I see. Calm acceptance, even if there might be somethin' unbridled and uncontained shiverin' just beneath that surface ataraxy, tremblin' like an egg yolk. Doc's ironclad, always has been. Unreadable. Makes himself that way special, and maybe Sans just learned from the master, so to speak, how to make your mask damn near impenetrabel.

"'Cause I know your type," he says easily, and it's true. He knows his type all right. Sometimes it comes in the form of a tall and spindly scientist with intentions sheathed in gold, a pair of spectacles perched on the hollow bridge of his nasal cavity and an idea big enough to rattle the entirety of the Underground, the world. Sometimes it comes in the form of a kid with a knife that hurts to look at, a slice of glarin' red, who drives at the end of all things like it's the most important thing in their life.

Some people are just determined to see things unfold. See the unspooling of things, the unraveling and reraveling of plans.

"'Cause sometimes when things get burned outta space and time," says Sans, "there's collateral damage, and some stuff. Heh. Well, some stuff sticks."

Some of it sticks so hard and so deep to your bones, the hollow pits of your sockets, the interior of your skull, that you can't ever claw it out, no matter how you try.

And he kinda gave up on tryin' a long, long while ago.

Don't change the fact that there are echoes. Doors that ain't supposed to be there, slivers of gray the corners of his vision. Flickers of something black and white and gaping and impossible. And he knows it ain't real. He knows it ain't, 'cause reality wouldn't be so kind as to give him that kinda variation.

But, hey. Like he said.

Some stuff sticks.