*Smells familiar.

[dustless]

[warning for child death, gore, general trauma]

Chara's dead. Chara-and-Frisk.

Slice across the throat. Just the one. Still bad. It makes their own hurt like their scar's peeling open.

But they've got a job to do now, because--Frisk just can't leave them there. To rot. For other people to find.

So they don't.

Takes a lot of work, figuring out how to move their body. Dragging's horrible, even when they thought about using a blanket or something. Carrying them fails, because they're literal dead weight, even if they're pretty scrawny.

In the end, they manage to shift them around until they've got the corpse on their back. The most disgusting and macabre piggyback ride, and Frisk needs to keep being hunched over uncomfortably for it to work, but. It does.

It also leaves them completely covered in blood, especially the half where Chara's head ends up lolling, sending rivulets of red down that side and makes a trail all the way from the bottom of the stairs to the garden. Frisk's not really aware of that. Frisk's not really aware of anything except the steps they need to take.

Bring the body outside, to the garden. Not far from where their body and the first Chara's were buried, actually, though a little more concealed behind a stand of trees. Go get a shovel. Dig.

They won't be able to dig as deep as six feet alone, and they can't build a coffin. Doesn't matter. Frisk just needs to make it big enough for them to fit under the dirt.

Chara-and-Frisk will be back soon enough.






Addendum: one more body, one more burial.

Comments

still okay with hijacking to teach him a lesson

[boogerman]

It's still dark enough for him to be outside, which is good. He's been following the body, the only one in the castle who wouldn't be the least bit upset at a dead child. He's seen thousands. Perhaps a million. After all, he's very old and once upon a time children died like flies. Even ones he knew and spent time with. The modern world is so coddled.

He creeps along, leaping hiding place inside one shadow to another shadow like he's dancing, catching up to the place Frisk has apparently chosen to bury the body. Suddenly he's real, solid, and looming. "Going to clean up the blood too?"

they'll probably get upset enough to do it alone if he messes w/ the body tbh

[dustless]

The shovel they've got sinks into the earth beneath their foot. Beyond that, they've gone still.

Pitch. Not Serif or Papyrus or another kid, which the sudden presence made them worried about until he spoke.

Their head turns. Slowly. Regarding the the blood that's on the grass, all the way over to them.

"Oh. I'll. Do that. When I'm done. Yes."

[boogerman]

"Why don't you toss the possessed little freak over the edge and be done with it?" He chuckles to himself, calling his sand-scythe out of nowhere like he's pretending to be Death. (He'd be better at it than that pansy skeleton running around.)

"Or let me if it's too heavy for you!"

[dustless]

Again, they stop.

Takes a little while for the implications to get from their ears to their brain, but then they take the shovel out and resolutely turn to the body.

They left it in a patch of shamrocks, not far. "No. They're not. Or a freak. It's fine. Go away."

sry for occasional slow

[boogerman]

He follows. That's the exact opposite of going away. Imagine a world in which he listened to anyone without having to be beaten bloody.

"Not a freak? The freak doesn't care about dying any more than I do. Freaks, rather. Throw them overboard and forget it ever happened."

So much drama when the freaks will be back soon! For pity's sake.

same

[dustless]

"I don't care." Frisk feels the same. Doesn't matter. Even if what Pitch makes a little sense, it's--it's just wrong.

Chara-and-Frisk's laid out as respectfully as they could manage, arms sort of folded over their stomach. Frisk stops beside them, gripping the shovel tightly.

"They deserve better than that. Everybody deserves a grave." Instead of just being forgotten.

(Frisk never thought they'd get a grave, either. They almost cried when they heard about theirs.)

[boogerman]

Scoffing from somewhere a few feet above Frisk. He's tall. They're not. "Life's not fair. Not everyone does deserve it and not everyone gets one." It's tempting to kick the body to see the living child panic... Or let it be buried, dig it up, and drop it in someone's bedroom.

"Better dig fast before someone sees you covering up your crime." Aha, a thought occurs. "Imagine what Frost would say."

[dustless]

"I know life's not fair a lot. Doesn't matter. Go. Away." They point at him with the scoop.

