I used to write this under my old alias, so this is a repost. Check my profile for more info!
Induratize - to harden the heart towards a person, a feeling, or even just the entire concept of love itself.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sans knows things used to be different.
There was a time, long ago perhaps, when their lives were not resigned to merely survival of the fittest.
(And he's not only talking about the underground in general, but also his own, personal life.)
He remembers vaguely a house in the big city, a safe heaven amidst the swirling chaos of New Home. He remembers going to school and playing with his brother. He remembers the feeling of being at ease.
But then Sans considers these thoughts more thoroughly and comes to the conclusions they can't be real. Rather, they must be some kind of weird fantasy his mind conjured up for god knows what reason.
He remembers these things, but they are wrong. Vague and distorted. Like something vital is missing from them. Or someone, because surely if ever such a place existed, Sans and Papyrus had not lived there alone, as children.
And since as far as Sans can recall, it has always been just the two of them, these memories must be wrong. He could ask Papyrus about it, see if he remembers, but the cons of such an exchange far outweigh the pros, so he rather not.
Besides, the capital nowadays is reserved for monsters of standing. Monsters with money or assets or anything really that could be considered worthy enough to the king to keep them close and secure.
Anybody else will just have to deal with living elsewhere, smaller towns like Snowdin, or the general area of Waterfall. Or maybe, if you were really lucky, you could make it to Hotland.
But far be it a way to live a proper life.
Resources are scant, food and money are always in low supply. The black market thrives in places such as these.
As does robbery and murder.
Gaining a LV is celebrated in the same fashion as a birthday might, even if you know it means there is somebody else having to organize a dust scattering.
Sans often ponders these things as he sits at his sentry station, chair tipped back and feet resting idly on the wooden front, if just for the amusement it brings him.
There really is no point to these thoughts, he considers, but they battle the boredom so it's fine. There is nothing somebody like him can do to change things, even if he desires to.
Which Sans really doesn't. Running around with his 1 HP is already enough of a risk, thank you very much.
No need to play the martyr and really turn himself into living target practice.
Still, Sans can't always suppress the nagging feeling that there should be more to their lives than just the continuous kill or be killed mentality everybody seems stuck in.
So, instead, he opts for apathy. Always a safe choice.
He doesn't care about the lives of others, he tells himself, over and over. He doesn't even care about his own life.
He doesn't care who dies next.
One of the regulars at Grilby's, whom he maybe has started regarding as, if not friends, then at least begrudging acquaintances? No problem.
That lady behind the door whom never fails to amuse him? Whatever.
His brother, the only constant thing throughout his rather shitty life? Sure.
Himself? Why the heck not, it might even be considered a relief by now.
These are things he has resigned himself to by now.
But while Sans is an excellent actor, he can not always fool himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind he still cares.
And as it stands, this knowledge both frightens and comforts him.
Sans carefully removes his feet from the sentry station and sets himself back upright.
So far today he has spend probably a full hour sitting at his post. He is entitled to a break by now, if he should say so himself.
The skeleton considers taking a shortcut, but decides against it. It is a nice snowless day, cold but with next to no wind, making it feel slightly warmer than is usual.
As far as Snowdin can ever feel warm anyway.
So he starts walking in the direction of town, slippers crunching softly against snow covered earth. He looks at his feet leaving imprints and wonders if he should have burgers or fries today.
If he's feeling fancy, he could have both.
It all tastes the same after being smothered in mustard, but it's the thought that counts. The thought that he still has some control over his life, however minimal.
The apathy has been getting worse lately. More and more it feels to Sans as if nothing matters anymore.
If it weren't for fear of his brother's verbal outbursts, he would most likely not leave the house all together.
It is this detachment which allows his mind to wander. And a wandering mind is likely to get you killed.
There is a sound up ahead that catches his attention at the last possible second. He manages to duck behind a tree just as somebody else comes barreling down the path Sans was just walking on, at running speed.
A speed which is undeniably synonymous with running for your life.
The Woshua stumbles and slips on the frozen ground, littered with small patches of ice concealed under the powdery snow.
For a monster that is not used to such terrain, it's a true nightmare to navigate.
