FEBRUARY 2021 EVENT: PART TWO

[robbies]

 

CHAPTER TWO, PART 2: THE LIVING ISLAND

Everything you never wanted to see.

YOU CAN’T DO A LITTLE BECAUSE YOU CAN’T DO ENOUGH | JUST A DREAM FROM YESTERDAY | DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH | YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH | COME AND PLAY WITH ME

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YOU CAN'T DO A LITTLE BECAUSE YOU CAN'T DO ENOUGH

Perhaps you’ve been on tenterhooks since you woke up to find that your friends, your family, your neighbors somehow went missing in the night. Perhaps you’ve been hitting the pavement and knocking on doors trying to find them. So far, your efforts have been for naught. There’s been neither hide nor hair of the missing, and every attempt to find them has met with a dead end.

Until February 13.

In the afternoon, a strange, unsigned message goes live on the network. What is the meaning of “Living Island”? Does it have anything to do with what’s going on? There’s no elaboration… until midnight, when every neighbor’s television set turns on at full volume, hissing static and garbled noise as the dials turn and adjust. Several disjointed clips follow, ending on a mural that depicts the same words from the post.

“Living Island.”

The following morning, you’ll find that stranger things are beginning to happen. Some of you will be woken up to the blankets and sheets being yanked off your sleeping bodies by a powerful force. Others will find that when they step out of their morning shower, a message has been written in the steam on their medicine cabinet's mirror. Depending on how quickly you shower, you may only be able to see part of the message — but running the hot water longer and allowing the steam to fill the room will reveal it in its entirety:

“LIVING ISLAND.”

As time passes, you’ll find that the same message shows up every time the bathroom steams up, whether you’re in the shower or not. The same force that turned your TV on seems to insist that you pay attention to what it’s trying to show you, and its behavior escalates the longer you refuse. Characters will find that books go flying off of bookshelves, drawers are yanked out of dressers and desks, and breakable objects are smashed. Trying to prevent the spirit from destruction won’t go your way: If you try to catch or grab something that’s about to be thrown, you’ll find it ripped out of your hands anew and smashed anyways. If you tried to take all of your chairs down from where they’ve been stacked on top of the dining room table, you’ll find they’re back atop it the instant you look away.

All that’s to say nothing of the rumbling. It doesn’t start until the end of the first day, but from time to time you’ll feel the house beginning to shake on its foundations, a dull groan as it struggles to keep itself from collapsing in under its own weight. As time goes on, this will get louder and louder until the house seems to roar of its own accord, an unyielding shriek that can’t be stopped until the force causing it backs down.

Attempts to make contact with the spirit will never go well. It does not seem to be able or willing to communicate with you beyond its own tantrums, and characters who try may find that the attempt rapidly goes out of control. Candles flare up and burn wildly, Ouija boards are ripped into pieces and planchettes go flying, offerings of food are knocked over or thrown, and the lights flicker manically in turns. While you may be able to get some sleep at night if you’re lucky, the only thing that will reduce the poltergeist activity is to pay attention to the message it’s sending you and figure out what it means.

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JUST A DREAM FROM YESTERDAY

Living Island. If ever there were a first step to stopping this madness, it’s figuring out what those words mean. But starting is always the hardest part, and with nothing else to go by than two seemingly unrelated, nonsensical words left behind by a force you can’t see much less communicate with, an already arduous task seems even more impossible. This is furthered by the reactions you get when you hit the street and start asking people if they know anything about Living Island. Most of them can only look back at you blankly, as if waiting for a punchline that never comes. Others actually take you seriously enough to consider the question, and to their credit, they do take their time racking their brains to remember where they’ve heard that name before, why it sounds so familiar. But the most you’ll get back from them is a sheepish shrug of the shoulders and a reply that it sounds like something from TV. It gets to the point where their answers blend together, each one more unremarkable than the last. Save for the one you get from the last person you haven’t asked. Living Island. I’m sorry, what was that? What the fuck did you just say? Dale Harding and Rosemary Craven might be as far away from each other as possible, doing things around town that couldn’t be more different, but their reactions are the same. When they overhear you asking what feels like the hundredth person you’ve seen that day about Living Island, they look your way — Harding in the middle of his patrol or lunch break, Rosemary in the middle of grocery shopping. Harding looks honest-to-God surprised. Rosemary simply looks confused, even somewhat concerned. That's such a... strange name. Where did you hear that from? When they hear your explanation, they go quiet, mulling it over. Rosemary’s expression turns thoughtful. Harding’s, suspicious. If I remember correctly, that was a clubhouse the children around town used to play in. I haven’t heard about it in… goodness, I can’t even remember. Years, perhaps. It’s a play on “safety island” — another name for a bomb shelter — and the name of this… stupid kids show that used to be popular. I guess they thought it was cute, calling a place like that something fun. But where is it? Well, most of the shelters in town are still in use, and children aren’t allowed in them unless there’s an emergency. The only place I can think of is… The grade school. Administration ran out of funding before they could finish it, so they just scrapped it. Closed it off and just hoped for the best. Didn’t stop people from sneaking in. I used to bust them for playing down there all the time, the little shits. Harding’s mouth twists into a sneer that doesn’t reach his eyes, which are soft and miserable, while Rosemary waits patiently for any other questions and, when you have no others, excuses herself to go back to her groceries. Now you have something even better than an explanation: you have a destination.

