It is. It's human nature, when you feel your limbs shift with a strange resistance, entering a mental trough of having to press past someone else's confusion, someone else's memories, someone else's life, to scramble against it, to claw after it, to drag it all aside.
They lift their knees, drawing them up to their chest, and rest their chin atop the grass-stained caps. Scuffed and scratched and scabbed and knobby. There's nothing they can really say to ease this away. They know that.
"Do you ever wonder," they say slowly, "what might've happened if you put on one of my shirts instead?"
Do they think nothing would have happened at all? Frisk cocks their head slightly.
"What if I decided to dress up as Sans? Or Muffet? Or Mettaton? Would that have made them just fragments too?"
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It is. It's human nature, when you feel your limbs shift with a strange resistance, entering a mental trough of having to press past someone else's confusion, someone else's memories, someone else's life, to scramble against it, to claw after it, to drag it all aside.
They lift their knees, drawing them up to their chest, and rest their chin atop the grass-stained caps. Scuffed and scratched and scabbed and knobby. There's nothing they can really say to ease this away. They know that.
"Do you ever wonder," they say slowly, "what might've happened if you put on one of my shirts instead?"
Do they think nothing would have happened at all? Frisk cocks their head slightly.
"What if I decided to dress up as Sans? Or Muffet? Or Mettaton? Would that have made them just fragments too?"