This house is wrong.
You would never know to look at it. The halls that you move through are bright and cheerful, the tastefully patterned wallpaper decorated with pictures of flowers, and paintings of landscapes, and school photographs. A green vase filled with asters sits on a side table, adding a splash of vibrant colour into the mix. The soft brown carpet muffles your steps as you move toward the stairs, but you can't help but feel that it wouldn't matter if you made all the noise in the world as you walked. Despite the fact that the place is filled with all the trappings of home, there's an aching emptiness to it. Everything seems just a little...off. Even the smells of the place are wrong. You're not sure how, exactly. Just...wrong.
You reach the stairs, turning the corner on the landing, and you find yourself staring at your own photograph on the wall. The uniform doesn't fit you properly - they hadn't been able to get you one of your own in time for school picture day, and you're so much smaller than everyone else at the new school - and there's a haunted pain in your eyes as they stare into the camera that not even your picture-perfect smile can hide.
And you remember where you are.
Not a strange place after all, then. It's not the big house or the house you grew up in, but you did call this place home for a time. It wasn't by your choice, but as people back then never failed to remind you, you were lucky to have this much. It is a nice house, all things said and done. Certainly as pretty as you remember. But you don't remember it being quite so…hollow.
A soft sound reaches you, like the creaking of tree branches in a constant wind. You finish your descent, creeping past the front door toward the living room at the front of the house. The sound grows louder as you go, the creaking regular and repetitive, and utterly strange. Taking hold of the door frame, you peek cautiously around it.
Sunlight streams in through the bay window in the room beyond, so bright that initially all you can see before it is a dark silhouette. As you shield your eyes, the dark blur gradually becomes clearer, until you understand the source of the noise.
A massive rocking chair sits before the window, it's rockers squeaking as it drifts back and forth. You pad softly into the room, not wanting to disturb the chair's occupant needlessly, but as you draw nearer, that feeling of wrong intensifies.
Your brow furrows as you inch closer, you footsteps masked by the ceaseless rhythmic creaking of the chair's rockers on the wooden floor. Your aunt is facing toward you, but gives no sign of noticing you as you approach. She stares straight ahead, her eyes glassy as she rocks.
"Are you all right?" You lay hand against her arm, shaking lightly. "Aunt-"
She splits down the middle, grey dust pouring from the empty shell of a human being. You gasp as you stagger backward, choking as the dust swirls into your lungs.
"Well, now look what you've done," an irritated voice snaps behind you.
You turn quickly, reaching for your cousin. "I don't know what happened! We have to-"
"I told you," he said. "Didn't I tell you? You have to do what I say, or she won't want you any more. Now look what you did. Now she doesn't want anyone."
"I'm sorry," you say, clinging to your cousin's sleeve. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I tried to be good, I really did. I tried to make her want me."
"It was fine with just the two of us," he says, shaking your hands off his arm. "You had to come and ruin everything. Everything you touch turns to dust."
"No!" You take a step back, and your feet raise clouds of shimmering grey that drift to coat everything in the room. You can taste it on the back of your tongue, and fight the urge to be sick. "I was just trying to help. I don't want to turn anyone into dust. I don't want-"
"Nobody cares what you want. Come with me." Meekly, you follow him through the door to the kitchen. He leans on the counter and picks up the glass sitting on it. "Here. Drink this. It'll help."
You take it from him, looking dubiously at the thick dark liquid within. "What is it?"
"You're asking stupid questions again. I told you, just do as I say. Remember what happened the last time you didn't listen to me?"
You glance in horror through the doorway; you can see the empty shell still endlessly rocking in the corner of the other room. Shaking, you raise the glass to your lips. The stench of it overwhelms you, thick and cloying with the sweet sour overtones of rot, and you gag. "I can't."
Between one breath and the next, he's on you, pushing you back against the wall hard enough that your head slams back against it. As stars dance across your vision, he knots his fingers in your hair and yanks, pulling your head back. You cry out, and he forces the glass against your lips, tipping the contents down your throat.
It burns its way down to your gut, where it sits like a lump of molten lead. He's still pushing the glass at you, trying to make you finish its contents, but through tears of pain, your groping hands come in contact with cool metal, and you grab a frying pan off the counter, striking him away. He staggers back, glaring at you with undisguised fury burning in his eyes. "You stupid brat!"
