"If you require convincing," they say, smiling blithely, "I am more than happy to oblige."

A blink of their eyes, and the irises have gone jet black, their mouth agape with an oily, bubbling liquid smelling of rot and decay. They're doing their scary face, Peter, the kind they have been able to pull off effortlessly since they were torn from their grave, and they're doing it just for you. Do you not feel so singled out and special because of it?

Another blink, and their eyes are once again as rosy as their cheeks, the disgusting liquid dispersed as though it was never there.

"But enough about me. Let us talk about Frisk." A flash of teeth peeking from between parted lips, a savage, vindictive satisfaction in watching it all unspool. "They took to her rather quickly, would you not say so? Calling her 'mother,' clinging to her skirts as though she could protect them. Why, one could almost forget that she has killed them before!"

Perhaps she did not mean to. But she was the one who felt that hurling balls of fire at a small child was perfectly acceptable behavior for a mother.