Sans (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skelepun) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
epidemiology2017-03-06 09:22 pm
skelepun) wrote in epidemiology2017-03-06 09:22 pm
TWO OPEN, ONE CLOSED
CHARACTERS: Sans, Papyrus, and anyone else! Everyone else? Get in here, ya crazy kids!
DATE: Prompts spanning from March 5th to March 9th
WARNINGS: None! Unless flagrantly ignoring ALASTAIR's request for subtlety counts.
SUMMARY: Sans finds himself in a new timeline (again). He's not sure what he thinks yet, but the pizza's pretty good.
It really wasn’t kind, putting him through inter-dimensional time futzing so early in the morning. One moment he was in bed -- not his bed, of course, the sheets were still on -- staring at the dusty trappings of a child’s room. He drifted off most nights with a host of private reminders of who might’ve stayed here, and what kind of person they were when they did. A better one, probably. Toriel’s wistful looks now and again whenever she talked about them was proof enough of that; she was sharp enough to see through bullshit.
Well, except for his, but he was a grand master.
Sleep didn’t bring darkness this time; instead, it brought an entirely different bedroom. Dreams weren’t Sans’ favorites -- they kinda got in the way of the whole sleep part -- but he played along. A couple info dumps, spider rings, and transport instructions later, Sans was now standing with a human body, in the middle of a human street, under a human dawn, in a time very apart from his own. The dream theory was getting increasingly unlikely. His imagination just wasn’t up to crafting something this thorough.
Except for Papyrus, of course. His inclusion was the one part of this that did feel dreamlike. A frequent player in his subconscious, that guy, and one Sans felt a little nerves probing too closely.
The greasy, appealing smells of the diner next door pleasantly truncated that line of thought. He could use some time to think anyway, not to mention ducking away from the worst sound in the world: early morning birdsong. What french fries couldn’t chase away, a veritable cornucopia of bureaucratic minutia certainly could. What was Wylan Van Eck’s life story? No better time to find out.
Maybe Sans could suss out who the heck named him Wylan, anyway.
march 5th (slightly less early morning) | can i offer you a brother in these trying times (CLOSED)
The files prove a little more interesting than the fries, which sit mostly untouched (save a few that on top that looked glossy with saliva and ketchup residue. Gross). He’d made it through most of them, making a point to memorize faces. Those would be more useful than facts. He could probably creep a few people out too, which was always a fun bonus.
Of course, it figures that the one face he’d been trying to avoid looking at passes right by the large plate glass window he was seated beside. All full of pep and vigor like it wasn’t ass-o’clock in the morning.
That was him, alright.
Sans doesn’t hear the plate break when gets up, or notice the smoosh of soggy fries under his feet, to say nothing of the sweaty man yelling about his tab. Those are all background; bits of black nothing zeroing in on the vastly important something walking down the street without a care in the world. He does notice the aforementioned large man grabbing a broom (or a gun? It’s humans, who knows), and that’s his cue to exit, which he accomplishes with his usual flare. Sure, ALASTAIR might frown on disappearing in front of locals, but Sans prefers to think of it as giving a very angry man one hell of a story.
“Uh” Sans says, intelligently, suddenly behind his brother. “Hold up.”
The surprise is enough to make Sans forget for a just exactly who he resembles. Whoops.
march 6th (afternoon) | can you spare some change, pal? (OPEN)
His cover story isn’t the most sophisticated, but it is definitely easy. With no actual flesh to feast on, or freeze off, sitting on the cold streets for hours on end watching the world (and infected) roll by was one hell of a way to spend an afternoon. Sans intends to take full advantage. He already managed about six naps so far. Talk about a personal best.
Still, curiosity is a hell of a motivator, and in those rare wakeful moments he has his eye sockets peeled. The cloaked form he’d taken is still in effect, and for all he knew most others’ were as well. All that time spent memorizing faces could be for nothing.
Fortunately, much like with the bewildered broom-and-or-gun wielding man, Sans figures a few more locals could use a story. Nothing more fun at parties than the time a crazy stranger asked if I was part of a secret time society. Classic.
