[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.
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.]