[For about ten seconds, there’s nothing but a dark matte black and the quiet ticks and taps of white noise that separates a live feed from a dead one. Then a light flicks on, illuminating the empty, utterly nondescript room in which the feed is taking place, and the phone’s focus struggles to accommodate the abrupt shift in lighting with flaring and fading irregularity.
Then someone steps into view.
* It’s you!
Only...it’s not. Not really! Surprise.]
[It becomes more immediately apparent that this is not the Frisk you may have come to know and love. They smile too readily, too brightly, and as they continue to speak, it’s with a liberating enthusiasm that hints at the mess of coiled energy beneath their too-radiant exterior.]
Boy, it is great to be out and about, isn’t it? Feels fantastic! In fact, I know just the way to celebrate! [And they reach down for a moment, dipping out of the feed.
They jerk back up into the frame, and this time they’re not alone. They’ve got their hands fisted into the hair of a child that looks very much like them. That is them. The Real Thing! What little of their face is visible is a veritable mélange of multicolored bruises. They struggle faintly, but it's a weak effort at best. Whatever took place between the pair of them, Frisk's Mirror undoubtedly came out on top.
Frisk drops their Real with a dull, careless clunk.]
Oh, don’t worry, they’re not dead. Yet, anyway. But that does lead very nicely into my next point, which is:
Which of you would like to die in their place?
See, I have this problem. [They spread their arms wide in an exaggerated shrug.] I’ve gotten nothing from this little event aside from your run-of-the-mill suffering and betrayal and theatrics and blah blah blah, I won’t bore you with the details. And this little martyr with a savior complex a mile long - [They deliver a vicious kick to the child at their feet.] - is only too willing to walk into every sword that's pointed at them! And where’s the fun in that, I ask you?
[The Real Frisk says something that the microphone doesn't pick up, only for Frisk's Mirror to plow over them.]
That was rhetorical. There’s no fun in that. None whatsoever! I’m going to need a little something to keep me going when this is over, and that something is EXP - which I doubt my Real self here is going to offer, since they’re a little baby pacifist who doesn’t FIGHT anything, ever. I require something more palpable. Someone who, perhaps, would be willing to fall on their sword for a change.
So, I present you with this.
[They steeple their fingers innocently beneath their chin, regarding the feed with a faint smile, honeyed and sedate.]
At the moment, Frisk is fine. For a certain value of "fine," anyway. [That value being next to nil, but what else is new?] However, they will very quickly not be if my terms are not met. And for every hour my terms are not met?
[They reach down for a moment.
The crack of breaking bone is readily audible, as is the yelp of pain that follows.]
They lose a little something!
[Frisk straightens up with an artless grin.]
They’ve got plenty to lose, mind you, but god help you if they start to run out.
And don’t bother trying to track us down; this little broadcast is prerecorded. Just let me know if you’d like to take their place, and we can arrange a powwow, just for you! Won’t that be Fun?
[Their hand closes over the feed to shut it off, but not before they whisper their parting words:]
So, you know. Call me maybe.