[OPEN] had a big hunch that the world was a big lie

[punful]

Who: Sans and YOU
Where: The Republican National Convention
When: August 4 - 8
Rating: PG, PG-13
Summary: Sans T. Bones is a street food salesman, a dying breed in this Post-Rising world. He's here at the convention hoping to prove that street food can still be a safe, legitimate business, even when run by a sickly guy like him. If you want some vegetarian hotdogs instead of whatever crap the convention is providing, he's your guy.
The Story:

A - Day One - a tune on my lips and my quest in reach

He's genuinely happy to be here. Sure, it's the Republican Convention, and crowds make him nervous--they make everyone nervous--but everything's going so well. He was certainly leery of it all when a Republican senator invited him to the convention to sell hotdogs, of all things, but the need for business and recognition had won out. If more of these high-falutin' types can see that your old-fashioned street corner hotdog stand is safe and sterile--and tasty--then maybe things will get a little easier for him. Hell, maybe they'll get easier for all the street food salesmen.

And it's going ridiculously well so far. He's been getting customers, he's been getting legitimate questions, he's been getting short interviews from interested bloggers. He's even had one or two fans of his comedic video game streams come up to say hi--despite the fact that he hasn't updated his channel in like two months now. Prepping for the convention had taken priority. Had to make sure he had every single necessary permit, and some that weren't strictly necessary, just to be safe.

The hotdog stand looks kind of out of place in a corner of the cafeteria, but it certainly smells good. And the guy running it might look sickly, what with the facemask and the occasional cough, but he also looks pretty cheerful. The vibe at the convention might be tense, but it's clearly not getting to Sans T. Bones. He'll gladly sell you a hotdog or talk to you about how ridiculously clean his business is.

B - Day Two - wake up to show me what i could not find

On the second day, his customers have vanished. At first he thinks maybe people are just sick of hotdogs, but then one of his game stream fans comes up to give him the bad news: a senator, in fact the same senator who invited him here and was so nice and polite, has said she's going to introduce a bill to outlaw street food. Too unsafe, she says.

Well, that explains it. He understands now. He wasn't brought here to showcase his talents and hard work--he was brought here to be an example.

It's further cemented later in the day, when the senator herself shows up, followed by a few other senators and constituents. She positions herself just in earshot of his stand so he can overhear what she says to them. It's the usual fare, about how street food is dangerous, about how people like him operate under a different standard of cleanliness, about how there's no telling where those hotdogs even came from, are they even vegetarian at all? And so on and so forth.

The real clincher is why in the world is a guy like him, who's sick as a dog, a reservoir condition in his bronchial tubes, a guy who could amplify at any moment--why is a guy like him allowed anywhere near food handling?

Sans tries to ignore the whole thing, and spends the rest of the day trying not to let any of it get to him. With minimal success.

C - Day Three-Four - shoulda been sleeping the day away

When they find the needle, Sans knows it's only a matter of time.

The vibe at the convention was tense already, now it's all but panicked. A lot of people are staying locked up in their rooms where they know they'll be safe from any further needles. Meanwhile, the security forces make the rounds, searching for more needles, searching for anyone suspicious, and generally trying to hold several hundred corks underwater. The whole thing is about to boil over, and he can feel it.

He waits patiently at his stand for them to come to him. He doesn't fight or protest or argue when they ask him to come along, that he needs to be quarantined. For safety's sake. Sure. It's not like this is the first time this has happened to him. No one trusts the sick guy.

He spends the rest of the convention locked in a sterile room, wondering what's going on outside. They treat him fairly well at least, answering his questions and keeping him fed, but he can tell they're practically just waiting for him to amplify.

Later, someone deigns to tell him that his hotdog stand has been dismantled and destroyed. For safety's sake.

Looks like it's time to start investing in the streaming business. If he makes it out of here without a bullet in his head.

Comments

day 3

[postictal]

No one trusts the sick guy. Unless the sick guy is already on the payroll. Tim might not know Sans well enough to be of direct help for him, but he knows him enough to make sure no one tries to subtly off him before he's been cleared to leave. He's all sectioned away in quarantine, but Tim's at least in the unique position to be able to access his prison.

He raises a hand to knock, hesitates, and raps out a shave and a haircut.

