#i fr blacked out into hyperfocus at one point

[vodid]

no outlet

@blitzbee-week day 3: attack

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[songfell-ut]

Chapter 8, sponsored by ADHD

Not being flippant, I absolutely have ADHD and can’t take any medications without getting heart palpitations. Hyperfocus, whoo!

Yeah, I enjoyed writing this one way too much. Chapter is here. I remain extremely grateful to @lostmypotatoes for not only the concept, but letting me jerk the characters around on her behalf. Enjoy!

The streetlights were starting to flicker on as the sun drifted below the horizon. Despite the chill wind, the crowds were shoulder-to-shoulder at the booths lining the street, and the glow from open doors illuminated a continuous flow of people moving in and out of shops and taverns.

One of the busiest establishments was a large inn not far from the castle. Standing patiently outside it was a lone, black-haired young woman; several passers-by waiting to join the line paused for a second look at her. She was dressed simply enough in a dark gown and white shawl, but her skin shone pale and flawless in the streetlamp, eyes lined in black and lips a dark crimson—very striking, even among the other women and a few young men wearing high-contrast makeup for the holiday. She'd done her best to achieve that effect, and found she rather enjoyed the attention; it was a relief that no one had—

"Heyyy, young lady," slurred a voice in her ear. "You lost?"

—hit on her yet. Frisk sighed and shifted her weight away from the beery stranger. "My husband will be out in a moment, thank you. Goodbye."

The man scoffed and leaned in closer, trapping her against the people standing in line. "Aw, darlin', don't try to pull that on me. Where's your weddin' ring?"

Frisk blinked. She hadn't accounted for anyone being drunk and observant. "Really, sir, I'm asking you nicely. Go away, or my husband will probably break your arm."

"Pffft! Right, right." The man made a grab at her shoulder. "C'mon, let's—"

Something large, swift, and angry loomed behind him. The bones of the stranger's hand went grch as a bigger hand grabbed it. Before the man could react, a glass mug smashed into the back of his head, bouncing him off the brick wall and sending him sprawling. "'Scuse you, asswipe," the newcomer said conversationally.

"Sa—honey," Frisk reproved him, accepting a mug. "You promised not to make a mess."

"'m not makin' a mess, kitten. I'm cleanin' it up." Even in his disguise, Sans towered over most of the people in the street, especially the one moaning on the cobblestones. The human-shaped boss monster draped a long arm around Frisk's shoulders, glaring down. "Ya wanna fill me in on yer conversation, pal? Sounded pretty interestin'."

The man scrambled to his feet and hobbled off into the crowd. Sans watched him go, as if debating whether to follow, then checked the people around them. No one seemed fazed; the few paying attention were pleased to see justice served, and at least one man indicated Frisk and made congratulatory gestures at him.

Sans was more than content to stay like that, but Frisk elbowed his side, wiggling her shoulder. "Sorry," he muttered, removing his arm. "Just tryin' ta stay in character."

"It's fine. You were just pulling on me a little." The High Priestess discreetly adjusted her long black wig, one of many from her predecessor's collection. She took a sip of spiced cider, impressed that he hadn't spilled any. "This is fantastic! Thank you for standing in line. This isn't too much for you, is it?" She gestured at the crowds. "Do you want to go somewhere quiet for a bit?"

"'m doin' okay," he said, but he hadn't figured out how to lie yet with a human face: he kept twitching and wrinkling his nose at strange smells or touches, and every time he scratched his neck or ear, he visibly startled himself. "'s not like I couldn' feel anythin' at all before. This is just...more." The wind picked up, and his eye twitched again.

It would have been funny if she hadn't felt so guilty. "Here." Frisk took his free hand to guide him toward a side street, marveling at how different a human hand felt than a ten-foot skeleton's—smaller, of course, but rougher, and somehow a little colder. She felt his fingers tighten and just as quickly relax, trying not to squash her. She squeezed back, and had another pang of guilt as he twitched yet again. The poor thing must have felt so overwhelmed!

The alley was cold and dimly lit, but almost silent. She released him and wrapped both hands around her mug, examining the little spices floating in the amber liquid. "Have you ever tried cider before?" she asked over the rim of the glass.

"Nope." Sans took too deep a sniff and recoiled, then brought it up more cautiously. "I had some dried apple slices once, but nothin' like this." He took the tiniest sip, smacking his lips the way she'd specifically told him not to. "Huh. Not bad." Another, bigger sip. "This's pretty good. Ya sure I can't try one of the drink-drinks they had?"

"No alcohol, Sans. We don't need you getting drunk and taking us the wrong place by accident at the end of the night."

