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.
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