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[They've been putting this off.]

[Frisk isn't sure if they're right to wait so long in handing it over, or if it's an unfair judgement of the one they call their Partner. But they had hesitated each time they thought to do it, and the Dagger remained in their inventory, stored carefully in Frisk's deepest pocket. The longer they put it off, the more awkward it feels, and the less they want to admit they've been keeping it from Chara. But with Gyft--no, Christmas, it's Christmas here--with the season upon them, the time feels...maybe not right, but at least more appropriate.]

Chara.

[Frisk sits in their small bedroll, watching the walls of their shared tent ripple with the wind blowing by outside. It's going to be a cold day, seems like.]

I...um. I have something for you.

[Sometime during the day, Frisk seems to have slipped back into the bedroom while Chara was not around. On their bed has been left a small pile of chocolate kisses, as close to real ones as they could find (without any gross organs hidden inside, what the heckie Savrii), and beside that a hand-made card. Drawn on the front is two red hearts and a familiar yellow star below both of them. Inside reads "Happy Valentines, Chara! I know you don't like real hugs and kisses so I hope these are okay!!!! I love you!!".]

Chara, it's Lúcio. I said I would check in. How's your hand? Hope you didn't get an infection.

Stay safe, little dude.

[There's a ping, and Chara will find their TAB lighting up with what is, perhaps, the most straightforward birthday invitation you've ever seen.

Clearly made in a template, maybe titled "PROFESSIONAL LINES" or something equally boring, it invites you to a "a small birthday celebration" at a new restaurant/bar opening in Kauto's Region 1.

There is a button to RSVP, and the additional option to add a "plus one".

It is signed off simply with "SHEPARD".

Will you attend this crunk-ass fête, this... space jam??]

CHARA HONEY.

ARE YOU BUSY? BECAUSE I THINK IT IS ABOUT TIME YOU AND I SPOKE ABOUT SOMETHING, AND I FIND IT TO BE A SUBJECT I WOULD RATHER DISCUSS IN PERSON.

DO YOU MIND MEETING ME AT MY HOUSE? OR WHEREVER IT MIGHT SUIT YOU BEST.

[Frisk has been conspicuously absent today. There's no sign of violent entry, and their bed was properly made (or as much as they usually ever do), so they don't seem to have been taken against their free will. But at the same time there is no note, physical or in either Chara or Asriel's TAB, as to where they have gone.]

[Certainly abnormal.]

[It's not until approximately nine in the morning that Chara has any indication the Ingress didn't simply whisk them away somewhere.]

im okay sorry

ill be home tonight

It ends. Inevitably, it...ends. The Ingress is not a personal plaything, and the signatures they'd pilfered were not for their use, to wage a war on an establishment long since left behind the Moira's invisible trail. Eventually, the world stops burning, and the chaos starts to die. Asriel's owner lies in pieces, decorating the floor, sprayed across the ground in reddened streaks, a throat parted open wide enough for the head to sag at an angle askew.

But the Savrii are the cavalry, and the cavalry arrives, inevitably.

A round shine of purple swells one cheekbone, a ripe plum of a bruise blazing beneath their ribs, scores of thickening red and rusted brown thinning through the tears in their clothes en masse. They'd not expected to return unscathed, and unscathed they never have been. They are, as the turn of events would have it, the last to come through the Ingress before it closes with a bright snap of disengaging energy, immediately surrounded.

A circle of armed guards. From one frying pan to another. Not unlike those whom they'd just gotten done dispensing of with varying success.

One of them speaks; the etiology of the voice is unclear, but the words are inarguable:

"Rescind your weapons and stand down."

Their grip tightens, knuckles blanching across the Knife, scuffed and scratched and bleeding. Their LOVE flickers, swollen with red. It's enough. It's more than enough. They could drive through every one of them, cleave through them, cut them apart. They could - could try, couldn't they, and they'd fail but they'd fail with bullets slammed through the meat of their lungs, their over-adrenalized muscle. In the wake of everything, Asriel would be happier, infinitely so, without the invisible specter of his former owner hanging like a cruel shadow over his head. He has the friend he wished he always had. He has a hypocritical bag of bolts to pat his ass, to cling to him, to burden him with every problem he cannot possibly fix.

Muscles tightening around the bristling circle of weapons, fingers closing over triggers in preparation to fire.

The air is silent, thick with anticipation.

And in the midst of them, a spot of a face in the thicket of shoulders, close-knit. Both familiar and startling in its familiarity, outlined with -

Concern?