Spears of pain knife through your gut, and you stumble, barely able to keep the pan in front of you. "What did you do to me?"
"If you'd just drunk the whole thing like I told you, it wouldn't hurt right now. This is your fault."
The fire moves, spreading through you, and sick realization forces the gorge up your throat. "You're hollowing me out. Like her."
"You'll listen better that way. I'm doing you a favour, really." He grins. "You don't think I heard you crying at night, but I did. Think how much nicer it will be when you don't have to feel anything."
"I've been there already," you whimper through the pain, sinking to the floor. "It's worse. It's so much worse."
He shrugs. "Whatever. It's not like it matters to me. As long as I get my way, I don't care either way. You'll do what I want. Everyone always does."
There's a cupcake on the counter next to him. Someone clearly spent a long time on it. The white frosting is lovingly decorated with delicate yellow spun sugar flowers and sugar pearls, and the little card in front of it reads, "FOR KATIE," the words in shaky cursive surrounded by a field of glued-on glitter and rhinestones. Casting you a smug look, he picks it up and bites into it with obvious, exaggerated relish.
Wow, what a maroon. I can't believe that actually worked.
Heedless of the voice snarking in your ear, your cousin crams the rest of the cupcake into his mouth. "Too bad you're not feeling well. Couldn't have this going to waste. It was really...really...nnnngh."
His eyes roll back in his head and he slumps forward, his head hitting the counter on his way to the ground with a thunk that would have been satisfying if not for the molten lava eating away at you from the inside out.
A soft snort next to you drags your attention from your cousin to the other boy sitting next to you. He still has the biggest, bluest eyes you've ever seen, and combined with the grin he's sporting and the wink he gives you, they make him seem like something out of one of your storybooks. His blonde hair tumbles in waves past his shoulders, and he hooks it behind his ear as he rises to his feet and takes your hands.
Come on. He tugs you up with him, supporting you to a chair at the kitchen table. You can worry about that moron later. Let's do something about that gunk he served you.
"The… The cupcake…?"
Yeah, sorry about the card, but I had to use your other name or he wouldn't have gotten that it was supposed to be for you. Has he ever called you Frisk?
"He th-thinks it's s-stupid."
Thought so. What does he know? Gently, he pries the frying pan from your death grip on it and sets it on the stove. Knew there was no better way to get a cruel jerk to eat something than to make him think it was for somebody else.
Poking his head in the fridge, he rummages for a moment or two before bearing an armload of ingredients back to the counter. Brushing his hands off on his faded apron, he throws some butter into the hot pan.
That guy is proof that we're directly related to gorillas. He shakes his head, deftly cracking an egg against the side of the pan. I seriously cannot believe you two came from the same grandparents.
"I-" you begin, but your words are swallowed by another cry of pain.
He looks at you with concern, and dumps the contents of the pan onto a plate. He carries it quickly over to you, setting it before you and placing a fork in your hand. Here. Eat this.
You look down at the eggs on the plate. They're a flawless, perfect sunny-side-up, practically shining with the love that went into the making of them. And even the thought of eating them causes the poison writhing inside you to revolt, until you can barely see from the nausea and the pain.
Here. He takes the fork from you as you squeeze your eyes closed. Trust me, Frisk. I'll take care of you. His hand rests against your shoulder in gentle encouragement, and the kindness undoes you. The further the poison spreads, the harder it is to do anything of your own volition, but you can do this much before it consumes you entirely. Shaking so hard you can barely stay upright, you open your mouth for him.
When the forkful of eggs touches your tongue, a burst of colour blossoms behind your eyes. Green, bright and vibrant as the spring, washes over and through you, a verdant tide that extinguishes the fire within you. He gives you another bite, and the nausea subsides, replaced with a voracious hunger. He laughs as you take the fork from him and attack the plate yourself, and it's a sound of pure and utter joy. He watches you as you eat, the expression on his face equal parts pride, satisfaction, and love. There's no judgement in him, not even when you lick the plate clean. He just takes it from you and sets it aside, then rests his hand on yours. Better?
You nod, your lip trembling, and his arms fold around you. As you bury your head against him, his hand is gentle against your hair as he strokes, soothing you until the shock and the fear work their way out of you. He only stops when you recover yourself enough to hold him in turn, and you cling to each other in the shell of the house that only ever pretended to be your home.