Not everyone cares about what Jack thinks, Pitch. They don't want him to see the mess, that's all they're worried about. Nobody should see a dead kid, especially one that's a Guardian of them. "Why? Gonna go get him?" Frisk doesn't even defend themselves.

[boogerman]

"No." he says firmly, feet planted in the dirt. Make him. What will you do, Frisk, try to beat him to death with the shovel? "Nowhere better in the whole wide world to be right now." Hah. See the joke? Shame they're trapped in the same small space with the Nightmare King.

"Should I? Who would you prefer, him or me?"

Burial Number Two

[dustless]

And then they found Kubo.

Or rather, the paper kid, 'cause they never actually learned his name.

Good thing they're not bothering with actual tombstones, they guess. And that they didn't go to the effort to clean themselves up. This kid's been stabbed more. A lot more. Enough that they can't just--carry him on their back like Chara.

He takes a lot more work to move, too. Namely finding a thick blanket to sort of wrap him in (like a mummy's wrapping) to make sure all his guts don't fall out onto the floor, and they sort of half-carry, mostly-drag him to the gardens. Not right next to Chara-and-Frisk but not too far. They're going to have their own little kid graveyard here, aren't they?

They should be feeling more by now, maybe. But they're not. That Frisk doesn't really know this kid at all probably isn't helping.

Anyway.

They wipe their bloody hands on their shirt and pick up the shovel.

Time to dig. Again.

(Although this time, they might not get so mad at anyone who finds them at it.)

[oldmantiger]

Kotetsu has been spending a lot of time in the gardens. He often struggles to find ways to fill his time in the castle, when he's not looking for an escape route, when he's trying not to dwell on the fact that he hasn't found an escape route yet. Staying out in the garden means he can usually spend some time with Grune. And it proves plenty of ways to appreciate the fact that he's real.

When walking no longer holds his interest, Kotetsu climbs. He scales the castle for exercise and just for the sake of exploration, discovering rooms the castle wouldn't let him see from the inside, scaring off pigeons.

Besides, it lets him keep a better eye on the place, on the people in it. So he sees Frisk dragging the...rug? Dragging the thing through the grass. Curiousity means that, when Kotetsu touches down on solid ground again, he goes to investigate.

A hero's instincts never truly waver, however. He notices the spots of...red, in the grass. But somehow refuses to let himself believe what they are. Even so, it leaves the dread mounting higher in the pit of his stomach, until he can feel it as a buzzing in his head as he finally sees Frisk coming into view up ahead.

"Hey, Frisk..." Kotetsu's voice is quiet, careful, and somehow he finds that he can't come too close. "Whatcha doing there?"

[dustless]

Frisk turns.

Eeven though they came up with a cleaner solution than 'carry', they did try, at first. Their arms and sleeves are disgusting, dyed red enough they might've fallen frontfirst into a vat of paint. Except paint doesn't reek like this--but they're already impervious to that.

Plus there's a shovel in their hands, and the blanket that used to be sort of seafoam and really isn't anymore at their feet.

Kotetsu. Another person they didn't want to see this.

"You should go," they suggest bluntly instead of answering.

[oldmantiger]

He can hear his mind grinding like an overwound clock as it tries so, so hard to deny the reality in front of him. But in the end, reality wins out. He's seen plenty of terrible things, after all. He's had people die in his arms, he's seen men burned alive into nothing but ashes.

...somehow, the sight of Frisk standing there covered in...covered in blood is worse than almost any of it. And that rug, at their feet, it's stained with and wrapped around and oh god...

Kotetsu draws in a long, shuddering breath, as though he's just been stabbed as well. His gaze goes from Frisk's face, to their arms, to the blanket, and Frisk will probably be able to see the moment realization fully dawns, a split second before Kotetsu crosses the distance between them in a couple of strides, to kneel down beside the bloodstained bundle.

He moves to carefully unwrap it, his hands almost seeming to act of their own accord, even though he has a pretty good idea of what he's going to find when he does.

[dustless]

Damn it.

They swallow hard.

