The answer comes from everywhere at once, in the crowd of scientists around them. "Ours'. Everyone's. His time is not his own. It is not his to waste." The other scientists follow Frisk after the two skeletons, with the slow inevitability of the tides even if they remain at an indistinct distance.

The Sans-Serif who can talk, meanwhile, has exhausted his screaming and has mostly been left a sobbing, whimpering mess, trying in vain to tug on the strings and slow down the doll. Frisk is the only one with a face. Frisk is the only one with a face that he can see. He stares pleadingly up at them, as he's dragged along.

"wh-where's my brother? i want my brother. what did you do to him? he's been r-really good, you don't have to put him back there..."