entrancelogs | are there dogs inside? [OPEN]

Entry tags:

are there dogs inside? [OPEN]

Who: Sans and YOU
Where: The True Lab and Rick's Lab
When: Throughout the event
Rating: PG - PG-13, will adjust as needed
Summary: A tiny skeleton walks into a lab. What happens next will warm your heart!
The Story:

A: The Beds - it's easier to bury your head in the sand

So, yanno, this is fine. It's only the third time Wonderland is decided, hey, let's make Sans even smaller than he already is, so at this point he's almost used to it. He even got to keep his memories this time, so that's a plus.

The downside is basically everything else. Not only is he smaller, he's also weaker, and it's not like Sans was ever a particularly strong monster. He's got no magic and no real way to defend himself short of running away, and while the Amalgamates are theoretically harmless, it's awfully easy for one of their weird attacks to knock out that 1 HP.

So Sans did what he does best--he went to sleep and tried to ignore everything.

He's been hiding under one of the beds in the lab's central area, napping on and off for the past few hours, occasionally poking his head out to see if anyone is nearby. Or if any of the Amalgamates are coming to eat him. It's awfully easy to sink into the nonsensical "they're definitely going to eat me" mindset at this age.

B: Puzzles - just another set of ideas

Once that weird old man's post goes up, it becomes apparent what this is all gonna be about. Avoid danger, solve some puzzles, find the macguffin and save your life. It's annoying, but Sans figures this is just about the best scenario that could have possibly happened, given the content of these events. Things could be a hell of a lot worse, and that's given the fact that he's like two feet tall and has occasional bouts of shakiness.

Monsters are pretty good at puzzles, though, and jigsaw puzzles are easier than switch or block puzzles. They're just more time consuming. It doesn't help that he's constantly distracted by watching for Amalgamates, or the weird sensation of being here doing a puzzle and also being somewhere else, slowly dying in a vat.

Still, he's doing his best, and he's generally happy to help anyone else with the puzzles. Collab, bro?

C: Keys - i've got nostalgia running through me and i don't like it

Time to find those keys or whatever. The hallways are more dangerous than the room with all the beds, though, and Sans doesn't know his way around. This is the most he's ever seen of the lab. He's not even sure how accurate the layout is.

No choice, though. He can feel time slowly running out. Gotta find those keys and find his real body, and that means braving the hallways and creepy fogged over rooms. You'd think Alphys had installed smoke machines down here or something.

Hopefully an Amalgamate doesn't show up, right?

D: Bad Memory - and now it follows me every day

Something's been following Sans for a little while now. Something bad. Every time he looks behind him to try and see it, it disappears.

Occasionally his phone rings, but Sans knows better than to answer it. He never met this one, but...call it instinct. A looming sense of dread. By now he's visibly nervous. He's had enough of bad memories lately, and he'd really rather avoid this one.

E: The Vats - i relive it, i relive it

He's made it to the lower lab, and now it's just a matter of finding his body. He's worn out and disheveled and just generally very ready to be done with all this bullshit. There's a lot of vats down here, though, so finding the one with the skeleton in it might take a bit. He's probably also going to need help with that whole "transferring consciousness" thing.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Oh. Maybe he said too much.]

i...heh. sorry, i was...just makin' a joke. i figured it was obvious.

[He fidgets with his hands. Usually it was obvious, painfully obvious to any monster who looked at him. He got better as he got older, and it became something a little easier to hide. But back then--now?--it only took a glance for a monster to know something was Wrong. Even if they didn't Check and look at his HP.]

[Too small, too slow, too sleepy. Couldn't keep up with anyone else. And he never made bullets. Never even tried, because what was the point? It took too much energy, and the end result of nothing at all, or one shaky, measly, sick-looking bone.]

it's okay. i end up growing out of the worst of it, heh. i didn't...i didn't know until pretty recently that--um. that stuff like this happened to humans. i thought, when humans got sick, it was germs and stuff. like, what's it called, the...the flu? monsters don't get sick like that, so it's all...

heh, sorry, i. kid-me never shuts up.

[It would be, maybe, if he were a monster too. If he knew what to look for. He can recognize it in humans, but in skeletons? Do skeletons even look anything other than bleached-bone white?

That's probably offensive on some level. He keeps his gaze ahead of him, wheeling the table along as he scans the vats for any sight of a skeleton or his own stupid, equally sickly self. It's...eerie, seeing so many disturbingly silent, still faces. Plenty he knows, plenty he's seen on the network and passed in the halls of the mansion.

