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the last goodbye.
Jul. 2nd, 2017 10:45 pmIt's a beautiful day outside.
Probably, anyway. Not that there's much of an outside down here, given that they're being slipped from place to place by the gods, or parasites, or whatever it is people call 'em these days. Don't matter much, in the end. His sockets are atypically heavy, today, a weight unspoken mantled across his shoulders, weighing heavily in the back of his skull.
He's tired.
Not tired enough to Fall Down, but there's a peculiar static tingling in the air, clinging to the tips of his phalanges, coating his SOUL in an oil slick of something like sickness.
It's a beautiful day, and he's tired. The scent of the pollen, the way the motes swirl, suspended in the air - there's a certain appeal to that, even down here. His gift wasn't a hit, but it wasn't a complete miss. And consequently, the golden flowers that blanket sections of the orchard now have come something of a favored spot of his.
He settles down at the base of one tree. He sits.
Hard to believe it's been over a year since he ended up down here. Over a year, and there's a heavy burn that itches across his ribcage, a long, diagonal slash where the blade of a Knife bit into him and reduced him to dust. A parting laugh, a bright streak of red across his front, coating the floor, and he'd aimed one last wry, low blow as he shuffled off his mortal coil. Linearity was distressingly difficult as an adjustment, and it still is, some days.
He tries not to think of what's changed. Only, like he does with most things he attempts, he soon gives up. The effort necessary ain't worth it.
So he thinks of a lot of people.
He thinks of Newton Geiszler - malnourished, scarred, brilliant, who had an ease of laughter and of so much worse. He thinks of Hermann Gottlieb, with his xeric disdain and his profound, scathing exasperation and his profound ability to consistently apply a couple hundred words to a problem that only required ten. He thinks of Arya, coughing up blood, scared for her life, trembling as he tried to ensure that, at the very least, she wasn't alone when she lost her mind.
He thinks of Emily, of Faith, of Crow, of Miriam, of Nick Rivenna. People who liked his jokes, who rolled their eyes, who shook their heads in exasperation, or simply knew how to laugh. He thinks of Tina, who'd disappeared with barely a whisper. He thinks of Warrick, with his artificial heart and his apparent faith in Sans to be better than he, for all intents and purposes, had the capacity to be. He thinks of Asriel, a talking flower that was guilty until proven innocent, and he thinks of the leaden shackles that must have tied him to his sins, right up until the very end. He thinks of Undyne and her undying optimism to her fierceness, her very nature. He thinks of Camille, the dimples of her smile and her chirpy call of "bluebird!" He thinks of Connor, his wry humor and his cold refusal to accept and excuse the murder of a child. He thinks of Andrea Quill, her ironclad bent. He thinks of Jacob, and of Ned, and their streaks of humor miles long.
He thinks of Papyrus. Always, he thinks of Papyrus.
They're gone now. All of them, long gone.
His sockets have slid shut. It might be psychosomatic, that ache running down the length of him. It might be vaguely fatidic.
It's a beautiful day outside.
Sans chuckles to himself, and he smiles.
And soon, the patch of flowers is empty.
--
Upon searching Sans's room, one may find that it's not truly empty. The racecar bed is still there, as is the beanbag chair Sans has been sleeping upon since Papyrus vanished. But beneath the bed is a collection of small parcels and notes, each labeled by name.
Someone else will have to deliver them. Sans was...entirely too lazy, you see, to see them forwarded through upon the event of his departure.
Thank you. He'll say goodbye now.
Probably, anyway. Not that there's much of an outside down here, given that they're being slipped from place to place by the gods, or parasites, or whatever it is people call 'em these days. Don't matter much, in the end. His sockets are atypically heavy, today, a weight unspoken mantled across his shoulders, weighing heavily in the back of his skull.
He's tired.
Not tired enough to Fall Down, but there's a peculiar static tingling in the air, clinging to the tips of his phalanges, coating his SOUL in an oil slick of something like sickness.
It's a beautiful day, and he's tired. The scent of the pollen, the way the motes swirl, suspended in the air - there's a certain appeal to that, even down here. His gift wasn't a hit, but it wasn't a complete miss. And consequently, the golden flowers that blanket sections of the orchard now have come something of a favored spot of his.
He settles down at the base of one tree. He sits.
Hard to believe it's been over a year since he ended up down here. Over a year, and there's a heavy burn that itches across his ribcage, a long, diagonal slash where the blade of a Knife bit into him and reduced him to dust. A parting laugh, a bright streak of red across his front, coating the floor, and he'd aimed one last wry, low blow as he shuffled off his mortal coil. Linearity was distressingly difficult as an adjustment, and it still is, some days.
He tries not to think of what's changed. Only, like he does with most things he attempts, he soon gives up. The effort necessary ain't worth it.
So he thinks of a lot of people.
He thinks of Newton Geiszler - malnourished, scarred, brilliant, who had an ease of laughter and of so much worse. He thinks of Hermann Gottlieb, with his xeric disdain and his profound, scathing exasperation and his profound ability to consistently apply a couple hundred words to a problem that only required ten. He thinks of Arya, coughing up blood, scared for her life, trembling as he tried to ensure that, at the very least, she wasn't alone when she lost her mind.
He thinks of Emily, of Faith, of Crow, of Miriam, of Nick Rivenna. People who liked his jokes, who rolled their eyes, who shook their heads in exasperation, or simply knew how to laugh. He thinks of Tina, who'd disappeared with barely a whisper. He thinks of Warrick, with his artificial heart and his apparent faith in Sans to be better than he, for all intents and purposes, had the capacity to be. He thinks of Asriel, a talking flower that was guilty until proven innocent, and he thinks of the leaden shackles that must have tied him to his sins, right up until the very end. He thinks of Undyne and her undying optimism to her fierceness, her very nature. He thinks of Camille, the dimples of her smile and her chirpy call of "bluebird!" He thinks of Connor, his wry humor and his cold refusal to accept and excuse the murder of a child. He thinks of Andrea Quill, her ironclad bent. He thinks of Jacob, and of Ned, and their streaks of humor miles long.
He thinks of Papyrus. Always, he thinks of Papyrus.
They're gone now. All of them, long gone.
His sockets have slid shut. It might be psychosomatic, that ache running down the length of him. It might be vaguely fatidic.
It's a beautiful day outside.
Sans chuckles to himself, and he smiles.
And soon, the patch of flowers is empty.
Upon searching Sans's room, one may find that it's not truly empty. The racecar bed is still there, as is the beanbag chair Sans has been sleeping upon since Papyrus vanished. But beneath the bed is a collection of small parcels and notes, each labeled by name.
Someone else will have to deliver them. Sans was...entirely too lazy, you see, to see them forwarded through upon the event of his departure.
Thank you. He'll say goodbye now.
