Undertale: Pacifism Active

THE FALL

Slipping.

That's all you can remember.

Slipping, and falling, and... and...

You wince at the inevitable thought. You should be dead. You should be a bloody mess, smashed to pieces. But you're not. You're comfortably laying on a bed of flowers.

A sharp pain on your left side makes you retract the 'comfortably' part.

All you can feel is a stabbing, throbbing, burning pain in your side. Yet something compels you to get up. And so, you do. Or at least you try. Your feeble and weak attempts to stand end up failing, so you resign to holding your hand over your now warm and wet side. Blood. That's expected. You did just fall God knows how many feet into a mountain. Maybe if you call out now you can get help.

Wait... who would hear me...? FRED!

As you remember your hiking buddies, you shout out a name. It's familiar enough to be considered second nature.

"FREEEEEEEEEEED!!!"

Your cry for help reverberates throughout the cavern, bouncing off of the walls and ceiling, as if mocking you with your own echo. Stalactites on the rocky ceiling of the cave tremble with your voice, sending small drops of carbonic acid and water dripping down. The droplets land on your face, mixing with newly formed tears that grace your cheeks.

"FRED!! MAYA!! ANYONE!!! SOMEONE PLEASE HEEEELP!!!"

> You cry out into the darkness...
> But nobody came...

The message pops out in front of your eyes. Or does it? You don't exactly know. All you know is that you indeed did cry out into the darkness... and that, in fact, nobody came. The small streams of tears once gracing your cheeks soon turn into flooded rivers as you bawl your eyes out.

Nobody... nobody can hear me... I'm alone...

You cry to yourself for minutes, which turns into hours. Hot tears streak down your face, leaving clean spots of skin where the dirt kicked up from your impact with the flowerbed was eroded. Finally, you stop. Not from mustering up courage, but from simply being left with no other options. You need to find shelter and food eventually. Your stomach's growls of need and discomfort remind you of that.

You clench your leg muscles and slowly stand, gritting your teeth in pain. It hurts like hell. But you remember that you have something. Once you lean yourself against a rather large and sturdy stalagmite, you carefully lift your bloodstained sweater, revealing angry red and bleeding flesh. The cut isn't too long, but its sheer width and openness more than makes up for that. You hold the sweater up with your teeth as you fish up a roll of bandages and some medical tape from your back pocket. The process is slow and arduous, but it works. Once the wound has been closed, cleaned by some cotton that came with the bandages, and bandaged shut, relief washes over you. You're already starting to feel better.

> You applied the Bandages. Still gooey, but not unused anymore. HP restored.

HP? What in the...?

As you start to feel the pain wash away, which is strange enough as it is, your general health improves as well. Your sweat and exhaustion simply fade away, as if they had never been there. You're able to stand taller and stronger, ceasing the slouch caused by the pain. Even your ankle, which had nicked and scraped a few rocks and stalagmites, was mostly healed over. The cut is still hurting, just nearly not as much as before. It's now a dull and pulsing ache, making it uncomfortable to move much. You smile slightly as you flex your hands and arms. You're revitalized.