He doesn't wanna look too close.]

'S fine.

[He didn't...know. Didn't know that Sans would know.

But it turns out that some people are just born wrong.]

Some humans are just born like this. Sick. Never really goes away.

[He figures Tim doesn't really want to talk about it any further, so he's a little surprised when he keeps going.]

[And he's more surprised by what Tim actually says.]

so...it's permanent for you, too?

[He didn't know. Sort of suspected, since he's heard Tim cough plenty before, and no one in Wonderland ever really seems to get "the flu" or "colds" or what have you. He was thinking more about what Wirt told him, about anemia.]

[So Tim...]

[Tim gets it.]

and you--you were born like this? you--that happens? i didn't know it...

[He didn't know it was something that could haunt a human's entire life. Didn't know humans could be born that way. Everything he's seen and heard from other humans is that some things just sort of develop, and then stick around for awhile, sometimes forever.]

[Has Tim been coughing like that his whole life?]

[Tim...gets it. He--he didn't really ever think--monsters don't really understand these things. He knows that it got worse as time went on, the longer monsters spent in the dark. Monsters who Fell Down too young, like Shyren's sister. Monsters who were frail, like Snowdrake's mother. Monsters like Sans, with too little magic, enough only for 1 HP to hold his physical form together.]

[It was becoming more common, but monsters didn't get it. Sickness isn't something they have any experience with, not the kind that couldn't be cured by reminding someone that they were loved, by telling someone to keep on fighting.]

[No one's ever understood before. No one's understood what it's like to come out wrong.]

i...

me too.

i was...i came out...weak. really weak. you're right. it...never really goes away.

[He can't stop staring at Tim.]

i...um. sorry. monsters don't...no one's ever really...

[No one's ever really...

They never wanna talk about it, do they? If monsters don't get sick, if they don't talk about how humans can just be born like this, all wrong in the head, in the lungs. Violent episodes and delusions that no one can fix. They just tell you how to manage it, and how to make it so it doesn't ruin absolutely every aspect of your life. Like it's not always there. Like it doesn't always needle at the back of your head. Like you don't have to always be careful, don't always have to think and second-guess and wonder what everyone else is gonna say when they see you stooped over and coughing into your hands like a freak.

But, hey. Always better not to talk about it, right? No one wants to hear about that. No one wants to hear your whining, Tim. No one wants to deal with you bitching about some piece of your life that you can't get fixed. That'll never be fixed.]

No one wants to talk about it. Right?

[He doesn't mean for the bitter twist to enter his tone. It does anyway. His grip on the table tightens, his knuckles bleaching.]

No one wants to hear about how you're just this - freak. But they look at you, 'cause they know you are.

[One day, Mom stops visiting.

And you know it's because there's nothing else she can do for you. Because she's sick to death of having to cancel appointments and shift her schedule around to see a kid who's never going to get better.

It's just best if she doesn't bother anymore, isn't it?]

You're always gonna be different. And people act like someday it's gonna get better. Like with enough happy thoughts or, or - the right pills, you'll be all cured and happy and normal.

[Spoilers.

It doesn't.]

[His eyesockets are sort of wide as he watches Tim, as he tries to get his skull around this. Around the idea that this is a thing that happens to humans, that Wirt mentioned anemia, and Sans read somewhere about "cancer," and Tim's talking about some kind of--something that involves coughing and shaking and being weak, some condition Sans wouldn't know the name of, if it even has a name. Does it have a name? Do humans give names to all of these sicknesses? No one ever gave a name to whatever was wrong with Sans. No one ever gave a name to what made some of those monsters Fall Down before their time. It was just...being weak. Being frail.]

[But humans give names to these things. That means it's--maybe not common, but not necessarily uncommon. Tim gets it. There are humans out there who get it.]

[There are people who understand.]

y...yeah! no one wants to talk about it. monsters don't--we don't get sick enough for people to know how. we don't--give names to it or anything. there's no, no language for it i guess? i--i'm one of maybe a dozen monsters who were--who weren't right. maybe fewer. and i never--i never met any of them. and other monsters didn't understand.

[Except Papyrus. Thank god for Papyrus, thank god for his perpetual understanding, how he was always careful in the right ways. Calling Sans lazy so they could pretend that's all it was. So they could make a joke out of it, so it didn't have to be this heavy weight above them, with all the oppressive permanence of the cavern ceiling. So it didn't have to be an end of the road somewhere in the distance, a finish line Sans somehow kept pushing further forward, despite himself.]

