and i'm telling myself that i'm going to hell [open]

[skelebro]

Who: Sans and YOU, yes YOU
What: Confusion arrives! Sans's powers go haywire! Fun for the whole fam!
Where: Literally anywhere. LITERALLY, ANYWHERE.
When: The duration of the Dazed and Confused event, September 24th - October 2nd
Warnings: Since this is Sans, I'll say warnings for depressive apathy and mild suicide ideation are pretty much a given. Will add more if necessary! ETA: additional warnings for PTSD, flashbacking, and bodily trauma.



no magic; another small reminder from the daily grinder

He knows something's up the second he wakes up. Mostly 'cause he hasn't felt like this in - god, in years, probably? Maybe relative to everything. Maybe...

His thoughts fractal, torque in on themselves, and shatter for no reasons he can really discern for himself. But that's fine. He...he can't really move, really. The heaviness has seeped into his bones, all the way to the marrow, as if his body simply picked up on the way things were and prematurely abandoned him to the merciless press of gravity, just to be a dick.

Much as he'd love to be dragged into the molten core of the planet, or whatever passes for it here, he knows that he - shouldn't. He shouldn't and he can't and it weighs on him so. Incredibly. His eyesockets shutter. Stay awake. Stay awake.

He can't.

He can't move.

He -

It's not just sleepiness, drowsiness, the familiar things he understands and knows. Sleepin' because there's not much else for him. Sleepin' because he needs something, anything as a buffer between himself and death, that 1 HP doin' him no special favors. Sleepin' because not being conscious for the slow, inexorable destruction of the world is about all he can ask for, the only reprieve he has.

It's the fragile flutterings of his SOUL in his ribcage, stripped of everything that gives it any of its minimal drive. It's the sheer impossibility of moving, kicking his coccyx into gear, that has him rooted to the spot. If he had breath it'd be hitching. If he had a heartbeat it'd be stuttering. But he don't have either of those things. All he can do is screw his sockets shut and count backwards from ten thousand by intervals of seventeen, perform all those little tricks and things that he did to keep his mind off it. Off the very worst of it.

That's when everything shifts.

He's snapped out of his bed and slides laterally onto - somewhere, he don't know. Outside, maybe. Space bends and distorts and takes him out of it. He sure as hell knows he didn't mean to skip through antispace like that but, hey, seems like it's just a day for this kinda thing. Why not go the whole hog, right? All he knows is the floor beneath him is rock and he tries to push himself upright, tries to flex his hands with the cold press of phalanges to stone and lever himself to his feet, but the most he can do is twitch a finger here and there, his smile frozen in trembling, panicked irresolution. He can feel every part of him practically vibrating, oscillations of muscle that don't exist, as the magic of his body strains, strains to hold itself together, so much that there is no room for anything else, much less movement.

The world bleeds out into grayness in a pulsing tide of strange colors and then sepia-toned emptiness as he tries again and again to focus on the stone beneath his hands.

Then his SOUL jerks and he manages a strangled, startled sound before he's wrenched along the metaphysical pipeline of another shortcut, and he ends up someplace else. Maybe on top of someone. Maybe in someone else's house.

He's a bit too out of it to rightly tell just now.

TOO MUCH MAGIC; i feel like an atom bomb, blowing me out of my mind

It comes and goes in waves, it turns out. He feels about as close to Falling Down as one can actually get without actually succumbing to it, and then he feels normal. Except, nah, he doesn't really feel normal. Because it turns out he don't have to put any conscious thought to the way things are before they start to shift.

His left socket burns like someone drove a red-hot railroad spike into it, the blue-and-amber flaring trailing from it in irregular surges of scintillating magic. It don't seem to matter where he is, who he's with, or what he keeps trying to do, trying to quell his magic, puttin' actual real effort into it for maybe the first time since he got that whole mess of it dumped on him, but nothin' seems to be doin' what it's supposed to today. All right.