I'm sorry he was so cruel.
You raise your head from his shoulder, looking down at the prone body of your cousin on the floor. "He wasn't ever as bad as that, really. Just...very selfish. He didn't understand why I was here, and he wasn't…wasn't kind enough to let himself understand what I was feeling."
That's no excuse. Being kind is easy, if you have any kind of heart in you. He winks at you, making you smile despite your mood. I should know.
"I worry sometimes," you admit as he lets go of you. Struggling to find the words, you swing your feet against the chair. "There are so many people who want so much from the Ambassador, and some of them aren't very nice. I worry that if they keep at it, I'll forget how to be kind, too."
I wouldn't worry, he says, confident rather than dismissive. He runs his hands through your hair, separating it into sections and beginning to braid it. I've had a good look at your heart, you know. I think you'll be fine. Especially with the people you've got around you to remind you what kindness looks like. Lacking anything to tie the braid off with, he glances around helplessly for a moment before grabbing a stalk of parsley and using that to secure the braid. With a nod of satisfaction, he starts on the other side. Now, if you were still living with people like him, it might be different. But you don't have to worry about that. I don't think your new family is letting you go without a fight. He finishes the second braid, and moves back to the counter.
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "You're probably right about that."
Must be nice, he says. Clearly, he means it to sound flippant, but he can't hide the thread of melancholy that creeps into the words. Not from you. Not here. You slip from the chair, much steadier on your feet now, and move up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and hugging tightly. You hear him give a soft laugh, and he rests his hand on yours in silent thanks before tugging them free and placing an egg sandwich in them instead. With a squeak of delight, you tear into it, making him laugh again.
As you finish it off, licking the last of it off your fingers, you glance over at your cousin again, wondering what you're supposed to do about him. Then, you freeze, not daring to move, or breathe, as your cousin begins to stir.
Frisk?
"What do I do?" His voice breaks your paralysis, and you grab his arm. "I'm scared. I don't know what to do!"
He smiles and takes your hand. Yes, you do. What did we just talk about?
Just like that, you understand. Fear has formed a cold knot in your belly in stark contrast to your earlier pain, and you're shaking more than a little, but you know what you need to do. Drawing a deep breath, you turn your back on your twitching cousin and set the pan on the stove.
You've never really done this by yourself, but then, you don't really have to this time, either. As your shaking hands crack an egg into the pan, he slips his apron off and ties it around you. It's a bold choice, with its bright heart emblazoned on the orange fabric, but it always filled you with determination. You clench your jaw as you reach for the seasoning, determined to do this right.
He's with you every step of the way, his hands guiding yours, his words of gentle encouragement buoying you when you falter. You don't dare turn around. Looking behind you now would ruin everything. As fearful as you are, you can't let that colour what you're doing.
That's it. Think about why you're doing this.
Nodding, you add the final combination of ingredients, and shift the contents onto a plate. When you turn, your cousin is on his feet, coming toward you. But he stops when you hold the dish out to him. He stares at it as though waiting for you to throw it at him, but the egg scramble just sits there innocently, waiting.
"What's this?" he asks.
"I made it for you."
He takes a step back, eyeing you warily. "Why?"
"Because I'm sorry," you tell him. You don't bother explaining exactly what you're sorry about. He won't understand. You're not sorry for anything you did, but for the fact that his life turned him into what he is. The dream version of him is just taken to the farthest extreme. What he did to you was unforgivable...but you pity him all the same.
He grabs the plate from you, setting it down hard on the table, still watching you warily, waiting for the attack that won't come. He hesitates, and then tosses a fork at you. It clatters on the counter next to you. "You first."
You take a forkful of the egg and eat it quickly, pulling back as soon as you can. It's good enough that the temptation to keep eating is almost insurmountable, and from the look of smug satisfaction on your companion's face, he knows it too. Your cousin, however, sees none of that. He sees only you and the plate you've set before you. Still skittish, he sits at the table, and puts a bite into his mouth.
His eyes widen, and he tears into the plate, wolfing the eggs down so fast that you're surprised he doesn't eat the plate, too. When he finishes, he looks at you expectantly, and you knot your hands in your apron. "Did you want more?"
