spaghettimonster | Canyon: Inbox

Oh, good. [It's easy to share the unease, even if Sans has shed the blanket enough to prove his locomotive capabilities. Just one in-person session with Dr. Kassabian left an impression, and even in the dimmer light the eyes are still there. But that wing...

He rubs at his eyes, pushing them to switch focus until they're set for low light vision instead - all the more reflective, but not glowing with their own power. That's one less light source, beyond the light from down the hall, and Sans's own perpetual glow. Papyrus doesn't notice the hints of light emitting from his own ribcage, as he's busy pushing the mess of the room out of mind and focusing on Sans. That one wing's still reflecting light with a distinctly metallic sheen, which is... confusing. What would eyes that look drawn have to do with an uncomfortably familiar metallic casing on bone?

Papyrus reaches out to test a few of the wire feathers before he even stops to think about it, the same unthinking proximity his brother's been initiating the last couple days.] Did you wake up with this...?

[The feathers feel very different, made of thin strings of silica glass rather than keratin. Sans can feel Papyrus's hand on his feathers, but the sensation is strange and different. Sans opens his eyes again--not that he needs to, really, when so many of the eyes scattered around the room also move to focus on the wing Papyrus is indicating. It gives Sans an unsettling nearly 360-degree view of the robotic wing, only interrupted by his bed. He shifts the wing forward, but the motion is awkward like it hasn't been with Sans's wings in months. He's not used to the weight of this wing.]

Well, it wasn't like that before I went to sleep. [Sans's voice has gone a little thin, and he can feel the urge to laugh bubbling up. He doesn't like this. The feelings are just the same as when he'd first changed, something normal becoming abnormal and foreign. That was his wing, and now it's different and he doesn't like it. He wants it back to normal. But there's nothing he can do. He reaches out to hang onto Papyrus's arm a little too tightly.] You didn't grow any feathers, didja?

[Papyrus returns the arm clasp, the better to help Sans stay up if the weight keeps tugging him off balance. He can feel the disorientation and discomfort, and it's almost astonishing to him how much worse he feels, or they feel, about the wing change than the eyes.]

Not... that I noticed. [Surely he'd notice sensations like that building up on his body, especially since he's been awake all night, right? But he's been feeling ghostly impressions of what it's like to have wings... Would he notice a couple feathers forming on his back?

He reaches down with his other arm to pull his phone out, the better to angle around and see from behind himself. But he freezes as his hand suddenly brightens, lit up by something inside his ribcage. It's... It's not the kind of light a phone's screen would emit, he can tell that immediately. It's more like the sun lamp, something full spectrum white. Without thinking he turns the phone's camera on, and his face squints against the impression of brightness. No wings, but.] I... Uh... [There's a heart shape, upside down as a monster would expect. White, flickering with an impression of static, or lightning, or... something. His soul? Must be. But he... hadn't expected to see it.]

[Sans can feel what it is without seeing it himself, but he leans in to look at the phone screen anyway, only wobbling a bit under the new weight of his wing. Papyrus's soul, white and flickering. Sans tries not to think about the state of his own soul floating around in his chest; he definitely didn't want to share that particular bit of weirdness with Papyrus.]

Well. That's not feathers. [Feathers would have been easier to deal with.]

Maybe feathers are happening somewhere else! We haven't checked yet! [But while Papyrus pulls the phone up to his chest, it's more to hug it to him as he sits down next to his brother, still not checking his back. Nobody's slightly hyperventilating, that's just ordinary computer vents kicking on a little louder because he's having a lot of feelings. Like surprise, dread, resignation, and something... apologetic? that seems secondhand.

He focuses instead on looking at Sans's newly heavier wing, and reaches out to touch one of the feathers again.] Do you... I wonder, if you can fly with this. [His tone isn't worrying so much as curious, even hopeful. He hadn't ever really imagined mechanical wings, hadn't seriously considered the thought of building any for himself - not when basically all of the airborne machines he's seen have been helicopter designs. If he doesn't start growing feathers... He's been feeling Sans's fondness of his own wings, and the secondhand feeling's growing on him.]

[A flicker of worry passes through Sans at the question, coming at it as he is from the angle of having been able to fly and now having one of his wings altered. But Papyrus is already dealing with a lot of feelings that Sans can unfortunately also feel, and Sans doesn't want to add onto the negative ones more than he has to. Anyway, the echo of fondness for the wings helps buoy Sans as he reflects it. Moving so he's sitting close enough to Papyrus that their legs touch, he shifts his metal wing around a little, testing the way the feathers respond and getting a feel for the wingspan. It's the same length as his normal one; at least he's not that lopsided.]

