They should feel bad, they don't, they don't, they don't. * She's too gross.

"Fuck," Frisk snarls with feeling, skidding and falling--it doesn't make the right kind of noise, a weird hollow thud, and their arms're abruptly far too weak to push them and their metal skeleton back to their feet.

Frisk worms across the revolting floor instead, digging into the floor with their needles and dragging until they're by the bolted part, and they start to pull at it.

"Let them go!" they howl over the mother's wails.