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
Plus one pizza of course. Maya will find her hand suspiciously light. He takes a bite.]
That's what I'm sayin', kiddo. Hate to break it to you, but the ones going crazy are mostly humans. [Another bite, speaking as he chews.] I'm not in that club.
1/2
W-What the heck?! How did you---?!
[PIZZA MAGIC?!]
no subject
[Maya squints..... she's not quite convinced. But she has a plan to find out the truth, once and for all] Okay, if you're reaaaaaaaly not a zombie, then you can resist this, right?
[She rolls down her sleeve and sticks out one of her noodle arms enticingly!!!!]
[This is a terrible plan, Maya]
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Instead, he holds back, though his voice is buzzing with held back laughter.]
I think you're a little too young for me, sweetheart.
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[She's talking about her flesh, Sans, don't make it weird?]
[Waves it around]
Nothing? No urge to nibble or anything?!
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[A beat.]
Y'know, no offense.
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Theeen... you don't mind if I try a piece, do you? Just to be sure.
[this is never gonna work, Maya]
None taken! I'd be delicious, but my flavour is way too powerful for any zombies to chow on.
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The pizza wealthy, anyway.]
Chow down, kid. I'd offer you the floor slice, but I think that belongs to the ground now.
[He's amused more than anything, carefully taking a seat -- y'know, just in case the inquisition was back on without him realizing.]
So... everyone get the third degree or am I special?
no subject
[She takes a seat nearby and examines the pizza for about two seconds before taking a slice. Flesh free after all...?]
Well, things have been pretty nuts with the virus.... plus, I thought you might have had all your flesh chewed off before you got infected..... I mean... are you really just a skeleton guy hanging out eating pizza? [No Zelda fights to the death or anything???]
no subject
I can respect that. Logic's a strong suit of yours, ain't it? [He's not being sarcastic in the least, either, for all it may look like it. Sarcasm's for losers.] N' yep. That's me. Skeleton of this particular roller rink. I haunt the halls, rattling my skates n' bones at passers by.
It's a living.
no subject
[Stuffs pizza into her face to illustrate the opposite of this point]
[With her mouth full:]
Literally? Don't tell me.... you died in a tragic rollerskating accident, and you were just haunting would-be skaters until they learned the risks of the rink..... until ALASTAIR pulled you into this outfit?
no subject
That might even be true, to a degree.]
Well, I'll be straight with you, kid. [He confesses, with a deft impression of a sigh.] I didn't die in this roller rink.
[Beat, chew.]
It was a different one, a few towns over. Didn't lace my skates up tight. Ties got tangled in the wheels on a freshly waxed rink... right as a roller derby team started their drills.
[More chewing, this time with the hundred yard stare of a man who'd seen the other side of death.]
But. [And, back to that easy cheer.] Could be worse. Pretty nice of ALASTAIR to send me somewhere so much like home on my first assignment.
no subject
[She frowns, a little concerned, allowing a moment of silence for poor Sans Skatington]
I dunno, this isn't a great place to haunt right now. There are zombies! I guess they might not bother you, but they're kinda encroaching your territory, doncha think?
no subject
[He takes another bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully.]
...To tell ya the truth, I could use a little decent PR. Got any experience?
no subject
[how is he even eating it, actually...] And you can't turn invisible and go through walls.... can you? [Was that was he was doing with the teleporting? Some kinda of ghost skeleton magic??]
Weell....... technically no, but I am a coach. [no she's not] You wanna hire me to turn things around for you?!
[How did this thread get to this point]
no subject
[He takes a long, impossible drink of soda. The front of his shirt goes slightly damp, but that's neither here nor there.]
What're your rates?
no subject
Weeeeelll.... [Money basically means nothing since these missions are temporarily] I think we can work something out with delicious meals of my choice. But you'll have to talk to my agent.
no subject
I don't mind dealin' in burg, either, but who's this agent?
no subject
[Just saying.]
My agent? He's pretty cool! He's a part time dishwasher, part time legbot, part-time singer, and full-time agent! His name is Mettaton. And he's got a mettaTON of talents, too. Plus, he's really tall.
[Or he is to Maya, but she and Sans are two tiny peas in a pod in that regard...]
no subject
[Which, of course, makes what she says next all the more ironic.
Sans takes a beat.]
... He tell you that mettaTON gag or did you come up with it yourself?
[He's laughing, of course, but if the robot's stealing his gags a self-respecting comedian's gotta know when to lay down the law.]
Either way, you're in luck. [He gestures to himself with lazy flourish.] I know the guy.
no subject
[Anyway, he's clearly a bad influence, because she looks pretty pleased with herself when he laughs] Hey, that's all me! Hilarious jokes are another one of my services.
[But that's unexpected!!! What are a robot and a skeleton doing hanging out together? Maybe they're rivals? Magic vs. technology and all]
Wow, really? How do you guys know each other?
no subject
Let's say I did a little work for him a while back.
[If you call the bizarre comedic(?) display work. Sans preferred to avoid the concept whenever he could.]
I know how to grease the guy's gears, if you get what I'm saying.
no subject
[That doesn't surprise her, he seems to be everywhere. Oh, well, all the better for networking]
I have no idea what you're saying! [She admits that very proudly, it's terrible] Are you going to pour oil all over him to soften him up?
no subject
[He extends a bony hand, ready to shake on it.]
We got a deal to make a deal sometime in the future, kid?
[Not his most elegant of arrangements, but eh. It'll do.]
no subject
[Shaking hands with a skeleton is pretty weird, but for the sake of showbiz, she'll do it]
[Don't whoopiecushion her, Sans. Or.. do...]
Maybe! But it's nice to meet you, Mr. Skeleton.
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