[For the first time. The first time a long, long time, maybe ever -
Sans gets there just in time.
Two Frisks, a kid with a Knife, and it ain't so hard to put together the shattered pieces of what's about to happen. A child streaking for another child, and one of them is little more than a bloodied smear on the ground, their skin stained purple with bruises, and of course - of course - they're just gonna stand there and take it.
It's always better for them to die. They're the one that can handle it, right?
No more, said Sans.
It ends with me, said Sans.
Might not be the best guy to end it, and he knows he ain't, but maybe no one is dying today and this time, this time he can decide and it will matter and it will stick if he decides - that it ends with him.
"Frisk" runs toward its real target, and Sans materializes just a few feet away, rank with sweat and trembling with the effort, but he don't hesitate. One hand flies out, his left eyesocket flaring with a strain of amber, just for a second, and the their SOUL goes blue as they're slammed solidly into the ground.]
No.
[The word rasps out unevenly, and he's shaking harder than is healthy for a guy like him, at the real end of his rope. But he keeps going.]
No.
[It has to be the sweat running off his skull, the fatigue sapped into his bones, the crushing pressure of exerting far too much magic over far too short a time, that causes him to snap the words out he says next:]
no subject
Sans gets there just in time.
Two Frisks, a kid with a Knife, and it ain't so hard to put together the shattered pieces of what's about to happen. A child streaking for another child, and one of them is little more than a bloodied smear on the ground, their skin stained purple with bruises, and of course - of course - they're just gonna stand there and take it.
It's always better for them to die. They're the one that can handle it, right?
No more, said Sans.
It ends with me, said Sans.
Might not be the best guy to end it, and he knows he ain't, but maybe no one is dying today and this time, this time he can decide and it will matter and it will stick if he decides - that it ends with him.
"Frisk" runs toward its real target, and Sans materializes just a few feet away, rank with sweat and trembling with the effort, but he don't hesitate. One hand flies out, his left eyesocket flaring with a strain of amber, just for a second, and the their SOUL goes blue as they're slammed solidly into the ground.]
No.
[The word rasps out unevenly, and he's shaking harder than is healthy for a guy like him, at the real end of his rope. But he keeps going.]
No.
[It has to be the sweat running off his skull, the fatigue sapped into his bones, the crushing pressure of exerting far too much magic over far too short a time, that causes him to snap the words out he says next:]
You get the hell away from my kid.
You get away from both of 'em. Y'hear me?