Maybe? I mean, maybe not with two different wings, but if they were the same. [If Papyrus built two wings, for example, that might work. Sans isn't so sure about his own chances right now. Going out to the trampoline in the dark would probably not be the greatest idea--anyway, Sans would have to leave the room for that, and he's not really sure how his mind will deal with having eyes inside and outside of the house. (That's a problem for later Sans.)]

Edited (I used shift three times in one sentence let's fix that) 2022-03-03 07:16 (UTC)

[Papyrus glances sidelong at Sans's halo, then continues watching the wing stretch and shift.] I guess I shouldn't hope for them to be the same.

[As in, the same in both being mechanical. He can already tell Sans would prefer the bones and light, and Papyrus can't really blame him. Having mechanical parts hanging from bone seems... uncomfortable. He was fortunate, he guesses, in having the machinery replace things from the bottom up.

[It's true, Sans would prefer his old wings, and he knows he can't exactly hide that from Papyrus right now, but he's going to be encouraging all the same.] Well, both of 'em being the same thing either way is better than them bein' all indecisive like this. [Which is true. Ideally the metal wing would just go back to normal (Sans doesn't even realize how often he's thinking of his bone wings as normal at this point), but at least if both of them were metal it would be a little more reasonable.] And hey, I can try flying with these later. Can prob'ly at least glide. [One upside to being directly attached to Papyrus's emotions: easier to work up something that at least resembles optimism. Not perfect, but better than he can manage on his own.]

It's... It's not jumping on the roof in a single bound. [A feat of cartoonish superhero physics that he deeply misses, every day.] But well worth trying! You should give gliding a shot. [Especially since then Papyrus would get to experience flight secondhand, in a way where the metal wing's performance would be a reliable indicator for his own potential flight possibilities.

...He realizes he's sounding a little extra computery to himself, which is a little extra embarrassing with Sans hearing bits of it while being awkward about that wing's changes. Feeling more mechanical is contagious too, apparently? And he's feeling fresh discomfort with being part (mostly) machine, thanks to Sans's somewhat brushed over discomfort. He sighs dramatically, the better to push the whole train of thought aside, and instead thinks about flight. The triumph of succeeding, he hopes. The crash of falling, he fears. The things they can do about it, and the game to make of it.] I'll run under you with the trampoline.

You could put some springs in your legs or somethin'. [Jumping onto the roof without breaking anything--Papyrus or the roof--would probably require more thought than just "stuff some springs in there", but that makes it fine for a Sans-level suggestion.

No flying is going to be happening right this second, but Sans can try to nudge the feelings over to Papyrus. It had been exciting to actually get off the ground, even if it had taken longer than that to get over the instinctive feeling that a fall was inevitable. There had been a few times where he'd gotten into the air and ended up teleporting back to the ground to prevent a fall that wasn't happening before he'd even realized he was doing it. Taking off was the most exhausting part; Sans's wings are made for soaring more than they are a lot of flapping. He takes advantage of updrafts and lets them do the work. It's fitting and he can cover a lot of distance that way.] Am I aiming for the trampoline or trying to zig zag? [What's the difficulty level of this game?]

[Papyrus makes a soft, wistful sound at the feelings. It's renewing the feeling of wanting functional wings, or some way of getting into the air - even if it's not as high in the sky as they might like. And beyond his - or their shared - feelings of yearning? That it's something that even Sans felt was exhausting effort, and yet worthwhile enough to go through with... They really couldn't understate how important his brother's wings were for him, huh?]

Trampoline! You don't understand, all this weight... [Papyrus taps a gloved, metallic hand against Sans's newly metallic wing, not hard enough to reverberate or knock off balance, but enough to draw attention to it.] The challenge is landing.

[It's not as if Papyrus can heal his brother if they have an accident... ...Which... might, just, be entirely possible, actually. What if what they're doing is both accidentally sensing each others' emotions? Sure, Sans should know how to turn it off, but... Papyrus considers his (still gloved, still metallic) hands for a moment. What if he could heal again?

Good thing I've got a shortcut. [Sans will teleport before he slams into the ground face-first. But aiming for the trampoline it is. With all these eyes, though, maybe Sans should make sure he's still got walking down. Actually--]

Hang on. [Sans shifts away from Papyrus just enough that they aren't touching. The intent in Sans's thoughts is probably obvious before Sans actually vanishes. He's only gone for half an instant, though, teleporting across his own bedroom. And he was right to be worried, because the abrupt change in where he is in relation to all the eyes nearly tips him over. He presses a hand to the wall to keep himself upright.

Reminds him of the first time he teleported after getting the halo. That might mean he'll get used to it.]