Just so he knows it's a...maybe not a friend, but at the very least an ally.

ayyoooo

[punful]

It's a pretty nondescript room, probably as close to a literal prison cell as they can get without freaking out the politicians. A cot, a chair, a small table...a door with at least four electronic locks on it, all of which probably require a blood test, and that's only to get into the room. Yikes. Who knew the hotdog guy was such a threat to national security?

At least they let him have a phone. And a charger! So he's still connected, and he can still play the most recent version of Candy Crush. He's really not expecting anyone to visit him. He doesn't have all that much in the way of friends, no family, and anyone who does like him probably doesn't know he's here.

He's thinking of maybe livestreaming his quarantine the way some people do, throw a bunch of existential comedy in there, but then someone knocks at the door.

That's weird. The guards don't typically knock.

"Who's there?" He pauses and grins to himself. "Aw man, I hope this is a lead-in to a knock knock joke."

[postictal]

...it is not, in fact, a lead-in to a knock knock joke. Mostly because Tim lacks the sort of sense of humor that would befit said knock knock joke. But it's an indication that the person addressing him is at least friendly - and that should hopefully be enough.

"Uh..." He trails off, frantically trying to scrape together something that might fall along the lines of the poor guy's sense of humor. Mostly failing.

"...Wright?"

day 2

[zackthekiller]

Zack's not here to agree with the senator. Publicly, he had been sent here to help with security for the event. Secretly, he may have been sent on for something else entirely...

The scene with the guy with the tubes up his nose grabs Zack's attention, though. He's standing in the back of the crowd, staring blankly at the mistreatment. He glances down at his own hands, bandaged up like the rest of him. Sure, severe burns aren't the same as bronchitis, but the scar tissue left him more vulnerable to scratches and bites. A liability to most people he literally must keep under wraps. Zack knows damn well illness and injury doesn't actually stop people from being people, and this senator is pissing him off.

No, he can't act in that moment. Too risky. Instead, he forces himself to grit his teeth and wait for the crowd to disperse before he takes a single step. Nobody's gonna come near that hot dog stand after that speech, so he figures nobody would give a damn if he walked up to the hot dog guy and slipped him a few folded dollar bills.

"Here," he mumbles in a low voice, "I'll tell 'em they're gonna to be tested for contamination."

[punful]

The crowd disperses after the senator's spiel, and Sans is left alone. Thank goodness he has his oxygen tank, because otherwise he's pretty sure he'd have passed out from the stress.

He's not humiliated. He doesn't get humiliated. Everyone who knows him knows he doesn't have enough dignity for that sort of thing. The touch of red in his cheeks is probably just from oxygen deprivation.

Just kinda sucks, is all. Knowing the one time you decided to work hard for something, it didn't pay off. Not even a little bit. Story of his life, though, right?

He's got his head propped in his hand and isn't really looking at anything or anyone, just sort of staring into space. He almost doesn't notice when someone approaches, but he glances up when they deposit some bills on the counter. It's a man, he thinks, all wrapped up in bandages. Burn victim, maybe.

He looks at the money again, sitting up a bit. People say charity is demeaning, but he's never shied away from it.

"...That much will get you a whole lotta hotdogs, yanno. You, uh. Want...toppings with that?"

[zackthekiller]

"... What the hell, why not?" He points at the ketchup.

After glancing behind himself to make sure nobody's watching, he'll tell Sans in a low voice.

"Who the hell does that guy think he is anyway? It's not like you're putting needles into those hot dogs, right?"

day one

[angewiesen]

How in the world did they let this guy in? Street food? Seriously? And he was obviously harboring some kind of... Something. Just looking at the guy made Jean's trigger finger itch.

It's obvious Jean is a security guard. One of the lower-level clean up types. His hair is bone white and his skin is rough and scarred from constant decontamination. Having survived as long as he had has made him bold, but he's not about to let things slip either. He approaches the stand with practiced confidence.

"Hey, you. What year is it?"

It was the first question he always asked. Forgetfulness is one of the first symptoms of amplifying, and if someone slipped up on such an easy question, he was quick to pull his gun. Better wrongfully dead than left alive to amplify in a populated area.

[punful]

Ah, yeah, wow, he expected this. He just didn't really expect it this quickly. There's always someone coming up to his stand, shouting about cleanliness. It's a once-daily thing back on his usual street corner.