The world turns upside down. Not literally, mind, but kinda in the sense that gravity gets a bit funny and turned over, and suddenly he's on the ceiling and so is everything and everyone else. And then, oh boy, looks like he's over on the left wall now, pinned to a building.

Every time he focuses on someone to warn 'em away, it seems like, he just ends up turnin' things even more wrong - ain't that just how it is with him? But, heh, yeah, there's a bright, nearly inaudible ping of magic curling 'round their SOULs and then he turns 'em blue, completely without input from the one who's ostensibly meant to be in control of his own magic, and that's when they go sailing. Into walls, ceilings, driven into floors. And, just 'cause apparently his magic is feelin' inventive today, a host of bones spring up from the ground, soaked to the marrow in pink, poisonous KARMA, intermingled with a couple blue attacks, just for kicks.

He'd apologize, but he's havin' a lotta trouble keepin' everything together right now. He's mostly just got one hand clamped over his eyesocket as he tries to make the damn thing stop sparkin' off and switchin' up everyone's personal gravity, to no avail.

But goddamn, this is why he voted for Tranquility.

gaster blaster disaster; can't take it anymore, tearing me from the inside

He ends up slumped against a wall, tryin' to keep himself upright between the tiding floods of too much magic and not enough, and that's when it looms into being just over his head. A massive canid skull, its eyes bright with a blistering hum of magic. It opens its maw, and it's all he can do to frantically direct the bright pillar of searing energy upwards instead of horizontally, where it might damage the ceiling some or break some detritus off the roofs but it won't completely disintegrate the integrity of most of the buildings via application of unintentional, crackling, surging, shearing, white-hot thermal energy and bolts of magic.

More of them start to roar into existence with low, charging hums. And now it's a fun game of pick-up sticks for Sans to play, desperately tryin' to redirect the things so they do as little damage as possible. Only it's real tough, it turns out, 'cause they ain't supposed to be moved once they're set down. Sweat pours off his skull in sheets. He ends up on his knees, on all fours, just - just tryin' to stay ahead of 'em. Tryin' to keep the things from tearing the damned place apart.

Some people call 'em grotesques. Some might call 'em skulls, plain and simple. He just calls 'em blasters. It's what they are, and it's all he can do to keep the things from burning out whatever unfortunate soul passes by, sending 'em plummeting on a high-velocity, ionized slide of electromagnetic agony, where warring heat and energy meets flesh in a ragged, painful smear.

wildcard; hit me with whatever my dudes, i'm ripped

I'll match whatever format! Feel free to contact me at arcaneswearwords on AIM or arrpee to hash out details if that's your poison!

Comments

[somuchlove]

They are all dangerous. But are they going to go on the network and explain it all? No, probably not. It's easier to not explain. It's different than not trying, but it's still something that none of them will do.

Because you don't have to. So you won't.

"You had no way of knowing it would just be more than myself to arrive."

They're trying not to play the self-blame game. But perhaps they know that logic won't exactly get them through this. Chara wants to be honest but they still have trouble not talking in circles. Well...it was a start, they guess.

[skelebro]

"Hell, kid, y'know the saying about assumptions." Makin' an ass of himself, of "u" and of "me," and he'd done so willingly and with barely an ounce of hesitation. Bein' proactive for once in his goddamn life, and this is what he gets for it. Regrets and regrets and regrets.

Is that really so surprising? Not really, no. Not given his track record.

"But yeah, guess not. Not a lotta choices left to draw from where we came, the way the world was." He closes his sockets again. Funny how he can do that. Don't feel the need to look at 'em at all times, keep that itchin' away from the forefront of his skull. Maybe it's 'cause he's given 'em ample opportunities to cleave him to ribbons again and they just never have.

"Still. Assumptions." He laughs, empty and toneless. "Those're bad science, no matter how you slice it."

[somuchlove]

They'll probably never be honest about it but there is that temptation to do just that. To see if 20 really is a cap. To see that if they could get EXP from him.

But it would all amount to nothing, in the end. Or was it just that easy to logic away those thoughts? No, that was going down a slippery slope.