"Of course," he snaps. "You've finally found something useful to do, you can't just stop there…"
He breaks off suddenly, his hands gripping the sides of the table. There's a terrible rumbling from within him, and he looks up at you, more frightened than you have ever seen him.
"What's wrong?" You take a step forward, reaching out a hand.
"What-what did you do to me?" His hand stretches toward yours, but as your fingers brush, a spiderweb of cracks blossoms across his skin. He cries out, clasping the hand to his chest, but it only makes it worse. The cracks spread as you watch in helpless horror, creeping up his arms, his neck, across his chest. "What… What did…." He staggers back into a wall, sinking to the floor as he glares up at you in terrified accusation.
"What's happening?" You turn to the other boy, but despite his earlier dismissal of your cousin, there is pity and compassion on his face as he watches the display. He looks at you, his blue eyes shining with regret.
That meal was made of kindness. I don't think his body knows how to handle that. It's undoing him.
You turn back, desperate, but the cracks have spread across your cousin's face, and he spits at you as you reach for him. You take a step back, and the floor steams where the spit lands. "You," he says, in his cracked and broken voice. "You break everything you touch."
"Please, let me help!" Skirting the steaming hole in the floor, you lay your hand on his shoulder, determined to do something. With a sickening crack, he shatters into pieces beneath your touch.
As you sit there, staring at your hands in shock, another, deeper crack echoes through the room, and as you look up, a deep, jagged gash appears in the opposite wall. Gasping, you lurch to your feet, but the cracks are everywhere as the house begins to break beneath you. You look to the other room just in time to see the entire corner where the shell of your aunt rocks crumble and fall away into nothing. Everywhere you turn, there's more of the same, the cracks spreading through the walls. Only the floor you stand on is free of them, and that solid space is shrinking rapidly as the fissures creep toward you. Frightened, helpless, you begin to cry.
Then, warm arms are around you, golden hair shielding you from the sight of the world ending as he rests his chin atop your head. You cling to him, burying your face against his chest, and he holds you tightly as the world comes tumbling down.
It's not your fault, Frisk. Some people just can't handle kindness. Never let that stop you from trying.
"Please," you whimper. "Please, stay with me."
I wish I could. Just remember this. Remember me. Don't forget to be kind.
You cling harder, your tears flowing freely as you nod. You break everything you touch. Even the world. But the memory…you can keep the memory whole.
He sighs, and the world shatters.
You lurch violently into waking, though it's a quiet sort of violence. You make no sound, the aftermath of adrenaline leaving you weak and shaking and barely able to form a thought, let alone a cry. Slowly, you come back to yourself, one piece at a time. As you regain the strength to move, you raise a hand to your cheek, and it comes away damp. It is an effort, but you manage to prop yourself up against your pillows.
Sunlight streams through your windows, splashing warmth over your bedspread and making the friendly skulls that dot the fabric even brighter as they grin up at you. The cheerful sunshine is at odds with your mood, and seems determined to keep you from any sort of wallowing. Unable to resist so emphatic a display, you sigh and slide your legs over the edge of the bed.
Yawning, you reach for the jar of sprinkles on your nightstand, sprinkling a few over the rock that keeps silent watch over you while you sleep. The little dots of colour seem to make the little grey rock seem a little more cheerful, at least, and for a moment, that reminds you of its original owner. It's such a small act of kindness, and you can't explain it to anyone outside the family, but it means a lot that Sans entrusted the rock to you. Sometimes he feels small and grey too, and if you can't brighten him up the same way with sprinkles, you find that hugs often work pretty well instead.
The morning rock-feeding accomplished, you run your hands through your messy hair, decide you can't be bothered with brushing, and slide the rest of the way to the floor, quickly jamming your feet into your fuzzy slippers. The carpet helps a lot, but you still hate the feel of the cold floor on your toes in the morning, and it's taking a while for the brothers to figure out a comfortable human temperature.
Your skeleton pyjamas keep the rest of you warm, at least, and as you open your bedroom door, a host of smells washes over you. It smells like spaghetti, which is nothing unusual, but there is something else. Something sweet, and savoury; bright and welcoming. Suddenly feeling very much alone, you hurry toward the stairs.