"Look, Kotetsu, don't, really." They push the shovel's scoop at him, trying to knock his hands away--admittedly none-too-gently, but they're not thinking about that. Or how dirty the shovel already is with actual soil, so that's already showering the blanket a little before it needs to. "You don't want to see--you just don't, so quit it and go." Or at least just quit it. It's a nightmare to see just how carved up that poor kid is.

[oldmantiger]

He's too far gone to even register the pain. Instead, once it sinks in what they're trying to do, his hand lashes out, grabbing hold of the shovel just above the scoop. He tugs hard, trying to tear it out of their grasp. Kotetsu can piece together a situation very, very quickly, when given enough motivation. Upturned dirt, a shovel, a body...he can guess what they're trying to do, even through the fog of horror. And it's something they really, really shouldn't be doing.

Even then, he can't bring himself to unwrap the body all the way. He catches a glimpse of black hair, of a face, and his nerves fail him entirely. Because he does know this child, he saw them when he was dead and they were scared and now they're dead and why is there so much blood...

He falls back into a sitting position, breathing hard, eyes wide and staring unseeing. He presses both hands against his mouth, swallowing back the sudden, piercing urge to be sick. The same thoughts chase themselves around his mind. That is a child. That is a dead child. Someone killed this child.

"Who did this?" he asks around his hands, his tone hard and cold like ice, in a brittle sort of way to mask the fact that he's trying not to fall to pieces. He can't - not while there's another child present.

[dustless]

And if he looks around, maybe he'll spot a drier blood trail leading to another mound not far from here. Frisk's certainly not going to mention it.

They crouch and pull the blanket back, re-covering the kid's face, if only for Kotetsu. They were probably going to unwrap him all the way once they got the hole dug deep enough.

The way he's breathing already telegraphs how messed up he is right now. They're not looking at his face, they can't.

"Nobody you can beat up," they say shortly. "Go...just go, okay."

[oldmantiger]

Kotetsu isn't in any fit state to notice. He's about at his limit on horror. He might notice later, and that will just make it even harder to fight the urge to curl up somewhere and drink himself senseless. Maybe if he clears out the cellar under the kitchen, he'll be able to sleep without remembering this and stop it, damn it, stop it.

He blinks his vision clear, jolted back to life by Frisk's movement. He looks at them, looks at the blanket...and then immediately looks away. As much to get some distance as anything else, he gets to his feet, and when he takes a deep breath it doesn't taste quite as much like blood. His hands are clenched tight at his sides, but it doesn't stop them shaking, even the one that's now clenched tightly around the slick handle of the shovel.

"I can beat up anyone who would do this to a child." Giant crocodiles, evil ghosts, robots, anyone, anyone. Let him find whoever did this and punish them. Let there be justice for this. "Tell me who it was, Frisk. I won't let them get away with this."

For the first body

[sansational]

Sans doesn't announce his arrival at first, but by now, Frisk might be used to the feeling of air displacing itself when he just...appears.

He stands, staring at the body. Staring at the soul, at the souls, still trapped beneath the cold, torn flesh in that strange and unnatural way that seems to be unique to this place. His hands are clenched tightly at his side, his jaw is clenched tightly enough that later he'll realize that his teeth hurt.

He's trying just to think of the future. Trying not to dwell on the past. Dwelling never does any good, dwelling is how you go absolutely, uselessly insane. But somehow, in his efforts not to think about the memory of blood soaking into his slippers, he says something terribly unhelpful instead.

"i knew there were getting to be too many of them."

Too many of everyone, really. He can't keep an eye on everyone anymore. He has too many blind spots. He should have been able to stop this, but even he can't be everywhere anymore.

[dustless]

That's true--it was unhelpful. Incredibly unhelpful. Even worse than unhelpful, maybe.

Frisk's not looking at him. They're looking at them, and the shovel they'd dumped at their own feet, because they're not quite detached enough to keep working endlessly. Their arms are tired. This is going to be tough. They're taking a short break.

"Was that. A joke."

It sounded almost like one. Too many Charas to murder and be murdered.

Ha ha ha.

"That's not funny."