[Losing contact with his brother's wing and with Sans himself is a twinned disappointment. One he's been getting secondhand from Sans basically since this started, so it's not a surprise... but the other really drives home that he wants wings of his own, now.

The distraction from that is enough that he doesn't brace enough for Sans's test, and the disorientation is as catching as everything else. He wobbles in place before he can even get to his feet to go help, and catches himself by bracing on the floor.]

Oh, ugh. Wow. Maybe, uh... Maybe a little more warning, before you do that again! [It's not that he had no warning, after all, and he doesn't imply that he didn't. But intent to move wasn't quite enough to anticipate the dizziness, even if it's also feeling like...] You felt like this before...?

Huh? [Right, Papyrus is still getting all his thoughts and feelings. Can't shortcut out of that.] Oh, yeah, at the party when I was gettin' used to these eyes. [He indicates his halo with a twist of one of the wings on his head. Rather than teleporting again, Sans takes slow, cautious steps across the room to try to get back to the bed. Back to where Papyrus is, because even the distance of just across the room makes him itchy. This reminds him of the party, too. He hadn't been doing very well in the movement department at that party.]

[Oh, that party, and the disorientation and pain back then. Does Sans remember how it feels, to have one's bones dissolve into dust around them? Papyrus, having gone through it twice now, remembers more vividly than he cares to. At least it's not super vividly, too early for that accidental thorough memorization.

He shifts his position, partly to offer Sans a hand for help balancing sitting down, or for a hand up if he wants to leave the room, or... just a hand, just to be in contact. While he does, he shifts his feet within his shoes, feeling them move to his will. Reminding himself they're there,, very much present, if machine.]

I guess you did. Look at that! You have practice now. [He doesn't start cackling or anything, but with all those eyes Sans will definitely see the signs of Papyrus being pleased with his turn of phrase.]

[Sans is thinking about dissolving, suddenly, and his own memories of that echo back--Sans dissolved from the chest outward. An absolutely hopeless feeling. He pushes it away like he's been scalded, and not just because he's worried Papyrus will feel it too. He grabs onto Papyrus's offered hand, and the relief is a much safer feeling.]

Eye'll have to see about getting used to it again. [Simple entertainment has always been the best antidote for Sans's moods. Maybe Papyrus will roll his eyes extra hard at having Sans's bad jokes in his skull too.]

[Papyrus does, indeed, obligingly roll his eyes. It's obvious in the dim light, with the slight shadows cast by his glowing eyes shifting with it.] I'm sure you will!

[But this time he isn't actively annoyed by the ongoing presence of puns in his mind, with his thoughts forcibly fixated on home renovations or cheerful demands. If anything, Sans might pick up on the fact that jokes like those are rattling around inside Papyrus's skull a lot more than he tends to let on about. He thinks about them, even if he only shares some. And even some of Sans's jokes come back to memory, from days or weeks ago. He frowns at them, too, but with that ongoing current of affection.]

[Sans sits back on the bed, not letting go of Papyrus. There's significantly less coordination involved in sitting, even if he tips a little from the extra weight of his metal wing before catching himself. At least Sans still has his wings in place; Papyrus got stuck with sharing the weird soul thing, which is definitely worse.]

Aw, you remember my old jokes. [Teasing is easier. And of course Sans would be able to pick up on that clearly, if nothing else. But Sans's delight is genuine; jokes are a way of showing affection, after all. They're important.]

Remember... Haunted by... Same difference, I'm sure. [His tone and expression are long-suffering, but inside is mostly amusement. Sans's preferred joke style needs someone to complain, and he's usually happy to play along. And when he's not happy, it's because his complaints are more sincere, so... it works out??? He guesses???

Some flicker of thought about the weird soul situation brings the image back to mind, the saved screenshots of the camera's view. White heart, fizzing with static and crackling with electricity. Electricity like the power keeping his limbs and everything moving...? Somehow that makes it all feel more real, more permanent. The robot stuff is up in him even further than his skull. Did his brother feel like that, after the angel stuff - when the wings, he means, when his soul and skull sprouted wings?]

'Course it is. [And of course the complaining is a vital part of telling the jokes. Sans isn't married to routines, but there are some things he relies on to keep himself going, and Papyrus is at the heart of a lot of them. Almost all of them, now that they're here. But it was never a secret, how much Sans relies on Papyrus, even if Sans tries not to talk about it in anything approaching a serious way.

Sans thinks of the image of Papyrus's soul crackling with electricity--or maybe Papyrus is thinking about it, but right now that's very nearly the same thing. Sans wishes again that Alphys was here--she's familiar with electricity magic and with robots. Alphys is a close friend, but the nature of her situation and how it intersects with his various situations means he doesn't talk about her much, so the friendly familiarity in the way Sans thinks about her is likely to come as a surprise.

