Like a lot of people, Undyne is kind of a mess right now, tired but lingeringly restless, and the soothing sound of Greg's guitar draws her to where he's playing.

She just stands there at first, watching and listening, and feeling some of the evening's sharp, prickling distress begin to smooth out, at least a little. Then, almost suddenly, she sits down a little way from him with a heavy sigh, pushing a hand through her lingeringly chlorine-damp hair.

"I guess this beats chucking a chair through a window."