Some people call 'em grotesques. Some might call 'em skills, plain and simple. Sans just calls them blasters. There's another word that should go in front of that, but that's for another time and another place.
They don't even mean to come across him. They just round a corner, only to come face to face with something large, with pits for eyes and a gaping maw that grows brighter within split fractions of a second, a humming vibration of magic that goes off like a cannon, so very, very loud.
And Frisk would like to say, they're excellent at dodging. It would be better for everyone involved if that was why the child dropped to the ground, pieces of flyaway hair sizzling as the top of their head heats up with the ominous threat of a near miss.
Except- that's not what happened.
Frisk still drops, and the blast still misses; by a hair's breath, by literal inches from the top of their skull, but their fixation and their breath is held elsewhere. Stuck on the hands clutched over their stomach, and the fizzling blue spear lodged in it. It's readily apparent when they buckle that it has managed to push all the way through to the other side.
A crackle of a different kind, and it's like it never happened. A helping of air sucked in through wheezing lungs, and Frisk's staggering upright again, pupils dilated and skin slightly more waxen than usual, but, hey.
They haven't even died once, right?
Apparently he's scared of them. Another blaster goes off, this one aimed elsewhere, and the resounding sound is enough to pull a flinch from them, a half step back before they take two forward.
cw serious injury TONIGHT WE DINE IN HELL
They don't even mean to come across him. They just round a corner, only to come face to face with something large, with pits for eyes and a gaping maw that grows brighter within split fractions of a second, a humming vibration of magic that goes off like a cannon, so very, very loud.
And Frisk would like to say, they're excellent at dodging. It would be better for everyone involved if that was why the child dropped to the ground, pieces of flyaway hair sizzling as the top of their head heats up with the ominous threat of a near miss.
Except- that's not what happened.
Frisk still drops, and the blast still misses; by a hair's breath, by literal inches from the top of their skull, but their fixation and their breath is held elsewhere. Stuck on the hands clutched over their stomach, and the fizzling blue spear lodged in it. It's readily apparent when they buckle that it has managed to push all the way through to the other side.
A crackle of a different kind, and it's like it never happened. A helping of air sucked in through wheezing lungs, and Frisk's staggering upright again, pupils dilated and skin slightly more waxen than usual, but, hey.
They haven't even died once, right?
Apparently he's scared of them. Another blaster goes off, this one aimed elsewhere, and the resounding sound is enough to pull a flinch from them, a half step back before they take two forward.
"Sans-"
He thinks he's scared of them, at little bit.
"Are you okay?"
Isn't it a bit silly, to be scared of a child?