Finding Santa Rosita Elementary is as easy as a fifteen minute drive from North Santa Rosita to Shadyside. Getting in is a different story. By day, the school is open for business and humming with activity, so you can’t very well go barging in and not expect to be reprimanded for disrupting class. This leaves you with three options: go before it opens, wait until school is over, or come in the middle of the night. Each have their own pros and cons, but all of them will get you the same result.

After hours, the school is desolate and still. The wind, the occasional slap of a naked branch against a window, and the squeak of your footsteps on the shiny, clean floors are the only sounds you’ll hear as you navigate the empty hallways. Most of the classrooms are locked, and the ones that aren’t don’t have anything any more unique or worthwhile to them than the occasional lunchbox left behind by a student or the classroom frog croaking in its tank. In a way, this is a good thing — it doesn’t leave that many places to investigate and makes your path that much more linear as you finally, inevitably and silently make your way downstairs into the bowels of the school.

The long corridor that awaits you in the basement is, in theory, not very different from the hallways upstairs. There are lockers lining both sides, dented and darkened with age and dust. The tiles are cracked, dirt and pieces of stone kicked up from exposed areas of the floor. Seemingly, this appears to lead to a dead end. But look closely at the wall and you’ll see the impression of a door, painted to match the walls. The lock is flimsy — in fact, depending on when you find it, someone may have already broken it. All that’s left is to enter and descend down the tiny room’s only feature: a ladder under a rusty steel hatch door, stretching down into darkness.

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DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH

CW: gore, surgery

Stepping into the old shelter, the first thing that hits you is the stale, uncomfortably moist air. This first room is cavernous and dark, and your footsteps and whispers echo in spite of how quiet you might try to be. There’s a faint smell in the air, a trace of copper and rubbing alcohol that might make your eyes water, making your mouth feel unpleasant as it hits your tongue. As you get your bearings and begin to pick your way through the dark, you’ll notice traces of another smell — something simultaneously spicy and cloyingly sweet, a scent that seems to assault your senses and leaves you with a headache pounding at the base of your skull. Thankfully, there isn’t enough to do more than make you nauseous, but the smells warn of what’s still yet to be found.

As you continue through the labyrinthine warren, you’ll begin to find signs of human presence — some of the trashed rooms may be fitted with tables and supplies one might expect to find in a laboratory, meticulously labeled with typewritten strips. Several of these boxes appear to be old, covered in grimy layers of dust, while others are fresh and clean. All of them contain medical supplies. Eagle-eyed investigators might note that the untouched supplies tend to be the type contained in first-aid kits — acetaminophen, antibiotic ointment, simple adhesive bandages — while the ones that have been opened are for heavy duty surgical work — coiled IV lines and tubing, empty syringes, surgical gloves. One room in particular seems to have been fitted out for someone’s personal use, boasting a stripped-down bed, a chair and desk, and a comfortable recliner.

