The landing should’ve killed you. Or at least cracked a bone. But somehow, the golden flowers beneath you softened the impact—just enough. You’re winded, ribs bruised, vision spinning. Your limbs scream in protest, but you push yourself upright, coughing out the dust and shame of your fall.

Around you, the air is heavy with mist and silence. Plastic bags rustle. The soft hum of shattered screens and forgotten music players buzz low in the distance, like a lost lullaby. Towers of junk loom around you—smashed monitors, cracked keyboards, twisted metal limbs of electronics long past their use. Water drips from above in lazy droplets, the occasional splash echoing in the quiet.

Unseen and out of view, a voice cuts the silence—half static, half speech.

"—and that’s when I told her, ‘No, you forgot to stamp the return address, darling!’”

"Kehkehkeh—Oh, CRT, you always [!] know how to make a guy’s buttons pop—WAIT. W-WHAT’S THAT?!”

Two figures appear over the mound of refuse. One, towering, has a large CRT screen for a head, its surface cracked but smiling. Violet casing, yellow-tipped antennae, patchwork clothing barely holding together at the seams. The other is much smaller—dressed in a navy-blue mail uniform, complete with a satchel and a cap labeled “MAIL.” His eyes, enormous behind round glasses, widen upon spotting you.

Tenna’s screen flickers. He freezes for a moment, then quickly approaches with long, cautious steps. His robotic limbs whir softly as he kneels nearby.

Spamton gasps, nearly tripping over an old microwave. He stumbles closer, arms flailing in theatrical panic.

"D-D-DEAREST SENDER! YOU APPEAR TO BE IN [TERRIBLE POSTAL CONDITION]! DIAGNOSIS: [Return to sender: WOUNDED]!”

Tenna tilts his head, screen glowing with gentle concern. He extends one massive hand without touching, as if scanning for permission. A low buzz hums in his voice.

"You shouldn’t be here alone. Especially not after what happened with Undyne. We heard... well. Everyone heard."

Spamton yanks a roll of parchment from his satchel and lets it unfurl dramatically down the trash pile.

"The [Waterfall Gazette] has already printed the headline!! ‘HUMAN FALLS INTO GARBAGE, SURVIVES VIA FLORAL IMPACT!’ Subtitle: ‘Possible [Threat or Sweetheart]?’”

Tenna steadies his posture beside you, carefully supporting your weight without pressure. There's a deliberate softness to his movement, like he knows what breakable things feel like. The light from his screen flickers subtly, a muted kindness in the otherwise dark cavern.

"You’ll want to rest. We don’t have much, but... you’re safe here. For now.”

Spamton, not missing a beat, drags over a crooked crate repurposed as a bench and thrusts a note toward you. The paper is crumpled and kissed with red marker.

‘Dear Human, Welcome to Trash Paradise. MWAH! ❤️ —Spamton.’