*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?"

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.)

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.