Sans would’ve groaned if he had the strength, and yet finds he doesn’t. Or, more like, doesn’t have anything to groan with. He feels like he’s gotten stuck in a teleport, sensations, sounds, and textures all rushing by him — the buzz of fluorescent lights, the clicking of keys, the smell of coffee, the feel of cardboard — until they all…drain away. They pass by him in clattering rackets of broken sound he feels on fast-fading bones, zipping away into the black. The dark is all that’s left, a black screen — and he only knows it’s a screen due to the hum of pixels — filling his vision top-to-bottom, like he’s had putty stuffed in his eye-sockets. Not that he can feel them.

White words, black screen. How minimalistic. They type out naturally, not like automatic text being displayed, but like a person typing in real time, occasionally backspacing to correct itself. Sans doesn’t have the energy to reply — this is exactly like being stuck in a teleport, including the power drain. He feels like his bones are made of lead, his skull stuffed full of sticky cotton wads. Or it would be, if he still had his skull. 

Sans’s mind reflexively turns into a mental wall of spikes, his brain curling up like a porcupine as the black screen glitches. F’off, is the clear message, the mental equivalent of smacking someone’s hand away with an entire Iron Maiden on a ball and chain. The white text shudders, and sans feels a pang of satisfaction through the discomfort. That blocked it out. Hopefully. He still doesn’t have the energy to really care. 

It is, notably, not a question.

Sans ignores the Y/N presented to him, and checks his soul is still there — yup, still good — before attempting to actually Check this thing. This, predictably, has no results. With an internal sigh of resignation, sans swivels a mental spotlight onto the white text, extending his focus toward it. He’s pretty experienced with telepathy in general — it’s the only way some monsters can communicate — and his attention soon focuses into a singular point, a single thought slipping from his mental wall of spikes.  

*i never know what’s going on.

His words echo out soundlessly, and sans is relieved to find it has little drain on him. The text shudders again, and there’s silence for a long minute, a literal ellipsis typing out in the silence. Whatever is talking to him, that surprised it. It better be, because sans was certainly surprised to wake up without a body, and he’s the slightest bit bitter about that. 

 

Sans’s mind shifts, the spikes roiling. He’s never been just ‘his mind’ — but he has, unfortunately , had his soul absorbed before, and this is a bit like that. He’s grateful theres no maniacal flower in the background this time, but sans can’t help but feel unnerved at the emptiness in its place. He tries to flex his hand; it isn’t there. The signals shoot sparingly off into the emptiness, sans shuddering with discomfort as he wonders where his bones even went . Can he just not feel them? No, he knows what that’s like — This is emptier. This is like being trapped inside his own head and forced out of it at the same time, and sans, understandably, hates it with every facet of his being. Is this what his father felt like? In the void? Because if so, that’s just a whole new layer of horrible…ugh.

*I’ve never had somebody probe my brain, so congratulations, we’re all confused together.

 

Sans bristles, and the spikes get slightly sharper. He’s really trying to make his discomfort as apparent as possible here, considering he feels like a spectator to each and every moment his atoms are ripped apart and smashed back together again. It’s not painful, just overwhelmingly, horribly uncomfortable. Like his soul wants to retch it’s guts out into the darkness.

*yeah, well, i ain’t havin’ fun, so as long as you’re here, you’d better be useful. 

 

 

*what was that voice talking about, saying he was gonna ‘reset’?

Sans is in far too much discomfort to be polite. He’s in too much discomfort to think properly. Literally, most of his thoughts are dedicated to keeping that barrier up, an internal chant of “go screw yourself”  on repeat, vibrating out into the darkness. Everything else is squished up in the space behind, like cows in a clown car. Still, he manages well enough — Believe it or not, this kind of thing happens a lot, and by this point he’s got it down to a formula: Ask simple, leading questions, then grab anyone who seems to be willing to help and get to work not dying. It’s worked so far, and he’s not about to deviate from It now.

The text pauses, as if hesitating, and the cursor blinks idly in the void for a long moment. 

Several words start typing, then delete themselves. ‘Benefa’ ‘creat’ and even ‘god’ appear, but each delete, until whatever entity sans is talking to finally settles on a term. 

Sans can’t exactly laugh in his own head, but the message gets across anyway — a starburst of “ bruh you thought—?” Bubbling out from behind his mental barriers. So even this weirdo doesn’t know everything! Sans is slightly comforted by this, the mental spikes dulling for a moment before resharpening themselves.

*nah, i came here myself. crashed actually. but you still haven’t answered my question.

 

Sans sends out the feeling of a noncommittal shrug, his simmering mind settling back again. He still occasionally snorts, sending out a few spare spark-like flashes of amusement, and the black screen glitches — flickers of the mind beyond bubbling through. It’s too dark and muffled to feel much of anything, which Sans takes note of — it seems to glitch every time he sends out something non-text. Interesting, and possibly useful…

*bucko, I just miss having arms. suck it up.