He made an eloquently disgruntled sound, and gulped down more cider.

Frisk leaned against the wall, shivering in the breeze. Sans moved to block the wind for her, and she murmured thanks as he hunched his shoulders. The collar of his overcoat was trimmed with white fur, his shirt a bright red; his borrowed face wasn't handsome, Frisk thought, but the rough features, light hair, and blue-gray eyes made an intense and interesting picture. She liked it.

"Man, that's good stuff," the boss monster remarked, tipping the last few drops out of the mug. He glanced at hers, still half full. "Ya gonna finish that? I don't wanna wait in line again."

This was a far cry from when he'd complained about her germs on that stupid fork, but he was being good – better than good – so Frisk handed him her mug, taking his empty one to the receptacle standing on the nearest street corner for that very purpose.

As she deposited the glass, a sound at the other end of the alley brought her up short. "What's up?" Sans asked at her shoulder.

"Uh..." Frisk listened, and felt her cheeks grow hot. "We should go. We should go back right now." She pointed to the brightly lit street behind them.

Sans wasn't paying attention. "What're they doin'?" To her mortification, he downed the rest of the cider, handed the glass to her, and started ambling toward the source of the noise.

"Sans!" The priestess grabbed his arm. "I said—"

They both froze as a small, motion-activated floodlight clicked on and fully answered his question. "Huh," he said distantly.

"Sorry!" Frisk half shouted at the couple, who...why were they still going?! She dropped the mug and yanked back to the street, wondering how anyone could be that drunk already!

When she risked a glance at Sans, he looked thoughtful. "So...what was that? How were they not freezin' their butts off? You'd think they'd at least find someplace they could sit down and keep their clo—"

"Yes, you'd think!" For the first time, she wished the wind was colder on her face. The priestess stepped over to the first booth she saw. "Excuse me, ma'am. Where is the ferryman?" she asked hurriedly.

"The ferryman?" The woman behind the counter looked up and frowned in thought. "I don't know that he's here yet, dear. If he is, you'll find him near the old well on the far side of the square."

"Thank you very much." Frisk retrieved a two-dinar piece from the pockets of the dress she'd been sure to wear because it had pockets, and set it on the counter. "This way, S—honey."

"The hell are you guys talkin' about?" Sans asked as they waded back into the street, Frisk hanging on to his arm and ducking against him as crowd physics required.

"Remember, I wanted my fortune told? On All Souls Night, you're supposed to bob for apples and use the peels to tell the future, so actual fortune-tellers like to set up here. For years, I've been hearing about a man who uses some sort of card deck and is never, ever wrong. He always shows up near the river, so everyone calls him the ferryman. The problem is that he's never here at consistent times. He also charges anywhere from two hundred to a few thousand per fortune."

Sans was gaining sufficient knowledge of human society to say, "Holy shit, that's a lot. Are ya seriously gonna waste that much cash on some random guy playin' with picture cards?"

"No, I've spent all my money," Frisk said loudly, glancing around in case someone was listening, and he got the hint. The festival was fairly safe, but anything could happen in a large crowd; she was more glad than ever to have Sans with her.

They battled their way forward, the boss monster going first to carve out a path and the priestess steering him with a hand on his arm or back. "Let's stop for a minute," she said, on tiptoe, as they paused to let someone to cross the street the wrong way. "See over there?" Down a nearby side street was an avenue full of tables set with white cloths, portraits, and tiny candles. "Those are all the altars for departed rulers and other public figures. Can we take a look?"

Sans waded them across and, when they were clear of the worst foot traffic, said to her, "Never seen one before. When we have a funeral, yer loved ones spread yer dust on somethin' that meant a lot t'you, 'n that's it. They don't need ta be reminded what ya looked like every single year after that."

Frisk shrugged as they turned a corner. "There's nothing wrong with rememberi—"

The words died as they faced the other side of the street. "Oh, damn," Sans said, surprised. "Look who it is, Fr—honeypie."

The priestess numbly followed him to join several other people around a large, opulent table, boasting golden candles, a lacy cloth, fresh flowers, and a huge portrait in a gilt frame. It showed a lovely woman standing on what looked like an opera stage and waving to the audience. Her white gown almost glowed in the stagelights, as did her crown of golden flowers; more flowers lay at her feet, as if thrown by the audience, matching the bouquet cradled in her arm. She was looking up, probably smiling at someone in the balcony.

A cold hand seemed to have closed around Frisk's throat. Why hadn't she realized this would be here? "Yes?" she croaked.