“Hey, pal.” He grins, rattling a small styrofoam cup in the direction of a passerby. “Can you spare some gold? I’m saving up to fix my time machine.”
march 9th (noon-ish) | rolling’s all i know holmes (OPEN)
They don’t tell you this when you’re coming up, but the definition of success isn’t the house, the car, or the family. It’s cold roller rink pizza. At 11AM. On a Thursday. Finest his begging profits could buy.
The cheese on his latest slice broke off in one large flat pane when he bit into it, falling back to his paper plate with an audible click. Luxury.
Sans isn’t expecting to see anyone else, but his cloaking was off to fellow Audentes just in case. He had quite a bit of pizza to share, and quite a lot of work to avoid. If somebody desperately needed to talk to him, well… nothing says probably not a local like a skeleton chowing down on crappy pizza.
DATE: Prompts spanning from March 5th to March 9th
WARNINGS: None! Unless flagrantly ignoring ALASTAIR's request for subtlety counts.
SUMMARY: Sans finds himself in a new timeline (again). He's not sure what he thinks yet, but the pizza's pretty good.
It really wasn’t kind, putting him through inter-dimensional time futzing so early in the morning. One moment he was in bed -- not his bed, of course, the sheets were still on -- staring at the dusty trappings of a child’s room. He drifted off most nights with a host of private reminders of who might’ve stayed here, and what kind of person they were when they did. A better one, probably. Toriel’s wistful looks now and again whenever she talked about them was proof enough of that; she was sharp enough to see through bullshit.
Well, except for his, but he was a grand master.
Sleep didn’t bring darkness this time; instead, it brought an entirely different bedroom. Dreams weren’t Sans’ favorites -- they kinda got in the way of the whole sleep part -- but he played along. A couple info dumps, spider rings, and transport instructions later, Sans was now standing with a human body, in the middle of a human street, under a human dawn, in a time very apart from his own. The dream theory was getting increasingly unlikely. His imagination just wasn’t up to crafting something this thorough.
Except for Papyrus, of course. His inclusion was the one part of this that did feel dreamlike. A frequent player in his subconscious, that guy, and one Sans felt a little nerves probing too closely.
The greasy, appealing smells of the diner next door pleasantly truncated that line of thought. He could use some time to think anyway, not to mention ducking away from the worst sound in the world: early morning birdsong. What french fries couldn’t chase away, a veritable cornucopia of bureaucratic minutia certainly could. What was Wylan Van Eck’s life story? No better time to find out.
Maybe Sans could suss out who the heck named him Wylan, anyway.
march 5th (slightly less early morning) | can i offer you a brother in these trying times (CLOSED)
The files prove a little more interesting than the fries, which sit mostly untouched (save a few that on top that looked glossy with saliva and ketchup residue. Gross). He’d made it through most of them, making a point to memorize faces. Those would be more useful than facts. He could probably creep a few people out too, which was always a fun bonus.
Of course, it figures that the one face he’d been trying to avoid looking at passes right by the large plate glass window he was seated beside. All full of pep and vigor like it wasn’t ass-o’clock in the morning.
That was him, alright.
Sans doesn’t hear the plate break when gets up, or notice the smoosh of soggy fries under his feet, to say nothing of the sweaty man yelling about his tab. Those are all background; bits of black nothing zeroing in on the vastly important something walking down the street without a care in the world. He does notice the aforementioned large man grabbing a broom (or a gun? It’s humans, who knows), and that’s his cue to exit, which he accomplishes with his usual flare. Sure, ALASTAIR might frown on disappearing in front of locals, but Sans prefers to think of it as giving a very angry man one hell of a story.
“Uh” Sans says, intelligently, suddenly behind his brother. “Hold up.”
The surprise is enough to make Sans forget for a just exactly who he resembles. Whoops.
march 6th (afternoon) | can you spare some change, pal? (OPEN)
His cover story isn’t the most sophisticated, but it is definitely easy. With no actual flesh to feast on, or freeze off, sitting on the cold streets for hours on end watching the world (and infected) roll by was one hell of a way to spend an afternoon. Sans intends to take full advantage. He already managed about six naps so far. Talk about a personal best.
Still, curiosity is a hell of a motivator, and in those rare wakeful moments he has his eye sockets peeled. The cloaked form he’d taken is still in effect, and for all he knew most others’ were as well. All that time spent memorizing faces could be for nothing.
