do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive [mostly closed]

[skelebro]

Who: Asgore, Asriel, Chara, Frisk, Sans, and Shadow; plus potential guests, later
What: Two plans get executed simulataneously
Where: The orchard, the Kid House, and eventually the Silent Hill zone
When: March 1st - 9th
Warnings: Discussions of and implications of suicide. Likely more to follow.



[ * besides. ]
[ * chances are... ]

[ * i've already tried to steer you in the right direction. ]

[ * ... ] [ * so what can i say? ]

[ * what can i say that will change the mind of a being like you? ]

Comments

[skelebro]

[Well, it's one of his gifts. Evasion. Dodging. Obfuscating, dancing - he's kinda had to learn, at an early age. Be unpredictable. Paint on a mask so no one can see where you're looking, or what you're thinking.

He seems to need it, Shadow says. Looks like something's leaking on through the cracks. Or maybe he's just gotten good at reading him. Sooner or later, it seems that people tend to do exactly that. They figure him out, or they get the time to.

That's his whole problem, really. How the hell's a guy like him meant to last in the long-term, when he was only barely scraping by in the short?

Wade's rubbing off on him. It's the only explanation.

(No it's not.)

He glances back out across the water, its surface glassy and undisturbed; maybe somewhere, the lower down you get, some nebulously-defined bottom feeder or another is enjoying an insubstantial, overly fibrous lunch that doesn't really exist.

He looks back to the hedgehog, and his shoulders drop, and he grins.]

Yeah, actually.

[So they say.]

[skelebro]

[He follows, easily. Not like he's a real big fan of walking, but somehow he doubts offering Shadow a shortcut would go over real well. A break just as the proverbial storm clouds gather sounds about right.

This is the last union-regulated break he gets before his life slams back into overdrive. He's pretty patently certain of that.

Slidin' into a stool, he slips a bottle of ketchup out from his pocket, easy as you please. It ain't what you'd call typical ketchup. It's, uh...got a little kick to it.

Skeletons can get drunk, with a little work. Had to prepare the stuff special, but hey, if it works, it works.

He tilts the bottle to the hedgehog with a weary grin.]

Wanna sip?

[skelebro]

'S ketchup.

[Very special ketchup with magic added, but ketchup nonetheless. It'll taste exactly as tomato-y as you'd expect. His sockets sweep the counter for Nick - that's usually who manages the place, right? But she ain't around.

Or maybe she ain't anywhere at all.

He jiggles the bottle, like that might tempt anyone to wanna chug the stuff any more than usual.]

Magic stuff. Prepared all special for guys like me.

[skelebro]

[That prompts a chuckle. He's gotta point. Guys like him tend to be cryptic to a fault, and that's partially outta habit, and partially outta necessity. Promises to keep, and bridges to burn.

He's gotta point. At this rate, he earns more than a lazy answer ratcheted out for the sake of comedy. He gestures down at himself with one hand, ribcage and all.]

Gotta be magic for somebody without, uh...organs.

[skelebro]

[He's gotta laugh at that, tiredly.]

What, hilarious?

[He digs the ridge of his thumb beneath the cap and flicks it off. It lands on the counter with a clatter, and he tips the thing back to take a swig without technically breaking his grin.

Don't worry about it. It's probably magic.]

Magic ain't contagious, y'know.

[skelebro]

[They can agree to disagree. He takes another swig, letting his eyesockets drift shut for a moment in the wake of the question. Comes outta nowhere, relatively, but it's relevant. And he's more than earned an answer.

He leans forward, settin' the bottle onto the counter with a quiet clink of aligning edges, elbow braced across the surface.]

I think it was my fault. Or...I didn't help any.

[skelebro]

[He don't have an answer. Not right away. He runs the tip of one phalanx around the rim of his bottle of ketchup for a long moment, silent but for the rasp of ossein on glass. He hums a weary sound, somehow approximating a sigh, and passes his free hand over the crown of his skull.]

I made 'em care.

I made 'em think about consequences. And now these're mine.

[skelebro]

[Heh.

Well, he's gotta good point. He is, in a lotta ways, painting this in broader strokes than it has to be. Than it necessarily is. His ego ain't big enough to assume it's solely on his shoulders.]

Maybe you're right.

[He tips the thing back and takes another long draft.]

But I sure didn't help any. Just taught 'em what they already knew.

[skelebro]

[Guilt, sure. That's part of it, much as he wishes he could deny it, but he lost that plausible deniability a long time ago. And part of it's a little more'n that. Maybe he's just kinda sick of losin' people.]

Accountability.

[He braces an elbow against the counter's surface, resting the rounded edge of his chin against the heel of a bony palm.]

They deserve a shot at life. Both of 'em.

[skelebro]

Heh. I try.

[He can't even be offended at that one; it's true, and he knows it. Hell, anybody who really knows him can say as much. It's what he is, and what he does. A weak little chuckle, and he tosses back another long drink from his special-made bottle.]

[skelebro]

[Guilty as charged. On two counts. Either he's losin' his touch, or...nah, actually, he's pretty sure that's it. He don't know how to do this in the long-term. All the secrets come wormin' on outta the woodwork, and there's no convenient scaleback to ensure they never get spoken in the first place.

Consequences and permanence. A little lesson learned for all of 'em.

He reaches up with his free hand, scratching at his cervical vertebrae. There's no real point to the gesture besides simply givin' himself time to answer; bone don't exactly have skin to itch.

In the end, there's no plausible deniability. No out.

Might as well.]

Yeah. 'S why I actually tried keepin' it for once.

[skelebro]

[Buddy, he hit rock bottom a long time ago. 'S just that he found himself a pick-axe, and he's ready to dig.

Is he shocked 'cause Sans just said something straight and even, and didn't play word games? 'Cause he admitted to not being half as out of touch with the world as he pretends to be? Either way, he ain't gonna fault him for that.

So, uh, sure. Here's a toast to hitting rock bottom, a long time ago.

He lifts his bottle in lazy solidarity before draining it dry. Give him a minute or two, and he'll fetch another one outta his jacket pocket. Those pockets of his always seem to carry just what he needs. Or maybe he prepared beforehand. Who can say.]

This is why I hate promises.

[skelebro]

[If he was the guy askin' him about his promises, then yeah, it kinda all lines up in just the right way. Promises - they suck, don't they? They just give you a list of obligations, and it's almost like they're made with the expectation that they'll be broken.

He uncaps his second bottle and gets to work. With any luck, he'll be so trashed by the end of this that he'll be too tired to get roped into whatever comes next.

(He will anyway.)

(Of course he will.)]

Anyway. I'd recommend you get rid of 'em.

[The pages, he means.]

Turns out holding onto pages like that goes bad for just about everybody. Who'da thunk, right?