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
Oh you've seen him already, oh good, [ she sniffles, withdrawing her hand now to wipe at her damp cheeks. ] Gosh, I'm sorry, ignore me—
[ a small bubble of embarrassed laughter escapes her, cheeks now red in her haste. ]
Y-You were telling a story. Please continue...
no subject
[Right. The story. A (mostly) false one, about a time machine that might not exist at all anymore, interwoven with enough bad jokes to keep things light and distract from the frivolity. It felt almost ridiculous, to tell it now, in the face of his own decidedly not frivolous displacement in time.
Sans cracks a smile that cants a little more sideways than usual, chest falling with a facsimile of a sigh as he stands.]
Y'know what? I'm hungry. How 'bout I buy you lunch.
[He flips the quarter she'd put into his cup into the air, catching it breezily.]
Came into a little money recently.
no subject
[ she seems mildly disappointed, actually (she hadn't been lying when she said she loved stories), but his offer to continue the interaction (indeed, to add food to it, another one of her many loves) has her perking back up in no time. ]
Lunch would be lovely.
[ she gets back up to her feet, hands flying down to absently dust some snow off of her jeans. she seems to hesitate a moment before finally leaning down slightly, just so she can whisper into his "ear." ]
You know... I really like your disguise.
[ she thinks it's awfully charming okay... ]
no subject
He jumps a little at her proximity, chuckling reflexively.]
What, this old rag? [He shrugs, lazily impersonating a curtsey.] Just threw it on. When in Rome, right?
[Or in Woodhurst, in this case.]
I... uh, y'know, I don't really remember. We always use these? [He asks, shooting for casual as they began walking down the street. Sans keeps his eye sockets peeled for a restaurant that still bothered opening his doors, not quite looking Olivia's way.] The cloaks, I mean. Been away so long I sorta forgot how things worked around here.
no subject
No... This would be the first time, as far as I know.
[ there is an airy, almost idle tone to her words. as if her thoughts are actually elsewhere.
after a moment, she asks: ]
What else have you forgotten, Sans?
[ she recalls it now, now that her emotions have settled enough for his words to fully register. unlike sans, she has not made use of the cloaking device given to them by alastair. and despite her era-appropriate clothing, and the fact that most of her pale pink hair has been stuffed under a knitted cap, she should still look just as she had before.
and yet he still asked her her name. ]
no subject
Whether he was the Sans who'd known her for months or minutes, something told him that Olivia wouldn't retain that removal for long.]
Heh, well, if I remembered what I'd forgotten enough to give you a list, there wouldn't be a list at all. [He shrugs again, hands still shoved in his pockets.] Maybe you could refresh my memory. I'm sure it's all rattling around in my skull somewhere.
no subject
If you do not remember your past here, then say so, [ she says, with words that might have been accusatory if not for the gentleness, the reservation in her tone. ]
Would it not only hurt more to dwell on something we can no longer reach?
no subject
It wasn't exactly a pleasant feeling. He was used to dodging those kinds of hits.]
... Welp. [He says, finally, after a lengthy pause. His shoulders seemed to slump, though less from saddness and more out of an odd, meloncholy relief.] Guess the jig's up.
[He grins up at her, equal parts sheepish and... tired, in a way he wasn't before.]
Saw right through me, huh?
no subject
...and in a way, it hurts a little more. who would have thought loss could get any lonelier? ]
Only because I knew where to look.
[ still, she finds the strength to smile about it. even if it is small, and bittersweet, the curve of her lips is genuine. with the loss of a first chance, comes the opportunity for a second. right?
she holds her hand towards him. ]
It's nice to meet you again, Sans.
why are you cruel to me
Right back atcha, 'Liv.
[He doesn't shake her hand so much as squeeze it, before let his own fall away again.]
Could you... do me a favor? I'd say for old time's sake, but... heh.
bc i know somewhere down the line you will be cruel to me
What is it?
[ she doesn't outright agree, but she asks in such a way that she may as well have. ]
i can only hope i pay this back...
[There's no way to say it that doesn't sound shady. All the affable shrugs in the world couldn't take the sting off what he was about to ask. Hopefully he read her right.]
Could you keep this between us?
i know you will 8'|
she doesn't know why, but she trusts he isn't making this decision very lightly. if anything, the slight downturn of his head and his voice is enough to show her he's likely spent too long thinking this over... and so she will just have to trust that he knows what he's doing.
besides... it isn't really her secret to tell anyway, is it?
and so she offers him a kind smile. reassuring in its understanding. ]
If that's what you want, Sans... Then I promise.
[ she holds her hand out towards him again, but this time only one digit is extended.
let's pinkie promise on it. ]
no subject
Either way, he holds out a digit. When it interlocks with hers, she'll feel nothing but the bumpy ridges of bone.]
Thanks.
[And wouldn't you know it, he's sincere.]