You pause on the landing just before heading down. There's a new addition to the photos on the wall. Your brow furrows for a moment before you recognize it, and when you do, you're not at all sure how you feel about it. When you were in the hospital, Papyrus must have demanded a copy of your x-rays from the doctor, because that skeletal head and shoulders hanging in the shiny new frame on the stairs is yours. It sits between the framed pictures of Sans and Papyrus, and Papyrus and Undyne, and Undyne and Alphys, like it has every right to be there. A strange mix of emotions fills you; there's still something about your x-rays that makes it uncomfortable for you to look at them, though you can't figure out what, but the fact that Sans and Papyrus have hung yours on the wall like it's some kind of class photo makes something ache deep within you. Those strange feelings hurry your steps, and you're practically running by the time you hit the kitchen.
Papyrus is in his place of pride behind the stove wearing his "BONE TO BE WILD" apron, and he's humming something as you skid into the room, barely catching yourself before you hit the kitchen table. He turns and gives a crow of delight.
"AH, HUMAN! HOW FORTUITOUS THAT YOU HAVE ARRIVED IN SUCH A TIMELY FASHION! WITH SANS OUT AT HIS CLASS WITH TORIEL, YOU AND I MAY DELIGHT IN THESE CULINARY EXPERIMENTS OF WONDROUS RAPTURE WITHOUT FEAR OF-" He breaks off, really seeing you for the first time, and he sets down the spatula he's holding. "...AH."
Your damp cheeks redden, and you try your best to disappear behind a kitchen chair. "Sorry, you can keep talking. I want to hear the rest."
But instead of going back to the pots and pans bubbling on the stove, he closes the distance between you and goes down on one knee, eliminating most of his imposing height. "I WILL, OF COURSE, PROCEED TO DELIGHT YOU WITH EPICUREAN ASTONISHMENTS IN DUE TIME, BUT FIRST, WILL YOU TELL ME WHAT IS WRONG?"
"Nothing," you insist. "I'm fine, Papyrus."
But he just gives a "NYEH" at that, and rests a hand against your shoulder. "PLEASE, SMALL HUMAN, I DO KNOW WHAT A BAD DREAM LOOKS LIKE." There's a deep empathy and understanding in the shadows of his eyes as he lets go of your shoulder, taking your hand instead - though he's got oven mitts instead of gloves or mittens today, that doesn't seem to hinder him any - and he covers it with the other. "AT LEAST TELL ME IF THERE IS SOMETHING I CAN DO TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER."
You don't need to think very long on that at all. Freeing your hand from his, you hold up both your arms in a silent entreaty. It's one he doesn't need any help interpreting. With an understanding "NYEH-HEH-HEH," he rises to his feet and scoops you into his arms, balancing you on one hip as he returns to the stove.
Clinging to him like a little koala, you rest your head against his shoulder with a soft, contented sigh, listening as he begins to outline his master plan. There's an easy, effortless strength in the way he holds you, his free hand returning to his culinary creations. He's spent so much time holding you that he doesn't even have to think about it any more. He should be scary, your tall, strong, skeleton friend. Should be. But he isn't. With the possible exception of Toriel, he's the most comforting person you know, and even Mom has her scary side. Papyrus is just… Papyrus.
"Papy?"
"-AND SO THEN I TOLD GRILLBY THAT IF HE DIDN'T WANT THIS AMAZING- EH? YES, HUMAN?"
"Back Underground, when everyone wanted to… You know. To hurt me…" He turns his head sharply at that, but you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the pan in front of you. "...why didn't you?"
"FRISK!" His shocked exclamation is forceful enough that you feel the vibration of it in your bones. "YOU ARE MY COOL, AWESOME FRIEND WHO LIKES SPAGHETTI AND PUZZLES! HOW COULD I EVER WANT TO HURT YOU?"
He knows. You can feel it in the way his hold on you changes. It's not a big change, but there's a reassurance and a protectiveness in it that wasn't there before. The knowledge is there in his touch. In his use of your name. Of course he knows. He said it himself, just a few minutes ago. He's lived his whole life with Sans; he knows when someone is trying to sort out a bad dream without really talking about it.
You hear people talking, at the school and at the embassy. A lot of people don't really get Papyrus. They think he's foolish, or immature, or stupid, but that's not it at all, really. He understands more than most people think, he just actively and emphatically rejects anything that doesn't mesh with his view that the world is generally an awesome place and the people in it are pretty great, too. And he does it with such commitment that most of the people around him end up changing themselves to fit; it's hard to withstand the force of such passionate, vehement kindness. Sans gets it, and Undyne, to an extent, though she also goes out of her way to make sure that the limit of his kindness is never tested. And you're starting to get it, too.