The trickle of water can be heard in the depths of the shelter, and as you emerge from one corridor that filters into a large chamber, it becomes immediately obvious where you are: This is an operating theater, with a table stationed beneath all manner of lights that can be adjusted and moved. A faucet drips monotonously in the back of the room, over a sink stained with blood with bits of grey, pulpy matter stuck in the drain. A bucket filled with blood and viscera ferments on the ground beside it. There are smears of blood, both dried and fresh, on the cloudy tiles, and a cabinet full of surgical instruments is slightly ajar. Looking at the instruments, characters will find that a couple of scalpels and a pair of tongs have dotted blotches where the metal was cleaned with water; whoever used these tools last didn’t dry them before putting them away. A small table near the operating area has a turntable sitting atop it, with a record already set under the needle: a single of Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel.” There are a few other records sitting in the cabinet beneath it, including Big Mama Thornton’s “Hound Dog,” Frank Sinatra’s “Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely,” and James Brown and the Famous Flames’ “Think!”

In a separate area of this room, an oversized desk is piled with books and empty food containers that look as though they’ve been repurposed for one reason or another. These books are chiefly on anatomy and the medical sciences, though there are a number of books on psychology and how the brain functions. Though some of these books are water-spotted and dog-eared, there aren’t any notes written in the margins, nor are there any papers to be found. You can turn this area as much as you'd like, but all you’ll find is a couple empty cigarette boxes and some broken and bitten pens; the trash can next to the desk, filled with soggy ashes, seems to suggest that any papers that might have given you a lead were destroyed before you got here.

But the lab, with all its instruments, isn’t what you came here to find. There’s still at least one more room to be found…

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YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH

CW: gore, surgical trauma, amputation, lobotomy, brainwashing and interrogation, mouth trauma, eye trauma, ear trauma, body horror

The missing are being held in small, sturdy cages in a single room connected to the back of the operating room, dim and dank. The cages are placed equidistant around the room, ensuring that even if you try, you can’t reach out and make contact with your neighbors. The missing will find that they wake at approximately the same time, curled up on the ground in uncomfortable positions. Unlike your rescuers, your nightmare began far earlier than when you first awoke in this room, sore and disoriented. In fact, you could argue it started the moment you went to sleep on February 9th, leaving empty beds and concerned family members behind.

With no clocks or watches available to tell the time, you may not be able to tell how long you’ve been here. You sleep and wake, sometimes to a bowl of what looks like sticky rice lying in your cage that wasn’t there before. Sometimes, an overpowering smell will fill the room, faint at first; by the time you register it, it’s already overwhelmed you and sent you into a deep sleep. And when you wake, one cage will be empty. The inhabitant will be returned the next time you go to sleep and wake up, but not quite the same as they were before. They seem heavily drugged, discombobulated — or perhaps there's something visibly different about them. Whoever has taken you is doing a lot of work in their lab — and from the smell of things, meat work — and before long almost all of you will be sporting dressings of some type or other, fresh red seeping through the sterile cloth within a matter of hours.

Maybe you should try to keep each others’ spirits up. You don’t know how long you’ll be here, after all.

All of this goes on for a while — days, although it won’t be easy to count them given that there are no windows in the room. But nearly a week later… you wake to find that the front of your cage is unlocked. Unlatched. Open just an inch. Looking around the room, you’ll find that yours is not the only cage to have been opened — all of your cages have been unlocked.

Is it a mistake? Or are you really free?

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COME AND PLAY WITH ME

CW: blood and violence

Whether you’ve released yourself from your cage, or were discovered by a well-meaning friend before you could, or you’ve simply had your fill of exploring the shelter-turned-laboratory, the time has finally come to leave. Unfortunately, if things were that easy, you wouldn’t even be around by the time the scuttling sounds begin — somewhere down the hall, in the room behind you, fleeting and sly. It’s not an animal sound, a creature picking its way through the garbage and debris littered around the shelter. No, with the way it stops and starts every time you start and stop walking, this is a very deliberate, human sound. And if you don’t believe that, you’ll see soon enough when you see the naked, bone-white figure walk into view at the end of the hallway as casual as you please, their body smooth and sexless like a department store mannequin. They turn (your) their head and stare directly at you with (your) their wide, glassy eyes crinkled in thousand-yard delight. You hear your voice echoed back at you, airy and chirpy and so indescribably wrong it makes your blood run cold.

"Hi!"

Much like the Doppelgangers you encountered in January, these ones look and move like dolls, their limbs connected with ball-joints. However, whereas those ones were near perfect imitations of you and your friends, these ones look like they just fell off the assembly line. Their faces are unnaturally flat and plastic, like all the imperfections have been ironed out of them, but they are unmistakably yours. And when they open their mouths to squeal at you before running with all the unnatural speed not having a pair of lungs affords them, you’ll find that even their voices are perfect imitations — and not necessarily of your own either.

