hadriel_logs | you know my name [open]

Entry tags:

you know my name [open]

Who: Sans, Sans's double, and Y O U
What: Doubles. It gets bad. Responses from Sans's double will come from

fibia.
Where: All over Hadriel
When: 1/16 - 1/25
Warnings: Things are gonna get messy. Since it's Sans, basic warnings for depressive mindset and self-hatred ratcheted up to 11. In the case of his double, threads may involve heavy manipulation, physchological abuse and cruelty, and of course your typical fare of potentials for violence and gore. Proceed with caution!

1/16 - 1/18; just the big time fucko; arm yourself because no one else here will SAVE you

[The crack and pop of flexing knuckles, and his skull rolls on his cervical vertebrae with a series of satisfying popping of air sacs. His phalanges pull in and out again, clenching into loose fists and then - back out. His smile is a fixed rictus, just the same as the monster from which his mold has been cast. The lights buried in his eyesockets glint coolly as he takes it all in - the rock of the walls and ceiling, the light of hte lamps, the staleness of the air.

He rolls his shoulders smoothly.

Tangibility. Weight. Resonance. What a beautiful fucking thing.

For a time, anyway.

He ambles about the city for a time. There's no visible difference between him and the Sans you might know. He smiles, he nods, he's pleasant. He stops to peruse the shops, and passes by the garage full of mopeds. There's no real obvious changes to any one thing as he passes, and he sure don't stop and loiter about long enough for him to have done anything but - you might notice a few changes. Maybe the bolts and bits of your moped are a mite loose, and kicking it to life will cause it to fall apart on the spot. Maybe that can of food you just picked up from one of the shops has had holes pocked through the bottom, causing its contents to leak out all over the shelves. Maybe a few cobblestones have been loosened to trip you up in the streets, or a shelf in a shop is rigged to topple the instant you pick an item off of it.

But it's probably nothing, right? Just a...coincidence.

Sans is a nice guy. He wouldn't put people in harm's way like that.

Right?]

1/19 - 1/21; FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT; you can't deny the prize, it may never fulfill you

His time here is limited. That much is pretty damn clear. In only a few days, he'll cease to have ever happened; a footnote in somebody else's story. And, heh, while the regular ol' Sans might be content with that, this Sans certainly ain't. He'll live forever, one way or another. He'll preserve his legacy.

It's just a way of making sure that people know what good old Sans is really capable of. The monster in question is doin' a real good job of avoiding himself. Afraid of what he'd find, most likely. Or maybe he knows that he wouldn't be able to stand to look at himself for longer than five seconds. Always hates what he sees in a mirror, that Sans. Too many flaws and not enough motivation to a damn thing about 'em.

So the next step, obviously, would be to lure the guy outta hiding.

He waits in a secluded corner of the city and waits for someone to pass by. Anybody, really, he ain't picky. Just take it one at a time, that's all he asks. And should someone be coming his way all alone, he'll tip his skull in greeting, smile patiently, talk 'em through their concerns that he might be the evil clone. It's doubtful that'll work, but that's just fine.

He's not looking for conversation.

[ooc: Sans's Double will be raring for a fight with this prompt. As his cast has dibs on actually killing him, I ask that you only pick this prompt if you're eager for your character to get Dunked. Though since this Sans has a good deal more than 1 HP, you're free to land a few hits.]

1/22; double trouble; the odds will betray you and i will replace you

By the time the real Sans drags himself outta his miserable little hole to check up on the stirrer of the chaos, the causer of the ruckus, the inciter of scurries, it's already approaching the End. That's all right, though. It's excusable. He's lazy. It's one of the defining points of a Sans.

He kicks a pebble across the ground with the toe of a slippershod foot and watches it clatter over the rock, his smile nothing short of utterly neutral.

"So this is me." For the first time, he appraises his double with an upraised supraorbital ridge. "A LOVE-hungry killer bent on destruction."

"You don't sound surprised." The words rumble in his doppelganger's lack of a throat, and his grin approximates a sneer.

"Why should I be?" A weary lift of Sans's shoulders, and he chuckles. "Always figured that's why a guy like me doesn't have it in him to give a damn. Why a guy like me takes it easy."

"You always take it easy." The admonishment should be laden with disgust, but it emerges lightly, like dispensing criticism upon an amateur writer for using too many semicolons.

"Yeah." The pair of skeletons eye each other warily. Sans smiles. And he smiles. "But it was always my choice to. Shit choice, sure, but at least it wasn't 'cause I couldn't."

His clone doesn't reply. There's the faintest stir of a spark in his gaze, a glint of something akin to a cold fury, but it dissipates in the same moment it forms. There's all matter of LOVE caked about his SOUL. He don't have to think about something like that. He's above that. But Sans reads it well enough, and they both know it.

