[The lights are all off when Papyrus gets back to the hotel, which isn't unusual because Sans actually does usually turn off the lights when he's not around. Of course, because it's summer and it gets dark late, it's easy to see the birthday banner stuck up somewhat lopsidedly above Papyrus's bed, the (kind of messily) wrapped present on said bed, and the cake... Attempt... on the nightstand. Also, Sans still glows cyan at all times, and he sits up from his perpetual slouch on his own bed once Papyrus gets in.]
Surprise. [Sans did not even attempt to hide.] Happy birthday, bro.
[Sans may not have attempted hiding, so it's not the jump out and shout surprise kind of surprise. But Papyrus is surprised anyway, taking in the sight of the banner (what a cool design!) first of all.]
Wow, what? It's not... I mean, it is my birthday on the calendar...
[This is turning out to be another of those challenging things about dying and waking up in a different world. Does it count as a birthday, when it hasn't been a year since the last time it was this day...? But his brother clearly went to the actual effort of getting that banner, and the present on the bed. And, Papyrus learns as he closes the door behind him and goes further into the room, that attempt on the nightstand.]
Oh. Wow. This cake... You shouldn't have? [He's laughing a little as he says it.]
[Sans has been sleeping more deeply than usual lately, but there are some things that will wake him up immediately. One of these things is his skull cracking in two places at once, a jagged hole in each temple. He bolts up, cursing, disoriented from pain and vertigo, and tumbles off the bed and onto his face. A new, smaller set of wings have forced themselves out of Sans's skull by the time he hits the floor, just big enough Sans could cover his face with them if he flapped them. They're doing a lot of confused flapping, actually, but they're just hitting the floor, making Sans twitch with dull, aching pain each time.
There's liquid magic staining the sheets and soaking Sans's shirt, and his glowing is already starting to shift from blue to red.]
[It's before dawn, early enough most of the surface world is quiet, if not sleeping - but that doesn't mean it's motionless. The insomniacs of the valley are awake, as are the various people who work at night. Garbage trucks are taking advantage of the relatively empty streets, and some days of the week Papyrus would be out there already - doing his best as the secondary person, getting out with each stop to guide containers onto the hydraulic lift. (He has a while to go before he'll have a driver's license at all, let a lone one for a vehicle of that size.)
Fortunately, tonight isn't one of his nights. He's in the hotel suite, lounging on his bed with phone and refurbished laptop in front of him, cords trailing behind them and himself into a recently bought surge protector. When Sans shoots up with the sound of cracking bone, Papyrus lurches to check on him - only to get tethered by the cord, and curse himself.]
Hold on, hold on... [He scrabbles with a hand, yanks the cable out with a sharp spike that might mean it's damaged - but that's a concern for later.]
Sans, are you ok--oh my god??
[He climbs off the bed, reaching for the light on the nightstand, but the splashes of glowing color are clear enough signs of injury. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the fluttering isn't just from the usual (usual!) set of wings, to get around to where he can see Sans's head and try to help him sit up.]
[Sans got a great deal on this trampoline, buying it from someone whose kids hadn't used it all summer right when it was getting too cold and getting even more money hacked off the price by promising to take it apart and transport it himself. He didn't take it apart at all, of course, instead just teleporting the whole thing into the backyard as soon as he'd paid up. Teleporting something that big is enough to tire him out a little, but not so much that he doesn't immediately teleport again, sans-trampoline (not to be confused with Sans trampoline), into the house to find Papyrus and show it to him.]
[It's been a few weeks since anything particularly strange or troubling happened. Almost illegally long, by this city's standards. Not literally illegal, Papyrus is pretty sure nobody's legislated any mandates for biweekly perspective-shattering nonsense... but metaphorically speaking. (If anything, recent sentiments around the city would lean towards legislating against strange things. The number of stores with signs refusing service...)
Well, the point is, they're due for something. An accident in the middle of welding is pretty mundane, by those standards, even with the damage to his arm and side revealing the machinery and circuitry just as well as that rusting problem had... but it probably counts. Especially since teleporting in like that treats Sans to the sight of Papyrus, sans-arm (not to be confused with Sans arm), standing over the work station with tool in (other) hand. The detached arm sits on the work station, with clamps keeping it from sliding around, parts of the casing already removed.]
Oh, huh?? [There's a startled second where Papyrus stares wide-eyed at his brother, having not expected an interruption - hadn't Sans been out? - and almost guilty about it. After that beat, he casually turns to lean against the work station, partly shielding the arm from sight, conveniently turning the empty shoulder to the side so it's not as openly on display.] Uhhh, did you? If it's ice cream, I've heard it's not seasonal... unless it's with pie?
[It hasn't been a great day all around. Going for a walk with a ghost, playing noise-silence instead of hot-cold... and hoping he missed no important, lift-threatening auditory cues along the way. Finding her body, and calling for law enforcement to handle the situation. Wrestling with the distraction of whether to steal a prop from the scene, to have a comfortingly skeletal companion for the walk home.
Uncomfortable day, really. And with his head injuries only partly healed, his vision has improved but his head's still pounding by the time he gets home. Human pain medication, then cooking some human food, to have something with more overt flavor than electronics - and to give his bone some substance to hopefully grow back with. It's with a bowl of pasta that the strange notif comes in.]
... YES? IS THIS SANS?
[Not to accuse his bro of actually being a phone thief or something, but.]
[There are some things Sans knows he's good at, and one of those is watching people. Papyrus occupies a unique place in that observation, being simultaneously the most important thing and the one Sans is most likely to let slide. Papyrus has things way more together than Sans, after all. But Papyrus also hasn't been acting any less subdued even as time goes by, and it's getting to the point where Sans is starting to wonder if something's up.
Not that he knows what to do about it. But he does know that he can get more information if he applies himself a little. Sneaking up on Papyrus is difficult, but Sans has an advantage in San Benedicto: his shortcuts don't make noise. When he sees Papyrus vanish into his workshop Sans sneaks in after him, teleporting to that empty, out of the way shelf and keeping as still and silent as he can. He's really good at still and silent, too.]
so, cw damage to Papyrus's skull, as he sped up one of his transformations
[Papyrus doesn't startle or give any sign of noticing his brother's arrival. He isn't really looking around the room or moving much, working on a very mechanical arm with a stillness that would have deeply discomforted early in his changes. There's just a trace of nodding to himself as if there's music playing, audible only to him.
Which there likely is. Multiple cables snake out of his torso to various devices around him at the workstation, including an old PC tower and the small mechanical arm, and his phone is tucked out of sight. One cable, oddly, connects up to his temple. If Sans looks closely, there's hints of dust there and on the table, where a small x-acto knife rests with the blade retracted.
It's not the only dust in the room, but it is the only pile of dust with large enough to speak of injury rather than the slow accumulation of time. There's other projects in the room, including some framework arms with partial outer casings that resemble uncannily muscular bones. Very much the kind of body parts Papyrus might design for himself. Very much sitting in the corner, gathering dust, as if they've been left untouched since his personality swap started.]
