Look at me still talking when there's science to do (Open Post)

[sansational]

Sans is starting to get a handle on this place. Perhaps more to the point, and more potentially useful, is that he's started to get a handle on its inhabitants. There are a few that he keeps a personal eye on on a semi-regular basis, even if they don't always know it. The rest, he's just made note of their passage and their movements. It's all for professional purposes, of course.

And that means that, when he's finally ready to do so, Sans can make contact with every person currently in the castle, either in-person if he knows them by name or by leaving a note somewhere they'll see it if he doesn't yet. Whether by spoken or written word, the message is nevertheless always the same. It's a request to meet him in the ballroom with the cakes table at a certain time and place. From his observations, it seems to be one of the more stable rooms in the castle, so everyone should be able to find it. 

On the stated day, at the stated time, everyone will...still have to wait five minutes for Sans to pull himself together after a nap, remember what he's supposed to be doing, and suddenly appear inside the room, still in the process of hastily smoothing out his notecards. 

"so, uh, yeah," he says, looking from the assembled residents to the cards and back again. "should probably explain what you're all doing here. so. i'm sure you've all noticed that this castle has got some weird things going on, above and beyond the whole, uh...stealing us from across time and space thing. i'm also assuming that most of you want to go home and won't mind helping me figure out a way to get us there." He gestures at the table. "to do that, i'm gonna need to start testing some of these theories. guesswork is fun, but it doesn't get us anywhere. timing how long it takes this place to reset something seems like a good start. and so this particular experiment runs as cleanly as possible, uh...i'm gonna need your help eating everything on that table. like, all of it. just don't choke on any shiny bits." 

Message delivered, Sans crams the notecards back in his pocket, and spreads his arms in silent indication for everyone to dig in. 

((ooc: Post comments for your characters that can be replied to, and mingle as you see fit! Eat, drink, be merry, have food fights, and try to be sick outside!))

Comments

[antitemporal]

"oh." Sans-Serif frowns in faint discomfort at this idea. "i don't know what that is. the scientists don't...didn't like it when i talk back." Which is what him having an opinion was always classified as. "or...when i talk." Though he's spoken with Frisk and S-4 enough to be reassured that this is not a dream, that he's really here and away from the lab, the soul is proving a little slow to catch up with the mind.

But that, at least, is an easy question to answer. Sans-Serif even unconsciously draws himself up a little straighter, coming to attention as best as he can at his size. "i am the anti-temporal interference unit." He rattles the name off with the air of well-memorized rote, before settling a little. "but 'sans-serif' is shorter. so everyone calls me that." So Mettaton can call him that, too.

"you're from the underground, too."

[mediadarling]

Sans-Serif, hmm? He glances Sans' way--the other Sans' way--before returning his attention to the small skeleton before him. My, my. What a plot twist.

"Was from the underground, darling," he corrects, but not unkindly. "I live on the surface now, and so do all the other monsters--in my time, at least."

He drops to one knee to be able to see 'Sans-Serif' properly. "I'm afraid you've come to quite the strange place. Though you could probably already tell that much."

[antitemporal]

Sans is currently on the other side of the room. Almost deliberately so. He looks up as the robot looks over at him, meets Mettaton's gaze, and gives a little shake of his head. Yes, he knows. Just be nice.

Sans-Serif, meanwhile, is entirely distracted by the robot's claims. He audibly gasps, lunging forward a little to grab onto Mettaton's hands. Questions come tumbling out.

"what's the surface like? does my brother live there? what about the resets?"

[mediadarling]

The feeling of bones closing over his hands is a startling one, to say the least, but effective. At once, his attention is fully focused on this Sans. He's really nothing more than a child, is he? And a horribly mistreated one at that.

"Slow down, darling, let me get a word in edgewise," he says gently. "The resets are finished--they'll never happen again." Frisk gave their word, and Mettaton would trust them with his life, his career, and even his family. "Your brother is very happy on the surface, and so are you.

"As for what it's like...." He smiles without realising it. "Well. Where should I even begin?"

[antitemporal]

"i'm on the surface, too?" This, more than anything, seems the point that Sans-Serif seizes on as the most surprising. He is...starting to believe that Frisk is capable of being believed in. The fact that his brother is happy is too much of a relief to be easily disbelieved. But the idea that he would go on existing when his purpose ceased to...