"Dunno if you heard about her when you were a kid, but her name's gotta be in yer history books." Sans was tapping on the brass plate under the portrait. "I'll be damned. They actually spelled it right." He traced the engraved letters by candlelight: CHARA DREEMURR. "You know the story?" Frisk shook her head blindly. "Seriously? Welp, she fell into the Underground as a kid, and the royals adopted her. She was basically our princess till she grew up an' went back t'the humans...I wanna say it was a little over twenty years ago. Then she came back with that last delegation as a goodwill ambassador, just in time ta get blown up. Poor Tori didn't stop cryin' fer weeks."

Frisk made a politely sympathetic noise and turned away. Sans leaned in to squint at the picture, poking the canvas the way people were not supposed to. "That's messed up. Ya know what this is? This's the way her last performance shoulda ended. That's the stage they set up for her, and that's what she was wearin' that day. It was right in the middle of her last song when the thing that was supposed t'do the lights expl—"

"Are you all right, miss?" someone asked nearby. To his horror, when Sans turned around, Frisk was sitting on the curb with her head between her knees. An older man and his wife were standing over her; the woman looked up as Sans zipped over. "Is she with you?" the latter inquired.

"Yeah. Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong? Ya feelin' sick?" Sans crouched to look into her face, but she didn't move.

The older woman clucked at him like a misbehaving horse. "Look at her shaking! Get her inside and warmed up, young man!"

"Okay, okay." At a loss, Sans stood up, and crouched again. "C'mon, hon, let's go. D'you need a piggyback ride?"

Frisk was quiet, but after a moment, he received a faint nod. The boss monster turned and knelt, and the older couple helped settle Frisk on his back. "Thanks," he said as they moved away, and set off in the direction they'd been heading before their detour. At least there were some nice humans, he mused. It was a better thought than wondering what was wrong with Frisk, or how weirdly easy it was to pet-name her.

He held on tight, but not too tight, as he rejoined the crowd. Frisk was too short to hold onto his neck without throttling him, so they'd tucked her arms under his for warmth and security. She was shivering, and he could feel her heart thundering like she'd just run a mile. Everything about her was as impossibly soft as he remembered from...was it really just this morning that she'd hugged him? It felt like a year ago.

Someone jostled them, pushing her leg into him. Sans instinctively turned and snarled, "Watch where yer goin'!"

The erstwhile skeleton hadn't meant to raise his voice so much, but he didn't regret it: the crowd hastily gave way as he stomped towards the nearest building. He'd kept such a tight rein on himself since they left the castle that as long as she was acting as though this was all normal, he found that he could, too; it was actually kind of fun. But now he found himself glaring around them, almost hoping someone else would bother her. He didn't know whether it was a normal body-guarding mindset or if he'd simply gone too long without killing something.

They entered a candy shop with displays of sugar skulls, candied apples, and bottled cider. Sans found a chair against the wall and set her down, making sure she could sit up. "Heya. You okay?" he asked as she raised her head.

"I'm...I'm fine." It was as lying a lie as he'd ever heard, but Frisk did look better. She rubbed her arms and glanced around. "I'm sorry about that. ...Can I please have a caramel apple?"

Sans would have given her the entire display case – the entire store – if she wanted. He still had some "allowance," as he called the portion of his salary she'd given him before they left, and procured two apples and a bottle of cheap cider for them. She tried a sip of the latter, didn't quite make a face, and tore a huge bite out of her apple instead. "Better?" he asked.

Frisk nodded blissfully. "I didn't think I was that hungry," she said around her mouthful. "We should get a turkey leg on our way through the square."

He had no objection to that, especially when he tried a nibble of caramel apple and got his teeth stuck. Frisk held in her laughter fairly well, and nobly volunteered to eat the rest for him.

She did seem better, so he allowed her to walk, ignoring the little whine in his SOUL that wanted her closer. The festival was in even fuller swing now, but he plowed his way through to a turkey leg stand and got one for them to pass back and forth as they walked. It tasted as good as it smelled, which was amazing.

Sans was on the verge of stopping to ask if she knew where they were going when she tugged at his sleeve. "There's the old well. See the river? Let's start there."

As it happened, they didn't need to start there. No sooner had they looked at the wharf than a streetlight switched on to reveal a heap of black robes smack in the middle of the street, seated behind an oddly carved table. Both the robes and the table turned in their direction as Frisk jumped and Sans held out a protective arm. "Tra la la," said the robes.

People behind them had noticed and were starting to surge forward, fumbling in their pockets. "The lady first," the fortune-teller ordered, stopping them in their tracks.

