A sprinkling of magic into his own plate of entrees renders 'em edible to a monster like him, even if it takes a bit outta him to do so. Still, though. Feels nice to kick back and relax for once. Just don't look now, 'cause if you do? You'll get a glimpse of a skeleton surveying the assortment of delightful, varied foods on his plate before he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a bottle of ketchup to thoroughly slather 'em in the stuff.

Will you, innocent bystander, dare stand by and watch this act of culinary cruelty? Will you truly sit and let this stand? He didn't even taste the goods before he tainted them with his awful, awful ketchup.

Honestly, what a heathen.

[Sans is probably cheating. C'mon, there's no way mopeds are supposed to - to float like that, or even go that fast. The nice thing, at least, is that he's just as liable to go the complete opposite direction of where he's headed, or straight up simply fall asleep at the wheel and possibly crash into another contestant in the meantime. Either way, Sans is having a ball with his lime green moped putt-putting about, even if he ain't likely to win.

That's fine, though. He ain't in it to win it. He's in it to get a gander at people's faces when a skeleton rides a moped about a foot or so off the ground and ends up on a roof instead of crossin' the finish line. 'Cause that, right there? That's worth more than any claim to fame.]

Sans keeps to the wayside. Even for harmless pillow fights, it don't much do to take an unnecessary risk. It'd be just his luck if he made it through the city split, against all goddamn odds, only to get a pillow to the skull with enough force to reduce him to dusty powder. So he keeps outta the fray, instead choosing to run betting pools for other similar non-participants, or possibly chippin' in to supply someone with additional ammunition, should they require a pillow or two on the other side of the Colosseum.

He wishes you the best of luck, really. But what do you figure your odds are for being the last one standing, so to speak? Just, y'know - outta curiosity.

[So, Confusion. Not his favorite god, as everyone's gotten to know full well. And a hedge maze technically ain't as much of a challenge to him as he initially figured; rather, he elects to pick his way through it, easy as you please, instead of hazarding to take shortcuts to circumvent the rules. Shortcuts might not shake out real well for anyone, either, seein' as he can't much see where it is he's going. So he moves at a leisurely meander, more like a guy who just kinda opted to stroll through to admire the scenery than anybody actively competing. His sense of direction ain't necessarily what you'd call the best out there, and he stops to take a snooze or two semi-frequently, but it turns out that Sans's brand of magic just happens to be rather like a cat's - he sorta ends up where he needs to be without much of an explanation as to why, simply excelling at poppin' up where and when he ain't wanted.

If you ain't too impatient to try and get through it, you're free to accompany him as he ponders forks in the road, twists and turns, and weaves his way about the thing.

A magic compass is a pretty great prize, after all.]

You cannot date the skeleton. You do not want to date the skeleton. He smells of grease and broken dreams and dirty, dirty hot dog water. You can, however, park yourself at his table if you fancy getting an earful of horrible jokes while he swigs down a bottle of relish. Hey, don't worry - if you really wanna drink of what he's sippin', he's perfectly willing to share.

You also might wanna check your seat before you sit down. Some weirdo's been putting whoopee cushions on everyone's chairs, regardless of which table they're situated at. What a jerk, right?

[Open mic night, huh? He used to do stand-up at Delight's old place, back when it, uh, existed. That is to say, he blatantly contested Fear's scary stories with bad jokes galore. Meaning it's time for a good old-fashioned encore. Crow ain't around to supply him with back-up this go around, but Sans can still sell a joke like nobody's business.

Mettaton's even in the city, givin' it all the nostalgia of when he used to do standup at the MTT Resort. Back when Mettaton actually liked him, or liked a version of him enough to host some terrible jokes as performance filler.

So when it's his turn to take to the stage, he does so with an exaggerated, languorous ease.]

I tell ya, everybody. That whole deal with the city? My sides are still splittin', am I right?

[You can expect jokes of a similar caliber for the rest of the performance.]

Sans did not come with formal wear. You ever seen a skeleton wear a suit? Nobody wants to see that, man. C'mon. He might'a sneaked on past while clad in something appropriately monochrome, like maybe a black poncho-like bit of apparel, but regardless of how he entered, it'll soon come to light that Sans ain't wearing anything one could particularly count as formal to the event proper.

He is clad in nothing less than a stained white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with the words NASTY written in block letters across the back.

What? The deal with Sorrow was not saying anything of the joke variety. He never said a damn thing about skippin' over the rules to pull a good old-fashioned visual gag.