hadriel_logs | you know my name [open]

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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!]

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Seems like she's gonna have to invent a new disgusted expression every time this skeleton does anything. The sound of bone scraping against bone just isn't something you should hear unless you're purposefully breaking one.

At least he's quick to distract her with that ridiculous revelation. "An evil twin?" Look, what the fuck. "You mean creatures with modified appearances?" Like camouflage. Like that insolent space plant mimicking her dead sister. She suddenly wonders if she should go out after all, do some gardening.

"I mean they look like us and talk like us and have all our memories, 'cept they kinda want us dead." It'd be great if he could invite 'em over for tea and talk out their differences and solve everything in a patient and nonviolent manner, but that ain't a luxury any of 'em get to their disposal, now, is it?

"No idea what they are actually," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "Constructs?"

...does it matter, really? The point is they can effect some mighty destructive change, and they've been doin' so with a gusto since they showed up.

What they are matters if you want to destroy them. God-made constructs probably aren't easy to kill, but then that's true of most things that are worth killing. And there's telepathy involved too, wonderful. If there's one thing Quill hates more than being held under someone's thumb, it's having her mind invaded and used against her.

She tilts her head and glances at the blade in her hand, considering it. "What are the chances killing them would weaken our 'gods', do you think?" You know, hypothetically. Because the arn is making its disapproval known even now, with a twitch of a poisoned claw across her brain matter, hatefully reminding her she'd die in agony before she could plunge the knife into the first construct she sees. But she's used to this brief head-splitting pain, her due for every time she imagines gutting the prince, and betrays nothing besides the whitening of knuckles around the knife.

That elicits a faint lift of a supraorbital ridge in a manner that certainly shouldn't be possible for bone, and most especially not for the skull region, which is, ostensibly, all one solid mass. Bone, when it's made of magic, just happens to defy laws of anatomy and physics like that, oblivious of the fact that it may be rude or difficult for one to wrap one's head along.

Hypothetically, though. Of course.

"Wouldn't bet on it, personally," he says, after a fair stretch of silence in which the sense of judgment was almost palpable. "Never has before for any other events."

Sorry Sans, she was too busy fighting down the urge to stab the arn through her own eye to take much notice of the judgmental silence. She does glance up and sees the weird shift of his skull though, which, can he not keep doing that.

"Pity," she sniffs and relaxes a little, leaning against the door frame. Not thinking actively murdery thoughts tends to help soothe the migraines. Just having a nice hypothetical chat here, with something that's probably more at home in a grave than her living room. "Has anything ever proven to weaken them?"

When one half of your face is locked in a perpetual smile, you just gotta express yourself in other ways. No hedging about it. He's, uh, not real about how she's seemingly more bent of workin' out what might strip the gods of their power. Sounds a bit more like Hux, casually dwelling on what it might be to mount an assault on the gods themselves, regardless of who might be in his way. That don't shake out real well for anybody.

So he elects to not answer her question at all. A real sidestepper, this guy. Evasive when he wants to be. "Really not a fan of bein' stuck here, are ya?"

What's he suddenly being evasive for? A minute ago he didn't sound thrilled about those constructs ruining everyone's week, so why not share some helpful information? The only face here that ought to be raising incredulous eyebrows is hers, and that's what she does now.

"Got things to do elsewhere." Princes to punch, the destroyers of her world to eradicate. Pretty pressing business, as far as she is concerned, but none of his. "Are you?"

"Time don't move much while you're here, lady." At least, that's his general understanding. People go back home, they clip on back here, and it's like they picked up where they left off. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, noncommittal, his sockets lidding over in deliberate unconcern.

"Not particularly, nah." No world to really go back to, for one. For another, even if there is - it'll alter everything, right from the goddamn start.

This guy is just full of interesting information, isn't he. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, then waves away half of what he said with her knife. "About time, not the other thing." She's already picked up on the fact that some people here aren't exactly eager to get back home or whatever, and it's not completely incomprehensible to her. If she hadn't found out about the little prince's extinction weapon right before being dragged through the Door, she would have no real reason to go back to Earth either. Though she'd still happily kick the gods out of their pompous temples, of course.

