matt. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
meatbrained) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dankmemes2016-09-19 06:40 pm
meatbrained) wrote in dankmemes2016-09-19 06:40 pm
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how it works:
i. post a comment with the characters you play.
ii. go around and prompt other players with a 5 + 1 prompt (e.g. "Five times Hope said sorry and one time he didn't")
iii. write a fic for the prompts people leave you!
iv. enjoy your fic? we hope?
...and the one time he really didn't.
"Okay!" says Sans, clapping his bony hands together in a crisp, too-bright movement. "Who wants to go first, huh?"
Every one of 'em exchanges looks with each other, not a single one wanting to be the guy to step up to the plate. They don't wanna take responsibility? All right. That's fine.
Sans trains his stare on the first one that makes unintended eye contact, the lights in his sockets faded and flinted.
"Start from the beginning," he says cheerfully.
The bastard looks like he wants to do anything but, but Sans waits him out, unblinking, merciless, refusing to look away, until finally they start to speak, slow and halting.
"W-we, um," says the fidgety son of a bitch, twiddling their claws, "we were just a-adjusting the circuit boards, and we didn't realize th-that, um. That, that kid, you know, who likes help around here?"
"I know the kid," Sans says mildly. "And I know the doc said you weren't supposed to let 'em in anymore. Real funny how you all seemed for forget, huh?"
What little momentum his informant seems to have bought for himself stutters and dies. They look away. No one else seems eager to take their place.
All right. That's fine. He's got everything he needs to fill in the copious blanks.
"You re-calibrated the circuit boards," says Sans, piecin' together the narrative in real time. "You miscalculated. And someone just happened to be the collateral damage, huh? That someone bein' the kid who, as I'm sure you don't need remindin', shouldn't've even been here in the first place."
He smiles.
"Am I getting warm?"
"W-we didn't mean - " one of the braver assistants starts up, spluttering and defiant, abruptly locating their courage.
He doesn't need to raise his voice. He don't need to do much of anything. He keeps talking, and the room is plunged into silence. Hah, yep. They sure feel bad for what they've done now, huh?
"You didn't mean it," says Sans. "Well, why don't we tell the kid's parents, huh? Let 'em know that it's all good, sorry their kid got vaporized or demolecularized or whatever the hell it is you did to 'em, but it's <>okay because you didn't mean it."
"That's not - "
Sans laughs.
"I don't care," he says, the words heavy and sick and vibrating with somethin' he doesn't wanna put a name to. "I really don't. But I'll tell ya this: I'm not gonna be the one that tells 'em."
A few of 'em blanch. One of 'em who doesn't look physiologically capable of blanching flattens their ears.
"I don't care how you all figure it out," he says, and his smile grows wider and wider and there's an icy edge to the way he sweeps every one of 'em with his look. "Draw straws. Flip a coin."
His eyes go dark.
"Figure it out."
And then he's gone.
Not like that kid is, heh. Nah, he's just up and walkin' out the door, the old-fashioned way. All he can do now is hope - and he hates hope, really he does, "hope" is just another, happier word for "delusion" - that wherever that poor kid is now, they ain't aware of their state of being.
That would be a cruelty he can't even imagine.
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