[He would have died without Papyrus. He knows that. Would have Fallen Down, probably around this age, and that would've been that. No one would have even cared.]

[And there's that word, freak, and Sans takes a step forward with something like a startled gasp.]

that--yeah! how you're--weird. a freak. you--came out wrong. and--and how, why can't you just get better? i-i'd get that question all the time, why couldn't i just--get more HP? like...like i hadn't already tried. like everyone hadn't already tried.

[And the way people looked at you, and how you could kind of tell what kind of person they were from their immediate reaction. How blank confusion would mean something different than outright horror, and horror meant something different from annoyance. He remembers him and Papyrus going to the dogs, trying to explain things, the looks on their faces when they realized a fellow sentry was one mistake away from dying, how they would have to be a bit more careful with their roughhousing, how scared they'd been, how some of them had just completely avoided Sans until Sans had shrugged and joked and brushed it off enough to put them at ease. Or how a teacher would say to the entire class that they had a special student with them, that everyone would have to be careful, that if it was a science class this student wasn't allowed to mix the acids or touch the Bunsen burners, and the entire class turning to look at him, and the utter humiliation burning in his soul. How the next time it happened, he made a joke about dust, and that had just made everyone uncomfortable. How by the third time it happened, he had the perfect joke ready, and everyone laughed.]

[It's a thousand times better if they just laugh.]

[He's still fidgeting with his hands.]

yeah. there's gotta be some way to fix you, right? it's always about--fixing. because...the idea that it's just like this is--so foreign. they can't conceptualize it. you must--you must just not be trying hard enough, right? you're just...lazy. heh.

and how it...it doesn't feel fair, to anyone else. how you're this...this liability. you're imposing on everyone. they can't behave how they'd normally behave, because you're there, and--and if they make a mistake, you're dead. but--it's not their fault. it has to be on you, right, to--to protect yourself, make sure that doesn't happen. it shouldn't be someone else's responsibility to make sure you don't--haha, fucking die. how would they live with themselves? if something bad happened, but, but it was your fault, cause you should've just dodged in time, or stayed away. right?

[He's getting a little worked up. Bad idea to get worked up when he's already this tired. He leans back against a vat, sighing heavily, reaching across himself to rub at an arm. He feels shyer than he has any right to feel.]

i've never...talked to anyone about this. i shouldn't. this isn't me, i don't...i don't tell people things. but--i--no one's gotten it before. i've never been able to--talk about it. i, i'm sorry, this...this is probably pretty annoying, huh.

[What's he say to it? The impulse everyone seems to go for, whenever it gets to be obvious with him, that something's wrong with him, falls across a spectrum he's long since adjusted to. Georgia and Jay's stumbling awkwardness, trying to step around the issue, or the former's complete lack of sympathy in the heat of danger, because an issue with a respiratory system is just too inconvenient while you're running from something about to chew your head off, like you don't already know that.

There's the people who don't understand, and don't ask questions. There's the people who ask you too many questions, like you're a fun little guinea pig for them to poke at and treat like this - this arbiter of every person who's ever been born wrong like this before in their life.

The pity. You can't call it sympathy, because it isn't even really that. It's pity, completely and utterly, that look that you get that communicates oh, how awful that must be.

That's assuming they acknowledge you at all. If you attract the odd looks, the nervous shifting away across the bench at the bus stop or the scraping of a desk inch a couple inches away from yours, is that better or worse than the people whose gazes slide over you like you're not even there, like you may as well be invisible? Like they're afraid that looking at you will be offensive.

Or maybe you're just being too sensitive.

Either way, the end result is always the same. No one wants to actually talk about it. No one wants to hear you talk about it.

"Jesus, dude," says Brian, a wry twist to one side of his mouth as he watches Tim hack into a shredded-up wad of kleenex for the millionth time that day, "you should get that looked at."

It's funny.

It's funny, because they both know exactly what he means. Tim laughs, a startled, vague little huff of sound that surprises him as much as it does Brian, who looks at him like he's just scored a personal victory, because for once he actually made Tim laugh.

"Nice one," says Tim. "Hilarious."

Even with the cynical twist to the words, Brian laughs too, knowing full well that he means it.

It's goddamn hilarious.

He could never put the humorous spin on things that Brian could. That Sans must have, more times than he could count. 'Cause it's easier when they laugh.]