"Means sometimes people nip on back home for a quick one before they end up right back here again. 'S like they never left where they came from."

But hey, what'd he know, right? Ain't like he's studied time at any sorta significant length, yeah? 'Course not. That'd be absurd. What kinda skeleton gets up to his nasal cavity in quantum mechanics? Sounds like the set-up for an inane knock-knock joke.

"Bloody marvelous," she gripes at that, "time travel is the last thing this dump needed." She's not a great fan of time travel, especially with certain smug assholes refusing to use it to make an actual difference. And it's troubling, to hear that you're not free of the Door even if you made it back once. Though she has wondered what would happen if the prince got himself killed in her absence, if the arn would consider that a failure of her duties and kill her for it. Seems that's at least one less inconvenience to worry about.

Not that any of this shows on her carefully calculated sneer. Still not the skeleton's business. "Well, being exposed to absurd circumstances to serve as some shabby god's battery is still not my idea of a vacation. You're welcome to grin and bear whatever happens to you and those kids of yours, but I plan to put up a fight."

Time travel, huh? That's not strictly what he'd call it, but she ain't rightly wrong either. She can fight all she likes - or FIGHT, if that's more her area - but he ain't of the mind that it'll go over real well, even if she lands a hit or two.

But, hey. Maybe Rage'll take a shine to her. For his part, Sans narrows in on somethin' of personal interest:

"You got a lotta experience with time travel?"

No wonder he's well informed, with that curiosity of his. She doesn't have much of value to offer on the matter of time travel, but he doesn't need to know that quite yet. He still owes her an answer too, after all.

"Some," she shrugs noncommitally. "Wasn't my first crack in space-time either. This one is just as much a pain in the arse as the one back on Earth, if you were wondering." He probably wasn't. A little exasperated roll of her eyes, and then her attention is back on the sweaty bag of bones, watching him with a sort of measured unconcern. "You have anything to share about what's been tried to weaken the gods?"

"I'm not much of a fighter," he says, nonchalant, and in the same proverbial breath, "so that means you're from...not-Earth."

Implying that she's from, what? Space? For all he's intent on gettin' back to where he needs to go, there's that prickle of curiosity regardless, the very same he got when Miriam told him she lived in space herself.

People lucky enough to not just see the stars, but live among them.

Do they have any idea how good they have it?

She's about to snort at that statement of the painfully obvious when the unexpected reminder of her home makes the derision catch in her throat. "Used to be," she says and glances down at the pitiful weapon in her hand, the words too hollow for the calculated indifference between them. "I've recently found myself having to make do with Earth." There, that's an appropriate level of bitterness back in her voice.

When she looks up, an unpleasant smirk tugs at her lips as an amusing thought occurs to her. "Wonder which of us would have made more humans run screaming, before I was made to fit in with this soft little body." Humans may not have been at fault for what's been done to her and to her planet, but that doesn't mean she can't dream about taking it out on them now and again.

"Well, hey. If it makes y'feel any better," which it probably won't, but he's gotta recover some his easy nonchalance somehow and she's as good a target as any for it, "we might not technically be on Earth now. I mean, jury's still out on whether a sky even exists."

So, uh, that's pretty fantastic. Less fantastic is what she follows that one up with.

"Not real fond of humans, are ya?" And that's a disarmingly casual question, given that this would put her on the list of people to keep an eyesocket out for - which is gettin' pretty lengthy, come to think of it.

No rest for the wicked. Which ain't really his idea of a good time, really; he likes rest. Sleep. All associations besides.

Why the hell would a lack of sky make her feel better? The sky on Earth isn't right either, the light spectrum harsher and colder and just off enough to set her on edge every single day, along with everything else on that wretched planet, though her weird new human eyes insist it's fine. But that's still better than no sky at all, no weather patterns, no stars. She stares at the skeleton with a new expression of offended incredulity until he goes ahead and changes the topic again. Some kind of conversational acrobat, this one.

