[They turned on the recording as soon as he started to fall to pieces, his fur soaked with tears and turning the dust to slurries of gray. There's a flash of green and yellow sweater before the camera spins, dizzyingly, to settle upon a Boss Monster curled up against the floor. He looks like he might be - melting, or falling apart, white fur slicked with sweat and dust and worse, his fangs and lips stained with flecked yellow.]
[A swirled nest of dust and bruised golden petals scattered across the floor, and Asriel is trying to speak, but the child overrides him easily:]
Do your creepy face!
[He starts to split apart by the seams, dusted cracks spiraling up his fur and down his claws and along his crumbling ears. He always did love to record things, and holds the memories close to his heart and SOUL.
This one, too, will remain with him forever.]
Ch...ara... [Every word sounds like an effort, and he's falling apart, more and more, by the moment.] ...hel... p... m...e...
[He doesn't last much longer, after that.
The visual cuts. A child sits cross-legged on the kitchen tile next to the heap of dust once designated Asriel Dreemurr, a disturbingly serene, domestic scene to contrast the horror of his slow, protracted demise. Smiling, as though nothing is wrong.
Their eyes are black, right down to the whites. Ha ha.
In their hands is a disk. Asriel's disk, in fact - his identity, compiled into one useful little compendium of easily-rearranged code. Everything he is, packed into one handy drive. They turn it slowly, slowly, between their fingertips in a continuous revolution.]
Would you like to hear a story?
[They address the network via Asriel's TAB with an even disposition, a smile peaking white beneath parted lips.]
It's ever so funny, really.
Once upon a time, a pair of children tried to make a surprise for their father. A butterscotch pie, like their mother would always make. But they made a small error, see: instead of cups of butter, they used buttercups.
[They pick one of the gold petals from the ground, crushed and coated in gray as it is, and pinch it between forefinger and thumb.]
He grew terribly, terribly ill. One of the children felt just awful about it. But the other...?
[The petal drops to the ground, spiraling lazily as it catches in the air's resistance.]
Why, they laughed.
[The word twists out in a sickening burst of crimson. It's unclear, how it is that a word can feel red, but regardless of how possible such a thing might be, the child has accomplished it. They are, after all, very determined.]
You see, they just wanted to see him suffer.
[They smile, sweetly, at the feed one final time.
And the recording ends.]