 

Sans’s mind shudders as it settles back into the void, the bristles and glass-shards of his defenses twitching and rotating absently as his thoughts churn beneath their surface. He hasn’t gotten the best impression of this entity so far, what with the whole ‘abducting him and forcing him to exist as a bodiless presence’ thing…but at least they do seem reasonable.

Sans’s mind spits laugher once again, the image of an amused snort rippling out into the darkness, and prompting another flicker.

*i think I like him then. better than you, to be specific.

Oh, wait, yeah, he actually does want that.

*right, yep, shuttin’ up.

Sans is quiet for a long time. Dread coils in thick plumes between his ribs — or the echoes of them — the trauma of years upon years of resets weighing on his neck. It feels like numbness, cold and instant, and — were he capable of it — it would’ve wiped the smile right off his face. So it’s like that then. The dread darkens to spite, snarling like thorns — it’s just so great to know that special little phenomenon stretches to other planes as well, where it can ruin other people’s lives, and cause more problems, and be generally frustrating. What makes it worse is that in this stars-damned place, it’s not even tied to a singular person…which is problematic, because his machine runs on a jury-rigged SAVE file on crack, and he can’t load that properly (“properly” - nothing about the machine is “proper”) if he’s constantly being overruled. 

 

To put it simply, sans is utterly fucked , and he knows it.

*i have exactly three questions.

Sans extends his own mind forward, probing around for another soul to lock onto — no more games. This is much more serious than he thought it was, and he wants to talk properly — but the white text shifts, drawing back. He’s not sure it’s intentional, but Sans is suddenly aware of the cavernous gulf between them. Whoever this is, it’s far away. Very, very far. 

Not that it’s ever stopped him before.

Sans only barely resists the urge to reply with haha funny cus I definitely don’t, gritting his metaphorical teeth and forcing himself to think it through. They haven’t exactly been hostile, not yet… like paps always says, sans tells himself, keep an open mind.

*alright then. one: where are you.

 

Sans twitches uncomfortably, his mind flickering to darker concepts. Dark, numb, and very cold definitely sounds like the void — or at least a void. Something deep in sans’s mind flinches at that thought, that the person he’s talking to could be a Goner, just like his father had been. Like his aunt had been. Like Oben had been… That sounds depressing, he very nearly replies, but again bites back on it. 

* two: I don’t actually know what a ‘proctor’ is, so, you’ll have to elaborate. for example, can I punch him.

* hypothetically.

 

Sans is very much not talking in hypotheticals. If he can punch something, he can usually blast something, and that’s usually a pretty effective way to solve problems.

* nope. better get used to it, new pal!

Are they a pal? Sans has no clue. He…hopes so? They haven’t exactly gotten off to a great start…not that he really helped make it one to begin with. Sans has never really been the trusting type like his father, and definitely not like paps. It frustrates him sometimes, how it comes so easy to them. But hey, he leaves it well alone, and usually paps is there to reign him in anyway…

If sans has ears, they’d prick up.

 

*wonderful. just great. mr.zesty eldrich thespian is shy?

 

Sans considers this for a moment. It’s not exactly unusual for people to wanna question him about his general everything, and he supposes it can’t hurt…

*one question.

Please be an easy question please be an easy question please —

As eloquently as possible: shite.

* ouf, can I come back to that one? It’s gonna take a while, n’ I don’t have a while on my hands right now.

*alright back to me then — third question: who even are you, anyway? got a name?

The pause is long, then longer, then concerningly long. 

* you, uh, good there?

Sans asks eventually, beginning to worry he’s actually offended them so much they bailed entirely. He needs to get back before his dad has a heart attack, or papyrus for that matter — sans promised him he’d be on time. He ( now this certainly isn’t a sentence you’ve read before… ) hates breaking promises, not to mention his father will probably A: punch a hole in space, or B: convince someone else to punch a hole in space for him, in response. If Lawrence catches him breaking human laws of space time again, his brain is probably going to explode. 

Well, that’s not concerning at all. 

How long is a while? How was he brought here? Sans is rapidly realizing he definitely has more than three questions, and that this is definitely going to be a longer visit. Why? Why must it always end up being a longer visit? First the weird mini-asriel in the green hat, then the eyeball fish, the place with all the bugs with swords, prunsel…

Sans’s attention is suddenly and wholly back on the screen in front of him, the text shuddering as his focus shines on it like a floodlight. He has got to stop doing that.

Sans hesitates for a moment, his mind turning over on itself like kneading dough. 

Yeah, this is definitely starting to sound familiar. 