...but he is talking a lot. More than he usually does in one go. And he's not asking very good questions. A waste of time is a waste of progress. Sans-Serif bows his head and slumps a little, looking chastised.

"...just tell me if it's nice?"

[mediadarling]

Oh, now, this is heartbreaking.

Slowly, he pulls a hand free from Sans-Serif's grasp, but only so he can set his fingers beneath Sans-Serif's chin and lift it with the greatest of gentleness.

"Darling, it's better than any of us could ever have imagined," he says softly.

[antitemporal]

Sans-Serif doesn't protest the movement. He looks doubtful for a moment, though, like he expects a lecture about talking too much. Or talking at all. Or wasting time in general. But then he sees that Mettaton is smiling, and he returns the smile quite happily.

"dr. gaster reads us stories. so i've seen pictures of outside. like the sky. and grass." Not that grass is terribly hard to find even in the Underground, but Sans-Serif's experience hasn't really allowed even for that much. "but..."

And here he falters for a moment, pulling away from Mettaton just enough to look around. He spots Frisk at a safe distance away, still safe, but still cautiously shrinks a little against Mettaton anyway.

"...is frisk there, too?"

[mediadarling]

Feeling Sans-Serif huddle against him, Mettaton opens his free arm in a welcoming circle, in case the poor scared dear feels the need to hide a little more. He's not quite sure what's going on here, but Sans-Serif's reaction positively blares fear, and that means it's time to be careful.

"Yes, darling," he says. "They've been the greatest friend monsterkind has ever known. It's thanks to them that we're all living on the surface now."

[antitemporal]

Okay. This is good. This is better. Mettaton is very tall, and casts a very safe sort of shadow. Sans-Serif likes small, dark spaces, and so he finds himself taking the offered opportunity to hide a little more.

"yeah. that's what the other me and s-4 said." He mumbles this against Mettaton's side. He almost lifts his head to glance at Frisk again, but seems to decide against it. "so i'm really glad i didn't kill them."

[mediadarling]

Fully aware of how strange this is, he sets his arm around Sans-Serif's tiny shoulders. Anything to make his situation less overwhelming for the poor child.

...Of course, then Sans-Serif talks about killing Frisk, and if he had any blood, it would be running as cold as Snowdin's river.

"So am I, darling," he says. All the acting talent in the world can't keep the strain from his voice. "They're the most wonderful human I've ever met--and let me tell you, sweetheart, I've met a lot--so they wouldn't have deserved it even a bit."

[antitemporal]

"why would you have killed frisk?" He risks peering curiously up at Mettaton, but at least curiosity feels better than anxiety, along with being just as familiar.

Except, while Sans-Serif might not have a lot of life experience, he's not bad at quickly putting pieces together. He knows enough about the state of his own creation to be pretty sure that, for all the many shapes and sizes monsters can manifest in, they're not usually metal, and they don't usually hum inside.

"did scientists make you to kill humans, too?"

[mediadarling]

He opens his mouth, his "origin story" ready to roll off his tongue. But as he looks down at the child sheltering against him, he finds he just--can't. Confronted with a monster who really was created to be a human-killing machine, the tale suddenly seems to be...in poor taste.

"...No, darling," he says instead. He bends his head just a little. "Can you keep a secret?"

[antitemporal]

Sans-Serif's eyesockets widen curiously. He finds himself standing up on his toes a little. "yeah." He doesn't think he's ever been asked to keep a secret before. A lot more people are talking to him than usual, but he thinks he can manage that much. "what is it?"

[mediadarling]

He lowers his voice. It's not entirely for show. "I used to be a ghost."

[antitemporal]

"oh." He nods as though this all makes perfect sense to him, settling back properly onto his feet, still staring thoughtfully up at Mettaton.

It takes him a second to think what he wants to ask next, which turns out to be: "why aren't you a ghost anymore? don't other monsters like ghosts? now you can't walk through doors." He doesn't really have much experience one way or another, with such monsters. The only reason Sans-Serif knows what a ghost is is that one of the scientists had been a ghost. He'd never used doors.

[mediadarling]

"Oh, other monsters have no problem with ghosts--at least, not the ones that I've met. But there's a lot more to life than being able to walk through doors." He raises a leg and points his toes. "I wanted legs, darling. I wanted to be a star! You probably haven't had time to notice this yet, sweetheart, but most stars? Have fantastic legs."