The judgement hall, a trompe l'oeil of shimmering topaz and amber, classic roman columns towering above their head, all quartz and heavy granite.
Arabesqued windows with sterling threads of spider-like precision radiating luminescence, incandescent brilliance from the breathtaking mise en scene outside in hazy, dream-like waves,
Evanescent checkered floors reflecting and reflacting their warped reflection onto the quiet walls; each footstep was thunder in the echoing silence
In this magnificent, ethernal hallway of the fantastic, hopes and dreams, blinding them with the sheer scale of brightness and opalescent warmth until they felt almost consumed by it.
And so it was the end of the end.
He had lost track of the eternity they had spent in the hall.
The amber light filtering through the window, once a brilliant, opalescent splash of diffused light, had sifted into nothing more than a nasty hindrance, streaking and blurring in his vision in such a myriad of chances Sans swore fate was toying with him.
Although, he laughs, opening his arms to the huddled figure at the end of the hallway, Did it matter?
He has killed more times than he can count, until he is almost sickened at the casual monotonicity of it.
A bone through the their chest, a stray Gaster Blaster to the heart-Everything blurs together, shifting like mist, and Sans cannot remember if it was a bone or a blaster the last death, if it was an arm or leg that last shattered their soul.
The colour of their soul is almost too brilliant to look at, a vibrant, undulated crimson, the kind that filled his vision and tore at his sight until all he could see was red, red, re-.
Reset.
Each time, the kid goes with a sickening scream, and Sans swears each time is worse than the last.
But look in their eyes is always the same, a nauseating haze of loathing, hatred, and he has to struggle to keep his grin as the bones spear into their body.
So much blood.
Reset.
And each time, their movements become more practiced, more deliberate, until they're flying over bones and leaping across gaster blasters as if they've done it for a lifetime.
It was strangely bewitching to watch, he admits.
Almost like a dance, he chuckles to himself. Guess that old tutu could've come in handy after all.
And what a terrible, terrible beauty it was to behold.
Reset.
And suddenly, they're out on the mountain, rocks crumbling beneath his feet as he pulls Papyrus along. The sun is bigger than he remembers, rich and brilliant reflective topaz, and never before has he felt so small.
Frisk turns to him with a smile. How's the surface? They ask, as if they haven't been here timelines upon timelines already.
Beautiful, Sans says in turn.
Time leaps forward, and now they're on a highway, a motorcycle humming underneath his fingers. Frisk holds on behind him, and Sans turns around to give them a grin.
The sunlight was warm on their faces, and he couldn't help but admire the blithe way their hair danced like ribbons in the wind, how Frisk looks at him with wide, wide eyes, how a tinkling peal of laughter escapes their mouth as they hold him tighter, fingers digging into his jacket and head burrowing into his back until it almost seems like they'll never let go.
He can almost still feel the sunlight on his face as the gaster blaster takes off their head.
Reset.
With coffee steaming in his hands, some bad laughs, Sans feels wholly content, stated with Frisk a warm presence at his side.
Snow is spilling around them in be-speckled white, the bench is damp, cold, and the muted violet of Frisk's jacket is calming. It's the furthest away from dust and death he can remember.
Hey kid, he asks, and Frisk turns to face him. You're happy?
Of course, Frisk simply says, and that's the end of it.
For a sickening moment, he closes his eyes and is reminded of rosy cheeks and bitter hazelnut coffee as blood, their blood, splatters over his jacket.
Reset.
He carried gravity. The timelines, the grief, the deaths, all of it, and it was suffocating.
He crushes dust in his hands, spears bones from the wall, the floor, but they evade them with sinuous grace, and Sans swears if he had a heart it would stutter.
He's terrified.
A jagged bone catches them in the chest, and Sans barely has time to breathe a shaky sigh before the world-
Reset.
Bones, a graveyard of them, cracks through the ceiling, the glass, but they roll, tumble, and swing, clothes ripped but still determined.
Each time Sans can feel himself fading, and can't help but laugh at the inevitability of the end.
He can only delay, but he will take the only grotesque revenge he can have, and remind himself, (as the shrill screams pierce the air), that this was for Papyrus.
Reset.
They're immaculate, almost perfect each time they step through the gilded door of the judgement hall, and their elongated shadow casts an arabesque'd arch across the gleaming floors.
And each time, Sans can feel his soul drop further than he thought possible.
He wanted to bury his face into Papyrus's scarf and scream, oh god he was just so tired of this game, he was tired of death and blood and death and resets, and maybe it's because he's finally realized that killing them a thousand, a million times, would never, never, fill the jagged hole of the past left behind.
He just wanted to sleep. Maybe this was a dream. Papyrus will wake up him and carry him to the kitchen, and they'll have milk and watch the snow flurries outside. He'll wake up, and he'll knock at the Ruin door and he'll go to Grillby and see his friends, alive.
But it wasn't a dream, he tells himself as he rips his hand up and they go flying.
Reset.
They, him and Papyrus live together on the Surface and he still remembers the first time Frisk tugged him down on the wooden floor after dinner.