[There is no sign of a present from Sans right up until Gyftmas morning when there is a gift bag. This is pretty typical. Inside is this extremely practical gift, but also a whole tub full of little plastic skeletons.]
[COMPLETELY UNRELATED TO SANS'S GIFT there is a very neatly-wrapped gift in red and green stripes from Santa. Inside is an external hard drive.]
Maybe one of their neighbors is Chris Trot, maybe it's his holiday instead
[The plastic skeletons are going to spread all over the house, and one of them is probably going to use that "extremely practical gift" as the base of a swing from a wall lamp somewhere.
For the gift from Santa, Papyrus will replicate your icon, albeit with more hints of imminent tears, and thank Sans - or, you know, tell Sans to thank Santa for him.]
[It turns out Sans has the entire week between Christmas and New Year's off, more or less. Technically, he could still go run his hot dog stand if he wanted to. He might. Not today, though. Gyftmas was for watching all the little toy skeletons start appearing around the house, yesterday was for napping on the couch with his heated blanket and his hat and obtaining Ultimate Coziness, and today is for baking a pie.
He's been hanging onto the pie recipe for a while, going over the neat, teacher-worthy lettering as if he's never seen it before. It's the recipe the old lady gave him, the one he left behind at home when he went off to watch the underground die. It's in her handwriting and it even has the stain on it from the first time Sans tried to recreate the recipe, when he spilled the filling.
He doesn't spill it this time. He tells himself it's because of the power of the pie tin he's using being the one Papyrus got him and very carefully doesn't think about all the practice he got in with the leech. Cooking and baking always seem like a lot of work, but giving people food is something he likes. Can't do that here, though. Well, except for himself. And the hot dogs, but that's a sales thing. Not quite the same thing.
Sans sits on the countertop next to the pie while it cools, which is unnecessary, but it's the best way for him to casually take a look at it. He can fiddle with his phone and look it over with a few leftover eye sockets. It looks less like a quiche this time, he thinks. The crust still got a little burned around the edges. Probably shouldn't have been so lazy with the tin foil coverage. Oh well.]
[Papyrus has the week off as well, in more or less the same sense. The vocation school he's currently attending doesn't hold classes between the end of year holidays, rather like Sans's job. But his garbage collection job ended a couple weeks ago, and not because there's no more garbage to collect. After his unfortunate rudeness while under the influence of someone else's personality... Well. As patient and supportive as his boss had been through the tunnel accident, or the time taken off to look after Sans after rescuing Dinah got him injured? The same patience wore out, when a smartly dressed Papyrus started no-showing to work - and insulting the job when called.
And who could blame them for that! Certainly not Papyrus, even after he showed up in person to apologize, and the numbness of his own feelings made his apology that much less persuasive. Easier to recognize that the apology wasn't really taking root, and it wasn't worth pushing, and to for once just let the matter go.
Besides, upon being the great Papyrus again, there was a silver lining to grasp at: the opportunity to look for other opportunities elsewhere! Like something suiting his increasing urge to do things with these blossoming technical skills. Which he's been doing for a couple weeks now, with certification courses in auto mechanics work. It doesn't involve as much reading and filling out assignments as the schooling he remembers did... But that doesn't stop him from studying up on manuals, or buying a junker car to tinker with in the driveway. (The garage being taken with other projects, for the time being.)
He comes in from one of these tinkering sessions with a bit of oil on his gloves, which he heads to the sink to wash off. As one does, when confident enough in their ability to fix the plumbing themselves - or just not thinking it through enough to worry. Either way, as the smell of oil fades, the scent of the pie filling the kitchen fills his nasal cavities as well.]
Hey, that smells good. Is that why you're on the counter with it? The closer to the smell...
[It doesn't look quite as good as it smells, not as photogenic as some of Sans's earlier baking creations... Back during that week. Which isn't a welcome reminder, and his smile is bittersweet as he leans over to examine the pie... But the ways it's a little bit of a mess are, actually, comforting. It looks like he'd expect Sans's baking to look.]
[So, Sans thinking Papyrus is the coolest brother and wanting everyone to know how cool Papyrus is aren't actually new things. This is probably part of the reason, beyond the way the pollen messes with Sans's thought process, that he doesn't really stop to think about what he's doing while Papyrus is away at work.
It's most important that Papyrus know how cool he is, of course, and a surprise is more fun, which is part of why he's decided to be patient and not go harass Papyrus at work. Anyway, Papyrus is probably working hard at all that car stuff. Which he'll be great at, obviously, so Sans wouldn't want to get in the way. Mostly. Maybe he'd want to watch, but Papyrus is still getting certified, so he's probably still trying to make a good impression on his boss and stuff. (Not that he should need to. Why doesn't everyone else just immediately realize how cool Papyrus is? It's ridiculous. Anyway.)
When Papyrus gets home, he will find an entire maze in his front yard. A maze made of spikes and fire. This is extremely unsafe. The grass that isn't already dead is crying. Sans dug a moat around the house to (theoretically; really more just for show since Papyrus would never actually skip a puzzle) keep Papyrus from just walking around to the back door. It's actually a pretty complicated maze? He made sure you can't do the "stick your hand on a wall and follow it" trick and everything. Sans did not go to work today he just did this.
When Papyrus actually gets to the door, there is also candy waiting for him. Because it's Valentine's Day and that's how it works, apparently. Sans is on the couch, meanwhile, excited but also looking a bit exhausted, possibly because he built an entire maze and Sans is not at all used to that much physical exertion.]
[The excitement is twofold. Or possibly fourfold? Whatever Papyrus expected to find today, it wasn't an outright maze in their yard. Let alone one with spikes and fire?! He outright squeals with delight, clasping his hands to his mouth and running around the outer edge to confirm just how complicated it is.
This maze is a considerate gesture above and beyond anything Sans typically does, one that brin ISFgs a sense of just how tired Sans must be about it... but even more sense of excitement as he finally starts walking the paths of it. The sound of the squealing and 'oh my god'-ing is likely audible from the living room, but if it isn't, a text goes through too.]
SANS????!?!??? DO I HAVE A NEW BIRTHDAY OR SOMETHING?????? WHEN DID YOU HAVE TIME TO DO ALL OF THIS, OH MY GOD.
[Before there's time for Sans to even begin to text a reply, two photos are loading too - one a shot of the maze from outside, one a selfie of Papyrus within the maze, back to one of the earlier turns.]
[So, things have been a little weird again, which is actually not weird for San Benedicto. Sans crashes in bed at his usual time, half despite wanting to hang out with Papyrus longer and half specifically because he wants to hang out with Papyrus longer and he's on and off aware that it's beyond the normal amount of wanting time with his super cool bro. Anyway, Sans did a lot the last two days, between making a whole maze and almost indirectly starting an electrical fire. He has a lot of vague dreams about cameras.
