A; The Shelter [Sans, and whoever is with him, isn't the first to get there, but he is there before the school opens. You know how it is--the second mouse gets the cheese. Sans doesn't enjoy using the louder, more reckless, less patient people (not that he's feeling particularly patient himself today) like this, but if Papyrus is here, and then Sayori, too, that's the goal, and that's what's important. Let the whole town act as a distraction if it gets them out. Because he's not the first in, he doesn't have to go to the trouble of breaking in. Stay quiet, stay fast, stay focused. If everyone else does the hard stuff, better for him.
The clean boxes are of note. That means they were placed recently, maybe used recently. Sans dumps an assortment of first aid supplies into the red plaid satchel, decorated with bows, that he's brought down with him. It's Sayori's--he figured he'd need something to carry stuff in. Hopefully she doesn't mind, if she's still alive.
The next box, already opened--IV tubing. Syringes. Surgical tools. Sans goes still, forgets to even breathe. If it's new and open, it was used. This stuff was used. This stuff was used, so--
Sans's voice is clipped and soft:] We're going deeper in. [Now.]
B; The Operating Room; cw: surgical blood/gore remainders, panic attack vibes; dry heaving [Sans starts to get a feel for navigation the deeper in they go, though that realization leaves a worse taste in his mouth than the cloying, spicy-sweet scent had. Travel with Sans through this place has been a mostly silent affair--Sans is stalking through this place more than he's walking--but his steps have become more sure of himself as he starts to be better able to anticipate what sorts of places are likely to be where. A converted laboratory, but he knows laboratories. That's why he flinches, just a little, before he even sees the operating theater, let alone walks into it. That song is playing, same as it had been on the television broadcast.
A turntable, the source of the music. Scalpels and tongs, washed but not dried. The operating table itself, under an assortment of lights. Blood smeared on tile. A bucket of blood and thick, disgusting mess. Grey pulp in the sink. He doesn't know what that is. His whole torso heaves violently, but his jaw is set nearly tight enough to crack his teeth, and nothing comes up. Sans doesn't know what's in the sink, doesn't know what's in the bucket besides blood, knows too much and not nearly enough of what's happening. His stomach clenches painfully again. Sans doesn't know what they did, if anyone is even alive anymore. He doesn't know why this is happening. Papyrus had never done anything to deserve any of this. Sans had never done anything to deserve this. This isn't fair. What did any of them do? It's not even--not even because of humans and monsters, it's--he doesn't even know, and--
The edge of the sink bites painfully into the palms of Sans's hands. He's gripping it tight enough to draw blood, but a little more on that sink hardly matters.]
C; The Doppelganger; cw: violence, doppelgangers, literal face masks [It's Papyrus's voice that draws Sans away, because it was always going to be that. It's not even intent to separate himself; he moves toward the sound like he was magnetized to it. It's calling for him, after all--Brother and Sans in turn, and Sans doesn't stop to think that it's ridiculous for Papyrus to have any idea he's down here, let alone nearby.
Then, Papyrus's face at the dim end of a hallway.]
Papyrus? [Sans's voice is thin, wound tight with stress. The doppelganger is happy to reply. Brother! There you are! Could you come here? The Great Papyrus... May need just a tiny bit of assistance!
And of course Sans moves immediately, doesn't even think about it. There's a vague alarm in the backmost corner of his mind, the sense of something off, but so much is wrong here that he can dismiss it was the wrongness of the whole situation. He's halfway down the hallway. Three quarters. It's a long hallway--he's far closer to the dim end of the hallway now than the area he'd just left.
Two things happen almost at once. What happens first, what saves him, is that the face--slides, so it's sitting lopsided. The second thing that happens is that the doppelganger shifts its ball joints and lunges at him like a jungle cat--
Sans whips his left arm forward, holds it out like he intends to stop the screeching thing with one open palm. But it does stop, its torso slamming still in the air while its limbs bounce like it's hit an invisible wall. It's close enough to tear a whole new set of claw marks into Sans's left arm.
And then it flies back and slams into the wall hard enough that, as its porcelain-like elbow strikes before the rest of it, that bloody arm pops out of its socket.]
That's not your face. [It's not. It's not. That's. It's slid even farther now. Detached skin. It's a mask. And it's not Papyrus's face, either, not really but. It was.
Sans whips his arm out wide. The doppelganger slams into another wall. Its remaining arm shatters. And Sans just stands there, looking at it. Holding it there.]
