"Yeah," says Sans, with a dip of his skull in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I feel that."

The hand thing and the concern thing both. Papyrus - god, Papyrus might not have the astronomical levels intricacies to his attacks that Sans does, might not need to calculate the patterns and layouts and formations as down to the centimeter, but he's still made of magic. Still likely to - shit, he doesn't even wanna imagine what might be going on with him. He's gotta find him. Him and -

God, and if Frisk is going through even a fraction of what Chara is -

Sans sways slightly as he tries to maintain his altogether fairly meager balance. Wondering maybe he can make it at any reasonable kind of pace simply by supporting himself on walls, assuming he doesn't start blastin' through them with the force of a unilateral stream of bright energy.

That's when he feels it again.

A discombobulating lurch in the general region of his gut, and a flaring of ultramarine as his socket blazes with an unearthly light that sears his socket like a nail through the skull.

"Oh shi - "

That's about as far as he gets before he snaps himself out.

He don't much care where he ends up.

Sorry, kiddo. But he'd rather not chance getting a lucky shot in, if that's all right with you.