Of course, some people say the dreams you remember only took place for a few moments before you actually wake up, and Sans wakes up to a head-splitting amount of sensory input. He can see himself in bed from all angles. He can see his whole room from all angles. He squeezes his eyes shut, both the ones in his skull and the ones on his halo, but that doesn't stop the ones that have appeared on the walls and the ceiling and the floor all over his room. He curls entirely under the heated blanket, throwing it over his head and halo too, and that's not doing wonders for either set of wings but he just wants to get away from all these perspectives. The idea of finding Papyrus flits through his mind--what exactly does he expect Papyrus to do about this?--before he realizes he'd have to walk or teleport into the rest of the house and that just seems too overwhelming right now. No, he's staying right here.
But also, he's inadvertently projecting all these overwhelming sensations and feelings to Papyrus. Sorry Papyrus. San Benedicto strikes again.]
[These haven't been the roughest days in Papyrus's life-and-death-and-life, nor the worst, but they're ranking high in his weirdness quotient. Feeling some of Sans's feelings, and knowing that Sans is feeling his back, and even getting echoes of their own feelings in each other... He'd be distressed about the complete lack of privacy, if it wasn't the first (leeches) or even second (emotional reset) time. He still would be, except that so much of what's trickling from Sans is affection and admiration towards Papyrus, and that's been more heartwarming than he'd want to admit.
(Not that he has to admit anything, when Sans can surely feel it back. That and his usually unstated trust in his older brother, and the mix of concern and frustration, and even admiration of his own. Sans's casual confidence in all that he's knowledgeable about, his ease in being friendly with just about anyone... Well, Papyrus wouldn't mind emulating that stuff a little more, some days.)
Still, he notices when Sans is dreaming instead of just asleep. The odd fluctuating emotions from out of nowhere are even odder and more fluctuating, if underlaid with the kind of dread that Papyrus frankly expects from dreams. But then it's something else, as overwhelming as any of the worst of his nightmares, but focused and ongoing in a way that's hard to believe is still a dream.
It's less than a minute for Papyrus to drop what he's doing, disconnecting from various things, and get to his brother's door to knock loudly on it.] Sans?? Are you okay? Is that a nightmare???
[Sans has already been feeling a constant, pounding headache and nausea and a general sense of wrongness about everything when he watches Mysterio flake away with rust and distortion, ending with an explosion in case anyone might have thought that was something you survive. Sans has enough eyes in the house to know he saw Papyrus go into his workshop even if he doesn't have eyes inside, and wanting to check on Papyrus is nearly the same thing as checking on him.
A glowing emptiness tears open the space above the empty shelf, a void of light that pops as it displaces the air much like Sans's normal teleport might, before Sans is there, with too many wings that don't seem entirely committed to any one place on his body. Landing on the shelf is more of a polite nod to physics than something absolutely necessary, as Sans isn't thinking at all about how Papyrus might interpret his arrival in favor of his own concerns about making sure Papyrus isn't a melted, rusting mess on the ground somewhere.]
Papyrus? [Sans's voice is mostly the same, except it doesn't seem any more committed to coming from the right place in Sans's body than the wings are committed to attaching correctly.]
[Well. Two out of three isn't great, when it comes to things one is hoping aren't the case. Papyrus isn't sitting in the chair at his desk with all the PC towers and external hard drive, or at the station where he tends to tinker with his latest arm designs. He is, instead, a mess on the ground near the desk, with the assistant arm whirring beside him. His legs are detached, the foot of one of them disassembled with a few random wheels and a broken drone around it. There are specks and small streaks of rust on him, including the detached legs.
But there's no signs of melting, and the digital static sounds he offers as he looks up at Sans's question are a blend of static and the hissing of an "s" sound in Sans's own voice, not pained screams. He offers a brief wave, though his face twists up in annoyance at the sight of all Sans's wings and his own hand.]
[So, things have been getting better as far as acting weird goes. Sans has been working on the ruins symbols and acting less and less like he's going to break Papyrus's scrap metal into molecules or jump across time.
But this text is glowing blindingly bright.]
i found that body they found it's dead but it's not dead something's alive
[Guess who's been getting into things they shouldn't?]
[Things have been better all around. The lightning and brief respite from the smell were something of a much needed restart, and now Papyrus is braced for the disgust and the way it's shifted his priorities - braced enough to counter-shift them. It helps that the call for aid with emergency services desperately needed people available at night, and working with people on things other than his own repairs (or Sans's wing support) has been helpful evidence of success in keeping his composure. He even got some ultra-strength weedkiller to help keep the lawn from growing back, the better to keep home a little bastion from uncomfortable sights.
He still hasn't figured out any way of coding a warning for when Sans's text does this, so it's another delay as he deals with the brightness and focuses on the words themselves.
[Sans crashes to the ground coughing and choking on nothing. He lands on his side and tips forward onto his stomach and he stays there, mind filled with a dull, numb static that promises to go all sharp and electric if he goes poking around. The memories of the last few--did it even last seconds?--are raw and tender and just as dangerous as the rest of his scattered thoughts. His extra arms have faded back to invisibility; indeed, he's hardly glowing at all, having bled magic so dramatically.
Sans should check on his soul. He should check on Papyrus. He should sit up. He should move, he should do anything at all, but his body feels as far away as that piece of his soul is now. Passing out might not be so bad, but he's denied that sort of easy escape. Instead, he's left staring across the floor, still as if he'd Fallen Down.
But he can at least find his voice, raw as it sounds when he uses it.] Papyrus?
[Reaching up for Sans is interrupted by the clear and repeated instruction - behold. Papyrus stares at the screen even as his hand keeps reaching up to his brother, taking in the static, symbols, and screaming souls with a flinch that still can't divert his gaze.
But the ground shakes, and the screen goes black - the black of lost signal, rather than other things. He manages to shake his head, shake the sudden need to memorize the sight, and re-prioritize. Sans, whose soul looked fractured and trickling light.
Sans who's on the ground now, lying still and dim, practically back to 'normal' - maybe one or two extra sets of wings, which is nothing compared to the clump of feathers and eyes he'd been a minute ago. The stillness leaves Papyrus still too, staring with fresh dread, until...]
Sans? Are you... o-kay?
[It's easy to see the answer's no, in some degree. But if he doesn't even joke or pretend to be fine, well... Papyrus puts a grasping claw gently to his brother's shoulder, ready to pick him up if he doesn't protest.]
[As usual, the first sunlight wakes Sans up. As used to it as he is, as much as he knows he'll be able to go back to sleep after he uses up his early morning rush of energy on eating and hanging out, he still kind of resents it. But that's not the point today.
What is the point is Sans strolling into the kitchen, looking in a better mood than he has been recently.]
G'morning.
[You're blue now. And floating slightly off the ground.]
[It's been a few weeks, and things have been... back to normal, somehow. Fresh wave of rude remarks about monsters in various websites and texts and calls, to go with the destruction and death, but no major punitive legislation has gone off. Nobody's summoned them all to the cave entrance to be ritual sacrifices in hopes of freeing the rest of the canyon. It's a peaceful morning, as Papyrus mixes up batter - the better to try in a new waffle iron he found around. But floating a couple inches makes the next attempt to stir go wide, and a spattering of batter goes across the counter.]