They'd not requested any assistance. Not from their employer. Not from Shepard - Shepard, the unanticipated variable. Anomalous in both her appearance and her support, her will to redirect what had to be redirected.

Their breath hisses between their teeth in a ragged, hungry intake. They could. They - could. They could bring that crashing down over their own shoulders, an even vaster, cleaner, harsher demonstration of what they deserve, claw the full force of Thisavrou's laws thunderclapping into their moth-eaten remnants of a SOUL, let it all burn and fade like a comet's flare-and-spiraling trail. Get what they deserve! Get what's coming to them! Just to prove, how well and truly and deeply and completely they should.

It gutters in the pit of their chest, pooling in their stomach. And in the thick of them them, inexplicably, they can see her, Shepard, tensing on the spot, as though ready to take that cue. As though ready to FIGHT on their behalf - on theirs! When they've already done -

"Rescind your weapons," repeats the spokesperson, taut and abrupt, "and stand down."

A whistling drag of breath between their teeth. The burn of every bruise and sore rimming muscles and skin. The roughness of the Knife's hilt against the pads of their fingers.

The Savrii are well armed. Who could blame them? They're dealing with dangerous, disruptive criminals here! They're dealing with the worst, are they not, they very worst, those who crudely and ruthlessly abused the Ingress technology, upended the careful order established on the worlds on which they count as little more than glorified house guests, upended the tables, broke all the dishes, whittled the chair legs into stakes, burned every inch of the rental car and poured gasoline over the ashes!

She wouldn't.

Would she?

If you comply, you make that choice. You choose what it is they know, how much you relinquish, how much you give up. You orchestrate what they take.

So the child straightens.

And they smile.

A neat roll of one wrist, and they offer the Knife out, hilt first. It's deftly drawn from their grasp, and the moment it's slid from between their fingertips, it shifts, fluidly, from red-patterned metal to a piece of worn steel, unextraordinary. 15 ATK. Unremarkable. Untouched by whatever special qualities in their wisp of a SOUL that infuses it with its own aura, blazing scarlet. Something tugs in their chest as it's torn from them, and then there are hands. Hands reaching, searching, traveling up and down along their arms and legs and across their sides and the breath stops in their throat. Clawing, swarming, reaching, patting them down to ensure they've nothing else on their person. A blade fished out from their sleeve, another tucked in their boot. One kept pinned to their belt. Small blades removed and discarded, and their heart thunders in sickening staccato, roaring in their ears, burning behind their lids. Waiting, waiting for the strike that follows, the pinch that bruises their skin dark yellow. Bracing for the invisible slap. Hands turning them open and over with an adroit dispassion, simply and easy, as though it does not blaze beneath their skin with a cold itch. It's what you deserve, Chara. It's what you have coming. You've been bad, and now this is how you're going to be. You're going to be punished. You're going to be free!

A giggle bubbling in the back of their throat, deranged. It attracts a host of odd looks, but most everyone seems to be - distracted, at the moment. Closing the Ingress away, sealing it into silence.

And then

Then

Then they are bundled along, jostled, because they've lost the right to their own skin, to their own air, and Shepard's presence, even now, isn't wholly clear. She keeps looking their way with a significance to her glance, but whatever she intends to communicate is utterly lost to them, to the buzzing just behind their ears, the beat of their own blood vessels in their brain.

She has to call out to get the attention of the group that's intent on disarming. She has to call out, and she shifts forward a step, just for a moment.

Something glitters in the air in a golden parabolic arc, glinting coldly. Out of weary reflex, their hands snap out, awkwardly, fumbling the catch. It lands nestled in the cradle of their joined palms.

A gold coin with the shape of a plus sign emblazoned across the front.

Your LOVE -

Your LOVE -

A static cling in the back of their throat, stinging and sharp, tacky as blood. Something hoarse and wet pricking at the corners of their - at nothing, because they don't, it doesn't matter. None of it. The thickening of something swelling in their esophagus that makes it impossible to breathe, the unevenness of their breathing; it's nothing, nothing, nothing more than a small data error.

One of them has it taken away at once. There's another flurry of speech, an exchange beyond the scope of their perception or their insight or both. Claims that it's nothing dangerous. It's simply - a token, as it were.

It means nothing, in the end. Shepard's involvement remains starkly out of place. What reason has she to place herself in the realm of their poorly-advised plan, their endeavors, their justice too tainted to count as justice, their revenge?