What's this, kid?
It's a Napstablook tradition, Frisk explains. Lay on the floor and feel like trash.
Hah, isn't it too late for that?
Shh.
And soon, he feels it.
It is almost like the galaxy has draped itself over the floor, and he swears he is on spinning sky. Twinkling, shimmering constellations, he watches swirls of fuchsia violet and dapper gray waltz lazily across his vision.
He turns to the side, and finds Frisk watching with a smile.
Feel like trash yet? They ask.
The judgement hall is red. Blood, smearing the roman columns, blood, spilled across the floor, staining his jacket, blood, dripping from their hand.
They're clearly frustrated, swinging clumsily towards him with gritted teeth. Sans evades easily, tripping them with a gaster blaster, causing them to stumble back. A barrage of bones spears them directly through the chest.
They convulse for a moment, choking on blood, and the knife falls from their twitching hand to the floor.
He walks towards them. Hey kid, feel like trash yet?
Reset.
This Frisk has nightmares, and Sans has gotten used to waking up at 3 a.m. to see the sobbing child in his bed. They won't go away, they whimper.
So much guilt.
On nights like these, he holds them tightly, hand absentmindedly brushing their hair as if he can make up for the timelines of death and ruin.
...
Reset.
And then there are runs where they all reach the surface, experience blithe sunlight on their face, experience freedom, joyous in the knowledge that this would be the last first time any of them would see this.
But Sans is only looking at them.
In the face of Papyrus's joy and Toriel's love; they stand quietly, a disinterested smile on their face.
And then the slaughtering begins.
Undyne is the first to go missing. Then Alphys, Mettaton, Muffet, Monster kid. Toriel. Asgore. Then Papyrus.
The most terrifying part about it is, Sans muses. Is that I don't remember dying.
He pays his retribution in the number of scars on their body.
Reset.
His stomach would be churning with the horrific nature of it, had he a stomach, had he a soul. Each death were notches, minute increments on the scale, and each time when he told himself it can't get any worse, it can't get any worse than this,
Reset-Reset-Reset-Reset-Reset-
Suddenly, they're laughing and sobbing and shaking, and he could only stand there in semi-shock and bewilderment as the knife drops to the floor, and them to their knees.
Sans, they whimper, Sans.
They're laughing hysterically, tears streaming down their face, and he has never felt more afraid in his life. Help me, Sans.
They open their arms.
He takes a step forward.
You're the only who understands me, Sans.
And another.
Sans.
A few more.
I love you so much.
He doesn't look as the bones choke their body.
Reset.
It's almost ridiculous, but he can't stop watching the butterfly that flits outside the window. It's electric, cyan blue, almost shimmering in the setting light of the Underground.
The kid lunges at him, knife a silver pinprick, and Sans barely evades in time. The end of his coat gets torn, and he slides back, pressing against a column as he paints their soul blue; they slam into the floor, fly into the ceiling, body thrown into walls.
Finally, dozen of bones spear them to the checkered floor, and they struggle, faintly.
They remind him of the butterfly.
Blue jumper, bloody legs, disheveled hair.
Their cynosure soul flickers, trembles, and they go limp.
As Sans tilts his head back, breathes in death and dust, a single cyan butterfly flutters in.
Reset.
Everything was blue. Their jumper, a efflorescent breath of Iris, his vision, sparking and snapping like sparklers, scent of magic, the sound of blue, the sibilant hiss of smoke and haze drifting through the air.
Their soul, a muted glow in their chest, blue curling behind them like festival streamers as they deftly avoid his attacks.
And it really was a terrible, terrible time for romantic contemplation, but this wasn't a bad place to die.
He would leave with Cambridge blue burning in his eyes.
He slams them to the floor, and they choke, body in a grotesque bend, back snapping with an awful crack.
Reset.
I don't get it, they sneer, face an ugly contortion of anger and quiet, quiet hate. Why don't you give up? God knows you have so much to live for. There's more on the other side for you than here.
Why bother? They ask again, and Sans can't reply.
This time, he lets them burn, incinerated in the path of three snarling blasters.
Reset.
It's twilight, and blue light is spilling through the blinds of the living room window. Sans reclines on the couch, pushes a cigarette to his mouth and breathes deeply, smoke curling and dancing through the room like translucent scarves. Frisk is perched on the couch arm, knees tucked up to their face, nose buried in their jumper to avoid breathing in the smoke.
Didn't you say that you gave up smoking? They ask.
Sans shifts his gaze to them. I'm not good at keeping promises, kid.
They're silent for awhile. That's okay, they finally say. I'm not either.
They sit in muted quiet for the rest of the evening, until Frisk topples off the couch, falls asleep on his chest. He carries them up to bed, tucks them in with a kiss.
Night, Sans, they mumble as Sans leaves the room.
He looks back at them, sleepy and content. Night, kiddo.
Reset.
Soft, warm light at Grillby's, broken jukebox rattling in the corner, royal dogs scattered around the tables, Grillby wiping down the counter with a soiled napkin, rows and rows of condiments stacked behind the bar.