There’s no way to tell how many of these Doppelgangers are down here with you, hiding in the dark. They’re stealthy and sneaky, only coming out to attack when they’re sure you’re alone. Even if you’re not, they’re intelligent enough to come up with ways to separate you from your group, calling to you from another part of the shelter, mimicking a voice from someone they know you’ll listen to. Even if there’s no possible way they could be in Santa Rosita.

"Help me!"

"Is that you...? Oh thank God, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Please, don't leave me!"

Other times, they’ll take a more aggressive approach, allowing their limbs to pop out of place so they can sprawl on the ground, imitating a heap of discarded doll parts. Once you get close enough or turn your back on them, they’ll pull themselves together and attack, speeding towards you on fours like a crab.

There are two ways out of the shelter. The first one is the hardest: go back the way you came. With the low visibility, the number of Doppelgangers, and the confusing layout of the area, you’re more likely to get turned around and go in circles than you are to find your way back to the ladder — a location made even more difficult to discern since the hatch door has been lowered, blotting out all light from the room above.

The second way is the longest but also the easiest: head deeper into the shelter, past the operating room, through the rooms filled with broken furniture and ruined floors that are very easy to trip on — especially when you’re in the middle of running away. Eventually, you’ll come to another ladder, this one leading to an open hatch that deposits you into a dark passageway. The air up here is more fresh, but not necessarily pleasant smelling. There’s only one way to go — forward.

After what feels like an hour of walking, you’ll see a light at the end of the passage. Follow it and you’ll find yourself exiting a storm drain that drops you into the heart of Old Growth, just outside of West Santa Rosita.

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OOC INFO

Welcome to the second part of February’s event! You can use this entry to top-level for the event, but feel free to utilize the log and network communities as well.

There will be a top-level posted for NPC interaction tied to the second prompt below, wherein you can request to play out your character’s interaction with Harding or Rosemary. If you would like to have your character interact with either one of them, comment to the top-level with the name of the NPC you would like to thread with. You may only thread with one NPC. The mods will respond to NPC tags until February 28th.

Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.

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SETTING INFO	calendar | setting | housing | npcs | death and tranquilizing | the story so far | event suggestions/engagements

Comments

Sans | OTA

[ribticklers]

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.]

That's not yours.

[ribticklers]

[Reserved for additional prompts. Please don't reply to this comment!]

Reunion; closed to Papyrus but Monika and/or Sayori can pop in if they want

[ribticklers]

[Sans doesn't know if it's a shameful thought, seeing a single bit of bone magic he knows so well, to wonder if the doppelgangers are copying magic too. The coil in his chest isn't anywhere near hope. From the angle, that bone came around the corner.

He had a run-in with a Papyrus that wasn't, already. He doesn't know what he's going to do if this is another one with some other piece of him. Regardless, he turns the corner with a fatal sense of inevitability, because he was never going to make another choice once he saw that magic. Still, he guards his trembling soul by being quiet about the approach. His left arm, hastily-bandaged, is raised; magic being thrown around means a fight, regardless of what he sees.]

given the face situation, gonna see a lot of skulls and lost soul sprites

[spaghettimonster]

[If the mannequin dopplegangers are meant as guards to keep them all in the larger cage of these tunnels, they're doing a very good job. Papyrus had thought he was halfway to freedom with a group of the others, but between half-rotten floors, people breaking off to look for the voices calling for help, and a rather panicked chase, he's finding himself alone by the gross lab space again.

Well. Not as alone as he'd like. Just a moment ago he'd thought he heard Undyne's voice of all voices, calling for help in a way that was so unlike her. He'd hesitated, torn between investigating and not falling for another obvious trap, only for the mannequin to ambush him from above anyway.

The flailing limbs tearing at his set his ribcage and face to stabbing pains again, and shoving it off him only gets it so far before it's leaping at him again. There's nothing for it - even though his bone magic's limited, he has to pin it down. The first volley is an unintended warning shot, veering wide from lack of practice and the lingering soreness of his everything, and Papyrus has to dodge out of the way of its lunge himself.]

Nnnn, stop attacking already.