He knows how to handle this type, but this type also doesn't usually carry guns. He can't help glancing at the weapon as the guy approaches, all swagger and disdain.

It's a common question, one of the first things you ask when you think The Worst might be happening to someone. Come on, though, spontaneous amplification isn't that common.

"2040, last I checked." He gives a casual smile. "Or Year 20, if you believe all those cult-types who think the world ended and began again with the Rising."

[angewiesen]

A quick, correct answer with details to spare eased Jean's suspicions quickly. Someone who's about to amplify couldn't speak that clearly. As weird as Sans looked, and as out of place as he was, he was still probably safe. Probably.

Jean leaned on Sans' cart and looked over his wares. Vegetarian hot dogs, huh? Guess it doesn't really matter what's really in a hot dog. No one knew in the first place. And meat sausage was becoming less popular these days. Anything could get into that crap and there'd be no way to tell once it was in the batch.

"How in the world did you get clearance?" he finally said, something a little more friendly and conversational, "hot dogs out of a cart? Haven't seen one of these things in ages."

day 2

[choosetruth]

[The street food controversy is so fucking stupid George doesn't know where to begin. Would it kill these people to fact check even a little? She read an article about street food a little while ago. It's not like you can operate one without a shit ton of permits. And then there's the reservoir condition shit. Sure, they don't know a ton about what reservoir conditions actually do, but they don't make it any more unsafe to handle food than anyone else. She should know. For obvious reasons, she's done her own fucking research.

She doesn't have much interest in the guy on the first day when everyone else is talking to him. It's not until the controversy strikes up that she steps in. As always, when lies and propaganda rear their ugly heads, Georgia Mason is fucking here, ready to pin down the truth and lay it out for everyone to see.]

Mr. Bones? [She approaches, recorder in hand, and tilts her head, eyeing him through her sunglasses.] Georgia Mason, After the End Times. Do you have time to answer a few questions about your business?

[There is only one answer she'll accept, of course. But it's polite to at least offer the illusion of a choice.]

[punful]

[People are afraid, he knows. They're afraid of lots of things, and in that state of mind, it's real easy for people to use that fear against them.]

[He's trying to be rational about it, like always. It just doesn't change the fact that he has maybe a year before a nationwide ban on street food kicks in. He held on for a decade, but he knows when he's beat, and damn but if he isn't tired of it all.]

[And then the reporters come circling, no doubt smelling blood in the water. He's got his head propped in his hand and a far-off look to him when she walks up.]

One of the blogs, yeah? [He remembers newspapers but absolutely does not miss them. You can't get a papercut from a blog. Unless you're extremely creative.]

[There's no point in even trying to shoo her away, and it's not like he has anything better to do. He's had maybe two customers all day, and both only bought 'dogs out of pity.]

[He sighs.]

Only if I can go on record as saying that Senator Rebecca Lyon will not be getting my vote this year.

[choosetruth]

I don't think that will come as a surprise to anyone, Mr. Bones.

[But she does make a note in her notebook, so hey, she's taken it down.]

Were you aware of Senator Lyon's intentions when you were invited to the convention?

day one

[fancylad]

It's a practiced maneuver at this point. Follow along with Mom and Dad, do everything they say, stay quiet when he's not being spoken to and politely introduce himself when he's brought up in conversation. Then they start to discuss candidates, and they're really only repeating what the popular right-wing blogs say, and it's completely pointless BS and Angus finds it's all too easy, then, to wander off.

His parents may make it seem otherwise, but with any large gathering of people, there are points of interest to be found. Leads to follow. Stories to be told. His typical fare is cops and crime, and the Republican National Convention is a far cry from that (though not as far as you'd think), but he definitely still writes politics on occasion.

But a politician isn't the first thing to catch Angus' attention. It's someone a bit more novel than that.

A man, not much taller than Angus, in a medical mask, selling hot dogs at a stand. God, those aren't meat, are they? They can't be. He doesn't exactly look like the type of person that'd be allowed to handle food in the modern age, and food stands aren't exactly popular anymore. Angus doesn't remember before the Rising, wasn't alive for it, so everything about this hot dog man is intriguing.

He walks right up to the stand and inspects it curiously. "How much for a hot dog, sir?" he asks, to start.

baby blogger ango omg

[punful]

He's in a good mood. He's been getting plenty customers and has been happily answering questions. He always gets questions, even back home, so he's very much used to it.