"Science can be adding things together and making mistakes." Chara really isn't an expert in that subject and it shows. It was much more than that, but they never passed baking soda volcanoes. Never would. "The reaction may be volatile but you do learn."

Take it from them. Chara had done so many things in the Underground alongside their partner. Saved this, killed that. They were beginning to blur with Flowey's narrative. Dove into 'Kill or be killed' headfirst. But that's what it came down to: A test for an ending.

[skelebro]

Logically speaking, yeah, allegedly they shouldn't be able to go past that proverbial edge. That's just the rules of the values. They skyrocket up to a certain point, and 20 is the roof. The highest the universe allows 'em to go. But, heh, he's been pretty straightforward about the fact that they don't play in that world anymore, do they? His KARMA can give off a hell of a kickback, and it certainly sucker-punched enough of the poor bastards who came into contact with stray bones or any of his randomly firin' blasters. Some of 'em, he's pretty sure, landed way the hell past the limit of 20, if he's calculatin' things proportional to how much the KARMA saps from 'em with each brush with his attacks - or they would've, if that were a thing they used to measure one's sins.

He's learnin' things are a bit unique to the Underground in that fashion. But monsters have their ways to calculatin' this kinda thing. It's kinda requisite when the entirety of your existence hinges upon not being eliminated by whatever sucker comes along with a hefty tree branch and a SOUL full of a real bonafide killing intent.

"Yeah," he says with a low laugh, not highly amused and not real happy. "But that's the key word, ain't it? 'Learn'. What do I learn about you?"

He ticks 'em off on his phalanges, one by one.

"First thing I learn is that you're an anomaly. Metaspatiotemporal. Roughly speakin', this means you do your own thing, more or less isolated from the rest of the world in terms of what you do and how you can affect things. You and Frisk both, I'm guessin'. A kind of gestalt." He makes a dismissive waving gesture with one hand. The specifics aren't real important here. "Next thing I learn? You're human. The both of ya, presumably. I don't realize you're more'n one person for a while yet, see. Third thing I learn, you're chock-full of DT, more than anything else we've ever seen."

Is he bein' revisionist here? 'Course he is. Ain't one to give up his secrets that quick, is he?

"Fourth thing? Well, fourth thing I learn is that your values can change." The lights in sockets shrink a bit as they fade. Don't need to elaborate what he means by that, he don't think. "And that's where I stop. For a long time, a real long time, I think that's the end of it. And that ain't good science, kid. You don't set off tryin' to prove yourself right, see."

He glances at 'em sideways, the lights in his sockets still dim, but not winkin' out just yet.

"You set off tryin' to prove yourself wrong. And I don't think I ever really committed to that."

[somuchlove]

The rules of the Underground don't really apply here at all, do they? They were at the tip of the iceberg, so to speak and yet there were many here that were leagues above the one who called themselves a demon. There'd be no point in keeping up appearances if that ugly gut feeling did't happen when they thought of themselves as human. Not out of any sense of superiority, just...

Well, they needn't get into that.

Chara stares into Sans' eyesockets and watches the lights dim. It was fascinating, in a way, how that worked. The nature of Sans' face made him have one hell of a poker face, so you had to find the little things in his near frozen expression. A shift from where he was looking, something close to a pained expression and "Knowing that one day, without any warning. It's all going to be Reset.". Keep on smiling. Smiling in a way that Chara knew hurt the corners of their mouth after doing it for a long time.

But they know how it is. Smile and ask to see the flowers one last time. Smile, all the way until "So...guess that's it, hun?" Because there was nothing else left for them.

They listen to his lesson on them and Frisk. Chara doesn't need to question what he means by changing values. They knew them well, even if that event hadn't forced them to vomit them up while tossing them to and fro. Everything changes depending on what they and their partner did. And it wasn't like it was something they could shrug off. Responsibility aside, they said it before that it wasn't a magical fix-all button. The proof of that was right before them, had been sleeping on the couch this whole time.

