, and Papyrus' mouth spreads with a grin.
"Oops," Sans says, smirking. Frisk feels their soul being pulled into battle faster than they can blink.
"You got this," Flowey whispers and Frisk nods, setting their jaw. They widen their stance.
Papyrus shows all of his teeth, jagged little daggers, before raising an arm.
Eighty-three.
Frisk wakes up, rubbing their wrists, before notching Flowey's pot and rising to their feet.
They run past the dogs, and accidentally step on a twig when they approach the clearing. Papyrus' head snaps up as if on a string, and they're dead before they've even stepped out past the trees—pieces of their body blasted out around his bone attack.
"We got this," they insist, unwavering.
Eighty-four. Then up to ninety.
On the ninety-sixth try, Dogamy and Dogaressa coordinate a particularly good attack that takes off an arm. Frisk watches it fly before even realizing that it's theirs. They start to howl in pain right before dropping, face-first, into the snow.
On the one hundred and second, they're running when a battleaxe gets wedged in the back of their head, and it takes several minutes for them to die. All they can remember is the hot blood oozing down their neck, and the sizzle of the snow as it melted.
Stay determined. Stay determined. Stay determined.
One hundred and fifth. They're dodging and it looks like they might actually make it, until Papyrus gives up his magic altogether and grabs them, his bones crushing their own as they squirm and wriggle in his hands.
Papyrus punches them so hard that their nose audibly snaps. Teeth spray out of their mouth, and Frisk is still alive enough to start screaming and crying, chanting for mercy out of their bloody lips. They almost can't help it. Anything to stop the pain.
"Oh, Pap," Sans says, laughing. "Put them out of their goddamn misery already. One hit and they're already crying uncle."
"I oughta invest in hand-to-hand more," Papyrus says enthusiastically, as if he couldn't possibly be more delighted. He probably is. Flowey cowers and turns away as Papyrus punches and punches and punches them, until their broken bones are showing their skin and their eyes are lost to the swelling of their face.
Then he slams them on the ground, which finally breaks their back.
Frisk wakes up to Flowey screaming bloody murder.
And they nearly make it past one hundred and six.
Nearly. But they tripped after sparing and fleeing, which wasn't so bad, except they broke Flowey's flower pot and lost vital seconds wincing with pain at the icy ceramic shards in their knees and hands. Papyrus made a comment about it all being "too easy" to Sans, before staking them to the ground through the chest.
Flowey cries after they reload about being useless, about only slowing them down. Frisk hugs him close to their chest, to their soul, to the spot where the femur stabbed right through them, and whispers sweet nothings. It makes Flowey cry harder.
They don't scratch in this death. Too cruel. Instead, they lay beside Flowey's pot and curl up to ward off the cold from the other side, which falls over them like an icy slip. The entire world seems to be silent.
After a while, they whisper, "Tell me a story."
"No," the flower whispers.
"Okay. Not today."
"Stop it, Frisk."
But they shake their head. They almost sound apologetic. "Can't. Don't know how."
"This is impossible," Flowey murmurs.
"Asriel—"
"Shut up," the flower says wretchedly, but he starts crying, sobbing really. Frisk touches the side of his flowerpot with their fingertips. "Don't call me that. Don't ever call me that."
"Okay."
He shudders, sniveling. Frisk keeps their hand on his pot, not trying hug him. Not if he doesn't ask.
"Let's sleep, okay?" they ask with a smile. "We'll try again tomorrow."
Flowey laughs bitterly. "We won't get past him."
"Then we try again."
"And then what? There are other monsters besides Papyrus. Monsters who are worsedeserve to be saved. Can't you see that?"
"We should sleep," the child repeats.
"I can't take much more of this," Flowey says, sounding to be pleading. "I can't keep watching you die over and over again. I can't."
"We can do it," Frisk insists, but their voice wavers. "Okay?"
"No," Flowey forces. "Just leave me behind. Don't make me do this anymore." They reach for him, and he starts to wave his leaves. "No, don't. I just need—"
His voice cuts off when he sees their eyes—wet, like his. Wetter even. The human sniffles.
"Sorry," they whimper.
"Oh, Frisk," he whispers.
"I'm sorry," Frisk repeats, curling into themselves. "I'm sorry. I've been awful to you. I haven't even considered how you feel."
"No—Frisk, it's not your fault. It's theirs. They're the ones who are killing you when all you want to do is help." Flowey falls silent, seemingly awaiting their response. But they're quiet, with their tears dripping to the ground. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I always was a crybaby."
"It's okay," Frisk whispers harshly, from a place that doesn't even seem to come from within them, and jerks back so quickly that they hit their head on the table that the microwave is sat on.
Flowey doesn't even ask if they're okay. He only stares at them, wide-eyed. The air around them seems to be holding its breath.
Slowly, Frisk breathes out. They're panting slightly, one hand rubbing the back of their head.
"I-I…"
"Okay," Flowey says softly. "Okay. Maybe we should sleep."
"Mm." Frisk nods. "Yeah. Yes."
"Okay," Flowey repeats, nearly whispering. He wraps his leaves around himself, but Frisk knows that, like them, he won't sleep.
They lie awake for the longest time, staring at the false sky that rises above the Underground.
Help me, they whisper to the voice. They squeeze their eyes shut. Please. I know you're there, and I need your help. Tell me how to get past Papyrus. Tell me how to free the monsters and save everyone. Tell me how to convince everyone that I mean no harm. Please. And nothing still, and they try, one last time. Please?
But nobody came.