Sans | OTA
[Sans, and whoever is with him, isn't the first to get there, but he is there before the school opens. You know how it is--the second mouse gets the cheese. Sans doesn't enjoy using the louder, more reckless, less patient people (not that he's feeling particularly patient himself today) like this, but if Papyrus is here, and then Sayori, too, that's the goal, and that's what's important. Let the whole town act as a distraction if it gets them out. Because he's not the first in, he doesn't have to go to the trouble of breaking in. Stay quiet, stay fast, stay focused. If everyone else does the hard stuff, better for him.
The clean boxes are of note. That means they were placed recently, maybe used recently. Sans dumps an assortment of first aid supplies into the red plaid satchel, decorated with bows, that he's brought down with him. It's Sayori's--he figured he'd need something to carry stuff in. Hopefully she doesn't mind, if she's still alive.
The next box, already opened--IV tubing. Syringes. Surgical tools. Sans goes still, forgets to even breathe. If it's new and open, it was used. This stuff was used. This stuff was used, so--
Sans's voice is clipped and soft:] We're going deeper in. [Now.]
B; The Operating Room; cw: surgical blood/gore remainders, panic attack vibes; dry heaving
[Sans starts to get a feel for navigation the deeper in they go, though that realization leaves a worse taste in his mouth than the cloying, spicy-sweet scent had. Travel with Sans through this place has been a mostly silent affair--Sans is stalking through this place more than he's walking--but his steps have become more sure of himself as he starts to be better able to anticipate what sorts of places are likely to be where. A converted laboratory, but he knows laboratories. That's why he flinches, just a little, before he even sees the operating theater, let alone walks into it. That song is playing, same as it had been on the television broadcast.
A turntable, the source of the music. Scalpels and tongs, washed but not dried. The operating table itself, under an assortment of lights. Blood smeared on tile. A bucket of blood and thick, disgusting mess. Grey pulp in the sink. He doesn't know what that is. His whole torso heaves violently, but his jaw is set nearly tight enough to crack his teeth, and nothing comes up. Sans doesn't know what's in the sink, doesn't know what's in the bucket besides blood, knows too much and not nearly enough of what's happening. His stomach clenches painfully again. Sans doesn't know what they did, if anyone is even alive anymore. He doesn't know why this is happening. Papyrus had never done anything to deserve any of this. Sans had never done anything to deserve this. This isn't fair. What did any of them do? It's not even--not even because of humans and monsters, it's--he doesn't even know, and--
The edge of the sink bites painfully into the palms of Sans's hands. He's gripping it tight enough to draw blood, but a little more on that sink hardly matters.]
C; The Doppelganger; cw: violence, doppelgangers, literal face masks
[It's Papyrus's voice that draws Sans away, because it was always going to be that. It's not even intent to separate himself; he moves toward the sound like he was magnetized to it. It's calling for him, after all--Brother and Sans in turn, and Sans doesn't stop to think that it's ridiculous for Papyrus to have any idea he's down here, let alone nearby.
Then, Papyrus's face at the dim end of a hallway.]
Papyrus? [Sans's voice is thin, wound tight with stress. The doppelganger is happy to reply. Brother! There you are! Could you come here? The Great Papyrus... May need just a tiny bit of assistance!
And of course Sans moves immediately, doesn't even think about it. There's a vague alarm in the backmost corner of his mind, the sense of something off, but so much is wrong here that he can dismiss it was the wrongness of the whole situation. He's halfway down the hallway. Three quarters. It's a long hallway--he's far closer to the dim end of the hallway now than the area he'd just left.
Two things happen almost at once. What happens first, what saves him, is that the face--slides, so it's sitting lopsided. The second thing that happens is that the doppelganger shifts its ball joints and lunges at him like a jungle cat--
Sans whips his left arm forward, holds it out like he intends to stop the screeching thing with one open palm. But it does stop, its torso slamming still in the air while its limbs bounce like it's hit an invisible wall. It's close enough to tear a whole new set of claw marks into Sans's left arm.
And then it flies back and slams into the wall hard enough that, as its porcelain-like elbow strikes before the rest of it, that bloody arm pops out of its socket.]
That's not your face. [It's not. It's not. That's. It's slid even farther now. Detached skin. It's a mask. And it's not Papyrus's face, either, not really but. It was.
Sans whips his arm out wide. The doppelganger slams into another wall. Its remaining arm shatters. And Sans just stands there, looking at it. Holding it there.]
That's not yours.