"So." Chara finally begins. "You set out to prove yourself wrong. But what did you wish to be wrong about? Science, as I understood it, always has a goal. What do you want, Sans?"

What is he looking for?

[skelebro]

Well, that's the thing, see. He don't know anymore. Not sure he ever did. He looked at the kid, saw no further than the danger they presented. The potential for somethin' real dangerous, real calamitous and terrible. And he was content to accept them as that and nothin' more. Both of 'em.

"For a long time, I saw you - saw Frisk - and I saw nothin' but a danger," he says at last. He looks at 'em square. They've earned that from him. Maybe his smile is permanent as always, frozen at is on his face in that perpetual upward arch. His sockets are tired, the rings beneath them darker, the skewed light throwin' those slight hollows into sharp relief. How a skeleton can have bags beneath his eyes is anyone's guess, but it's probably magic.

"I saw nothin' but a danger 'cause that's precisely what I was lookin' for." He laughs again. "Hilarious, right? 'Course I was gonna see that. Everything I saw proved exactly what I was lookin' to see."

I guess I'm scared of you, he'd admitted to Frisk, right to their face. Scared of them, of a kid. Any wonder they walked outta there feelin' like they didn't deserve a damn thing from him or anyone else? Any wonder Chara exited Snowdin callin' themselves demon - 'course they would. He might've been the one that ground the idea into their head in the first place. Keep pretendin' to be human, kiddo, he'd said in that jovial way of his, that implicit threat he dressed up nice and friendly 'cause there weren't any call to take things to that extreme just yet.

"What do I want?" he repeats softly. "I dunno just yet. Not sure I do anymore. But I do one thing that's new. One very vital thing I didn't stop to consider. And it's so damned obvious you should laugh at me for sayin' it."

'Cause he can have as much foresight as possible, can predict things and watch the shiftin' values from here 'til judgment day (heh), but the abstract don't mean a thing if you can't look down on the immediate and gauge that right proper too.

"You're just a kid. Both of ya. You're just kids."

[somuchlove]

It is a very obvious thing but Chara doesn't laugh at him for it. Perhaps they would have when they first arrived. When they were someone who would strike at someone in their most vulnerable. The 20 tacked neatly beside their names showed they were still that same person but moving on. It...LOVE was useful. It stopped things from hurting, from tearing into your SOUL because you already lashed out at it first. It can't get you if you get it first. It can't -

They blink. Breathe. Resume.

It wasn't like Chara had been any better with how they treated Sans. Constant reminders of his failures, his brother's death and that since he was gone so was the rest of the world. * You make a joke about a skeleton sleeping in the snow.

Only it's not that funny anymore. The joke had become stale from the get-go and only stagnated from there. That's not even getting into how they saw Sans himself. Harking back to a battle that was messy and so damn old in the end. Power. They saw the monster that stood at the end of a hallway that cut them down time and time again.

They'd forgotten the monster who gave them good food and bad jokes. They forgot the monster who greeted them with a whoopie cushion. They forgot "Someone who, in another time, might have even been a friend?". Chara pushed away all that in an effort to go and walk a path that would give them the power to ERASE. And indeed, that wasn't all there was to Sans - this whole conversation proved it - but it never needed to be this way in the first place.

* You feel regret coursing through your veins.
* Look at what you have done.

Chara speaks softer than usual when they ask, "And now? Now that you have added the fact that we are children, what do you see?"

They won't fight him if they are called human throughout this conversation. Even if it twisted in their guts like a cup full of spiders, they would stay. This time, Chara had to know and answer. They owed him that much.

[skelebro]

What's he see? Well. Ain't that a real pertinent question.

He sees a kid who's called themselves a whole mess of things. Demon. Ghost. Murderer. Anything but something as straightforward and earnest as human or kid. And the more they put off a thing like that, the more he thinks that maybe they ain't all that. Nah, see, he don't think people like that just spring fully-formed from the ether.