"A really sharp tool, are you?" she quips with a roll of her eyes. "They're useless and cloying, the lot of them, with their public transport and their smalltalk and their thin skins. Try teaching them basic physics on a regular basis and you'll agree with me." This conversation desperately needs coffee. She drops the knife on the counter and sets about heating water. Instant coffee, this really is a prison. "They wouldn't know the meaning of true adversity if they looked it up in a dictionary," she mutters disdainfully. Lucky bastards.

He certainly is a tool. It's been said, one time or another. Self-righteous prick. Smiley trashbag. Somethin' along those lines. Ain't real surprising.

"Might be you're just lookin' in the wrong places," he says, one eyesocket slipping shut so he can peer at her with one winking light, neutral but for the perpetual grin. "Humans tend to surprise ya."

Not that that'd be experience talkin' or anything. Nah. Not even close.

Now she does snort, like that's both the funniest and stupidest thing she's heard all day. "Oh I am surprised, mostly that they've managed to evolve this far without causing their own extinction in one foolish way or another. I've never seen a species so simultaneously obsessed with sentimental purity and mindless viciousness." If they weren't so damn hypocritical about their enjoyment of violence from verbal attacks on the internet to televised wars, she could even respect them a little.

Can a skeleton drink coffee? Should she offer him a cup? Who knows, and nah. She glances back over to him and-- for god's sake, he's doing a thing with his face again. She wrinkles her nose in judgement and turns away to fetch a cup. "Besides, I don't have much of a choice, or I wouldn't be looking in a school for intelligent human life."

"That's what y'do back home, is it?" She dangled a juicy tidbit and he latches onto it, 'cause of course he does. As long as he's tryin' to recover enough to keep up his search of the city, he might as well get somethin' useful outta this whole scatterbrained encounter, yeah?

He don't have a whole lotta commentary to dispense in regards to that, it turns out; can't, if you don't have the adequate context. Which he don't, so -

"Interesting."

Her shoulders visibly tense at the mere implication that Earth could be her home. But they covered this, she's from 'not-Earth' and not bloody well pleased about being stuck among humans. "I led an army," she says instead, steely resolve and pride in her voice for a people dead and gone.

Then she turns around to face the skeleton properly, stirring the granules into the water and leaning against the counter, casual interest restored to a pleasant smile. "So you see why I might be interested in any weaknesses of the gods you may be aware of."

An army. Well, all righty then. Very impressive, and probably violent. Great. That's just what they need on top of everything else goin' down - a lady with a lotta beef with the deities in control, used to bein' the person in charge.

"Sure." He slits one eyesocket shut, the other hanging at half-mast. "'Cept I don't think an army'd fit down here."

Maybe a very small one. An army for ants.

For fuck's sake, she thinks but betrays nothing in her expression. Well, her smile may be growing a little sharper, picking up the slack of the knife on the counter. "Didn't say I'd need an army, with the right intel."

Hard to tell if he actually knows anything useful, though someone this evasive usually has something to hide. Unless he's trying to keep her talking. Tricky little bugger either way. "Fine," she says with a tilt of her head, settling on one last try. "Does your information have a price?"

Uh, what? Shrewd of her, but ain't exactly on base as far as he's concerned. If she's eager on tearin' apart the city in her desire to get herself outta here, he, uh, ain't really in support of that, no matter what kinda incentive she offers for his - help.

Ain't likely he'd be of much help, in any case. Not much for that sorta thing, not in general.

"Jokes are a free market," he supplies amiably.

The sigh that escapes her is explosive enough to be a derisive snort as she decides to give up on questioning him for now. They're all stuck here, not like she won't get another chance to observe or talk to him. "Yeah, I know a great one about a skeleton and the Goddess," she replies with a roll of her eyes. "Probably wouldn't translate." And she's probably better off not thinking about the fact that there's no one left in the universe to understand her language. So she sips her coffee instead. If he's not gonna be helpful, it might be time for him to get on with finding his kids.

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skelebro - 2017-03-04 20:54 (UTC) - Expand

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