No one ever really talks about it. Don't...it's fine.

[Heard no one cares and shut up, Tim and why are you telling us this in so many different ways, so many different times, that he's never going to be that person to anyone else. Not over this.

Never over this.]

It's harder when you have people who'd miss you. Feels like...I dunno, maybe you have to work extra hard just to keep living, just so they won't feel worse over the fact that they never got to make you better.

Never got to fix you.

[And once people see it, once they know, suddenly that's all you are. Suddenly you are your HP. There's this entire social norm that they have to neglect with you, that you have to miss out on completely, an entire language. You don't get monster bullet birthday cards. No one wants to even try to engage you in any of the bullet-based traditions or ceremonies. People frown and say "well, it's easier to explain with bullets, but..."]

[All you are is an object lesson. A reminder that something similar could happen to another monster, to someone else they know. And no one really understands how it works, so what if it's catching? What if it can spread, the way human germs do? What if your soul is some kind of magical black hole, and you're just going to siphon off magic from everyone around you until everyone else turns to dust? That creepy kid who keeps missing class, the weirdo who has to stay indoors, and sometimes we see him at the window watching the world go by, and what's he thinking? What's the real story?]

[Why's that kid such a freak?]

[Or they go the other direction, and they're overly nice, overly careful, overly delicate, like they think the wrong word will just break you into pieces. And no amount of joking can get them to relax. None of the jokes work, not the off-color ones about dust and death, not the harmless, lazy bone puns. They don't even want to touch you, because maybe that's all it will take to kill you. No one touches you, no one hugs you, and it gets to the point that if someone hugs you and they're not your brother, it feels weird and awkward and wrong. You can't ease into it all the way, because you're just--not used to it.]

[It's...it's weird. He hasn't thought this in-depth about it all in--god, in years. All the complexities, all the nuance, the way it affects not just your entire life but your entire world. The way you interact with people, the way you interact with your environment. Everything. It informs every little thing. Even if you didn't want it to become your whole life, it did anyway. Out of necessity, out of habit. You grow up, and certain circumstances grant you the ability to use magic, and certain other circumstances grant you the ability to use very powerful magic, and--yet you're still in the same habits. You feel pretty okay, you know you're not going to just drop dead all of a sudden, you know you can handle yourself, can defend yourself. You're in a much better place.]

[And yet you still find yourself sleeping too much, and not getting too close to people, and dodging reflexively even when you don't need to. And it's fine. The new and interesting ways that time has stopped functioning normally mean that all your old habits feed very nicely into all the new habits you need to develop. You can stay out of the narrative except in a background sense, because that's how it's always been. You can decide to save your energy for when you truly need it, because that's how it's always been.]

[Like, hell, maybe you were born for this. Maybe your whole life was training you for this. Except that's a laugh and a half, isn't it, because that implies some kind of fate, some kind of destiny. If destiny were a real thing, it would have chosen a much better qualified person for the job. A better person.]

[He's...he's thinking too much.]

i'm not used to this, i guess. i don't talk about...much of anything. nothing real, at least. and all this stuff...once it got easier to just pretend i was, heh, normal, that's just what i did. cause it spared me a headache. and i got so tired of just...just the way people would look at me. even if they didn't say anything. even if they didn't understand at all.

[Imagine how different things would have been, if he'd never told Gaster about his HP or his magic. Most things from back then are so damn hazy. The look on Gaster's face--that same, horrified look everyone else always got--that's clear as day.]

[His grip on his arm tightens.]

god. yeah. people...people who'd miss you. my brother was--is that. but...

[He gives a shaky grin despite himself.]

he's the only one who doesn't wanna fix me. he's the only one who--really got it. it wasn't about fixing me, he just...always knew i could do a little better. wanted me to push a little harder.

[And god, how does he do it without him? How does he do it without him?]

[There's a tightness in his ribcage and heat prickling in his eyesockets. No, nope, not gonna start crying, not here, not now, not ever. He might've been a crybaby as a kid but that was something he made himself grow out of. Not happening. He clamps down on it.]

papyrus...there were so many times i coulda just died as a kid, but i didn't, because of him.

[He only had the one person. Seems like people like them, both of them, only ever do. Just one person who doesn't necessarily understand what it's like, but is willing to try to. Who can make stupid jokes about it, and pretend like it's no big deal. Who's willing to tolerate the way you can't bear for anyone to try and touch you, and who doesn't quite know why you show up on his doorstep in the middle of the night during one of the worst storms in recent history, sopping wet and standing there, minutes from bolting and trekking back home in the rain, but is willing to let you in and offer you a shower and a cup of coffee and say that it's okay.