[Even as he complains he wants to grumble even more - his voice is off, and not just from being winded. The stiffness of his face is distorting something about how his lips shape sound. But the mannequin's almost helpful for a moment, tilting its head and chirping back in an even more distorted version of his voice, Have a nice day!

At least he doesn't sound like that, he thinks, and flings another set of three as quickly as he can. One of the bones crashes with a crunch into the mannequin's arm, plastic cracking as the bone goes through.]

surgery is just a roundabout way to use the rest of your icons

[ribticklers]

[This Papyrus--is tired and stiff. Injured is Sans's first thought. And fighting one of those doppelgangers, easy to identify by its distorted mimicry and cracked arm. Papyrus. It's Papyrus. He's alive.

For now. Sans has seen too much in this lab already, and it's more than enough to get an idea as to why Papyrus would be hurt and that, though Sans can't yet see what's been done to Papyrus, would easily be enough to throw him off in a fight. If Sans makes any noise at all, he might distract Papyrus from that thing. Instead, he does the job of pinning the doppelganger down, flinging his arm down toward the ground hard enough his arm throbs faintly and the mannequin falls to the ground under the increased weight.

Sans can't keep that kind of literal pressure up for very long, of course, but it's the fastest way he can think of to make that thing stay in one place.]

the truth is out

[spaghettimonster]

[There's a split second delay before Papyrus reacts, a relieved and baffled sound.]

What? You're blue now...?

[He recognizes what has happened if not how - it's the move he'd wanted to make, the move he'd tried to make. But even if it's a good time for it, if the price of regaining more of his magic was losing some of his body, in the form of ribs and maybe his face... He's not sure he would have made that trade.

Still, he shakes off the surprise enough to take advantage of the opening, letting the broken bone fragment and fade before summoning another set of eight and crashing them down on the prone mannequin with more violent intent than he's maybe ever used in a fight. The head, each limb, and two in the torso for good measure. The bones start crumpling and dissolving with the impact, but the doppelganger's thoroughly damaged.]

skeleton icon party

[ribticklers]

[Sans watches the doppelganger even though he'd rather be looking at Papyrus. Sans is pretty sure that thing isn't getting back up with its limbs wrecked like that--but Sans would definitely call himself the more cautious of the two of them. Sans grips the thing tight and, wincing from the strain of his magic, pitches it as far down the hallway as he can, away from both of them. He's not going to have a lot more of those dramatic sorts of moves in him.

But now--] Papyrus? [Even with Papyrus so obviously right there, Sans's voice is tight with stress and some sense of disbelief. He'd seen something running around with Papyrus's face earlier, and he'd seen the operating room, and so he'd been sure-- But this has to be Papyrus. Papyrus isn't dead. He'd been so sure.]

c

[purplejaguareye]

Sans!

[Kipo comes running, ready to help Sans fend off the doppelganger - but before she can go jaguar mode, it looks like he's already got the situation under control.

... Maybe? Because he's just holding it there and - is that Papyrus' face?]

Sans? ... Are you okay?

[ribticklers]

[Sans's eyes flick in Kipo's direction, but his arm remains locked in place, dripping blood. If he lets go, even without arms, that thing might attack again. Even if it's not on right anymore, it still has--its face is still--

He can't hold it forever. It's a drain on his magic. But he doesn't let go yet.]

I've had better days. [He says it like it's a joke, but there's an undeniable dark current flowing through his tone. It is a joke. The worst joke. His voice only lilts more in that direction, that twist of mirth and darkness.] It's dangerous down here, y'know.

[purplejaguareye]

I’ll be fine.

[She sees Sans struggling, and she can’t imagine seeing one of these things with her parents’ faces on them.

But Sans can’t hold it there forever.]

Let me help you. I can hold it back and you can get back to finding the others.

[ribticklers]

[Does it matter if he finds anyone? He knows that thought is terrible. He knows. It pulses in his mind anyway. This thing has his brother's face. Is there a point to anything he's doing?

Here's another great joke: ultimately, he doesn't know what else to do. Might as well do this, right? What a brave hero. Fine.]

How about on three?

[purplejaguareye]

[Kipo gives a nod. Not the most ideal plan, but what else can they do? Kipo wasn’t counting on dolls that could mimic voices and faces.]

On three.

One...

Two...

[ribticklers]

Three. [Sans drops his hand and the magic at once. The doppelganger drops to the ground and scrambles forward on its legs alone, face sliding off and to the ground. Sans sidesteps the now much-clumsier creature neatly, with steps that are clearly practiced.]

