For a moment she lies there, spattered in muck and goo -- in spite of the gun leveled on her. She pushes herself upward on her hands, the tips of her hair dripping muddy water, her neck a weary arch.

But she's not done. And Frisk is perhaps a little too trusting.

She snatches for them suddenly even as her other hand flashes out, sweeps a climbing arc . . . A wave like a muddy tsunami rises, crashing down towards Sans with the aim to flush him away.