It looses its footing and falls hard, actually spilling some water from its back. It tries desperately to get up, legs flailing wildly in a feeble attempt to gain sure ground again, but ends up only looking like a pathetic lump of soon-to-be-dead monster.
Which is exactly what it is.
Sans finds he can't look away as the poor thing is instantly set upon by its pursuers, something large and bipedal. Some type of weapon is swiftly brought down upon the Woshua's head, crushing it immediately.
It lets out a rather pathetic sound, caught somewhere between a yelp and a groan, before dispersing into dust.
It is almost captivating to look at. How the body disintegrates, starting at the edges of the wound, falling apart into little particles of gray. It only takes a moment for the corpse to be gone completely, leaving behind just a neat pile of dust.
It is at that exact instant that Sans realizes who the attacking monster is.
Dogaressa. Alone, which can only mean one thing.
"Quite the little sadist, aren't you?"
Something shoves Sans hard against the back and he flails forwards, narrowly avoiding making a similar tumble as the recently expired Woshua just moments before.
He manages to keep upright, but is now standing painfully exposed, out in the open. It makes him slightly nervous, though nothing in his face or demeanor shows it.
"Watching us offing this thing because you're too weak to take part in the fun yourself?" Dogamy huffs from behind him, a slight growl in the back of his throat, as there always seems to be.
Dogaressa has looked up from her kill and is regarding Sans with minor disdain, as if he is no more than a speck of dirt on her boot.
Which is perfectly fine by Sans himself, to be frank. He'd much rather be viewed as unobtrusive, a mild annoyance at best. It's a safe position to be in. An alive position.
But now both dog monsters have their eyes focused on him, as if inwardly debating what their next move should be, and the short skeleton is painfully aware he probably won't like their conclusion.
The rush of EXP after a kill makes monsters anxious. Violent. It can make them do dangerous or foolish things they might normally wouldn't.
He shoves both hands into the pockets of his dark hoodie, flashing an easy smile that shows of his golden tooth, and tries to look as casual as somebody that just witnessed a murder can possibly look.
Which is pretty darn casual, since it wasn't the first time he's seen something like that. It just was the first time he got so stupidly found out.
"Really, though, calling me a sadist?" He ventures. Maybe talking will distract them from getting any bright ideas about free EXP. "You're the ones who just killed the poor fucker. And unprompted, I dare say."
The married dog duo look at each other for a moment and then burst out in hearty laughter, that just sounds plain grating to Sans. He resists the urge to clasp his hands over his earholes for obvious reasons.
"Unprompted?" Dogaressa gestures at the little heap of dust, still undisturbed by the lack of wind. "The little shit was a fucking thief. Thinks he can steal from us and make a run for it? We could smell his soapy stink from miles away."
"He even gave us a good run for our money." Dogamy contemplates out loud, looking vaguely pleased. "We've been chasing this thing all the way from Waterfall."
Sans feels an odd rush of emotion, finding himself both impressed at the Woshua's flight attempt, and also immensely disappointed at its sense of self-preservation.
Stealing from royal guards? That's a death wish waiting to be full-filled right there.
"Sounds like he wasn't the smartest guy around." He hears himself say.
The looks he is getting are making him the slightest bit anxious by now. There haven't been many situation in which Sans has felt threatened up until now, but this is certainly deteriorating into one quickly.
He is used to living with an always present sense of mortality, knowing something could go very wrong, very fast any moment. But this here is the first instance in which he felt an actual fear for his life.
If things seriously go to hell, he can always bet on a shortcut, or even pull out the metaphorical big guns. The ones that nobody else, not even his brother, know about.
Sans would very much like to avoid having to resort to those, though...
He leans forward slightly, allowing his magic to run through his bones and start peeling at the rips in space and time, unfolding them in such a way that allows him to step through.
Rough hands grab him from behind, claws curling into the dun-colored fur at the back of his hoodie harshly. They pull, making him stumble again.
The break in his concentration makes his magic retract, the pent up power manifesting itself as a bright-red glow in his left eye instead, but he manages to keep it in control still.
His attackers mistake this for a sign of fear and start laughing again.
"You know." Dogamy is right by his face now, hands tightening as if Sans would even try to escape. He won't, it would be useless. "I always wondered why everyone suffers your presence so easily. Such a weak piece of filth allowed to run around, as if it has any right to live."