B

[peninhand]

[ Whilst Sans explored this side of the laboratory, Monika rummaged through the books on the other side. Books were her domain, science not so much. So many volumes about psychology and the human brain. And all these hints about what experiments had been conducted here... They've been trying to understand humans. Perhaps not human as in the species, but humanity in the broader sense. Sentient beings sharing certain characteristics. After all, neither she nor Sayori were quite human. Unbeknownst to her, neither were many others amongst their ranks.

That reminded her of Huisang's theory that their "neighbors" may have once been people like them. What if they're trying to understand how to change, alter humans? If true, then... No, it would do no good to linger on the worst.

Monika came back from the other side of the room with two books in hand— One about human anatomy, one about psychology. She'd been putting on a brave face, but she has a hard time hiding just how afraid she is as to Sayori's fate. Seeing all that gore though, it's hard to keep any hope....

She stops next to Sans. He hadn't spoken a lot... Unsurprising, given the stakes. She'd been pretty silent too. ]

Sans... [She lowered her head.] Are we...

[ Are we too late? Before having a chance to finish her sentence, she spotted the blood dripping from Sans' hand on the edge of the sink. Her lips parted and eyes widened with surprise. And he didn't even show so much as a hint of pain... She wondered how close he and Papyrus really were? Probably much closer than she'd ever been to Sayori or anyone in her life. What good would it do him to have someone else add to his worries? This place had seen fit to slot her as an adult. A wife, a mother. Now if ever was the time to act as such. Fake it till you make it.

Thus she rose her head and spoke, this time with a more affirmative and confident tone. ]

... I'm sure Sayori and Papyrus are still alive.

[ribticklers]

[Sans isn't. That reminder, that someone alive is here, is enough to convince him to tear his gaze away from the sink and loosen his grip. His hands sting when he does, and there's some vague surprise to his expression that makes it clear he hadn't noticed what he was doing to them at all until now.

Sans chuckles, all hollow and bitter.] Y'ever heard the strategy where if you don't get your hopes up, you can't get let down later? Didn't work out for me this time.

[He'd dug himself into a hole of low expectations and still ended up with this horrific abyss to fall into.]

[peninhand]

[ She knew that strategy all too well, it had never worked for her. The best way to get her hopes up was always to try keeping them down. Probably reverse psychology or something. She remained silent for a moment, at a loss as to what to say. Were they really dead? All signs pointed to yes, but... ]

The first time I talked to him, I promised Papyrus I'd invite him and his "family" home for dinner.

[ Was this incredibly cliche to bring the "you can't die because of a promise" argument? Yes. Unfortunately, that's all Monika has right now. The alternative is to accept they're all dead and she's not ready for that herself. ]

I still have to make true on that promise. That's why we will rescue him. [She smiles. Tries too. Okay, it's not really a smile, but it resembles one at least.] And Sayori too, then you can bring her and your "family" to the dinner too once this is all over.

[ribticklers]

[Sans is familiar with smiling that isn't real, of course, and he wonders how much hope Monika really has and how much she's just putting on for his benefit. Ultimately that doesn't matter; Sans has always needed people around who do that. He can't believe it himself, but there's something about the effort. And what's true, what he's sure of, is that he can't just leave things here in this awful operating theater.]

Papyrus'd cook something, probably. [He steps back into familiar if shaky territory. It's harder to talk about Papyrus with all these thoughts about what might have happened swirling around, but it reminds Sans why he's here. Even if Papyrus is dead, he hasn't actually seen Papyrus yet. He hasn't seen who did this. There are still things he has to do.] He's been gettin' a lot better at cooking lately.

[peninhand]

Aha, maybe he'll teach me! [Future tense, no giving up on the certainty he is still alive. Even though the short laugh is absolutely forced and joyless.] What's his favorite dish? I'll try to work on that one.

[ Talking about food, that's... Something? Sayori was the one good at lifting people's spirits. Monika was pretty good at hiding her emotions and even inspiring people, but that didn't compare to Sayori's ability to make people smile. She had a gift for it. If she was here, she'd probably find just the right words to cheer Sans up.