There's no cure for shit like this. There's no way it gets better. Some days are worse than others, and some minutes are easier to bear, and some breaths aren't quite as heavy on the lungs. And sometimes you don't have anything to tear your mind away from the sickening roiling in your gut, the nausea and the heated tingle in your fingertips and the way your head spins.

But sometimes there are people who will let you use their shower, and teach you the wonder of peanut butter sandwiches dunked in hot chocolate, because it's a distraction from the way your teeth are chattering even when you're trying to sit still and not raise a ruckus, and not be a bother.]

Yeah.

[Someone who's enough to keep you there, keep you grounded. Keep you alive, when nothing else will. He had that. He had it.

He let it slip away. He always does.

Thinking about Brian tightens the hard lump in his throat, and he can't quite swallow back the tears that sting at the corners of his eyes. He cries too easily. Always did.

Just another reason why Mom probably couldn't stand being around someone like him. Like it's his fault for not getting better, for not being better. Like maybe he's not trying hard enough. Like getting fired after mysteriously disappearing for three consecutive weeks is just another sign that he's not the kid she wishes she could've had.

Sorry, Mom. Sorry you wanted something worth your time. Sorry you wanted a kid you could watch up grow up healthy and happy. Instead you got this.

Sorry for being a burden.

He shakes himself, breathing in tight through his nose. Keeps talking. Seems like they could both use this, despite the baggage it entails.]

Humans, uh...we have stuff like medication. Pills. Doesn't cure it, but it...it makes it less likely to kill you, I guess. [He can't quite bite back the cynical twist to the words. No way to shrug it off, not entirely. Just a way to help you to function in such a way that you're almost mistaken for normal.]

'S why I have to get back to my body. This one doesn't have them. Guess mini-me forgot to pack them with the sack lunch.

[It's all you need, really. Just the one person. Because you can't possibly stand on your own, have no idea how to even begin. If you can gain one or two other people worth sticking around for, worth--being for, then god, feels like practically a miracle. Even if you know you're just a burden on them. Just a parasite taking their time and energy.]

[It's just how it is. He needs someone. Maybe people like them, people who are sick, just need--someone. Just one person.]

[He's quiet for a little bit, thinking, letting himself think. Letting himself process. Feeling what he's feeling.]

[He looks up again at the mention of medication. Stuff like that is mostly just healing magic underground, but he's been to the dump enough to see many, many different kinds of pill bottles come floating down the rivers. Waterfall kids like to play with them because they were usually so colorful, plus they made a fun rattling sound.]

[That must be why kid Tim has been coughing more than Sans has ever really noticed. He needs those pills.]

then...

[He stands up from the vat he was leaning on, wobbling for a moment before he rights himself.]

then we'd better find yours quick, huh? let's keep going.

Probably be best for everyone.

[With that cryptic statement - even with his inhibitions lowered like this, he's not about to admit to his other half to anyone not already in the know, and he's bent on keeping that limited to three people if possible - he keeps moving, scanning the vats for any sight of himself.

He can't really - can't really fathom how it is they got to this point. Admitting to this shit. But this is the first other person he knows who actually kind of gets it.

Who has every reason to get it.

Much as he wishes he didn't have to get it, there's relief there. Relief in knowing, in realizing that, even with everything else wrong with him, even with him being a freak and an aberration in every sense of the word -

He's not really alone.

Someone else gets it.]

You can...you don't have to like...

[Shit, but he's bad at this. He's always been bad at this.]

I mean, when we're back to normal and everything. You can still - if you wanna talk about it, or anything. I'm not - I mean, I'm not really good at talking.

[But he guesses he makes a pretty okay listener.]

But if you want, I guess. Just to know that you're not the only one.

Sometimes it helps.

[It's weird. He hasn't even really talked that much about it with Papyrus, partially because Papyrus found it upsetting, and partially because they...didn't really need to. It was part of Papyrus's life from the day he was born too. He could always just sort of tell when something was wrong, and what to do about it. Or he would make things up on the fly, because Papyrus was always incredible about problem solving.]

[That was how ketchup became a thing.]

