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

2. (January 21st)

[circumitus]

It isn't like she is looking for a friendly chat, either.

After all, 'Rey' has an errand to do...

While passing by the corner, she is marching with a shovel over her shoulder, whistling an off-key tune. She only stops when she notices the skeleton staking out in this little side of the city.

"How long have you been at this now?" she asks, swinging the shovel over to plant the cutting edge into the ground. Knowing each other, it's plenty obvious that 'Sans' isn't there waiting to shake hands.

Appearance-wise, she is completely indistinguishable from the real Rey. Just like how this grinning skeleton is identical to his equally jovial counterpart. But it doesn't take more than a glance to recognize the differences. She's aware of this now.

[fibia]

At least the both of 'em, they got the means to tell the difference. Got a real legbone up on their counterparts. He's got no quarrel with the other doubles. Hell, he wishes 'em all the best, so long as they don't get in his way.

He lifts one bony shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.

"Few hours. Patience is one of Sans's few virtues." Justice, of course, would be the other - but even that's pretty up for debate. His brand of "justice" tends to be harsh, and uncompromising.

He indicates the shovel with the faint glow of the lights in his eyesockets.

"Burying the body?"

[circumitus]

Sans as the patient type is no great revelation to 'Rey'. Tends to come with the territory of the sleepy, lazy ones.

But Rey is likewise persevering and, as such, so is 'Rey' as well. As a sniper, one had to be, when they are oftentimes left lingering in the same spot, unmoving for hours to days on end.

If she weren't patient, she wouldn't have waited five whole days to do what she is about to.

"Oh, I'm about to, once I find a nice, soft spot."

When she speaks, she has no reason to hide behind the robotic demeanor. It's one of Rey's masks. A blanket she hides behind. Prevents herself from getting overly emotional at times. Though it doesn't seem to yield much fruit these days.

[fibia]

"And are we at the before or the after?" Should he be breakin' out the champagne? Sounding the alarms? Popping the fireworks? Seems like most of the people out there don't have quite the same survival instinct that good ol' Sans does. He's proving a tough one to find, but he'd expected that from the get-go.

The guy's always been like a cockroach, impossible to hold still to be crushed beneath your heel. Living on and on, long after the End has come and gone.

What a misery.

[circumitus]

'Rey' sighs, rocking the tip of the shovel from side to side in a contemplative gesture.

"Oh, before. Don't know about you, but I'm rather fond of irony, so I spent these last few days trying to think of the most appropriate course of action. We hate theatrics and all."

With that, she brings the shovel back in the air, making an arch before the wooden handle lands over her shoulder again.

[fibia]

She hates theatrics, and yet she's got more emotion than the real one of her ever expressed at a time. Always locked up and boxed away, pretending as though nothing is wrong. Yeah, don't that sound familiar?

It's like everybody in this cave took a course on emotional repression or something. You'd think, right?

"Bit preemptive, ain't it? Kind of a whole 'counting your Snowdrakes' thing?"

Or is it chickens? Eh, whatever. She'll catch his drift, and he don't even know what a chicken looks like.

i'm so sorry this is so late augh augh

[circumitus]

Snowdrakes, chickens... It's all the same breed of bullshit to 'Rey'. Euphemisms and metaphors to help serve a vague purpose in painting a better picture.

"I wouldn't say that. Think of it more as... setting the stage."

Coming from someone who claims to hate theatrics, that is rich.

sall good!

[fibia]

There, see? All makes sense to the right set of ears.

"Settin' things up for a dramatic showdown, are we?" Hey, the dramatic sucker in him can appreciate that. Which, uh, there is definitely way more of that in Sans than even Sans himself would care to admit. It's a flaw of theirs.

[circumitus]

Hard to imagine anything else from a skeleton with a smile plastered to his face.

"Something like that." Her fingers drum over the handle of the shovel, a contemplative look on her face. "To be honest, this is a much kinder gesture than the bitch deserves. Hell, many of the people she's slaughtered didn't even get proper burials!"

Isn't that just sad.

[fibia]

There, now. That's a confirmation of a theory he's bounced about in his skull but only had scraps to chase before now.

"Really is somethin' of a war machine, huh?" That's right, there's that plethora of insecurities to pounce onto. Everybody's got 'em. He chuckles, low and amused. "After all that bullshit Sans says about not havin' to be one. Think any part of her bought it?"

[circumitus]

"Did you really expect any different? It isn't like she was made to toast bread."

Though she wouldn't be surprised if someone invents a toaster AI somewhere.

'Rey' just snorts. "Think he's the only one who's ever said shit like that to her? Give her the good old 'fight the power' pep talk?"

Considering who she lives with, sources are unlikely.

[fibia]

"Guy's got a complex, I swear." He shakes his skull, scathing. "Thinks he can be everybody's little morality pet. Thinks he can make everybody a good person, just by giving 'em the right nudges. You'd think a realist like him would wise up here and again."

Hilariously short-sighted, really, how he keeps actin' all surprised when he inevitably gets bitten in the coccyx for it. What's he come to expect, huh?

[circumitus]

"Of course," the double says matter-of-factly. "Do you really think people would be more partial to each other if they were more true to themselves?"

Even the law abiding Nick Valentine has his breaking points. Wanting to murder a man may be vengeance with just cause, but he is no bastion of limitless integrity because of it. Naturally, that does not deter someone like Rey.

Or 'Rey', for that matter. After all, they are the same person. One has to admire such a feat in a man, even if it is actually a machine.

She then arches a brow at the skeleton's doppelgänger. "Sounds like he's trying to compensate for something, though."

[fibia]

"Hell yeah he is." That comes with a sound that's a bit akin to a snort, or would be if he had a nose and esophagus to communicate as such. As it is, he makes do with something near enough to the real thing to get the point across.

"You think a guy like that has had control over a single damn thing in his life?" He laughs, a gravely, unpleasant sound, like stone dragging over stone. "He keeps thinkin' he's accepted his lot in life, but the sucker's still in denial."

[circumitus]

It's enough that the dead ringer gets the point loud and clear.

"Not surprising. He's struck me as something of a fatalist, but how many people can say that they're actually okay with being resigned to that?"

No, he isn't okay. So very few really are. Hell, that's why their originals end up here, isn't it? Because every last one of them is a damn mess in some way, even the ones who seem scarcely culpable.

[fibia]

"So he says. But if caught onto the fact that you can't trust the guy as far as a kid could throw him - then you'd have the right idea."

Ain't like he's gotta real nice habit of keeping promises, or havin' so much as a shred of integrity. Patient he might be, but that shade of blue don't go any darker. Not for his weakling of a SOUL, nah.

"Can't even trust him when it comes himself, it turns out." Followin' that one up with a dark chuckle, and he's pretty sure the meaning is coldly evident.