The bureaucratic meanderings of whatever passes for a justice system here places them in separate rooms, in the disarmingly-titled Mediation Center. As though titling it as such would completely obfuscate its purpose.

The Locket nestled beneath their clothes is all they've left in the way of protection.

For all the sentiment it carries, a talisman like that is not, and never will be

Enough.

All,

Effective immediately, I will be on a leave of extended absence from Normandy Securities offices. Length estimate at this time is a minimum of 45 consecutive days (during the current 100-day cycle). Additionally, subsequent to receipt of this message, I will be unavailable for contact in any form, digital or otherwise.

During this time, the offices of Normandy Securities will be officially CLOSED, as I will be unavailable for collection and assignment of missions for the next remuneration period (Day 52 - 81). Therefor, all employees (defined as "full-time", "part-time", or "freelance") are subsequently placed on paid leave.

As there will be no bonuses available during the Day 52 - 81 paid leave remuneration cycle, please take note of the amount you should receive on Day 82, adjusted to account for this:
FULL-TIME: 550 SENCS
PART-TIME/FREELANCE: 250 SENCS
All employees should automatically receive their standard bonus-included amounts on the morning of Day 51.

As employees, you will still be able to enter and access the Normandy Securities offices and facilities, should you require anything. NOTE: Armory will be on lockdown during this time.

As always, thank you all for your persistent assistance and hard work in helping to form and continue Normandy Securities. Please use this unplanned vacation time to relax and spend some time with those you love.

Yours in service,

LCDR. Jane Shepard
Normandy Securities

[Over the last five days, Frisk had remained aloof and distant to their siblings. But dismissive, but not interceding where they would not be wanted, simply coming home to reassure the two children of their safety through Frisk's presence. If anything of the incident that first day still bothered Frisk, they never showed it--they didn't show much of anything.]

[When they first wake on the sixth day, however, it hits them like a hammer to the chest. Memories of the last few days are very abruptly for more difficult to deal with, and for a moment they can't--breathe, they need to breathe. Shallow gasps for breath are all they can manage, even whimpers strangled off by the pressure constricting their throat, the light-headed feeling pushing them away from the world.]

[How...how could they have...?]

[They fall out of bed, stumble and scramble out in a frantic rush. Their vision is blurry, and they could swear that the air itself pushes them back--some part of their mind screams that Chara is gone, must be, they deserve to be abandoned just the way they left Chara behind afraid and in pain and--]

[Frisk's shoulder hits the wall adjacent to Chara's room as they collapse to the ground, wheezing quietly and curling in upon themself. Head bowed and trembling, they can't even bring themself to knock on the door.]

Chara

what time is it?

[A normal question. This is a regular, unimportant question. Certainly not meant to draw aything but the simplest reaction.

Certainly nothing to take seriously.

It's nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing is wrong and no one knows any better. It's just a question, right?]

Request data.

Location/status: yourself, Asriel, Frisk?

[So. Here they are. Both of them are stuck in place, unable to move, but fairly lucid. Mettaton is anyway. It infuriates him with each passing moment how little he can affect anything around him. His body is like a leaden weight with no life to it, and he's perfectly clear on why that is.

Dying's a bitch.

Dying alone, though...he doesn't have to worry about that. Chara's here, and for the moment, they are the only one here. He's not a fan. And yet...considering their last conversation did not go too terribly, he's willing to take a chance and strike up a new one.]

Traveling places rarely leads to any good for us, does it?

[A poor excuse for salutations, but Mettaton doesn't sleep, and Chara hadn't moved. No greetings needed, right?]

[After dealing with three shadows, two of them almost immediately after Asriel's revival, Asriel's done his recovering in Mettaton's house. But after a few days, he's noticing that their house is looking pretty empty lately.

After trying to check in on Frisk and Rinzler, Chara's next. He's a little hesitant at first, unsure of what to say.

Best to keep it simple. He's not even sure if Chara knows what happened to him.]

chara are you there?

haven't seen you at home lately and there's been a lot of shadows. are you ok?

Edited (what is formatting) 2017-08-02 05:17 (UTC)

I really like having you as a friend.

I think you're really smart and fun to talk to.

action; morning of December 25th

February 20th

audio

TEXT; Backdated to April 10th

4/23, Afternoon

text; May 9th, mid-morning

PRIVATE RECORD; detailing the events of may 15th, following misuse of the Ingress

BCC'D NORMANDY SECURITIES MASS MAIL; BACKDATED TO MORNING OF MAY 16TH (DAY 36)

May 14th

5/24