[But it's...weird. Opening up like this to a near-stranger, and he knows he would never have done this if he were an adult. Not unless he was pretty drunk. He would be regretting this a thousand times more if he were an adult right now. He sort of just...grew out of the need to relate to someone. Buried the old loneliness under layers and layers of puns and apathy.]

[But he's still a kid for now, and finally having someone who really gets it, some proof that he isn't alone, is staggering. Overwhelming. Like eating a meal after going so long without one that you forgot you were starving.]

me neither. talking, i mean. i'm better at listening.

[He's talkative, a complete chatterbox as a kid, and a speechifying pedant as an adult, but everything he says is barbed doubletalk. A lot of empty bullshit. And he's only ostensibly better at listening. He usually only hears what he wants to hear. Real scientific of him.]

[Tim's offer, halting though it is, is...touching. Honestly touching, because he can tell Tim is feeling just as awkward about this. Probably feeling like this was all a huge mistake. Showed a vulnerability you can't easily hide, something Sans could take advantage of; something Tim could take advantage of right back. It's difficult. This is a landscape Sans has very, very rarely had to navigate. Mostly with the kids, and look how well that keeps turning out.]

i...

[They'll be back to normal, back to their usual routines. Sans isn't sure what Tim's normal routines are, but he damn well knows his own.]

i think...maybe i'd...like that. i--heh, i mean. it'd also be nice to talk about regular stuff. you're a decent guy, yanno? and...we only seem to talk when something bad's happening.

[He's fidgeting with his hands again. Real glad he grew out of that habit.]

i can't guarantee i'll...adult-me's gonna be even weirder about this stuff than i am. but i've...i've sorta been...trying to work on actually talking to people more. so much stuff ends up unspoken, or it becomes this big secret, and--and then it kinda all blows up on me and. heh. i'm getting tired of that.

[Talking is dangerous. Not talking? It's starting to look outright deadly.]

probably not right away. but...maybe. maybe.

[He's a decent guy? Yikes. Must really have him fooled if he has him believing that much. It's not very much at all, in the end. It's an offer, a vague one, and it's unlikely either one of them are ones to follow up on that much. Why would they? They're untalkative bastards by default, receding to the mean of perpetual avoidance when they can. Why talk about your problems, when talking about your problems has only ever made things worse for everyone?]

Adult me's kind of a dick anyway.

[But he's a dick who shared a cigarette once, after Sans lost his brother. Who probably could be less of a dick, but could be more of one too. Not as big an asshole as you could have been award. Gold star for him.

He keeps pushing his stupid little wheeling table along, until eventually he shrugs, weakly.]

Offer's open for...whenever, I guess. No expiration.

[He'll probably regret this in the long run. Maybe both of them will.

But now it's out there. And there's no taking it back.]

[Tim could have just gotten up and walked away back then. It must have been pretty awkward, sitting there with an almost-stranger who just lost his brother, a guy who's being casually depressing. Sans probably would have just walked away if the roles were reversed.]

hee. nah. you're okay.

[It doesn't really take all that much to be considered a decent person, when it comes to monsters. Sans might be a harsher judge than--well, anyone--but even he gets that. Pretty much all you need to be to be a regular, decent person is just...not kill people.]

[Even that's not quite as black and white as it used to be.]

thank you, tim. seriously. and, um. same. same to you.

[He's okay. At least to start with, he's okay. "Okay" in the general sense, in the sense that Sans just hasn't really talked to him often enough to realize what a complete freak he is, in more ways than one. Max liked him well enough to start with, up until she learned just how deep all of his assorted shit went.

It's only ever a matter of time.]

Thanks.

[The word tastes foreign on his tongue, and he's thankfully spared having to stumble out a half-formed, half-assed apology when he realizes he recognizes one of the bodies drifting. He pulls a face, scowling up at it.]

Found me.

[Sans, for his part, is thinking just about the same thing. You can find something important to relate on all you want, but once people find out how garbage you are, they tend to leave. Quietly or unquietly.]

[He stops as well, looking up at the body in the tank.]

oh, hey, yeah. there we go. got the...that face hair thing you've got and everything.

[He chuckles faintly.]

hard part's over.

Allergic to shaving?

[Or just solidly unable and unwilling to trust himself with a razor for extended periods of time? You decide. It's easier to just - talk about it, like it's some stupid fault on his part. Like he legitimately forgets to shave, instead of waking up and finding himself profoundly struggling to give a shit about anything, much less his appearance.]

Yeah. Now it's just...the easy part.