He could judge him, but it'd just be redundant.

"LV 19," says Sans, the real Sans, heavily. "You've been busy."

"So you know what comes next," says the other. The words are conversational, almost companionable, as easily as if they might be discussing the weather. It is, after all - a beautiful day outside. There's no birds about, and certainly no flowers, but both of 'em know that, statistically, there's bound to be birdsong trilling out there somewhere, a few petals opening themselves to a sun's warming rays. There's bound to be a world where a Sans grins beside a Frisk who's surrounded by their friends, living happily on the surface, contented and unafraid.

"Yeah," says Sans.

"Only one monster in the Underground takes you to 20."

"Yeah," says Sans.

His eyesockets slip closed.

It's a beautiful day outside.

And with the charging roar of a Blaster and the bright span of bones springing into existence, the space between them erupts.

[ooc: This last prompt is a two-for-one deal. Characters can try and intervene, cheer from the sidelines, place bets, whatever you like!]

1/23 - 1/24; the real sans; if you take a life do you know what you'll give

[All right, all right. So he's maybe - maybe slightly concerned at this juncture. He was lucky enough to get outta that first confrontation with his life, and there's no guarantee that his double hasn't already gutted a few unlucky bastards.

He's gotta find him and cut him off before he does anything worse. It ain't like anybody he knows is handling this any better but god damn - he hopes voting Confusion in was worth it, that's all he can say.

Sans blips through the city with a remarkable speed and alacrity, popping into shops, houses, checking every inch of the place he can in search of his cruel, LOVE-happy self. Hope you haven't run into the asshole in the meantime and assumed that the real Sans is subsequently out to get ya, 'cause that would be real unfortunate for the skeleton with 1 HP. Just a real awful, terrible, no good thing.]

wildcard; try to hide your hand, forget how to feel

[ooc: Not a fan of the prompts? Hit me with whatever you like! I'll match prose or brackets, either one. Questions and concerns? Hit me at arcaneswearwords on AIM or over at arrpee or with a PM and let's discuss!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I think the two of ya only lie when you think someone's gonna worry. When someone's gonna think that maybe you aren't as together as you want 'em to believe.

[And he's gotten that far, he can say that for certain. He's gotten to the point where he can say, without question, that he knows that neither kid is doing all right. But neither kid is also eager to admit it. And when they do -

When they do, what's he say? He shuts 'em down, because what the hell do you say to that? No, don't do it, keep going, keep being...determined.

'Cause his track record is just so great with both of 'em.]

So. Guess you've said your piece. Then I guess I'll ask ya one more time, since now you seem plenty eager to spill.

Where's Frisk.

Why would anyone care?

[Does he really think they'd lie, just because they think people give a damn?

Maybe he's more simple-minded than they give him credit for. He's definitely single-minded, playing over the same track record now, like it fixes every other record from the past. Scratch them up a few times, and they just won't matter anymore.]

Not here.

[So they ain't gonna help him any. Fine. That's fine. Didn't really expect much at this point, and it would'a been cruelly optimistic to assume they would. If he lets 'em outta his sight...where're they gonna go? To Asriel? To Chara?

To Frisk?

Undoubtedly.

Just has to get there first. 'Cause he's just got such a fantastic history of doing exactly that, right?]

Right. Okay. Glad we had this little chat.

[He doesn't bother to inject the words with even a desultory note of polite neutrality.]

Laugh all you like, assumin' you still can. [Low blow? Maybe. He doesn't care.] But here's the funny thing.

I care. And I know I ain't the only one. A lotta people care if that kid lives or dies. You hear that?

[Threats, when he bothers to make them, tend to land in the area of something that needs to be picked apart, dissected, something low and understated.

This is no exception.]

[I care.

He says, like that's the part of all this that holds the most weight in the world. Rounds it off with a lotta people care if that kid lives or dies to impress upon them once again that they haven't any solid ground to stand on; expression a mixture of pity or pain or lack of understanding or...

Who knows. Indescribable, right, Sans?]

...Never mattered before. Too late for it to matter now.

[Which part?]

Edited 2017-02-04 07:47 (UTC)

Never mattered before. [He'll concede that much.] But things were stuck before.

[No point in change if it all gets snapped back to its origin point, right? Why bother puttin' any effort into bettering yourself, bettering your relationships with others, if your four-tuples are already thoroughly screwed over?

Linearity is a hell of a thing. You gotta relearn the nature of the word "never." You gotta relearn what it is to be, well and truly, too late. It's a hell of a thing. A hell of a word.

Indescribable, right?]

They ain't stuck anymore.

[I believe -

You can do a little bit better.]