Fortunately, much like with the bewildered broom-and-or-gun wielding man, Sans figures a few more locals could use a story. Nothing more fun at parties than the time a crazy stranger asked if I was part of a secret time society. Classic.
“Hey, pal.” He grins, rattling a small styrofoam cup in the direction of a passerby. “Can you spare some gold? I’m saving up to fix my time machine.”
march 9th (noon-ish) | rolling’s all i know holmes (OPEN)
They don’t tell you this when you’re coming up, but the definition of success isn’t the house, the car, or the family. It’s cold roller rink pizza. At 11AM. On a Thursday. Finest his begging profits could buy.
The cheese on his latest slice broke off in one large flat pane when he bit into it, falling back to his paper plate with an audible click. Luxury.
Sans isn’t expecting to see anyone else, but his cloaking was off to fellow Audentes just in case. He had quite a bit of pizza to share, and quite a lot of work to avoid. If somebody desperately needed to talk to him, well… nothing says probably not a local like a skeleton chowing down on crappy pizza.
no subject
He knew that Papyrus's file was thicker than most, just from the MBs listed alongside it in the file directory.
He knew all these things, and yet somehow hearing it still felt like a lie. Sort of like hearing 2+2 did, in fact, equal 4... but still not quite believing it.
"That's..." He finally manages, shooting for a breezy laugh and landing a little closer to choked. "Wow. A whole year, huh?"
Another weird laugh, hand smoothing over his skull.
"I, uh. I can't remember."
Weird. He always assumed not remembering would be easier. So much for that.
no subject
"Maybe you should keep a pocket calendar! But yes, it's been... let me think about it..." Papyrus begins to count on his fingers, just to be sure, "Zeta-12, Perdition's Rest, and then here... Seven months! Maybe eight." The lightness in Papyrus' tone fades for just a moment. "Eight months since I last saw you. Almost a year... I hadn't realized it'd been so long."
An uncomfortable silence settles in, but only for a moment, before Papyrus is swatting it away, verbally and physically as he waves his hand as if he didn't say anything profoundly awful. "Anyway! Let's go food shopping together!! Have you ever had a "Toasted Pocket"? Normally, I'm not a fan of microwaveable foods, but I think you'd really like these ones!"
toasted pocket... kill me
But eight months? Eight months since another version of him had been here, and then left again? He wasn't concerned about Papyrus' well being (his brother was a pretty cool guy and an adult to boot; he could take care of himself) so much as the large gap in his memory that, for once, wasn't shared between them.
Is this what Papyrus felt like, in those rare timelines that Sans slipped up and let something spill that he shouldn't? He hoped not.
"Heh... right, yeah. Zeta's Rest, it's all comin' back to me now." He nods, grinning but shaken. It wouldn't be visible to most people, but the faint rattling of bones under his cloak and the familial understanding of what that meant gave Papyrus a leg up on most people. "You lead the way, bro, I'm comin'."
www.miolosdesign.com/en/product/toasted-pocket/
"...Yes, leading the way!" Which he does proceed to do, marching onward proudly. At least, for a minute or so, until he turns around to look back to Sans. "You know, it's alright if you don't know about those missions! You weren't there, so..." Wow, this was meant to go better, this sounded better in his head. "So! You probably had a bunch of other fun missions of your own, when you were away from our team! With things I don't know about! We could swap stories!" Because he's running, of course, with the assumption that Sans has stories TO swap.
"Or we... don't have to talk about it! It's okay if we don't." Sometimes Sans doesn't want to talk about things, even if he doesn't say it outright. Usually it'll first get to the point where Sans just avoids the question, and then Papyrus gets mad over it, but he's actually done a bit of growing up himself. At least, a little better at reading people.
no
Sans is uncomfortable, weighing the enormity of a lie he was faced with adopting as his reality against just ducking it completely. He could make up some stories, ones with enough dumb jokes peppered through them that Papyrus would get annoyed and the topic would shift.
But then again, they'd been apart eight months. What he'd done in that time, on his own... for once, Sans didn't know what to expect from his brother. He had an idea, sure, but the comforting predictability of Papyrus's impulses and actions was fractured here.