Oh my god, Sans??!
[His voice goes shrill with recognition, disbelief, and something along the lines of envy. He twists his neck to confirm that, yes, it's a sleepy-energized Sans cheerfully grinning at him.]
When did this start? Are you just getting back all our magic??
[There's a delay before Papyrus responds, or maybe it's just that Sans's phone is lagging? (He's inundating the tracker with queries about the "growling," to which the tracker unhelpfully responds that - lacking a directive to track odd sounds - there's no consistent record to pull on. That's updated.)]
OKAY, I'M NOT FREAKING OUT.
[Because he just did that.]
AM I NOT FREAKING OUT ABOUT GROWLING, OR GROWING. BECAUSE EITHER COULD BE. A CONCERN.
[Sans all but rips off the hazmat suit, scattering shards of glass on the floor, and peels off his shirt just as haphazardly. His soul is quivering like a terrified animal, but no more pieces have been ripped off. He's okay. He's bleeding a little from the glass and dripping liquid magic on the floor but he's okay. He's got a headache but he's okay.
It's not long before Sans retrieves the band-aids and sits down, still shirtless, on the couch. None of the cuts look too bad--the hazmat suit caught the worst of it--but he doesn't want to be dripping everywhere, so he's covering himself up with smiley face band-aids. His soul is still shaking, and so are his wings, and he feels weird, like his whole body fell asleep and is just now waking up, but at least Papyrus isn't home yet (either that or he's in the workshop and hasn't noticed Sans is home). Maybe he can settle down before Papyrus gets back.]
where does the front door open to? is the couch in sightline? who knows
As is typical of Sans's more dangerous investigations, Papyrus is largely in the dark about what's going on, or even that there's active investigation happening today. There's the tracker on Sans's phone, sure, but it was made to be small and unobtrusive - not large enough to continually monitor every conversation and location Sans goes through and reporting it all to Papyrus. The data usage of those transmissions would be too noticeable, anyway.
Instead, his flimsy continuation of going through some of the motions of privacy has the tracker set to signal him with certain kinds of things - like Sans talking like he's been attacked, or been injured through trying to help someone else too much, or the phone getting separated from him somehow. Things that aren't likely to come up very often, especially since Sans has been downright responsible about keeping his phone charged most of the time these days.
So it's something of a surprise when Papyrus's phone pops up a notification of a text from the tracker - one of the automated messages about battery dying, and with the added detail of the speed of the drain. Useful to know, and Papyrus doesn't think about how the tracker took initiative to include it, not when he's preoccupied by sending Sans a couple Very Casual texts. They're worded casually, in case nothing's actually wrong besides a battery problem and the texts go through as normal later. But there's no response, and it's nearly the end of his time at work anyway, so he mentions there's maybe family trouble and gets the go-ahead to head out early.
There's a light on and no signs of broken anything (besides the deactivated maze, and the remains of charred lawn, and the slowly growing grass), which all amounts to some degree of reassurance. He calls ahead as he opens the door.]
Hey, Sans, are you home?? What gives, why aren't you answering my texts?
[Sans is not in a good mood. He can't remember ever having been in a good mood. The whispering of his damaged soul is constant and difficult to ignore. He almost can't think past all the things that have happened to him. None of this changes the fact that the power is out and Papyrus needs to stay charged.
So Sans robs a store. It's efficient. It's easy. He's in and out in a few moments, taking the entire battery display with him to Papyrus's workshop. He doesn't feel bad about it. (He does feel bad about it. He's terrible and he only does terrible things.) The humans here don't like monsters much anyway, so it's fine.
Papyrus might be here; Sans isn't sure. It'd be easier if he wasn't.
[Papyrus is in the workshop, it turns out. It's reasonable for Sans to think not - when he went to bed, Papyrus had also tried taking a nap. The better to conserve energy overnight, in hopes the power would return while he snoozed. But the dreams were not pleasant at all, and he'd opted for figuring out something to work on in the meantime.
There's a couple of faint flashlights dangling from wires around the room, the sort that need to be shaken to recharge their light, rather than replacing batteries on the regular. They're enough to give his dim light perception plenty to work with, but Sans's glowing arrival is obvious in the dark night, and Papyrus looks up and over to him with a smile.]
Hey, Sans! I didn't expect to see you. Sleeping okay?
[It's said in a cheerful voice, with a easy, bright smile, one that stands out compared to the ones he's been offering for months. The discomfort in his own bones-and-metal that Papyrus had been shivering with earlier in the day is gone, but it's more than that. He's expressing a little curiosity, but there's not much in the way of worry that anything might be wrong. A flat simplicity to it, maybe like his smiles when trying to hide the emotional numbness, or like the bright smiles when the leech first started taking effect.]
[Sans is... Distracted. He vanishes off the couch and outside as soon as he sees the first shooting stars, not thinking about the state of the power or the fact that a sudden meteor shower probably counts as too close to the power outage to be coincidence. It's only belatedly that he realizes he should let Papyrus know he didn't vanish in a more literal sense.]
there's shooting stars
[Okay, so that's not very specific. Papyrus can fill in the blanks, right?]
i can never resist writing an essay for the first tag, context is tasty
[Papyrus is distracted, too. The house's power being cut off is an irritatingly frequent occurence, and neighborhood blackouts happen regularly enough he's gotten used to it... but the entire canyon losing power, this is only the second time. Last time had brought with it the splitting into two halves, with some miserable emotional spirals to go with it. This time he's already reasonably numb (43% processing), but this time he's fully robot, more reliant on electricity than ever.
Plus, the discomfort of the quiet. So few powered devices, with only a scattering of generators through the city, little flares of texts but no broadcasting of television or radio or the network... It stabs at him in a discomfort that has nothing to do with his emotions.
So he's irritated when Sans disappears, and still hesitating over what to text his brother when the brief explanation comes in. The blanks are a little larger than even he knows what to do with.]
WHAT, THEY WEREN'T SCHEDULED?
[He assumes something like that is why Sans bolted without explanation. By now he knows a fair bit about what astronomers can predict, a lot of the general phenomena but not always the specifics of things like where and when meteors will fall - not without a live view from orbit. But surely anticipated showers would have seen his brother commenting on it sooner. Sans wouldn't have held off saying something because of Papyrus still getting, just a tiny bit, nervous about space viewing and power outages, would he...?]
[It's such a small thing that gets him. Rather, it being such a small thing is exactly why it works. Sans doesn't even know something weird has started yet; if the person he meets just outside the dig site has pink eyes and shadows collecting around their feet, that's not actually that strange here. Even less strange to Sans, who's always been a monster. He's distracted by the whispering that's picking up again, interspersed with strange murmurings about disease that he hasn't pinpointed the cause of. The other monster just wants to know which way the museum is. Sans tells him. They pass by each other. There's pinprick pain on one of his wings, and Sans's magic turns to sludge, slow and unresponsive, but it doesn't really matter since the spreading paralysis drops him right into the monster's arms and that means he's not going anywhere without taking that thing with him.
