Chapter Text
Jack was the only parent you have ever known.
He was a bartender with a jolly laugh and a warm smile, who looked not a day over thirty. He had brown hair and piercing brown eyes that seemed to glow in the dark sometimes (you always suspected that magic was somehow involved in the phenomenon)
You never knew your birth parents or the relatives that took you in afterwards. You were too young, after all. Jack explained to you, long ago, that an arsonist killed your parents. The uncle and aunt that took you in afterwards were killed in some kind of freak 16 car pile-up at an intersection (authorities at the time, Jack told them, blamed it on magic—as they were prone to doing in those old, unenlightened times. Mage rights have advanced quite a lot since then. You mentioned how it was literally 10 years ago and he laughed morbidly). Jack told you that he was a good friend of your birth parents, and that he signed the adoption forms as soon as he realized that you had nobody to be with.
You had no reason to doubt these claims, although you did wonder how a simple bartender in Michigan, Ebottstown, was able to afford the specious and modern looking house that you two now lived in.
I always suspected that he was secretly some kind of a drug lord or a leader of a mage cabal, who used the bar as a place to launder their illegally gotten funds.
You think that’s stupid.
You think that I’m stupid.
You think that he probably had a good inheritance or good investments into other businesses that supplemented the funds he received from running the bar. I have no objection to this theory, but also point out that this doesn’t preclude the theory that he’s a crime lord of some kind. I also point out how you are now attempting to convince the voice in your head—something that logically must be part of you as the color of your eyes—that it is stupid. Is that not, I argue, the same thing as arguing that you are stupid? You decide to ignore my last remarks. Shut up, I said you did, so you did, okay?
Back to business. He was, I say eloquently (you hastily point out that normal people don’t describe their own words as being eloquent. Shut up, Frisk, let the voice in your head speak in peace), after all, an enigma. Aside from his rather strange dress sense (he always dressed so formally—all 1950s style suits and fedoras), there was the fact that he tended to disappear for days at a time, leaving behind mysterious caretakers.
You point out that Jack really didn’t act like how you imagined a crimelord would. He was always flirting with… everyone, actually. He was friendly and jovial. His house was filled with weird art and items that he claimed were from strange places around the world.
Okay, I take it back. He’s probably not a crime lord. He’s probably a spy, like James Bond. Or maybe a gentleman thief like Lupin. He fits the stereotype perfectly. He probably got that Faberge egg from a Russian oligarch’s house after he seduced his wife or something.
You laugh and point out that you couldn’t imagine Jack seducing anyone. That was brutal. If soulless disembodied voice in a teenager’s head could cry, I would be shedding them for Jack, Frisk. Look what you’ve done.
You smile happily, and lean on your chair a bit more. It’s a nice day outside, but you have not taken a single step outside. Jack is gone, away on another one of his ‘business trips’ (as if bartenders had any reason to take business trips), and you are alone. Your caretaker is not scheduled to arrive for another hour and you are feeling lonely.
You protest, but I am inside your head. I can feel what you feel. You feel lonely. You wish Jack wouldn’t leave you alone so much. You wish other children stopped looking at you and call you a monster and a freak for your eye colors: red, like blood, the telltale sign of a strong magical potential.
You insist that you are happy. You insist that Jack’s love and my company is the only thing you ever needed. Frisk…
I can’t be your only friend.
It’s not healthy for you.
I’m just a voice. I can’t be a real friend, Frisk. I can’t tuck you into bed at night. I can’t read you bedtime stories from the side. We can’t play tag together or make pie and spaghetti together or hang out together. All these things are denied from me, and as long as I remain your only friend and Jack remains stubbornly absent from your life, it will be denied from you too.
You insist that I’m a real friend. I do the equivalent of a ghostly sigh.
I know exactly how stubborn you can be, Frisk.
Doorbell signaling the arrival of your caretaker shakes you out of your thoughts. You run to the door to let her in—a barista named Sam (she never told you her last name). She has blond hair tied neatly into a bun behind her. When you meet her at work, she always has an empty, soulless smile shared by all food industry workers.
You think it’s impolite to call her smile as being empty and soulless, but I think it’s true. Besides, I’m just your imaginary friend, Frisk. She can’t hear me and be offended anyways.
I’m actually not sure if Sam is capable of being offended. When you meet her privately—such as when Jack invites her over during weekends or when she is your assigned caretaker, she never shows any hint of emotion. Almost comically so, actually. She maintained that completely deadpan and neutral expression when she agreed to help you set up some… traps… to prank Jack a few months ago. When Jack triggered that tripwire and was pelted by at least a dozen Nerf darts to the face and you rose out of your hiding place in jubilant victory, she even threw some confetti (I still have no idea why she carried those around) into the air above Jack while maintaining the exact same emotionless exterior.
You think that she actually has emotions, just have trouble expressing them most of the time. I think you may be right.
You flash a wide smile towards her and bid her inside. She does it without comment, hanging up her coat on the rack by the door. You ask her if she brought you anything interesting and she nods. She pulls out from her purse some scrap electronics and parts that she found at the junkyard and you let out a little squeal of delight.
Nerd.
What? I said nothing. Let’s change the subject while you drool all over these new fun ‘toys.’
