Yeesh. He knows well enough to not get on her bad side, but he goes ahead and reaffirms the idea to himself, just to be safe. Keep outta her way if she ever gets on the warpath. She might be just as likely to damage a fragile thing like him in the crossfire as she is to actually land a decent hit on her target.

"Yeah, I know what'cha mean," says Sans, shrugging indolently. "Had no clue what kinda stuff I should be keepin' an eyesocket out for until it landed on my lap. Figuratively, anyway."

As if he could be so lucky. His luck, if he was even born with any, ran dry a long, long time ago. He don't even know where the damn thing meant to collate all this old paperwork is meant to have ended up. Did the gods just see fit to shower the city with pages like the most ill-timed confetti? Where's the old man's binder?