This isn't the first kid who's wandered up, but he's by far the most polite. Sans likes kids. He's not particularly good with them, but he likes them all the same. There's this notion that kids these days are coddled and easily frightened, due to growing up with no memory of what life was like before the Rising, but Sans has found that that's rarely actually the case.

Honestly, he's pretty sure that anyone who claims that they understand kids is mostly lying.

"Two bucks for anyone under fifteen."

He's hazarding a guess that this kid is younger than fifteen. With some kids, though, you really can't tell.

"Plus whatever toppings you want. Bacon-flavored bacon is an extra buck, though."

his pen name is caleb cleveland :')

[fancylad]

"Oh! That's great, sir!" Angus beams. "I'm eleven! That's less than fifteen!"

He pulls out some loose cash from his pockets, fingers through more bills than an eleven year old has any business having on them, and settles on a five, shoving the rest haphazardly back into his pocket. He knows how to get people on his good side fast, and food service still thrives on tips, even in 2040.

"Um, what kind of toppings do you have?" he asks. "I don't eat a lot of hot dogs. Are they really vegetarian? I won't tell if they're not."

day 3-4, at some ungodly hour like 2 in the morning

[burntvideocassette]

Some people were thrown into quarantine, while others were taken into custody, and Jay wants to know why these specific people. Short of talking to the decision-makers, talking to the prisoners is Jay's best bet.

Good thing he's got a friend on the security staff.

"Hey," Jay whispers, knocking insistently at the door. "Jay Merrick, Marble Hornets. 'S fine if you don't know the name. We don't--we don't exactly get the hits the big names do." We, Jay says, like the staff is more than just Jay and his legion of tiny cameras. "But, I mean, never mind. Not here to talk about me."

Jay lets out a nervous hiss of breath that might be a laugh. "Can't be here too long, but security's gonna leave us alone for now. So you can say anything." Anything he doesn't mind being posted on the internet, that is.

"You know why they threw you in here?"

omg

[punful]

Honestly, he's trying to sleep. It's his go-to for when things get stressful, or just Too Much--just sleep, and then you wake up and time has passed, so you're closer to whatever's going to happen. It's a tried and true method.

He's half asleep when he hears knocking at the door, and whoever it is is talking before Sans is entirely coherent.

"Zuh?"

He catches a name, and something about talking, and something about security. And by the time the guy on the other side actually asks a question, it occurs to Sans that this isn't some half-assed jailbreak. It's another reporter looking for a scoop.

It's admirable, if only because the guy probably had to get past a bunch of guards and other security features to get here. Almost makes a guy feel wanted.

"Uh." He slides out of bed, a bit shakily, because he's always shaky when he gets up after lying down. Good old piece of crap body. He grabs the one chair in the room and scoots it closer to the door so he can hear better.

"This for, what, a blog? On the record?"

He pauses and decides he actually doesn't give a shit, since it's not like things can get all that much worse for him.

"Alright. Why they threw me in here?" He gives a soft, rasping chuckle. "Cause I make a living handling and selling food, despite having really shit health and a respiratory-based reservoir condition? Cause I'm, apparently, two seconds from spontaneously amplifying, despite being in here for almost twenty-four hours? Because they think someone's trying to start an outbreak, and a guy as sick as me is a liability?"

All of the above, really. He's sure he would have heard by now if he was an actual terrorist subject. That's the sort of thing you move on very quickly. You don't let the potential terrorist stew alone in quarantine for hours without so much as interrogation. No, this has nothing to do with that, and everything to do with his health. He'd be willing to bet that they're rounding up other people with weak constitutions, or dangerous reservoir conditions.

"For safety's sake. That's what they kept saying. Haven't heard much since then. Eh, I know better than to ask too many questions. What did you say your name was?"

Late Day 1

[terranform]

[Lapis would be lying if she claimed she wasn't bothered at all by the idea of buying food from someone who seems to be falling apart slowly. Fortunately, she doesn't especially mind lying. Any distaste is purely a knee-jerk instinct -- she knows perfectly well that getting clearance to sell street food or to work this event isn't easy, never mind both. From a certain perspective, a little dodginess just makes a hot dog feel more authentic, really.