"What the fuck," he says, or tries to--it's garbled. He uses magic to speak, and his magic's a mess. But at least that's something he can do, because his body just doesn't work at all. He can't move. The other monster looks different now, long-nosed mask and shadowy body, and Sans finally realizes the whispering and murmuring is coming from them.
Then he's on his back in the canyon, too far from the dig site for his voice to reach. Middle of nowhere. Great. His wings protest the rough treatment as he's dropped onto the ground, but he can't do anything about it. He can still hear the whispering, but the parts he can understand have gotten louder. Sans is terribly infected, it's saying, and that infection is going to be the ruin of the canyon. The infection needs to be removed.
Then it starts cutting apart his hand. Phalanges are neatly severed, all quick and efficient like Sans didn't need that. Screaming isn't really Sans's thing; the pain clots up the magic in his throat at first, and he can't make a sound around the sharp heat of each slice. Part of him is surprised he's not dead yet. He thinks that the thing cutting him up is trying to be careful, and that unlocks his throat. He laughs, hysterical and unpleasant, as the plague doctor takes apart the rest of his hand. At least it's his right hand, he thinks ridiculously. The magic in his body has gone from cyan to red as it bleeds out of him onto the desert ground.
The laughter doesn't last. By the time his radius and ulna are removed, Sans is starting to at least approach screaming. He's definitely screaming in his head, tugging at his magic, trying to force himself to move on sheer willpower. Too bad he's never had a lot of that. The doctor turns their attention to the wing at his right hip, and the sharp heat spreads further as he cuts through all the sensitive magic membranes that hold his feathers in. Now he is screaming, with a voice not built for that. His throat hurts, but that's such a distant pain he's hardly aware of it.
Then he gets lucky. His extra arms are piled uselessly around him, and he can't move them, but finally, finally he gets magic into them. A pulse of panicked intent to defend himself, and his arms light up with angry, painful magic of their own. Just for a second, the plague doctor flinches back. Sans throws everything he has, all of his magic, into his most well-used, well-loved skill. He's great at running away--he always knows a shortcut.
[Sans drops like a pile of laundry onto the living room floor, a useless sack of unresponsive bones. He still can't move, and now he's bleeding red magic out onto the carpet, but that carpet is familiar and this room feels so much safer than the unforgiving canyon walls.
He still might die, he thinks, and it's a very clear thought amidst all his panicked ones. He's lost his right arm above the elbow and most of the wing at his right hip, except for the humerus. Papyrus is going to have to get his magic out of the carpet.
Papyrus. Where is he? Right now, Sans is selfish--enough that he doesn't even think of it as being selfish. There's just raw, hurt desperation there; he wants to see his brother. He wants Papyrus here, because he doesn't want to be all alone like this. He doesn't even know if Papyrus is home or not. He tries calling out anyway. It's a rough sound, thin from the screaming he was doing earlier, and it's not exactly Papyrus's name. Still, at least it's a noise. If Papyrus is around, he'd have to investigate, right? Please.]
[Sans spending a lot of time on the couch is nothing new. Having a broken leg is just giving him more of an excuse. (If he's started trying to get up and walk around more lately, it's not enough for him to have noticed just yet.) He's got his broken leg propped up on the coffee table--it's for medical reasons--but other than that he's tucked into his usual corner of the couch, like the drone that's hanging around with him needs the same couch space that Papyrus himself does. It doesn't even really feel weird at this point.
Sans has been watching game shows, a reliable daytime television staple. Mettaton's were always more interesting, but Sans was never a soap opera kind of guy and talk shows are still off-limits. The strange hum almost goes unnoticed at first, lost in the general noise of the show. He only notices it when the picture flickers briefly and the buzzing hum continues. There's static flickering in and out of the edges of the screen.]
Huh? No. [It's a day for layered voices, as the sound of Papyrus's voice is doubled, coming from both the drone and more distantly from the kitchen.] I'm not doing anything to the power, either...
[Nothing unusual, more specifically. He is running a couple machines in the workshop, each set to making pieces for different design spare limbs in case of a rainy day, but those have been going for hours without issue. This is something else, something that needs investigating, and he pulls his latest kitchen crafting to the side, turning off the heat of the burner, and starts heading down the hallway to check things out in person. The drone's resolution isn't as good as his, after all.]
That static, right? It didn't feel like a power surge, either...
[A relief and a grumble at once. The power in the city has been better since the brightness and darkness through the canyon, the other day. It's been a nice few days, no problems requiring the generators, no brief transformations to an oversized action figure. He doesn't miss those days. But the question remains, what else is going to go weird and maybe wrong this month? Mirrors keep dripping when he sees them, for all he still can't prove what he's seeing. And the bright white of bone when he walks past reflective surfaces keeps catching him by surprise, no longer familiar since the bone isn't even there anymore... It's complicated.]
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spaghettimonster) wrote2021-07-31 02:32 am
July 30 action
Surprise. [Sans did not even attempt to hide.] Happy birthday, bro.
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Wow, what? It's not... I mean, it is my birthday on the calendar...
[This is turning out to be another of those challenging things about dying and waking up in a different world. Does it count as a birthday, when it hasn't been a year since the last time it was this day...? But his brother clearly went to the actual effort of getting that banner, and the present on the bed. And, Papyrus learns as he closes the door behind him and goes further into the room, that attempt on the nightstand.]
Oh. Wow. This cake... You shouldn't have? [He's laughing a little as he says it.]
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August 3 morning; cw: broken bones, "blood"
There's liquid magic staining the sheets and soaking Sans's shirt, and his glowing is already starting to shift from blue to red.]
bringing the body horror in horror
Fortunately, tonight isn't one of his nights. He's in the hotel suite, lounging on his bed with phone and refurbished laptop in front of him, cords trailing behind them and himself into a recently bought surge protector. When Sans shoots up with the sound of cracking bone, Papyrus lurches to check on him - only to get tethered by the cord, and curse himself.]
Hold on, hold on... [He scrabbles with a hand, yanks the cable out with a sharp spike that might mean it's damaged - but that's a concern for later.]
Sans, are you ok--oh my god??
[He climbs off the bed, reaching for the light on the nightstand, but the splashes of glowing color are clear enough signs of injury. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the fluttering isn't just from the usual (usual!) set of wings, to get around to where he can see Sans's head and try to help him sit up.]
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October 5 afternoon
Hey, bro, I got something cool.
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Well, the point is, they're due for something. An accident in the middle of welding is pretty mundane, by those standards, even with the damage to his arm and side revealing the machinery and circuitry just as well as that rusting problem had... but it probably counts. Especially since teleporting in like that treats Sans to the sight of Papyrus, sans-arm (not to be confused with Sans arm), standing over the work station with tool in (other) hand. The detached arm sits on the work station, with clamps keeping it from sliding around, parts of the casing already removed.]
Oh, huh?? [There's a startled second where Papyrus stares wide-eyed at his brother, having not expected an interruption - hadn't Sans been out? - and almost guilty about it. After that beat, he casually turns to lean against the work station, partly shielding the arm from sight, conveniently turning the empty shoulder to the side so it's not as openly on display.] Uhhh, did you? If it's ice cream, I've heard it's not seasonal... unless it's with pie?