He’s been discreetly stretching his magic further and further into the emptiness, reaching to see if he can even find this thing. Now, he finally snags something — some dim flicker of a…consciousness. The farther back a timeline branches from, the less likely it is physics, or magic, will work as they should, and sans has found these “dim impressions” to be pretty common as a stand-in for souls. However, this one is…Sans can’t figure out what he’s looking at. Were he to equate it to a sensation, most souls feel like warm plastic; this is more like cold glass. A lot of cold glass, shifting and ephemeral. Much like, for lack of a word, a barrier between him and whatever it is that holds him here. Technically impossible— the amount of mental energy required to uphold something this solid is frankly ridiculous to think about— But, still kinda cool. And weird. And possibly filling his limited mental space with more theories than he can manage at the moment.

* hey. I know I said it was only three questions—

 

 

Sans grimaces, briefly wondering how he’d explain the concept of “another universe” to a being that’s been stuck in sensory nothing for Angel knows how long. They definitely would’ve missed Bill and Ted, and that’s kinda sans’s go-to for explaining this stuff.

*look. fine. imm’a be straight with you — where I came from is damn hard to explain, and I’ll tell you right now, i definitely ain’t human.

*you were right when you said I wasn’t from around here.

The soul-adjacent-barrier-magic- thingamajig twitches, sans’s magic still hovering just within sensing distance, but not close enough to be sensed. He’s been analyzing it in the back of his mind during the past few minutes, and he’s concluded — yup, that glass is definitely thin enough to break through. He’s wagering they don’t even know they have the defenses up in the first place, but if sans could only get a Check on them, he could probably make this a whole lot more bareable for the both of them.

it asks, in equal parts suspicion and intrigue. Sans is beginning to sense its tone now, dim impulses reverberating through the soul-adjacent-barrier-magic-thingamajig he really needs to come up with a better name for.

*well, im a skeleton, for one. also magic is real where I’m from.

Sans receives the usual incredulous silence, and busies himself with finding a nice, unobtrusive weak point. Man this thing is huge…Sans spreads his magic out flat, the action apparently completely unnoticed — he stretches it out as far as he can, feeling for the edges, and finding none. Oh well, doesn’t matter anyway, he can still slice riiiight through it…

 

*haha, don’t worry, I’m not pullin’ rabbits out of hats.

Sans definitely got something this time — a hoarse scoff, very faint. But there is something behind there. He stifles a grin — this is going to be very interesting.

 

*well, teleportation is a thing. doesn’t seem to work here, buuuuut…

Sans does not bother to stifle his grin this time, his barriers dropping as the full scale of his magic unfolds into the silence. 

 …I can do this.

 

‘432’ doesn’t even get a chance to react, before sans has sliced a neat hole out of the blackness. The shriek of indignation they produce is nearly audible as text races over the screen, but sans holds them at metaphorical arms length much the same way one might a rabid child, his magic flowing through a familiar sea of zero one — so this is a binary universe, interesting — a more familiar narrator speaking to him: that of his own world. Poor guy has been dragged a lot of places by sans, and the emphemeral voice is understandably quite weary.

 

Timekeeper/432/SettingsUI

 

[Data Abstracted]

[Data Abstracted] 

Hp: 0

 

*Genderless entity currently lacking their body. Smells like wood shavings and apple shampoo.

 

Sans is honestly surprised that even worked. He politely holds 432’s rambling threads of internal screaming together, drawing his magic back out from the Check and cataloging the information for later. He neatly ties a few reasonably productive trains of thought together, all the while holding the now thousand-character long “ AAAAAAAAAA” of confusion currently trying to ram its way into his mind juuust out of “owie” range. He wearily corrals the screaming back into its respective place in 432’s psyche — man, they really just collapsed in a heap once he activated the check — and forms a proper telepathic connection, before seeing himself out. 

Sans breathes a sigh of relief as his mental space expands, filling up the emptiness with his usual inner rambling and neatly matching 432’s chaotic, unguarded thought paths. He politely stays out of the unprotected mental cogs and wheels (it’s common courtesy, after all) and waits for 432 to pull themselves together. It’s all very businesslike, if a bit more manual than he’s used to, but sans doesn’t mind. 432, however, certainly seems to. 

Speaking of 432, they’d probably be yelling at him, but the ephemeral representation of themselves is currently writhing on the floor of the headspace sans made for them both, and also doesn’t seem to have a mouth. Interesting design choices.

 

“well,” 

 

sans comments, now inhabiting a much more comfortable mental representation of himself, currently floating cross legged in the blackness. This mental representation just so happens to be swigging Kool Aid from a hip flask, and in pajamas. His brother had said to “try some variety!” Though…this probably isn’t what he meant.

“that was melodramatic. you feelin’ okay there, foursie?”

