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War, Hell, and Coloring

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Breathing, as a natural human function, was required by each and every Homo Sapien Sapien that existed. Frisk knew this for a fact, but in much simpler terms. What they did not know was if monsters had the same need for oxygen as their more fleshy counterparts.
Frisk really, really hoped so.
Mostly because judging by the burning sensation consuming the bottom portion of their lungs, they couldn't run for much longer.
Frisk could hear the blood in their ears, rushing in loud torrents that drowned out the loud sounds of city life. They could feel the impact of their feet on the pavement, skinning down the soles of their shoes on the hot blacktop with small claps.

He was going to catch them!

“STOP!” yelled the monster chasing behind them. He was a plump, chubby cat monster. When Frisk first saw him, they thought he looked peaceful, even cuddly, like the stuffed animals they often stared at through store windows. But, that quickly changed when he began to race after them. Frisk could practically imagine his lumbering footsteps as he tore after them.



They pushed past bystanders of all shapes and sizes, elbowing their way through the thick crowd. They needed to get somewhere safe. Somewhere the royal guard couldn't hear the commotion and snatch Frisk up from the streets.
An alleyway. Frisk needed an alleyway.
A gap in the buildings up ahead would do.
They darted between two bustling restaurants, the aroma of fries and sweet cake melting into an oddly mouthwatering concoction. Warm light poured out of one of the restaurants, basking Frisk in luminescence that cast shadows in monstrous shapes upon their face. The sky blazed orange, fiery tendril grasping as they continued deeper into the alleyway, running towards the darkness.
Frisk slowed down, panting. They paused, waiting to hear the sound of shouting echoing behind them, or the sounds of angry shoes on pavement.
But nobody came.
They were very grateful about that.
They slumped against the wall, safely tucked away from view by a rusty green dumpster that smelled of old bread and cloying icing. Relief soaked through their bones as their shoulders dropped.
That. was. Close.
They pulled a white paper package out of their pocket, carefully peeling away the sheets to reveal their prize.
A smashed pastry sat in Frisk’s hands. Frisk remembered the sign at the shop had called it an… an… epair? Ecliem? Eclee? They thought Eclee sounded right. The chocolate covered bread has caused Frisk’s stomach to complain in want. They had licked their lips, and pressed their grubby hands onto the pristine glass case. It was no wonder that Frisk had decided to snatch it, stuffing it clumsy in their pocket when they believe no one was looking.
But that wasn’t the case.
Frisk looked around the alleyway. It was fairly secluded, and as they were near the back of it, they should not be noticed back here. Staying here for the night shouldn’t be too bad.
But, first, they needed to check something. Stuffing the eclee into their pocket they crawled deeper into the alley, until they came across what they intended to find.
A puddle laid in the ground, and Frisk leaned over it.
Despite the darkness they could make out their face.
Frisk’s hat covered their hair, and, in turn, their mask covered their countenance. Soft ears sprouted from the cap, fawn like in nature. The folds of the hat draped down and tucked themselves away into Frisk’s filthy sweater. They tilted their head, trying to find if anything was off. Their mask was simple, but, it worked. Tree bark, with straps tucked away under their hat . It covered the majority of their face, except for slits that made way for their eyes and mouth. Their hands itched to wipe the grime off their face, and they screwed up their face. Their entire head felt itchy! They ripped the hat and mask off their head, and frantically ran their fingers through the knotted mass of their hair. They tore the large, fur covered gloves off their hands, throwing them onto the ground. It’s not like they could get much dirtier, anyway. They scratched at their scalp, soothing where the cap had rubbed their skin raw. They sighed, relishing the feel of cool air brushing against their sweating palms. The boots were next. Frisk didn’t mind the boots as much. Warm and furry, claws were sown into the hide in order to further indulge their costume into realism. What animal hide were they even constructed of? In all honesty, they couldn’t even remember when their dad made them, much less what exactly they were made of. Frisk lifted the boots to their face, eyeing the stitches and the texture of the hair clinging to where their finger tips sat. It was brown, which didn’t do much in terms of narrowing the list down.
Perhaps this was a mystery that would never be answered.

They set the boot down, making sure it didn’t tip over into the puddle. They wrinkled their nose at the thought. They hated when their shoes got wet. Wrinkly toes felt uncomfortable, and, most of all, gross.

With their final ensemble removed, Frisk unwrapped the eclee once more. They couldn't wait any longer, with their belly reminding them that Frisk hadn’t eaten in… a long time at least.
They shoved it into their mouth, icing smudging around their fingers and adding to the grime around their mouth in a spatter of chocolate.
It. Tasted. So. Good.
They munched down on the treat, shoving it into their mouth as fast as they could.
It was over to soon.
They licked their icing-colored fingers until there was no trace left of the baked good. It was honestly the best thing they had ever eaten. Well, that they remember, that is. They wracked their brain. Dad always used to tell them about the candy he had when he was Frisk's age. Suckers and chocolates and candy canes galore. What candies did he have when he was Frisk’s age? Frisk was ten, which left ten whole years for their dad to stuff himself with all sorts of sugary morsels. When was the last time Frisk had had a not-stolen sweet?
They tilted their head to the side, biting the inside of their cheek. Was it at the red hotel with the big windows? A tall man had given them a mint on their pillow. They remembered that moment, and how he had patted their head and complemented their sweater. They liked him. He had a kind smile. Their dad had liked him, too. Him and the other refugees played cards in the basement of the hotel. Dad wouldn’t let them come, saying that they were talking about things they weren’t allowed to hear.

They missed their dad.
The thought struck them like a knife to the chest, and left a slow moving ache in its wake spreading from their heart and spreading along their veins to…


No. No thinking about bad things. No thinking about things that made them cry. That's what Dad had told them.

They tugged on their disguise, carefully tucking their gloves under their sleeves. They gingerly set themselves on their side, curling up into a little ball. Their cheek set itself on the ground, hard and unforgiving. They missed their bed.

They gave themselves a mental shove for that. No more bad thoughts.

With that thought on their mind, they slowly drifted off to sleep.
Only to wake up five minutes later in a cold sweat, whimpering out into the cold wind.
This was going to a be long night.