[Is that supposed to reassure them, or him? If he was expecting (as if he would ever expect it) a change to their disposition, there isn't one. The only difference from five minutes ago to now is that they have nothing occupying their hands, eyes focused only on him.

Open eyes. Anyone else would think they're tired, but this is as open as they'll ever be. A click and a shift into not caring about-]
[Scaring anyone.]
They'll get stuck again. They always do.

[There's no such thing as too late, when there was never a chance to begin with. You grow up, knowing something's wrong with you. You walk up a mountain, knowing something's wrong with you. When things aren't linear, you still know you're wrong.

It doesn't change when it's linear, either. It's a constant.]

What are you going to do, when the Anomaly starts working again? You're going to ask; 'why can't you do anything right'? 'Why do you keep doing this to me'?

You'll stop caring too. And then it won't matter if I walk up a mountain or not. You'll be glad when I die; it'll be the nicest thing I've ever done.

[You're going to ask why can't you do anything right? Why do you keep doing this to me?

Is that what he's -

He turns it on them. He knows he does, he knows he does, he makes it their problem when he's got no business doing any such thing. He'll be glad when they die, will he? 'Cept it's never been a nice thing to witness for anybody - not for him, not for any of the monsters that doubtless landed a lucky hit in.

Or maybe a not so lucky one.

You'll stop caring. You'll stop caring, and that's the worst part of it, the worst part of it being the stop. The stop because it implies that there was a start. And there was a start, a sickening jolt of it, of him realizing that he's in over his goddamn head again, as always. Starting ain't as scary, though. It ain't as scary because a perpetual motion machine is a default state for a guy like him, it's familiarity, it's routine. And one day, inevitably, it'll get unstuck, and it'll all just -

Stop.]

Maybe.

[His tone is mild. His hands have drawn tight in his pockets, or they did at some point. God knows when that happened.]

Or maybe, [and his tone lowers, darkens, smoothly] you got no clue how it is I'll feel.

Maybe not.

[They agree; in words only. Nothing changes. Nothing changes. Haha, sarcasm only works when something changes. They can't do that anymore. Don't got it in em.

Guess they already stopped.]

You're still an adult, though. I don't think humans and monsters are really that different, even if monsters like to pretend they are.

[None of them need compassion to exist. That's a lie, built up by whoever got to write history. Like the monster that lives in your closet, and under your bed. The monster that steals bad little boys and girls. Just lies.]

You'll hate me anyway.

[You're still an adult.

Kids. They're sharp, ain't they? They're all edges. They don't mean to, but they cut. They don't mean to at all, no. But they ain't born edged, he's pretty sure. Something's gotta sharpen them. Something's gotta take 'em to the way they are. And he's an adult. Monsters and humans, they're pretty different. The nature of the SOUL, for one. But for all the differences, they got a lot in common too, don't they? The pliability of their hearts. The way words can cut deep, intent even deeper, and hit 'em in ways you can't even imagine. Leave handprints all over 'em, the oil-slick stains of someone else's influence, drawn tight and deep into the well of themselves.

Don't mean to, but they cut.

The tightening of a jaw that's evident solely in the rigidity of his shoulders, devoid of stiffening muscle. And then, inexorably, his tight-clenched grip loosens, and so does the tautness of his smile.]

Heh.

Heh heh heh.

[A low chuckle, steady and rumbling, like the grinding of stones together.]

That's where you got me pegged wrong, kiddo.

Thing about hate? Hate takes work.

[They

Twitch.

They twitch, the corner of their mouth curving down- barely, but undeniably curving down. If the opposite of love isn't LOVE, and he cares now, then perhaps that simply means-

The corner of their mouth curves down. You see? They always mess everything up. It's their element. And with messing up comes anger, low and simmering- except that when that's all they can feel, when it's the only thing they've felt, the entire time they've existed-

They just have to be good for a little longer. When they meet Frisk, they can get rid of this feeling, once and for all.]

My bad.

[And in the next moment; the still boiling hot pot- and all of it's contents, at that- go sailing towards him.]

[Wrong answer, maybe. They look more than a little pissed off at that retort, and that's sayin' a lot, when he's seen Frisk heated before. Or rather - cold. They lock it all down into icy distance. They don't burn.

Speaking of burning -

He can't pin down what it is they're about to do until they do it, wrenching the pot at him, the hot wave of mud spattering at him in an arcing brown mess.

A dodge to either side won't cut it. So he displaces himself and ends up - outside the Spire entirely.

Yeah. He's outta here.

He's got a real kid to find. Preferably before this version of 'em does.

But we already know how this story ends, don't we?]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

you know my name [open]

how skinsightful

haha enjoy the eventual dust, shitlord

i sure am :)

I hate you.

:)

SHUT

NO U

NO. U.

NEVER

SHUT!!!!!!!!!

;^]