If she was here... ]

A

[chromiums]

[ one thing about the sixties is there's no shortage of accessories to match to your outfits. lorna's found a sizable one she's stored a few makeshift weapons in for the time being (mostly knives; she can't control exactly where they go but her aim's always been good regardless of whether or not she was using her powers) and is gathering as many first aid supplies as she can fit alongside those into it.

she hears sans go quiet beside her, but is too focused on getting as many of the supplies to fit into her bag as she can to look over at him until he speaks. she looks down at the box he's uncovered, sees what it contains - or contained - and her eyes darken and narrow. ]

Yeah. We are.

[ a final few adjustments are made, with a couple more bandages tucked in and one of the knives settled so she can easily grab it when she needs to, and then she stands, nodding towards him. ]

Are you ready?

[ribticklers]

Yeah. Who'd wanna stay here longer'n they have to, right? [And on the surface it's a joke about their own situation, of course, but he's thinking about Papyrus and Sayori and everyone else. Days and days down here having who knows what done to them. Lorna had talked about this when they arrived--kidnappings and experiments.

...]

I can do magic. Got a bit of it back. [Sans's gaze lands on one of the syringes in the box and with a flick of his left hand he lifts it into the air as he changes its gravity.] Works on people, but it's harder to do.

[chromiums]

[ she's thinking of them too, of what these missing objects could mean for them and everyone else missing and what could have been done to them in the time they've been gone. she doesn't smile at the joke but her expression softens a little, from furious to empathetic. she knows this has been rough on him, because she's been worried and scared for those missing too, but while she considers their assigned family her people, it's his brother that's been taken.

he mentions having gotten magic back and she watches him demonstrate it, nodding again with a dark smile. ]

I think that'll come in handy. I can sense metal again. Don't know how much good that'll do us, but it's something.

[ribticklers]

Better'n not having it, right? [Sans is very aware of how limited he still feels with most of his magic still cut off, but the blue magic alone is comforting, so he imagines there must be a similar sort of feeling for Lorna.] You could always point out some scalpels for me to throw if it comes to that.

[Which Sans doesn't sound thrilled about, but grimly prepared for. He doesn't really expect to be able to waltz in and retrieve anyone or anything without some resistance.]

[chromiums]

Exactly.

[ to both having something that was theirs back and pointing out the scalpels. those seem to be something that would work better with some control honing their movement. ]

Let's find someone to throw them at. [ and get who they're looking for back, but she doesn't think they'll be able to waltz in and get them out, either. ]

a

[weifinder]

( He says nothing for having ended up in the quieter approach: he's well aware of the difference in being unutterably human at a time where the skills he'd trained two lifetimes worth for would have been better welcome. Moreover, here, he sees things which can hold scant familiarity, though he understands the context: )

These are all medical supplies.

( Murmured, and obvious in some ways, but not others. Like the tubing that Sans pauses by; the knives understandable, the syringes odd. )

What are these things used for.

( His voice is still a murmur, not a whisper: even toned, but nothing of a smile or real confusion in his countenance. All this has him thinking of things that lead to pain and torture. This is not a place of healing. Here, in the dark, with the lights that flicker, this is a place designed like a dungeon for this strange time he finds himself within.

He knows few, if any, of the missing, but he never needed to. This is only more confirmation of what's wrong, and he has to wonder: their poltergeists. Had they died down here, on these tables? Or simply haunted the ones who'd made this den their own? )

A

[bowfaire]

(Claude reassures Sans that he'll be fine when they enter the school. He might be considered just a teenaged child in this town but he can take care of himself. Don't worry! Just watch yourself, old man! He acts confident and almost carefree at first but once they enter, his demeanor becomes more serious and focused.

He keeps close to Sans, careful to not make too much noise. Like his companion, he picks through the medical supplies, taking what he can and shoving them into a canvas bag. Bandages, ointment, and things he only vaguely recognizes from seeing them in the drugstore or another first aid kit around town prior.

When they get to the used supplies, his reaction only changes slightly. Levelheaded as ever, his mouth forms a tight line, and his eyes seem to harden, as he reaches for a used scalpel, thick with dried blood. Combine it with the smell in the air, the condition of the rooms, the tables...

(When he'd first arrived in Santa Rosita, he'd wondered if some experiment had been done to strip him of his Crest. He never could have imagined these experiments though. He still can't.))

I thought this was supposed to be a shelter.

(A safe place. He speaks rhetorically, not really expecting an answer he can't already figure out. Sans is already on the move anyway and Claude follows.)