"Do you, uh, live around here?" He asks, finally, after a pause that went on too long for Sans to even attempt brushing past. All the rest of Papyrus's ideas and questions go clumsily unheeded. Sans is off his game, and he's sure they both know it. "I saw Undyne was here, too. Y'know... in the personnel files."
Was there a gil pun in there somewhere? Maybe something about anyfin goes? If there is, Sans can't find it. Way off his game.
just eat it, its fine
And with that goes Sans' moment to confess anything. It's gone, under the bridge, and Papyrus is moving on as if he didn't even ask. If Sans wanted to say something then, he would have. So Papyrus just lets the subject move on, as Sans wanted to do.
"You read the personal files?" Personnel, Papyrus, not personal. "That's no way to meet everyone!! You can't just read about people and think you know them! That gives me a Great idea- I should introduce you!! Especially to my son!! He's around here somewhere."
now it's my turn to do this 1/??
Aside from the million little ways he made everything better, of course.
"Heh, sure, that sounds..."
2/??
3/??
4/??
5/5
"You've got... a son?"
Even him saying it felt bizarre, like someone was trying to stuff an entire grapefruit in his mouth.
Who the hell was the other monster??
no subject
And, of course, absolutely none of this was actually descriptive to what Sans wanted to know.
no subject
"Giovanni?" It was a skeleton name. The kid had hair, though? Could he be a skeleton with hair...? Anything was possible when it came to monsters, but Sans was a little more preoccupied with whose hair the kid inherited it from. He didn't know any blondes but, then again, he didn't know anyone here. "I, uh. Who... how..."
Being at a loss for words was one thing, but this was ridiculous. His words were kidnapped, presumably by a blonde skeleton baby named Giovanni.
"When did this happen...?"
no subject
"He's still not calling me "mom" yet, but I know he'll come around! Also come on, Sans! We're never going to get to the grocery store if you keep stopping every minute! Do you need me to carry you??" Because nothing would look more normal than a fully adult man, carrying a smaller, Danny Devito-looking man.
no subject
And... boy, did he laugh. Waving Papyrus off with one hand, the laughter crested from incredulous to genuine to hysterics to going on just a little too long...
What was he laughing at? Boy. Talk about a big question.
For the moment, mostly time. And himself, but when wasn't that the case.
"Crap." He says, finally, rubbing at his eye sockets. "I'm, uh... I'm really looking forward to meeting 'em, Pap. Always wanted to be an uncle."
His voice is weirdly thin as he speaks, though no less genuine. Talk about a banner day. Fall through a rift, travel back in time, find his brother after over a year of mourning his murder, realize he's lost most of his memories of this place (if it was ever his place to begin with), and now completely losing it. In front of his brother, of course, the one thing he would've preferred never to do.
Sure was one of his better ones. He holds up his arms after a few more beats, (mostly) back to normal.
"Hoist me, big guy."
no subject
Either way, he's over being mad at Sans, almost entirely at this point. It's just how they work- he'll be mad for one moment, and then relieved or glad the next.
"Good!" Papyrus replies, already working on bending down to a lower height so that he could carry Sans on his back. "I think you'll get along well!! Just keep in mind that he's very... misguided! He never had any real parents growing up, so he doesn't always know how things work, like emotions, or people!" Or not being murder-y, but maybe he can mention that later. "Also, we're not getting any popato chisps! I'm going to be firm on this one, the last thing we need right now is snacks!"
no subject
Atop his fraternal steed, Sans feels a little more comfortable almost instantly. Whatever incongruities and inconsistencies there were, Papyrus was rolling with them like a champ. It was a bit of a reversal for them. He hadn't had a reset this clumsy since the first few, and those were so long ago now Sans barely gave them a moment's thought. The facts that mattered were plain: Papyrus was here and alive, Sans was here and alive, and the two of them were back in their steady cycle of bicker-tease-joke-hug-spaghetti (at least, that's what Sans assumed the grocery trip would lead to).
He could roll with this, too.
"Well, y'know what they say about people who don't have parents." Sans jokes, casually, before the much more pressing matter of a chisp-ban steals his attention. "N' c'mon, bro. What's with the chip on your shoulder?"