"I won't get into that whole deal with the kid," he says, reluctantly, glowering at the patch of wall to his left. "You could've handled it better. So could I. But that's not even the beginning."

Oh, but he's been holding onto this for a long time. He starts ticking the offenses off on his fingers.

"You talk up shit about 'timelines'. You never give me a straight answer. For anything, no matter what the fuck it is. You don't tell me or anyone else shit about whatever you know even when I ask. So that's your problem, fine. You got your own issues. I get that. But then?"

He feels a tad ridiculous spouting this frustrating, escalating diatribe in a skeleton costume of all things, but he's been bottling this up for too long. Too damn long. He advances, the muscles in his neck hard and taut.

"Then you don't do jack, with a side of fucking squat when that knife-wielding maniac goes after Max. Your best advice when I ask how I can help her? Hide her. Like that changed a thing. You're lucky they had a goddamn change of heart! And then, 'cause I had the audacity to go after a kid that gladly murdered one of your weird monster buddies, you just jump to the fucking conclusion that I'm suddenly some kinda murderer. Like that's, that's just second nature for me."

Well, in some cases it is. But that's beside the point. Sans wouldn't know that. Would he?

"You're shady, and you act like you got this moral high ground. But you haven't got a fucking leg to stand on."