[Frisk's fingers flex gently over the area of their chest where their SOUL resides, no longer hovering outside where it could be so easily struck. They blink a few times, grounding themselves, grounding the way they stand in the room. They can't tell if things are normal, yet. Can't tell if their HP isn't wavering that in-between state. It must not be anymore, right? They SAVED it. SAVED...someone else.
Saying "someone else" is easier than naming the person you want to SAVE, isn't it?
Slowly, tentatively, they reach out for their SAVE.
* LOAD failed. * SAVE ᴄ̶̷̲̅ᴏ̶̷̲̅ʀ̶̷̲̅ʀ̶̷̲̅ᴜ̶̷̲̅ᴘ̶̷̲̅ᴛ̶̷̲̅ᴇ̶̷̲̅ᴅ̶̷̲̅ * No data available.
That's familiar. The way the Memoryhead loomed out at them and then promptly vanished - vanished from the Lab, from the Underground, from everything but their inventory, provided they let the Bad Memory slide easily into one of those precious eight slots. So that's...that doesn't work, does it? Maybe that whole stretch of time is just unavailable to them. Denied to them. Like trying to dial an unserviced number. There's no data to draw from, or the data is so corrupt that it's irretrievable.
So they try another route. They're good at dodging. At creating workarounds. And they drive a new bright golden stake into place, wiping away the last one with a spike of determination.
* File SAVED.]
I think so?
[They curl and uncurl their fingers, one by one. Tense each muscle in their legs and arms and middle, twist their head cautiously from one side to the next. They don't feel strange anymore. Don't feel like their whole body is made of television snow, or like they're stuck between dead and not dead anymore. And they can't SAVE if they're dying so...so it must have worked, right?]
SAVE 2.0
Saying "someone else" is easier than naming the person you want to SAVE, isn't it?
Slowly, tentatively, they reach out for their SAVE.
* LOAD failed.
* SAVE ᴄ̶̷̲̅ᴏ̶̷̲̅ʀ̶̷̲̅ʀ̶̷̲̅ᴜ̶̷̲̅ᴘ̶̷̲̅ᴛ̶̷̲̅ᴇ̶̷̲̅ᴅ̶̷̲̅
* No data available.
That's familiar. The way the Memoryhead loomed out at them and then promptly vanished - vanished from the Lab, from the Underground, from everything but their inventory, provided they let the Bad Memory slide easily into one of those precious eight slots. So that's...that doesn't work, does it? Maybe that whole stretch of time is just unavailable to them. Denied to them. Like trying to dial an unserviced number. There's no data to draw from, or the data is so corrupt that it's irretrievable.
So they try another route. They're good at dodging. At creating workarounds. And they drive a new bright golden stake into place, wiping away the last one with a spike of determination.
* File SAVED.]
I think so?
[They curl and uncurl their fingers, one by one. Tense each muscle in their legs and arms and middle, twist their head cautiously from one side to the next. They don't feel strange anymore. Don't feel like their whole body is made of television snow, or like they're stuck between dead and not dead anymore. And they can't SAVE if they're dying so...so it must have worked, right?]
I don't feel like I did before?