Feeling unusually self-conscious, Frisk stepped around Sans and stood in front of the table. She had a feeling that she didn't want to look too hard under that hood; its whole figure was disquieting. "I have two questions," she said. A glance behind them confirmed a growing, impatient press of people standing a few feet away, kept at bay by Sans' glare. "Er...can I ask you privately?"

"You can't." The otherworldly voice was very matter-of-fact. "More detail, more money." There was an impressive pause. "Tra la la," it added helpfully.

"I...see." Frisk dug into her pocket and flipped the lining inside out. "I saved all year for this," she said, in case someone saw that she had placed a thousand-dinar piece on a shadowed part of the table.

"Tra la no, you didn't. Ask."

The priestess cleared her throat. Fortune-telling was all in the phrasing, so she had to be very careful. "Why did the thing from my nightmares want me to hurt him?"

A tiny flash of blue under the hood. She expected to see cards or some other divination tool, but it merely said, "He does not belong here. The child has unfinished business with him, and you are its strongest connection." The figure seemed to look at the coin for a moment. "If you want to know more, don't ask me. Beware the man who speaks in hands—he won't charge you. Tra la la."

The people waiting behind them were unimpressed, and Frisk was lost, but Sans made an incoherent sound. She looked at him, but no explanation was forthcoming, just a strange expression.

Well, if there was a chance Sans could tell her something, she wasn't going to try to get more on that subject out of the strange fortune-teller. "Second question," she said, trying not to let her voice wobble. This was the big one, so she fished another coin out and slid it next to the first.

The robed head tilted, probably because she'd just put down another five thousand. "Ask."

She swallowed. "What will be the principal differences in my life should I choose to open it, versus leaving it alone?"

There was a hissing sound, as if the figure was breathing out, or in. "An excellent question, Your Eminence." Frisk winced as the crowd whispered among itself, but the voice from under the robes went on, "You're very lucky. Most changes in life result from a thousand tiny decisions snowballing into major events, and there is no telling which of them nudged you in what direction. But you, my lady, are at a crossroads. You have two distinct futures, depending on a single choice."

The people behind them were quiet now, listening in keen interest. Frisk was half-consciously holding her breath.

"If you throw the box away, your life will be much as you expect. You will have a kind, wealthy husband who will take an interest in your happiness and be a loving father to your four children." Frisk's eyes widened, but she didn't dare interrupt him. "Your current efforts will not bear fruit, but they will be baby steps towards your mutual goal, to be possibly realized by your descendants. Your life will be like that of many others, full of little triumphs and large regrets. You will have much, and you will die of old age, surrounded by caring in-laws and adoring grandchildren, able to look back on a life that was...adequate."

"Holy fuck," Sans muttered, and Frisk felt light-headed.

"Should you open the box..." The robes were silent for a long moment. "Tra la la."

Frisk could have killed him, or her, or it. But then:

"Should you open the box, my lady, your worst fears will be confirmed. You will regain more than you ever suspected you've lost. The pain of that sorrow and regret will be unbearable for a time, and they will not be yours alone. But...neither will the joy, or the love, or the power."

Another pause. Was that it?

"Tra la la. You will lose and gain one father, discard and gain one mother, and be richer for it. Your family will be innumerable, though you will bear only one child...who you will attempt to bring to see me at this very festival next year. I will not be here, and you will in fact never see me again, but your child's father will be unable to stop you from coming to check."

Frisk's mouth fell open as the crowd tittered behind them. "Next—"

"You will change the entire world, largely for the better, though you will have to work tirelessly to achieve your goal and maintain peace. You will not die an old woman, but you will have lived five times as much. Your triumphs will be great and your regrets...manageable." The figure sat back. "You may choose only one future. To attempt otherwise will grant you neither."

There was a deeply impressed silence. The crowd would probably have applauded if Sans hadn't slammed his hands on the table and demanded, "Who's the father gonna be?"

More silence. Then the crowd started snickering, then laughing, and then nearly rolling on the ground after the look Frisk gave him. It took Sans a moment to remember that they were posing as a couple, and that casting doubt on her potentially-soon-to-be child's parentage might not reflect well on either of them, and his expression made the people laugh even harder.

The robed figure didn't move, except to look at the coins sitting on the table, then at him. Sans had just enough presence of mind to fumble in his overcoat and randomly toss out two hundred. "There! Also, what happened to Kris? How's my brother doing? Was that lord guy telling the truth?!"

The robes rose and fell in a great sigh. "Don't kill anyone."

They waited, breathless. Sans gestured impatiently. "Yeah? And?"

"And..." The fortune-teller turned to the crowd. "Next, please."