She's not dangerous. He realizes it with a lurching feeling of shock, as they shamble nearer. She's...horrible, and sad, in the way that death and sickness and despair itself are horrible and sad. But that's...that's not it's fault.

He takes a step nearer to her, trying to get near enough to be visible through the fog, trying to look them in...what seem to be the most defined set of eyes.

"no. i'm...i'm not doctor alphys. i'm not the one who usually takes care of you. she isn't here...yet...either. but i...i can still try and help you." How, or even if that's possible, he has no possible idea. But Sans buries his fists in his pockets, and forces himself to carry on: "i want to try and help you. okay?"