"Glad to help," they answer automatically. Helping is their job, always has been, always will be, and they are glad when things go right thanks to them. So this is good. They did good. Maybe.

They can't mirror Gaster's anxiety--if he messes up, they'll need to fix it, they need to be calm--but trepidation rises in their chest anyway. "Wish I could do it," Frisk blurts. "Instead of him."

The wavy lines on the screen start pushing their way out in ripples, slowly searching for fingers to grab.