It hurts.

Sans peers coldly through the metal railings as gravity drags you down, down, down. Your chest aches. Aches from the surprise and confusion. Aches from the betrayal of someone you thought to be your friend. Aches from the realization that it is your fault, that you have been hurting him all along, that this so-called friendship and happiness is nothing but a delusion made up by your own selfishness.

It hurts.

Lava burns through your skin, through your bones, through your very core. You scream, but you no longer have a mouth to do so. You cry, but the tears you shed have been swallowed by the scorching heat.

And then-

And then, darkness.

It hurts.

Darkness. Pain. Darkness. The shadow digs its claws into your flesh and rips. You cannot think. You cannot speak. You cannot breathe. Every fiber, every atom of your entire being is torn apart, scattered, rearranged, and then torn apart again. Over and over and over.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts-

You wake up. You never expected to.

Your body trembles with phantom pains. If you close your eyes, you may even feel that unrelenting, encompassing darkness again. But you don't. You won't. You can't.

(It hurts.)

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for you to realize that you are not as alone as you think.

An eye, wide and unblinking and all-seeing, cradled by gigantic hands that seem less like human limbs and more like the messy drawings of a toddler etched into reality. Distantly, you wonder if you can fit the whole Underground into that majestic pupil, but the thought is drowned out by a panic so deep and intensified that the breath shatters inside your lungs, a handful of glass shards cutting and clawing at your inside.

Funny. You would have believed that your fear had run out.

Before you can- Can what? Fight? Act? Flee? What can you even do against such an unfathomable and incomprehensible creature?- said unfathomable and incomprehensible creature has beaten you to the punch.

OH! It beams, and its voice is the stray idea of someone else, the rumbling change of revolution, the gentle melody of a flute, the ceaseless whispers of a thousand stories, everything and nothing all at once. HELLO, LITTLE ONE <CREATION-OF-MINE, MORTAL CHILD, BEAUTIFUL-AND-FLAWED-AND-PERFECT>! HOW DID YOU GET HERE?

"I," the answer slips out before it can register in your mind, tainted with terror and awe and a strange sort of instinctive reverence. "I think I'm lost."

BUT OF COURSE YOU ARE! AFTER ALL, WHO WOULD WILLINGLY WALK INTO THE VOID <GREAT MOTHER, THE-END-OF-ALL-AND-THE-BEGINNING-OF-NONE>? Yellow tickles at the back of your throat, the echo of a giggle that is not your own. YOUR WEAK, FRAGILE MORTAL MIND WOULD SIMPLY BE TORN TO SHREDS. AH, EXCEPT YOUR MIND ISN'T QUITE SHREDS YET, IS IT?

Its pupil constricts, something peering through the cracks of that endless depth. Something that looks almost like curiosity. Or glee, even.

You feel as if you were Atlas, straining to bear the weight of the world beneath your tiny, brittle shoulders. You feel as if this was the heat death of the universe and you were staring straight into the sun as its flameS consumed you wholly and completely.

(It hurts. But it doesn't. But it does. And you want to weep because you have never been so happy so fearful so small.)

TELL ME, LITTLE ONE <NOT MORTAL CHILD, FASCINATING ONE, YOU-WHO-ARE-LOST-AND-FORGOTTEN>, WHAT'S YOUR NAME?

Once again, you open your mouth before you can realize it- the mere idea of not answering has not even crossed your mind- and yet, the words linger upon the tip of your tongue.

The name you used to carry, does it really belong to you now? That name had died the moment Sans's palms touched your back and pushed, the moment your entire body was burnt by molten lava, the moment you died and reborn and died and reborn and died and reborn in the realm between space and time.

No. That name does not belong to you anymore.

So you gently lay it down, as slow and careful as one would lay down a casket, tucked deep beneath the crust of your heart like a gaping wound. With a heavy weight that almost resembles grief, you reply.

"Core Frisk." The words drape over your shoulders like a new coat, clumsy and unfamiliar. "I'm Core Frisk."