[The part where he climbs his stupid rolling table and tries to get his adult self out.

He focuses on the action; pushing the table as close up against the heavy glass container as possible, and then scrambling atop it. Makes it easier if he doesn't have to - to look at himself.]

Can you, um...hold the table? In case it...so I don't...

[You know. Fall and split his grapefruit open.]

is that what humans do? jeez, i guess that makes sense, huh? i don't know all that much about how hair or fur works.

[For pretty obvious reasons.]

[He moves to hold the table, gripping one of the legs and an edge.]

you'd think a table like this would have locks on the wheels, huh? but nah, that'd make things too easy.

[He plants a foot against a wheel, since that's better than nothing.]

okay, i think i got it. be careful.

[He wouldn't have figured as much, no. A skeleton with hair is only marginally more unsettling as a concept than a skeleton that walks and talks like it's no big deal. At least he's learned to roll with those proverbial ideological punches by now. Hard to be shocked by anything anymore.

He wobbles on the spot, gritting his teeth as the tips of his fingers brush the top of the hatch.

He keeps talking without looking down, straining to nudge the thing open.]

If it looks like I'm gonna fall - get outta the way. I don't wanna land on you.

[For one, that'd probably kill him.]

[Sans is pretty sure he wore a wig once to some party or other in college, but that's the extent of his experience with hair. That and whipping out a comb on occasion for a bit.]

[He holds the table as still as he can, though it does wobble a little.]

oh, haha, don't worry, i definitely will. getting out of the way of stuff is one of like, two things i'm good at.

[It takes several long moments, but after a while he manages to unhook the latches. The lid slides off the top of the vat with a couple careful nudges and the low rasp of metal sliding across glass.]

Watch your head.

[Another careful shove sends the thing crashing loudly to the floor, and he winces, instinctively tensing, scanning his surroundings in case anyone else might be down here. In case there's something that might - be drawn to the noise.

For whatever reason.]

gotcha.

[He watches carefully, trying to make sure Tim isn't going to fall. The hatch slides to the floor with an almighty crash that makes Sans flinch. He resists the urge to clap his hands over his skull.]

[He's quiet for a bit as the echoes fade.]

...yeesh.

Anyone coming?

[He shouldn't have been...loud. He shouldn't have been loud. It was loud, and someone might hear, and those dripping monster things could come back.

All the more reason to act quickly. He can only barely get the tips of his fingers over the edge of the human-sized jar, standing on tip-toe; no way he's gonna have the upper body strength to pull his adult self out, especially from this position.

Instead, he glances back down.]

What're the...the thingies we have to use? The electro-things?

[He looks around, a little nervous now. The Amalgamates tend to be drawn to loud noises, but they haven't come down to this level. Right?]

[He tries to refocus on just holding the table in place.]

i don't think so...

[At the question, he leans sideways to better inspect the vat itself. There's a control panel of some kind on the side.]

electrodes, right? here, sit down so i can go get 'em. i can see 'em coming out of that panel right there.

[Despite all the general terror and inconvenience of this entire situation, he can't help but be a bit curious. This whole thing is pretty scientifically interesting. Being able to swap consciousnesses--and apparently monster souls and magic as well--is pretty advanced stuff.]

[He scrambles down obligingly, keeping his stare fixed on his own face, apparently asleep. He'll be waking up with the sensation of liquid in his lungs, again, something thick and gelatinous closing over his head.

Maybe he'll end up dying down here after all.

That'd be just - perfect, huh?]

Find them?

[Sans waits until Tim is sitting on the table and in less danger of falling to his death. Then he lets go of the table and goes to collect the electrodes, pulling them out of the chamber on the control panel. He takes some time to study the control panel as well, trying to figure out how it works.]

this seems pretty self-explanatory, actually. i mean...the theory behind it is simple enough. i think it, um, works by treating consciousness and such as an electrical signal...? oh, sorry.

[He walks back over to Tim and holds up the electrodes.]

sorry. it's just, um, the technology is pretty neat. i think the blue one goes on the left side of your head and the red goes on the right? and then i hit a button and...you'll wake up in your real body.

[He glances between them, frowning vaguely.]

you...gotta remember to hold your breath right away, okay? that liquid might be some kind of oxygenated...stuff, but um. it also might not be. so, so make sure you hold your breath when you wake up, okay?

Edited 2017-03-23 06:46 (UTC)

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cw discussion of illness and things

cw discussion of illness and things continues

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