So what happens, huh? Why's a kid end up callin' themselves that? Well, maybe 'cause a skeleton nudges them along that path with a wink and a proverbial elbow in the ribs. Maybe 'cause someone tells 'em that their SOUL is the only thing of actual worth to 'em. Maybe 'cause there's all sorts of stories surroundin' the legend behind Mt. Ebott, and the awful monsters trapped down there, ready to snap errant human children up in their horrible jaws.

"You said you'd rather not have me as your executioner," he says heavily, 'cause this is who he is and what he does, he takes everything they've said and everything they've done and holds it in him until the opportune moment when he flings it back in their face. "You said you'd rather have me as a friend. Seems kinda strange, I know. But, uh."

His shoulders shake briefly in a soundless chuckle, laden with a sardonic irony he hates himself for feeling, 'cause hell if either of them are the right people to have this kinda conversation. This kinda thing requires effort. It requires work. It requires honesty. None of those are particularly real high in Sans's personal wheelhouse.

"I see someone who must've had a lotta reasons to do what they did. Maybe not so good ones, yeah. But maybe some good ones too. Maybe somethin' that made them feel like they had to - not simply because they could."

It's like he's kept sayin', huh? Kids and boxes of matches don't come along very well.

[somuchlove]

Or maybe it was just simply asking why a child went up Mt. Ebott in the first place. But it's useless to ask it now.

It was a heavy question to ask. What did you see about the kid who murdered your family and friends? What do you see about the child who tore the world apart to get their hands on a power that they shouldn't have? Resets removed the ability to be uncountable in exchange for being able to do what they wanted.

This really isn't a conversation they could keep up for long, was it? A card game where each player had to play with their hands revealed was an honesty that Chara rarely indulged with anyone besides their partner. They could shake it up, right here and now, if they somehow worked up the courage to introduce themselves as "Chara Dreemurr" to anyone besides a mirror. A last name that they never felt deserving to use. They could use it. "Greetings. I am Chara Dreemurr."

They don't. Instead Chara allows the skeleton's words wash over them. It's a lot less harsher than they were expecting. Which...is good. This was a good feeling, wasn't it?

"An executioner is useless here." They don't say it to invalidate what he did back then, just a reminder that Chara did mean it. "A friend is more fun. But I see someone who is tired as well. Perhaps it may be best to put that science project on hold for now."

[skelebro]

Well, they're right about that at least. Executioner is just kind of an extraneous deal given the fact that pretty much everything else here is tryin' to kill ya, when it's not people goin' off on ya 'cause their powers decide to flip their shit spontaneously.

"Oh yeah," Sans says with a low, weary chuckle. "Real bone tired, me. But I guess that ain't so surprisin'. Still, 's nice of ya to let me crash here for a little while."

Gently pressing that back into their mind. 'Cause he's got little doubt that if Chara didn't want him here, Frisk wouldn't have had him stayin' for any prolonged amount of time. The two are kinda in sync in that way, he imagines. They look out for each other.

At least there's that. God knows someone's gotta look out for 'em.

[somuchlove]

Someone needs to. The only case of "Because you can, you have to" that didn't really sting. They were partners, plain and simple. In their case...privately, love that Chara gained would go to Frisk. That's all.

Putting something gentle into their minds was a little easier and it wouldn't be a surprise if Sans did see the text where Chara agreed that the skeleton could stay. If one was uncomfortable then the other would oblige in turn. Chara knows it and there's little point in arguing about it, even a token effort. So they change it up.

"I could not ask for a better drawing board." They say with a smile.

1/2

[skelebro]

Drawing...












...board.

[skelebro]

Sans doesn't reach up to feel the contours of his skull, 'cause he knows that he's not gonna feel anything different. But the minutiae of what they just said clicks neatly into place, a good ten seconds after they said it, and he blinks at 'em, long and slow.

He probably looks like a goddamn clown now, huh?

"Nice of you to pencil it in," he says at last, with a small huff of amusement. If the most heinous thing the kid does is doodle on his skull when the mood strikes 'em, it might not be that hard to live with 'em for the time being after all.