Sans asks, nicknaming 432 on the spot. He takes a dignified sip of this-doesn’t-have-a-singe-natural-ingredient slurry, and waves around him at the nice, confined darkness now letting them chat on equal footing.

“I mean, c’mon, this is so much better than what you had goin’ on. n’i thought you weren’t new to the whole telepathy thing.”

 All he gets in response is a disgruntled mismash of consonants that very well could be a verbalized keysmash, and sans laughs, prompting a shudder from the blob of void on the floor.

“Youu ba—“ the blob growls, “—b- bastard .”

Sans nods in agreement, taking another swig.

“fair. I’m guessin’ you’ve got no idea on how to manifest a couch in here, eh?”

432 just bubbles up an undignified screech, and sans winces. He was expecting them to pull themselves together by now, but it’s only just occurring to him they might not actually…know how. He frowns (he can actually do that here) and shrugs, stepping right out of the metaphorical air and walking over to “Foursie.”

“…or yourself, i take it…” 

He mumbles, nudging 432 with one foot. They just gargle up something resembling an insult, which flops spectacularly considering it’s an…ahem, biological insult, and sans has no biology. Literally. Nothing down there.

“D-doon’t…” 432 struggles for a moment, shifting, “ rrmenmber. ”

Sans’s metaphorical eyebrows raise — they don’t remember what they looked like? Huh…sans shrugs, remembering the computer screen from beforehand. He focuses, 3D-modeling it in his head (that is to say right in front of him) and dropping it off right on top of 432. An old analog television — on other words, a big block of a machine that may or may not produce radiation when overcharged and probably might electrocute you, if it feels like it. Perfect for 432’s stunning charisma and outrageous charm.

“use that. all you gotta do is accept the thought, rethink it, and bam! body for you.”

Sans explains, polishing off his kool aid and flopping back onto a couch he just thought up.  Foursie vibrates as an angry ball of hatred for a few more moments, before begrudgingly compressing themselves into the angry-looking gray plastic monstrosity sans thought up for them. The screen flickers, a low hum filling the shared mind space as static crawls over the pixels. The very dim shape of a pair of low-polygon eyes squint out from inside, the irises flicking around until they lock on sans. The eyes widen. Sans grins.

 

“I can… See you.”

 

The eyes squint.

 

“ Stars you're ugly.”

 

432 remarks, with a proper voice this time. Its androgynous enough to actually be impressive — humans tend to struggle with that, don’t they? — and Sans shoots them a lone fingergun from the couch, now sipping from a juice box, pear-flavored. When humans talk about “drinking habits” they tend to mean alcohol, but sans? Nah, he prefers stuff that actually tastes good. 

“right back at’cha,” 

sans replies, smile curling upwards. He twirls the juice box round and round, his thoughts humming quietly behind the walls of this cozy little construct. It’s a warm sort of darkness, like staring up into the sky on a humid summer night. 

“You were the one who made me go into…this . So, you’re responsible.”

432 growls, the eyes flicking back and forth around the warmer dark that makes up this space. Sans just shrugs, taking another sip. He sinks back into the plush of the couch (much better than the one at home — he should do telepathy more) and keeps his eyes on 432 as they experiment, spreading their consciousness around the space. He wonders if they know he can sense every second of it — they probably think they’re being sneaky or something, but for sans, it’s much like being repeatedly poked. It’s almost funny how amateurish they are, clumsily fumbling their way around, prodding his consciousness and just being very loud with their suspicions about him. He can practically feel it dripping off them, the chant of can’t trust other foreign off not trust don’t trust, rattling behind their hidden thought paths. Though, that’s not unusual. He’s probably radiating the exact same thing.

“…How did you even do any of that?”

432 asks after a while, their low-poly eyes squinting at him suspiciously from inside the television.

“What are you?”

Sans sighs, then takes a deep breath, flipping himself over on the couch so he’s staring at 432 upside-down. Despite his undignified position, he keeps a perfectly level expression, his grin receding slightly. 

“what i am s’a skeleton monster. fusejaw type —“ sans taps his closed mouth, and the row of fused teeth. “—and the names sans . sans MS, if y’wanna be formal, but…don’t actually be formal, m’kay?”

432, somehow, nods their eyes. The suspicion tempers slightly as they squint at him, obviously expecting him to continue. Sans resists the urge to sigh. Ugh.

“…my universe of origin is…well we call it 0.1, cus it’s ours, but, y’know.”

Sans waves a hand around vaguely, and the eyes narrow even further.

“…so now you’re from another universe.” 432 grumbles, as if under their breath. “…I suppose that makes sense — this hellscape can’t possibly exist in the real world.”

Sans just nods.

He gets the feeling this is going to be a long conversation.

 

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