[The voice that comes out of him is all...wrong. He ain't sure how to pin it down, or what to call it, but it's like nails scratching over bone, rasping across keratin with a high-pitched shrilling of two surfaces apposed. It don't sound right, and it don't sit in his ossicles very well at all.
Seems like the old "smile as though nothing is wrong" tactic is a real Dreemurr-esque trait, huh? 'Cause this kid is chirping and laughing as he bites out the words, and all Sans can do as he processes it, quietly, the warping wrongness of the pair of eyes boring into him, is stand there.
And take it.]
That ain't what anybody's saying, kid. But, uh. [That'd be his cue to chuckle, disarmingly, but he's too bone tired and he just can't quite manage it.] I don't really care.
no subject
Seems like the old "smile as though nothing is wrong" tactic is a real Dreemurr-esque trait, huh? 'Cause this kid is chirping and laughing as he bites out the words, and all Sans can do as he processes it, quietly, the warping wrongness of the pair of eyes boring into him, is stand there.
And take it.]
That ain't what anybody's saying, kid. But, uh. [That'd be his cue to chuckle, disarmingly, but he's too bone tired and he just can't quite manage it.] I don't really care.
Where's the real you?