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I think there's a degree of noodle incident here re: how exactly he got injured, as a robot
since it's papyrus it could literally be a noodle incident
Attack of the metal-cutting noodles
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text; after sans watches the worst home movie marathon ever
[Yeah, that font is intentional. No comic sans, no lucida console, just the default font provided by the phone.]
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Uncomfortable day, really. And with his head injuries only partly healed, his vision has improved but his head's still pounding by the time he gets home. Human pain medication, then cooking some human food, to have something with more overt flavor than electronics - and to give his bone some substance to hopefully grow back with. It's with a bowl of pasta that the strange notif comes in.]
...
YES?
IS THIS SANS?
[Not to accuse his bro of actually being a phone thief or something, but.]
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backdated to a few days after the food thread
Not that he knows what to do about it. But he does know that he can get more information if he applies himself a little. Sneaking up on Papyrus is difficult, but Sans has an advantage in San Benedicto: his shortcuts don't make noise. When he sees Papyrus vanish into his workshop Sans sneaks in after him, teleporting to that empty, out of the way shelf and keeping as still and silent as he can. He's really good at still and silent, too.]
so, cw damage to Papyrus's skull, as he sped up one of his transformations
Which there likely is. Multiple cables snake out of his torso to various devices around him at the workstation, including an old PC tower and the small mechanical arm, and his phone is tucked out of sight. One cable, oddly, connects up to his temple. If Sans looks closely, there's hints of dust there and on the table, where a small x-acto knife rests with the blade retracted.
It's not the only dust in the room, but it is the only pile of dust with large enough to speak of injury rather than the slow accumulation of time. There's other projects in the room, including some framework arms with partial outer casings that resemble uncannily muscular bones. Very much the kind of body parts Papyrus might design for himself. Very much sitting in the corner, gathering dust, as if they've been left untouched since his personality swap started.]
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Chri--I mean Gyftmas
[COMPLETELY UNRELATED TO SANS'S GIFT there is a very neatly-wrapped gift in red and green stripes from Santa. Inside is an external hard drive.]
Maybe one of their neighbors is Chris Trot, maybe it's his holiday instead
For the gift from Santa, Papyrus will replicate your icon, albeit with more hints of imminent tears, and thank Sans - or, you know, tell Sans to thank Santa for him.]
December 27
He's been hanging onto the pie recipe for a while, going over the neat, teacher-worthy lettering as if he's never seen it before. It's the recipe the old lady gave him, the one he left behind at home when he went off to watch the underground die. It's in her handwriting and it even has the stain on it from the first time Sans tried to recreate the recipe, when he spilled the filling.
He doesn't spill it this time. He tells himself it's because of the power of the pie tin he's using being the one Papyrus got him and very carefully doesn't think about all the practice he got in with the leech. Cooking and baking always seem like a lot of work, but giving people food is something he likes. Can't do that here, though. Well, except for himself. And the hot dogs, but that's a sales thing. Not quite the same thing.
Sans sits on the countertop next to the pie while it cools, which is unnecessary, but it's the best way for him to casually take a look at it. He can fiddle with his phone and look it over with a few leftover eye sockets. It looks less like a quiche this time, he thinks. The crust still got a little burned around the edges. Probably shouldn't have been so lazy with the tin foil coverage. Oh well.]
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And who could blame them for that! Certainly not Papyrus, even after he showed up in person to apologize, and the numbness of his own feelings made his apology that much less persuasive. Easier to recognize that the apology wasn't really taking root, and it wasn't worth pushing, and to for once just let the matter go.
Besides, upon being the great Papyrus again, there was a silver lining to grasp at: the opportunity to look for other opportunities elsewhere! Like something suiting his increasing urge to do things with these blossoming technical skills. Which he's been doing for a couple weeks now, with certification courses in auto mechanics work. It doesn't involve as much reading and filling out assignments as the schooling he remembers did... But that doesn't stop him from studying up on manuals, or buying a junker car to tinker with in the driveway. (The garage being taken with other projects, for the time being.)
He comes in from one of these tinkering sessions with a bit of oil on his gloves, which he heads to the sink to wash off. As one does, when confident enough in their ability to fix the plumbing themselves - or just not thinking it through enough to worry. Either way, as the smell of oil fades, the scent of the pie filling the kitchen fills his nasal cavities as well.]
Hey, that smells good. Is that why you're on the counter with it? The closer to the smell...
[It doesn't look quite as good as it smells, not as photogenic as some of Sans's earlier baking creations... Back during that week. Which isn't a welcome reminder, and his smile is bittersweet as he leans over to examine the pie... But the ways it's a little bit of a mess are, actually, comforting. It looks like he'd expect Sans's baking to look.]
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i haven't even watched it myself, why am i making references
it's okay I've only heard the soundtrack
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February 14
It's most important that Papyrus know how cool he is, of course, and a surprise is more fun, which is part of why he's decided to be patient and not go harass Papyrus at work. Anyway, Papyrus is probably working hard at all that car stuff. Which he'll be great at, obviously, so Sans wouldn't want to get in the way. Mostly. Maybe he'd want to watch, but Papyrus is still getting certified, so he's probably still trying to make a good impression on his boss and stuff. (Not that he should need to. Why doesn't everyone else just immediately realize how cool Papyrus is? It's ridiculous. Anyway.)
When Papyrus gets home, he will find an entire maze in his front yard. A maze made of spikes and fire. This is extremely unsafe. The grass that isn't already dead is crying. Sans dug a moat around the house to (theoretically; really more just for show since Papyrus would never actually skip a puzzle) keep Papyrus from just walking around to the back door. It's actually a pretty complicated maze? He made sure you can't do the "stick your hand on a wall and follow it" trick and everything. Sans did not go to work today he just did this.
When Papyrus actually gets to the door, there is also candy waiting for him. Because it's Valentine's Day and that's how it works, apparently. Sans is on the couch, meanwhile, excited but also looking a bit exhausted, possibly because he built an entire maze and Sans is not at all used to that much physical exertion.]
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This maze is a considerate gesture above and beyond anything Sans typically does, one that brin ISFgs a sense of just how tired Sans must be about it... but even more sense of excitement as he finally starts walking the paths of it. The sound of the squealing and 'oh my god'-ing is likely audible from the living room, but if it isn't, a text goes through too.]
SANS????!?!???
DO I HAVE A NEW BIRTHDAY OR SOMETHING??????
WHEN DID YOU HAVE TIME TO DO ALL OF THIS, OH MY GOD.
[Before there's time for Sans to even begin to text a reply, two photos are loading too - one a shot of the maze from outside, one a selfie of Papyrus within the maze, back to one of the earlier turns.]