[sansational]

The tone of their voice makes him flinch. For a moment, he considers just taking a hasty shortcut away, right then and there. After all, if anyone has a place here, it certainly isn't him. He didn't have a place at the other Chara's funeral, either, but he still brought flowers, for the sake of...what? Absolution? Months later, he still doesn't know. Maybe it had been his own sick joke, and he'd been looking for someon to either laugh with him or punch him into dust. Maybe just because no one should have their funeral go unattended, not even the worst of the worst. Funerals were...more important than that.

This time, he knows he's here in search of answers. But he can also see that flowers might actually be more appropriate this time, since he knows he wasn't the murderer this time.

Sans takes a deep breath, uses the time to try and think of something to say. At last, he shakes his head even though Frisk can't see.

"...no. it's not, is it? i mean..." Here he shrugs, rattling a little as he does so. "if it was the one who killed you, that'd be a little funny. only to me, i know, but still. but these two..." He slumps, sighs, aching down to his marrow. "...these two were okay." They definitely didn't deserve a death that looked as painful as this one did.

"i'm sorry."

[dustless]

They inhale, they exhale, a little too loud. There's copper clinging to the inside of their throat.

Two, so that means he knows. Not that it matters.

"It's not," they agree woodenly to their own point, and they don't move, and they don't move, and then they feel like they're going to fall down. Not in the monster way. Well, probably not.

They're not going to, though, in any meaning of the words. They have a job to do, and they have...to be around to greet them when they're back, too.

They bend down slowly to lock their hands around the shovel. It takes a lot of heft to lift, oddly enough.

"It's..." They nearly say 'okay'. Bull. "...it's not your fault."

[sansational]

Not that it matters. They're both just a body now.

He shouldn't think that thought, but he does. And yet, the sight is already a little less disquieting than it was last time. Partly because it's this face, partly because Frisk is right here. But even then...it's easier to hold on to where he is. When he is. He doesn't see the golden hallway every time he blinks.

Sans wonders distantly if that's such a good thing. It certainly can't be a good thing that Frisk is attending to their work with quite such a fixed determination.

"feels like it is," he mumbles quietly. People who haven't hurt anyone don't deserve to be hurt in turn. Somehow, that still feels like the way the world should work, even though he knows all too well that it isn't.

After a moment's further hesitation, he moves over to kneel beside the upturned dirt beside them. Sans doesn't even bother with the pretense that he can lift a shovel for any length of time. So he just uses his hands.

[dustless]

They wonder how weird this is. Compared to dust. Both are messy in a different way.

Frisk's not so far gone that they're going to ask.

"It's not," they repeat, voice a little softer. It's all they can say, and it's the truth. He can't be everywhere. He shouldn't put himself in danger like that even if he could, either.

They sink the blade--scoop--into the soil, and they get six more bits of earth hollowed out before they think to say "You don't need t' help."

[sansational]

"nice of you to say." He's still not sure he believes it. Not sure he ever will, or can. Maybe it will sink in later, but for now, with the scent of blood hanging heavy in his mouth, it's hard to ignore what has for so long been the reality of the situation for Sans. He got these powers so he could put himself in danger, so that the people close to him wouldn't have to. Even if the experiment went wrong in so many ways...he's still stronger than most. He's still good at not getting hurt. Better than these children seem to be.

This, at least, is something he can do that doesn't seem to be upsetting Frisk. Sans' hands pause for a moment in the dirt when they speak...before he gives a little half-shrug, and keeps digging anyway.

"i know i don't have to. but, uh, if i don't help you dig, my only other choices are, like...sitting here and watching you dig. which seems like it'd be kind of creepy. or maybe leaving you here to dig all by yourself. which would be the kind of lazy even i couldn't get behind. you know? so that kinda leaves me with this. at least this way we can both stop faster."

[dustless]

How could it be? If it was his fault, then it was Frisk's fault too. For not looking out for friends, for not being there to try to help at all, so all they can do is mourn and dig a place for them to rest.

"...you can watch. If you you need a break. Not that creepy."

Stopping faster. That should sound nice, maybe, but they'll need to drop the body into the hole and then put all the dirt back over them in a mound, and Frisk needs to hide their face behind their hair to hide the wave of nausea that slides over it. They got this far, they can manage the burial itself too.