Frisk looked tired, back hunched and jumper torn and dirty, but pride was evident on their face, beaming at him through the dirt and grime.
And somewhere inside him, something was stirring.
Blue fire is sizzling and crackling in his eye as he faces the kid down; Their jumper is immaculate, polished black tights and shoes without a hint of dust, hair perfectly in place and knife sharped, gleaming.
And the terrible dance starts once again, and Sans has to struggle to gain the upper hand to their deft movements. It's lunge and parry, attack and dodge, offense and defense, over and over again.
Finally they stumble, and he doesn't give them a chance to recover, throwing his arm up to the ceiling, flinging the kid upwards, impaled by bones.
Blood drips on the floor, and it's warm on his face.
Reset.
One timeline, one life, walking around the polished, gleaming museum floor of Ebbot, looking at the paintings on the wall and beaming with unconstrained pride, standing by a passerby and pointing out, That's my kid, that drew that painting. My kid, the artist.
And he would return to a home smelling of spaghetti, watch anime late at night, cuddled up on the couch with Papyrus to his left, Frisk in his arms.
His family.
As he stares the struggling kid down, watches their hand grope desperately for the knife, he couldn't understand for the life of him why humans were so hateful.
He hears the crunch of bones as he slams them into the column.
Reset.
The soft candlelight at the MTT dining resort, flickering and dancing on the white tablecloth, casts Frisk's tired face into sharp, gaunt angles that age them years.
They deserve a semblance of truth, Sans decides, so he tells them about the great Iron Door in the middle of the woods; their face flashes with recognition when he mentions the women.
He tells them about the knock-knock jokes, tells them they'd be dead where they stand, if had not been for her, and Frisk's face is thrown into such an expression of terror and betrayal Sans feels inexplicably guilty.
Lighten up Bucko, he had said. I'm just joking with 'ya, he said.
On days like this, kids like you should be burning in hell, he swore in the judgement hall, Papyrus's torn scarf crumpled in his pocket, determination steady in his soul.
The kid laughs, knife spinning silver in their hands, black platforms shuffling against the ground. I'm back for more, they mock, and Sans has never hated so much.
He makes it the quickest run yet.
Reset.
Frisk.
A blithe smile, they were a vision in the sunlight that slanted over his window, saccharine sweet smile and warm brown eyes.
A laugh rips out of their throat as they leap for him, knife slashing and swinging in the hairsbreadth of air separating them.
Frisk.
In the park by the house, they would hold onto his hand tightly as he buys nice creams for the both of them, begging him to read what was on his wrapper as they walk under the dappled sunlight of the trees.
They tumble over bones, desperately shove steak into their mouth as they struggle to keep alive, and Sans cannot see Frisk anywhere in their wild, crazed eyes.
Frisk.
At the beach, sun glaring down at them, Frisk getting sunburned, Sans going to the store with them to buy sunscreen, complaining the whole way that humans were s e. They both know he doesn't mean it, and Frisk tries a sunhat, peeking up at him from the overlarge brim, bursting into laughter.
Frisk.
They tumble over platforms, gripping on bones to swing themselves across caverns, gasping with the effort, choking on the blood in their mouth. The bones flip, spear down, and they barely roll aside in time, bruised arms chipped with glass.
Frisk.
He slams his hand down, and the floor cracks with the force of it, spider-thin lines flying away from the crater.
Frisk.
They gasp, looking at him with desperate eyes.
He hates this.
Reset.
And they're wreathed in a bouquet of sunglow yellow, buttercups tangling in their hair, cascading down their closed eyelids, giving a breath of life, of color so vivid and vibrant against the dark blue of his sweater it seems almost a facade of death as he lays them down in the grave.
The broken barrier looms behind them, and he puts a trembling hand on the tombstone, breathes, Sweetheart.
He holds his breath, closes his eyes, waits,
But the world doesn't reset, and he's left clutching at empty air.
He calls out,
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
But no one came.
Reset.
He's tired. He's barely able to keep standing, terrified that the kid will see his legs trembling.
So, I've decided...It's never going to be your turn.
The expression on the kid's face is almost amusing, if the consequences weren't so dire. What? They snap. This isn't in the rules!
What rules? Sans mocks. I don't remember there being any.
You're such a coward! They scream, and Sans can't find the courage to contradict them. Instead, he pulls his hood up, closes his eyes, awaits the end as he dreams of Papyrus and flickering fire.
A silver swish near his ear startles him awake, and he barely side-steps the kid's blow in time, surprised despite himself that they were able to beat the barrier. Heh, did you really think it would've been that easy-
A blur of silver obfuscates his vision.
He clutches his jacket, folds to the ground, falls on his knees. The kid is trembling above him, knife dusty with the blue threads of his jacket, and they look almost terrified.
Dying hurts more than he's ever imagined.
Welp. I'm...I'm going to Grillby's, he musters, stumbling past the kid, who is frozen in place. The door of the judgement hall is blurring, warping, and he swears somewhere, he can make out a rippling red scarf.
Papyrus, you want anything?