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February 16
Of course, some people say the dreams you remember only took place for a few moments before you actually wake up, and Sans wakes up to a head-splitting amount of sensory input. He can see himself in bed from all angles. He can see his whole room from all angles. He squeezes his eyes shut, both the ones in his skull and the ones on his halo, but that doesn't stop the ones that have appeared on the walls and the ceiling and the floor all over his room. He curls entirely under the heated blanket, throwing it over his head and halo too, and that's not doing wonders for either set of wings but he just wants to get away from all these perspectives. The idea of finding Papyrus flits through his mind--what exactly does he expect Papyrus to do about this?--before he realizes he'd have to walk or teleport into the rest of the house and that just seems too overwhelming right now. No, he's staying right here.
But also, he's inadvertently projecting all these overwhelming sensations and feelings to Papyrus. Sorry Papyrus. San Benedicto strikes again.]
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(Not that he has to admit anything, when Sans can surely feel it back. That and his usually unstated trust in his older brother, and the mix of concern and frustration, and even admiration of his own. Sans's casual confidence in all that he's knowledgeable about, his ease in being friendly with just about anyone... Well, Papyrus wouldn't mind emulating that stuff a little more, some days.)
Still, he notices when Sans is dreaming instead of just asleep. The odd fluctuating emotions from out of nowhere are even odder and more fluctuating, if underlaid with the kind of dread that Papyrus frankly expects from dreams. But then it's something else, as overwhelming as any of the worst of his nightmares, but focused and ongoing in a way that's hard to believe is still a dream.
It's less than a minute for Papyrus to drop what he's doing, disconnecting from various things, and get to his brother's door to knock loudly on it.] Sans?? Are you okay? Is that a nightmare???
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basically immediately after mysterio's death
A glowing emptiness tears open the space above the empty shelf, a void of light that pops as it displaces the air much like Sans's normal teleport might, before Sans is there, with too many wings that don't seem entirely committed to any one place on his body. Landing on the shelf is more of a polite nod to physics than something absolutely necessary, as Sans isn't thinking at all about how Papyrus might interpret his arrival in favor of his own concerns about making sure Papyrus isn't a melted, rusting mess on the ground somewhere.]
Papyrus? [Sans's voice is mostly the same, except it doesn't seem any more committed to coming from the right place in Sans's body than the wings are committed to attaching correctly.]
who needs dialogue in a tag right
But there's no signs of melting, and the digital static sounds he offers as he looks up at Sans's question are a blend of static and the hissing of an "s" sound in Sans's own voice, not pained screams. He offers a brief wave, though his face twists up in annoyance at the sight of all Sans's wings and his own hand.]
nobody needs to make sense in this thread
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March 18
But this text is glowing blindingly bright.]
i found that body they found
it's dead but it's not dead
something's alive
[Guess who's been getting into things they shouldn't?]
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He still hasn't figured out any way of coding a warning for when Sans's text does this, so it's another delay as he deals with the brightness and focuses on the words themselves.
...He almost regrets reading this one.]
\E5THE ONE&THAT DRIPPED&IN THE JOURNAL?/
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darker yet darker
Re: darker yet darker
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after the rc car adventure; I think it's fair to cw for just massive amounts of trauma here
[Sans crashes to the ground coughing and choking on nothing. He lands on his side and tips forward onto his stomach and he stays there, mind filled with a dull, numb static that promises to go all sharp and electric if he goes poking around. The memories of the last few--did it even last seconds?--are raw and tender and just as dangerous as the rest of his scattered thoughts. His extra arms have faded back to invisibility; indeed, he's hardly glowing at all, having bled magic so dramatically.
Sans should check on his soul. He should check on Papyrus. He should sit up. He should move, he should do anything at all, but his body feels as far away as that piece of his soul is now. Passing out might not be so bad, but he's denied that sort of easy escape. Instead, he's left staring across the floor, still as if he'd Fallen Down.
But he can at least find his voice, raw as it sounds when he uses it.] Papyrus?
sans's no good very bad soul appetizer tray
But the ground shakes, and the screen goes black - the black of lost signal, rather than other things. He manages to shake his head, shake the sudden need to memorize the sight, and re-prioritize. Sans, whose soul looked fractured and trickling light.
Sans who's on the ground now, lying still and dim, practically back to 'normal' - maybe one or two extra sets of wings, which is nothing compared to the clump of feathers and eyes he'd been a minute ago. The stillness leaves Papyrus still too, staring with fresh dread, until...]
Sans? Are you... o-kay?
[It's easy to see the answer's no, in some degree. But if he doesn't even joke or pretend to be fine, well... Papyrus puts a grasping claw gently to his brother's shoulder, ready to pick him up if he doesn't protest.]
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remember how i started a reply last night? it's not in my drafting doc, good job me
oh no, the tragedy of lost effort
thankfully the plurk convo before sleep reminded me he should make a face
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I just remembered the after-event effects are going on right now SO...
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cw: some sort of panic attack
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4/20, aka the day before the event; action
What is the point is Sans strolling into the kitchen, looking in a better mood than he has been recently.]
G'morning.
[You're blue now. And floating slightly off the ground.]
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Oh my god, Sans??!
[His voice goes shrill with recognition, disbelief, and something along the lines of envy. He twists his neck to confirm that, yes, it's a sleepy-energized Sans cheerfully grinning at him.]
When did this start? Are you just getting back all our magic??
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text; backdated to early april the day sans sees a doctor
but my soul might be growling a little
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OKAY, I'M NOT FREAKING OUT.
[Because he just did that.]
AM I NOT FREAKING OUT ABOUT GROWLING, OR GROWING.
BECAUSE EITHER COULD BE. A CONCERN.
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It's not long before Sans retrieves the band-aids and sits down, still shirtless, on the couch. None of the cuts look too bad--the hazmat suit caught the worst of it--but he doesn't want to be dripping everywhere, so he's covering himself up with smiley face band-aids. His soul is still shaking, and so are his wings, and he feels weird, like his whole body fell asleep and is just now waking up, but at least Papyrus isn't home yet (either that or he's in the workshop and hasn't noticed Sans is home). Maybe he can settle down before Papyrus gets back.]
where does the front door open to? is the couch in sightline? who knows
As is typical of Sans's more dangerous investigations, Papyrus is largely in the dark about what's going on, or even that there's active investigation happening today. There's the tracker on Sans's phone, sure, but it was made to be small and unobtrusive - not large enough to continually monitor every conversation and location Sans goes through and reporting it all to Papyrus. The data usage of those transmissions would be too noticeable, anyway.
Instead, his flimsy continuation of going through some of the motions of privacy has the tracker set to signal him with certain kinds of things - like Sans talking like he's been attacked, or been injured through trying to help someone else too much, or the phone getting separated from him somehow. Things that aren't likely to come up very often, especially since Sans has been downright responsible about keeping his phone charged most of the time these days.
So it's something of a surprise when Papyrus's phone pops up a notification of a text from the tracker - one of the automated messages about battery dying, and with the added detail of the speed of the drain. Useful to know, and Papyrus doesn't think about how the tracker took initiative to include it, not when he's preoccupied by sending Sans a couple Very Casual texts. They're worded casually, in case nothing's actually wrong besides a battery problem and the texts go through as normal later. But there's no response, and it's nearly the end of his time at work anyway, so he mentions there's maybe family trouble and gets the go-ahead to head out early.