You're still not sure how he would have reacted if any of the people tried to hurt you had succeeded - well, succeeded permanently, though you shy away from that thought pretty quickly - and you wonder, briefly, why Sans chose to introduce the two of you at all. Papyrus never met any of the others who came before, though you're sure he would have loved pretty much all of them.
So why you?
He's back on the subject of Grillby's failure to recognize his culinary genius, having summarily rejected any and all thought of hurting you. Tightening your hold on him, you lift yourself up until you can kiss his bony cheek.
It breaks off his tirade mid-stream, and he blushes with a soft "NYEH." Unable to return the gesture, he leans his head against yours instead. "WELL, YOU, AT LEAST, ARE CLEVER. YOU TELL ME. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS FABULOUS COMBINATION OF BREAKFAST AND PASTA?" He scoops out a forkful of his creation from the pan and offers it to you.
The thing in the pan is not quite a quiche, but there's definitely a lot of egg involved. You brace yourself, but he really has been getting better, and though there's still a certain indescribable something to the spaghetti that makes you unsure if you love it or if you want to bring it back up again, there's something more to it that fills you with warmth and hope, gently teasing away the last of the effects of your dream and leaving you feeling more yourself than you have since you woke up. You think about it carefully before offering an answer.
"It's really good," you tell him. "But can I make a suggestion?"
Some people would take offence at that. But those people aren't Papyrus. He just beams at you and gathers you into an affectionate hug. "OF COURSE! WITH OUR COMBINED AWESOMENESS AND EXCELLENT TASTE IN FOODSTUFFS, WE CANNOT FAIL TO MAKE THE ULTIMATE BREAKFAST DISH!"
You work together closely on the next round, Papyrus' expertise in pasta combining with your human palate and actual possession of taste buds. Occasionally, he sets you on the counter so that you can chop something, or so that he can free both hands to move something particularly hot (or on fire), but you're never really far from him, and he always picks you up again before anything resembling sadness can get its claws into you. From your perch on him, you can see everything from his perspective, offering suggestions when you need to and tasting things that he offers you. Finally, your grand experiment is done. The Spaghetti Frittata à la Skeleton steams proudly on its plate, and you accept your first bite of the slice Papyrus has cut for you. He watches anxiously as you chew, scanning your face for any reaction. When you swallow, his patience runs out, and he shifts from foot to foot.
"WELL?"
A shiver runs through you, and you collapse against him. "Oh. Wow. It's amazing."
"HA! WAS THERE EVER ANY DOUBT? TRULY THE GREAT PAPYRUS AND THE JUST-AS-GREAT-AS-PAPYRUS FRISK CANNOT BE DEFEATED IN THE COOKING ARENA!" He laughs, doing a little dance of delight that bounces you until you can't help giggling too. "WAIT UNTIL GRILLBY TASTES *THIS*! SURELY HE WILL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO CONCEDE DEFEAT TO WE EPICUREAN MASTERS!"
"Okay," you tell him, "but I was wondering…"
"HM? WHAT IS IT, HUMAN?"
"Could we take some to our friends first?"
He looks at you in surprise, his gaze darting between you and the frittata, before his expression softens and he tousles your hair. "YES. YES, I THINK THAT IS A TRULY EXCELLENT IDEA."
It takes you only a few minutes to get dressed, though you despair of what to do with your hair. It's coming in much curlier, and you're not used to how the brush sticks in it. But there's a nip in the air, so you settle for tucking it under a hat. Darting back down the stairs, Papyrus greets you with your jacket and a lumpy scarf. "BUNDLE UP, HUMAN. IT IS COLD TODAY."
As you eagerly comply, he picks up the frittata you have carefully packed, tied up in a neat fabric package with a pretty bow on the top the way your human mother showed you a long time ago. His precious cargo secure, he opens the door, and sunlight streams in through the door. Turning back to you, he holds out his hand.
"COME, FRISK. OUR SUPER-COOL DELIVERY SERVICE AWAITS!"
Smiling, you take his hand, and step with him across the threshold and into a brighter day.