holds out their hands; waiting. there's a flower pot sitting nearby.
There's a rustling in the grass. What could it be? It's a familiar shape, a sweater with warm colors wading amongst the gold. FRISK. Frisk and a small pot.
....
no.
Is she serious? Is she... stupid?
The flower looks between the human and the pot, from the pot to the human. "...Howdy, Frisk! What do you expect me to do? Walk?"