There's a light on and no signs of broken anything (besides the deactivated maze, and the remains of charred lawn, and the slowly growing grass), which all amounts to some degree of reassurance. He calls ahead as he opens the door.]
Hey, Sans, are you home?? What gives, why aren't you answering my texts?
I was kind of imagining something like their canon house, we should draw a layout sometime
dangerous, that way lies opening some version of the Sims to design houses
extremely dangerous
It's somewhat larger - garage, larger kitchen, short hall between kitchen & living room at least
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May 16, ~1am
So Sans robs a store. It's efficient. It's easy. He's in and out in a few moments, taking the entire battery display with him to Papyrus's workshop. He doesn't feel bad about it. (He does feel bad about it. He's terrible and he only does terrible things.) The humans here don't like monsters much anyway, so it's fine.
Papyrus might be here; Sans isn't sure. It'd be easier if he wasn't.
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There's a couple of faint flashlights dangling from wires around the room, the sort that need to be shaken to recharge their light, rather than replacing batteries on the regular. They're enough to give his dim light perception plenty to work with, but Sans's glowing arrival is obvious in the dark night, and Papyrus looks up and over to him with a smile.]
Hey, Sans! I didn't expect to see you. Sleeping okay?
[It's said in a cheerful voice, with a easy, bright smile, one that stands out compared to the ones he's been offering for months. The discomfort in his own bones-and-metal that Papyrus had been shivering with earlier in the day is gone, but it's more than that. He's expressing a little curiosity, but there's not much in the way of worry that anything might be wrong. A flat simplicity to it, maybe like his smiles when trying to hide the emotional numbness, or like the bright smiles when the leech first started taking effect.]
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Septembe 16, night; text
there's shooting stars
[Okay, so that's not very specific. Papyrus can fill in the blanks, right?]
i can never resist writing an essay for the first tag, context is tasty
Plus, the discomfort of the quiet. So few powered devices, with only a scattering of generators through the city, little flares of texts but no broadcasting of television or radio or the network... It stabs at him in a discomfort that has nothing to do with his emotions.
So he's irritated when Sans disappears, and still hesitating over what to text his brother when the brief explanation comes in. The blanks are a little larger than even he knows what to do with.]
WHAT, THEY WEREN'T SCHEDULED?
[He assumes something like that is why Sans bolted without explanation. By now he knows a fair bit about what astronomers can predict, a lot of the general phenomena but not always the specifics of things like where and when meteors will fall - not without a live view from orbit. But surely anticipated showers would have seen his brother commenting on it sooner. Sans wouldn't have held off saying something because of Papyrus still getting, just a tiny bit, nervous about space viewing and power outages, would he...?]
context is important
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early december; cw vivisection (of a skeleton); 1/2
"What the fuck," he says, or tries to--it's garbled. He uses magic to speak, and his magic's a mess. But at least that's something he can do, because his body just doesn't work at all. He can't move. The other monster looks different now, long-nosed mask and shadowy body, and Sans finally realizes the whispering and murmuring is coming from them.
Then he's on his back in the canyon, too far from the dig site for his voice to reach. Middle of nowhere. Great. His wings protest the rough treatment as he's dropped onto the ground, but he can't do anything about it. He can still hear the whispering, but the parts he can understand have gotten louder. Sans is terribly infected, it's saying, and that infection is going to be the ruin of the canyon. The infection needs to be removed.
Then it starts cutting apart his hand. Phalanges are neatly severed, all quick and efficient like Sans didn't need that. Screaming isn't really Sans's thing; the pain clots up the magic in his throat at first, and he can't make a sound around the sharp heat of each slice. Part of him is surprised he's not dead yet. He thinks that the thing cutting him up is trying to be careful, and that unlocks his throat. He laughs, hysterical and unpleasant, as the plague doctor takes apart the rest of his hand. At least it's his right hand, he thinks ridiculously. The magic in his body has gone from cyan to red as it bleeds out of him onto the desert ground.
The laughter doesn't last. By the time his radius and ulna are removed, Sans is starting to at least approach screaming. He's definitely screaming in his head, tugging at his magic, trying to force himself to move on sheer willpower. Too bad he's never had a lot of that. The doctor turns their attention to the wing at his right hip, and the sharp heat spreads further as he cuts through all the sensitive magic membranes that hold his feathers in. Now he is screaming, with a voice not built for that. His throat hurts, but that's such a distant pain he's hardly aware of it.
Then he gets lucky. His extra arms are piled uselessly around him, and he can't move them, but finally, finally he gets magic into them. A pulse of panicked intent to defend himself, and his arms light up with angry, painful magic of their own. Just for a second, the plague doctor flinches back. Sans throws everything he has, all of his magic, into his most well-used, well-loved skill. He's great at running away--he always knows a shortcut.
And Sans is gone.]
2/2; cw post-vivisection
He still might die, he thinks, and it's a very clear thought amidst all his panicked ones. He's lost his right arm above the elbow and most of the wing at his right hip, except for the humerus. Papyrus is going to have to get his magic out of the carpet.
Papyrus. Where is he? Right now, Sans is selfish--enough that he doesn't even think of it as being selfish. There's just raw, hurt desperation there; he wants to see his brother. He wants Papyrus here, because he doesn't want to be all alone like this. He doesn't even know if Papyrus is home or not. He tries calling out anyway. It's a rough sound, thin from the screaming he was doing earlier, and it's not exactly Papyrus's name. Still, at least it's a noise. If Papyrus is around, he'd have to investigate, right? Please.]
1/2 [in the canyon, now remembering how tag order works]
2/2 [in the house]
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early january; action
Sans has been watching game shows, a reliable daytime television staple. Mettaton's were always more interesting, but Sans was never a soap opera kind of guy and talk shows are still off-limits. The strange hum almost goes unnoticed at first, lost in the general noise of the show. He only notices it when the picture flickers briefly and the buzzing hum continues. There's static flickering in and out of the edges of the screen.]
Hey, bro? You doing something to the TV signal?
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[Nothing unusual, more specifically. He is running a couple machines in the workshop, each set to making pieces for different design spare limbs in case of a rainy day, but those have been going for hours without issue. This is something else, something that needs investigating, and he pulls his latest kitchen crafting to the side, turning off the heat of the burner, and starts heading down the hallway to check things out in person. The drone's resolution isn't as good as his, after all.]
That static, right? It didn't feel like a power surge, either...
[A relief and a grumble at once. The power in the city has been better since the brightness and darkness through the canyon, the other day. It's been a nice few days, no problems requiring the generators, no brief transformations to an oversized action figure. He doesn't miss those days. But the question remains, what else is going to go weird and maybe wrong this month? Mirrors keep dripping when he sees them, for all he still can't prove what he's seeing. And the bright white of bone when he walks past reflective surfaces keeps catching him by surprise, no longer familiar since the bone isn't even there anymore... It's complicated.]
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