Sans feels incredibly tempted to ask what one has to do to deserve the right to live, but decides against it. This might not be the ideal time to be a smart-ass.
Especially as he can see Dogaressa making her way towards them, axe dragging in the snow behind her and still coated with a thin layer for Woshua dust.
"It's almost a wonder nobody has decided to do this sooner..." The monster behind him says, and Sans is inclined to agree with him.
He can feel his magic growing taunt inside him, almost making him shiver from its intensity. A strong will to live, pure survival instinct just waiting to be set free...
It would not be ideal, directing magic with his impeded arm movements, as Dogamy is now grasping his shoulders roughly and pushing downward, almost making his knees buckle out from under him, trying to force him into a kneeling position.
It would be a jumbled mess of magic that is as likely to get himself killed as anything the dogs could dish out.
It is a bet, with his life being the prize. But Sans is fine with being a gambling monster.
Dogaressa is raising her axe, fatal path downward already calculated to split his skull clean in two. Sans feels his magic gripping tight on his soul, threatening to burst it at the seams.
Time seems to slow down to an unbearable pace.
Magic travels through the air, static, strong enough to force all three of them to the ground.
Through the rushing in his earholes caused by his own powers still being pent up inside his body barely restrained, Sans dimly hears the other two monsters whine in pain. He is aware of a dull stinging on the top of his head himself, but finds it overwhelmed by the immense feeling of relief flooding his system.
Maybe he wouldn't have to resort to using his powers after all.
"Are you alright?" Somebody is grasping his arm, almost holding it in a death grip, but not with ill-intent, but rather in something resembling worry.
He blinks twice, his magic finally beginning to calm down and allowing him to take stock of the situation, though everything looks jumbled still.
Dogamy and Dogaressa are some distance away now, seemingly recovering from a harsh blow. There are small cuts littering them, minuscule carvings in the skin with dust dwindling off them.
It's fascinating to witness, especially while you are still trying very hard to compose your racing thoughts after an almost death experience.
But the grip on his arm is still there, now accompanied by tugging. "Sans, answer me, you ass! Are. You. Alright?"
Sans turns his head and looks at Papyrus. There is something there, on his brother's face. Something that should not be there and somehow makes Sans feel giddy but also scared.
Like he did something horribly wrong.
He realizes there is emotion in that look which covets a reaction more extreme, but he ends up with an almost muted: "Just peachy..." That lacks any of its regular sarcasm.
The next moment his brother has released him and is yelling something, but since it is not directed at Sans anymore, the short skeleton finds himself concentrating on calming his raging magic down.
It takes a minute, but at last he feels relatively normal again and manages to push himself up on unsteady feet.
By now the dog duo is busy profusely apologizing to Papyrus for their transgression, almost graveling in the snow, pleading his forgiveness.
"You are always complaining so much, we just assumed you didn't care about him." Sans hears Dogamy say, defiant in his tone of voice. A challenge.
He gets a bone attack hitting him straight in the muzzle for his efforts.
"I don't care about him." Papyrus confirms, voice as frigid as the snow beneath their feet. "Doesn't mean you two can just do as you please and forget direct orders." But there was a pause there. A pause that's probably unnoticeable for anyone that has not known Papyrus for as long as he has lived.
Sans notices.
And it fils him with the same dual feeling that flared up earlier, even more insistent now in its urgency that this is something vitally important. Something he isn't allowed to dismiss so easily.
Sans shoves it down harder this time.
"You should not touch, that which is not yours to kill. If I see either of your faces again in the following 24 hours, I'll make you lick each others dust off my fucking boots." Papyrus makes some sort of gesture that could be interpreted as dismissing, and both dog monsters make quick work to get as far away as possible, as fast as possible.
His brother waits until they have disappeared out of sight, staring at their retreating backs until he can't see them anymore, then turns around, scuffing his feet in an irritated manner.
Sans can't help but notice Papyrus is standing in the expired Woshua's pile of dust, now scattered messily over the area.
He sure hopes the poor thing liked snow, because that's as much of a funeral as it is ever getting.
When he looks up to meet look Papyrus in the face, it has easily slipped back into his normal expression, an even mix of disdain, annoyance and weariness at other's stupidity.
"We're going home."
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