Also it's late and she's hungry. Again: Lapis is not a journalist. It therefore follows that she must be here to enjoy herself. Simple and unassailable logic. So her attitude, as she pulls herself up to the stand, is faint amusement more than anything.]

Opportunistic, are we? [He brings to mind weeds in the sidewalk, seemingly straggly but colonizing harsh conditions nonetheless.] I'll take one.

[punful]

[It's been a good day, and long. Long enough that he's thinking of closing things down pretty soon. At least after the dinner crowd has come by. The dinner crowd is always an interesting bunch back home, and he can't imagine it's much different here. All this fancy convention crap aside.]

[Sure enough, one of the first of them is a young woman with a wry look that has him smirking behind his facemask. People with attitudes are the best sort of people.]

And not at all ashamed of it.

[He winks at her.]

One 'dog, coming right up. Any toppings?

day 4

[screwedontight]

Seth has come back and forth a few times, checking on those that have been quarantined. Mostly it's a break from searching, from listening to the protests and the complaints, but it's still doing his job.

Taking a long time, watching Sans for a long moment before he chuckles.

"Seriously though, what even were you thinking with that thing?"

Nope, not nice at all but he is curious. Who thought a food cart was the way to make a living?

[punful]

He recognizes the guy's voice as one of the guards who's been in and out these past two days. He can see his face through the tiny window at the top of the door. The guy hasn't said a word yet, but apparently that's about to change.

He smirks and gives an expansive shrug. Yeah, what was he thinking? Never should have come here at all.

He sort of just wants to just not answer at all, but he's going a little stir crazy in here. Barely anyone has even bothered to talk to him.

"Hey, it worked for ten whole years. You can go a long way on nostalgia."

B! Day two!

[mettatonvevo]

As the Senator's speech winds down someone new enters the "impromptu" political rally. Mettaton, darling Mettaton of famous Fictional/Irwin blog Death by Glamour, saunters up to the food stand, his camera crew loyally catching all of his best angles.

"Ohhh, what's this?"

He turns to his cameras with a delighted look and he pushes past the Senator's little gathering to go right up to this man's stand.

"Hotdogs? Oh, how delightful! How much for one?"

He's smiling, but anyone facing him can see his eyes slide for a moment to the side to check out if the Senator is listening. And she absolutely is.

[punful]

An extremely fashionable and attractive so-and-so pushes through the crowd and heads for his stand, right as Sans is feeling like maybe digging a hole to hide in for the rest of the convention. He leans back a bit from the counter as the man approaches, wondering if maybe this is the start of the angry mob.

He blinks when he realizes who it is. He pays a sort of middling attention to the blogosphere, but everyone knows Mettaton. He's one of the more famous bloggers, at least in terms of pure visibility. The guy's a celebrity.

Sans had no idea the guy was even here. At the Republican convention, really? He stares up at him for a moment, sort of dumbfounded. He's never good at talking to important people.

"Uh." He blinks to try and clear his head, glancing past him at Senator Lyon's small crowd. She doesn't seem to be paying attention, but Sans can also see that her smile has turned someone rictus.

"Three bucks," he says, eyes sliding back to Mettaton. "Plus any toppings you want. Bacon-flavored bacon's an extra buck."

Day Two

[clodcuckoolander]

"She sounds like my mother." Peridot has been observing this spectacle from a close distance but somewhat behind Sans, so it looks like she came out of nowhere. She was just here to have some food before she went back to hide with her laptop, and then this... clod.

"I've seen her polling numbers, though." She flicks a wrist dismissively. "She's so completely outclassed. I heard Lucifer Morningstar called her out on not checking her facts in an interview weeks ago. And when a crook like him calls you out on inaccuracies, you know you've lost."

[punful]

A voice pipes up behind him and he lifts his head just slightly. Moving feels exhausting. He's at the point where he'd rather just sleep the rest of the day away. But he has to at least try and move the rest of his product, and properly close down the hotdog stand--otherwise he really will be in trouble.

He glances back to see a kid he doesn't recognize watching the senator depart.

"Well, she'll be losing the street food salesmen demographic," he says dryly. "We're a very influential group."

There's maybe a hundred or so people left in this profession across the country.

"Ah yeah, I've heard of him. Yikes." He glances at the girl again. "You seem kinda young to be paying that much attention to senators."