Sam was probably the closest thing you had for a mother. Jack and Sam were friends as far as you could remember, and she was the one who visited most often to take care of you. Jack and Sam trusted each other very much—this was apparent, and they both loved you. Why else would she take care of you for free like this?
They are both so nice people. The life you are leading isn’t ideal, but you feel wanted and loved. By at least two people (again, I don’t count). It is a good life. I guess.
What, no I’m not jealous. You think you should tell Jack or Sam about me. I think that idea is the quickest way to get sent to the insane asylum, witch hunters, or exorcists for an immediate containment.
You point out that Jack accepted you easily when you finally revealed your real gender a few months ago—that you did not subscribe to binary gender quality. That you had read an article online about being agender, and believed that it described you rather well. You asked him not to call you his little girl anymore.
I remember, Frisk.
I remember how he was confused for days, not sure how he should deal with you. You cried, believing you messed it up. You messed up the happy life that you had with Jack and now things were weird. I tried to comfort you as much as possible, but I didn’t have hands. I couldn’t stroke your back or pet your head or do anything. I felt helpless.
But then he came around, shocking you and me both. He apologized for how weirdly he was acting, and told you that he will try to understand and be careful in the future. So far, he has kept his promise very well. He no longer calls you a little girl anymore. He corrects people in the street when they call you a girl. He no longer boasts about the little genius girl that he raise, but boasts about the little genius kid.
Unfortunately, I am not you, Frisk. Being agender is completely natural part of human existence. I would argue that hearing voices is certainly not, and is definitely something that would normally be concerning (I have no intention of harming you Frisk, but Jack or your 'auntie' may not believe that to be the case. I would hate it if you got institutionalized because of me, Frisk).
By the time I’ve done organizing our thoughts on Jack and Sam together, I realize that you are sitting before your workbench and is doing… something to the scrap parts. No, I’m not gonna describe what you are doing, it’s beyond my ability to understand. I know you tried to explain to me before, but I didn’t understand a single word of what you said. You roll your eyes.
You think that, for a voice in your head, that I don’t share a lot of your interests or abilities or even ability to remember all those instruction manuals and tips and guides you downloaded over the Internet. Actually, I don’t think anybody can understand them as fast as you did, Frisk. You basically just absorbed the information by reading them once. That’s not normal, Frisk. Normal teenagers play video games and sports or do arts and crafts. They generally don’t go around building robots, traps, and puzzles inside their home.
Okay, admittedly building robots, traps, and puzzles is awesome, but I still feel as if having more contact with humans other than Jack, Sam, and a few other kind souls would be better. Anyways, let me ask again. What are you doing right now?
“I’m building a robot,” you speak out loud for my benefit. Thought to thought communication was usually sufficient, but your thought tended to get very… disorganized and rapid fire when you were thinking of machines, puzzles, and riddles. “Sam found me some motors and gears I needed to help make it move.”
Cool. What will it do?
“It will shoot Jack in the face with a water gun.”
I approve. I approve very much. It’ll teach that damned smug snake not to leave you alone for too long, after all.
I watch you for a while.
Do you think Jack is a mage, by the way? I ask suddenly.
“What a sudden question,” you answer out loud, frowning.
“Who are you talking to?” Sam asks. We whirl around to see her standing in the doorway to our room, holding a plate of reheated porkchops on rice. How long has she been standing there?
“How long have you been standing there?” you stammer out. Frisk! Calm down, there’s no way we wouldn’t have heard. Sam continues standing at the doorway, expressive as a corpse. “I just arrived,” Sam said slowly. “With some food,” she lifted the plate of pork and gave it a wiggle. “Who were you talking to?” She repeats the question.
Just tell her that you were talking to yourself, I say.
“I just thought of something weird and was talking to myself,” you say. Good job, Frisk. Sam appears to buy the explanation, and nods to herself. She strides over to place the plate of pork next to your work bench. “Remember to eat this time,” she says as she turns to leave. Her eyes catch on something in the room and she freezes in the spot.
You trace her glare to an innocuous pair of ballet shoes lying on your bed. “So,” she says. "I suppose you have taken dancing." There’s a barest hint of annoyance in her usually deadpan voice.
“Jack got me those,” you explain. “He says that it helps with learning balance and movement. It’s the best thing since I can’t,” you chuckle as you point at your eyes. “Legally defend myself if something happens to me.”
“Of course he did. He would say something like that,” Sam says slowly. “Dancing, as an alternative to martial arts. How ridiculous.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, I just knew somebody who used to dance a lot.”
“Oh?” You rarely hear about Sam’s private life. Hell, you never even knew her last name (you half-suspected that she didn’t have one). “Who was she? Your sister? A friend?”
She gives you a faint smile. “She loved the ballet and loved to dance,” she said. “When she wore those shoes, she felt invincible, as if she could simply hop and twirl her problems away. She doesn’t wear the shoes anymore.”
“Why? What happened to her?” you ask.
“She climbed the damnable mountain and lost her soul deep underneath,” Sam says bluntly. Her faint smile vanishes from her face, returning to a neutral expression. “Bring me the plate when you are done,” she says as she leaves.