you know my name [open]

[skelebro]

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!]

Comments

[fibia]

Oh, Alphys.

[The words are hideously patronizing, that oil-slick of cold derision leaking out of every joint. He don't have to adjust much of anything about him, now that the facade's dropped away. His grin widens, and there's a difference, between him and the guy Alphys thought she knew.

The difference being, this guy actually looks happy.]

You think I'm talkin' about you? [Another scornful burst of mirth, and one supraorbital ridge cants downward, crookedly, flattening one eyesocket into a blackened slit.]

But - hey. 'Course I was, right? Everything's always about old Alphys. God forbid you take a little look-see outside of that self-absorbed bubble you got goin' on.

[He draws one hand from his pocket to stab a phalanx at her, grinning mirthlessly.]

Sans. The weakest enemy.

[Try again.]

[sciencelizard]

[Wrong answer. She knows it as soon as she's said it. He wants something else out of her, some admission, some truth. Or... perhaps, some truth about him. So she steadies herself. Only one way to find out.

*ACT
*CHECK
Sans. LV 19.

And she stops reading. No. No, no no, this is wrong. All of it. Flicks her eyes up to him, unblinking.]

... Y-You're not Sans. The real, r-real Sans wouldn't... wouldn't do this. Wouldn't b-be this.

[fibia]

[Now she gets it.]

You always were slow on the uptake, Alph.

[He'd impale her here and now but - nah. That'd be too easy. Death is a MERCY, for the most part. For people like her. People like the kid...s. Both the kids. Pity he won't be able to serve somethin' like that up with a side of chisps.

But he can make sure she won't want to Continue.]

Kinda funny, how you keep thinkin' you're friends, and all. Wouldn't friends be a little more, gee, I dunno...forthcoming, about little things like this?

[He stabs a phalanx at the photograph.

What do you two think?]

[sciencelizard]

[He keeps referring to the photograph. She assumes he's going to take it, eventually, and in her mind she uses that to rationalize why she's gripping it so hard (but never enough to tear). But she... she has to remember. This is a fake. A double. A copy. Not real. Nothing he says is real. None of it.]

We... w-we talk about things when they, when they come up. I don't... h-he can tell me things when he's ready.

[Maybe it's a little desperate. But it's true.]

He doesn't... h-he doesn't have to tell me anything.

[fibia]

[None of what he says is real, and yet - isn't the pressure of it grinding at the edges of her mind so very potently? Knowledge that both exists and doesn't, caught in a state of in potentia that will never be resolved.

Kinda like her, after her little drop-kick slide into Hadriel.]

No?

[He tips back his skull and laughs, a harsh, gravelly bark of sound.]

Good. Not like he would, anyway. Track record like his, I'm not sure what you're expecting outta someone like him.

[sciencelizard]

[This is so much worse, coming from Sans. Hearing this sort of thing from herself, she could take- she hears this sort of thing from herself every day. But he's... basically her best friend at this point. The closest person she has here. And of course, this isn't him him, but it's enough to get her to grip at her clothes a little, press the photo to her chest.]

I... I d-don't need to expect anything. I know he will.

[It's hard enough for her to put up a brave face to everything else that's going on, but this? This is so much worse.]

[fibia]

[That brings rise to another rumble of laughter. Oh, that's rich, coming from her - her, who relies on people, on flakes like him, to keep her standing in a place like this!]

So you do gotta modicum of self-awareness. Never would'a guessed!

[He advances, step by step, his sockets going black. And he leers.]

So why're you still here, Alph? [Hope she likes hearin' that playful nickname comin' from him, 'cause hey! It's her old pal Sans, ain't it?] You already know you're wastin' his time. Sleepin' in his house, eatin' his food, takin' all the attention and effort he could be puttin' into those kids of his.

You already know it's pointless. Can't expect a damn thing outta him.

So why the hell're you still here?

[sciencelizard]

[She takes a shaky step back, trying to will the real Sans into existence, have the hope that somebody will bust down a wall and save her. But isn't that just the problem he's highlighting? That she can't do anything for herself?

She winces visibly at the nickname, too. He's laying it on thick.]

I-- I don't, it's--

[But he's right he's right he's right he's right]

... If he wanted me to leave, he, he'd a-ask. It's not... it's not like that.

[fibia]

You think he'd ask? The guy don't ask anything outta anybody. What planet you been living on, Alph?

[He taps at the temporal region of his skull with two phalanges.]

Nah. You and I both know how this goes down. Only thing you can do is Spare him the disappointment, and just up and leave now.

[Confess your sins to a kid with a Knife! See what happens! That'll take care of two birds with one glorious stone, won't it?]

[sciencelizard]

I... I...

[God, he's right, and she hates it. He'd just burn through it and hope she took care of herself. She has no defense here. But she can't stand that he can see through her like this.]

... H-He asked me to stay with him. In.. in the f-first place.

[It's quiet, but it's all she has.]

[fibia]

And you believed him?

[Give him a second here. Just - just give him a second to dissolve into a rattling burst of laughter, cruel and cold.]

God. God.

That's the funniest thing I've heard all day.

[sciencelizard]

[He laughs, and she can't.

Any rebuttal, any fight dies in her throat as the noise hits her head, bare toes digging into the dirt for any kind of grip, hands clenching and flexing for any kind of purchase. She feels like she can barely breathe.

How could she be so stupid.

Finally, her capacity to *FLEE overwhelms all else, and she turns, running as fast as she can from him, winding around corners, getting herself lost, and most importantly, not looking back. She can't see him again. She won't.

But he's right.

And that's worse than the laughter ringing in her ears.]

[fibia]

[He lets her go.

That really couldn't've gone better. She makes it so easy, and he just keeps laughing, long after she's gone.



What an IDIOT.]