Sans's own soul--he'd say it feels foreign to him. He wants to believe that, is working his deception skills on himself, but at the heart (ha) of it, well--there's some resignation there. It's fitting, and he doesn't like that it is.]

[Papyrus doesn't immediately offer more jokes or banter. It seems like they're both feeling haunted, with thoughts of the past, and people they knew, and resignation. He catches impressions of Alphys, of all people, and does indeed shoot Sans a baffled expression. Why so much familiarity?

But the darkly amused resignation catches and grates in a way that's concerning, and clearly not his own emotions, and distracts a little. He shifts his phone for a live feed of his own soul again, comparing his feelings of surprise with that resignation. The way the static of it seems to duplicate and copy outside in brief flickers, like his multitasking is so all-encompassing that it's even showing up in his soul... The flickers of lightning, reminding him a little more of monster electronics back home.]

...Why do you think I'm all mechanical, anyway? I had dreams, before that earthquake... But they were all, of melting? Nothing like this.

[Into water, or some kind of shadow puddle monster. Dissolving onto the ground, not the same as death but not unlike it. The solidity of metal had been a tremendous comfort, in comparison. But it still weighed him down, made him clumsy until he adapted. Maybe it's just as well it's just the one wing.]

[Sans considers it--he's fine with skimming over how he knows Alphys, of course, in favor of this. It's certainly not the first time he's tried to figure out why people here turn into what they end up as.]

Maybe 'cause you build stuff. [At home it was mostly traps, of course, but Papyrus is undeniably good at it.] And maybe 'cause you think Mettaton's cool, but probably that first one, if it isn't just random.

[There aren't a lot of spirituals at the dig site. Not a lot of scientific spirituals at all. In fact, Sans only knows of one science-related spiritual, and that's himself. So it might not be random, considering how humans approach that sort of thing. For a monster, magic is involved in everything, even science. Sometimes especially science. Human science doesn't really work as well with that sort of thing, probably because none of them have magic.]

My dreams were all about growing wings. [Which did turn out correct, he guesses, even if the exact method of growing wings was different. Of course, Sans dreamed about his scar opening up and bleeding out magic, too. That happened, but that's not why Sans is thinking about it right now. Papyrus dreamed of melting and dissolving, and besides the wings Sans's had to do with the way the anomaly slashed through his chest. So it might also be connected to their deaths somehow.]

[Papyrus's cheekbones go pink at the idea. That maybe his admiration of Mettaton had been the deciding factor, between having a liquid body he struggled to move around with, or a metal body (that needs just as much cleaning, in all honesty, with how grit accumulates in parts) that he can customize and make cooler and more handsome...!

He's the most flustered about their thoughts and feelings leaking he's been yet, and it's just as well Sans's thoughts shift and give him something besides his crush to think about. Growing wings and bleeding from scars, and other things relevant to death... He makes the sound of clearing one's throat, and nods very seriously.]

My skull lasted the longest... Both times.

[Probably not a coincidence, any more than his brother's scar is. So if it's a mix of remnants from death, and things they admire...]

Wings... not very space-like. But good for getting to space, in other circumstances...?

[Obviously, they don't know how high Sans could fly, if it weren't for the weirdness in the air. And he doesn't know how high birds normally can fly. But there's plenty of science literature indicating that a few humans have been in space, and they need things like breathing, and keeping various body parts in a narrow safe pressure range, and all.]

[Oh of course, this is a very serious conversation that Sans definitely does not spare a moment in to do the mental equivalent of grinning in that obnoxious way only siblings can at their siblings' crushes.

But anyway.]

Hey, I don't need to breathe. Maybe I could break through the atmosphere. [Sans doesn't really believe that, and there's plenty of other reasons Sans wouldn't survive in space without equipment, but the idea of him just shooting up and up and up into space like that is funny. He wouldn't object if it did work like that.] Wings get me in the right direction, at least.

[You know. Up.]

[There's a particular kind flustered frustration that sometimes leads to Papyrus stomping a foot, and while he doesn't actually risk banging a foot on any of the eyes, the feeling rings out after Sans's annoying older sibling energy. But it's shoved aside with the rest when he focuses on the Very Seriousness, and space, and whatnot.]

Yes, exactly! You've caught on to my thoughts. Why put effort into rocket science, as entertaining, and explosive, as it is... When you can go to space, and get exercise out of it!

[You know, hypothetically. In this imagined scenario where they figure out some way to clear the tunnel without people or machines having problems, or get airbound without having problems, or... something, to get out.]

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