Sans: The Legendary Trash Dad-Chapter 1
Ahh, the Dump, San's home away from home-it was the place he spent much of his youth. Here, it was relatively safe to take a nap if you hid deep into the garbage, and sometimes you would find something to snack on if one wasn't picky. The place also helped feed San's interest in science, him finding a knack for repairing discarded electronics. And the cherry on top is that the only threats that came about tended to be temperamental teens and the occasional treasure hunter picking over junk long derived of anything fancy. Anyone with a scarily high level tended to prefer stealing or simply had the funds to buy the items they wanted rather than to stoop to scavenging.
In his element Sans began climbing a trash heap, him being light and small enough to disturb little. Sometimes he was even mistaken for a child, and so monsters tended to ignore him—being so small sucked, but hey, he embraced the perks when he could.
Once at the top of the heap, Sans began the slow process of combing things over. Anything that didn't hold his interest clambered down to the bottom, anything he liked went into his pockets: nuts n' bolts, candle wicks with a bit of wax, book pages, and even fabric scraps. After all, the expression one's trash was another's treasure was never more accurate in the Underground. During his little excavations Sans always held onto a wisp of hope that he would discover something amazing—anything that the Boss might appreciate, and thus would allow him to justify time at the Dump in the first place. Sans hadn't found anything good in a while but it was something to look forward to, he just needed a little more…persistence. Some monsters lived at the Dump and thus were always ahead of everyone else when it came to finding the good stuff. Still, no harm in hoping a little.
Eventually, the heap was depleted and so Sans moved onto the next—then the next—and the next. It was more relaxing than fruitful—having gathered only some rusty nails and tools he would toss into his workshop just for the thrill of collecting and would likely remain unused. He simply didn't have any ideas or motivation for projects like he used to.
Sans twitched, pausing as memories of his past brought down the mood. His phalanges rubbed anxiously over a piece of shiny metal, catching his reflection. Sans startled when he realized he was genuinely smiling, sharp teeth curved towards his eyes.
He stared briefly in reflection—happy to find that he could still smile, despite the apathetic mask he was conditioned to always wear. In the Underground, monsters paid special attention to expressions as it allowed strangers to figure the intentions of the other. Monsters with a malicious intent, no matter how practiced, always had a flicker of warning in their eyes before a battle, their souls brisling with level power. As for peaceful intent, catching a glance was watching eyes drain of brightness, level power leaving the soul. It was considered good luck to see that in an opponent, the idea being that the power would transfer to the victor more potently.
Sans's sockets shown with peaceful intent, his eyelights dimming. Feeling relaxed was euphoric and the metal was tossed away with an amused huff. Inspired, he chose to immerse himself fully into his work and quickly he was covered completely with grime. If he didn't move he would blend in with the surroundings, taking the appearance of a trash bag if he curled into himself—the perfect camouflage. His apathetic attitude towards his hygiene really did have perks—shame Boss didn't agree.
Plus, not even the most execution-point starved monster would attack him, probably from fear of contracting a disease as dust commonly covered the executioner. Sans, being a skeleton, simply didn't have to worry about sickness as much, though as he regarded old fractures along his arms as if it was a bizarre art piece, he was reminded sickness could strike him down. Had he been wounded, Sans wouldn't dare take a trip to the Dump. Sure, skeletons didn't have flesh, but bone wasn't immune to infection.
In the case of a bad bone, it was popped off for cleaning and Sans shivered as he recalled the occasions falling victim to the practice.
The recollection just highlighted how important his time in the Dump was—a lack of injury was a rare luxury. He didn't have to worry as much.
The mood slowly turned bitter as Sans still failed to find much. Eventually fatigued gnawed on his bones and Sans habitually shifted to sink into the comforting trash. Slowly, he sunk deeper, peaceful intention flooded Sans's system as he embraced his predicament and he lulled to sleep as the trash heap engulfed him.
It shouldn't have been surprising that when he awoke, grime covered his sockets-dripping down to splash eerily into his skull. Ever pessimistic, Sans shot up with a choked gasp and frantically wiped to clear his vision. It was times like these he praised the fact that skeletons had little to no sense of smell—and eyeballs. Taking note of his surroundings, Sans was curled up in the heart of a trash heap. Technically, he could rest as much as he wanted and despite being surrounded by the finest rancid garbage, Sans was comfortable—nobody, not even Boss would be able to find him.
Sans did just that, pushing away scrap metal and poking wires to get more comfortable. There he lay, in a trance as he finally let himself forget his worries. The Underground was a "kill or be killed" word after all. If a monster ignored their problems, or let themselves relax at the wrong moment they were dust. Sans liked to think he wasn't one of those monsters, though in truth he would have been fine with doing nothing for the rest of his life. The temptation to stay in the heap was very real, yet the fact that Boss would be looking for him urged him to start shifting through to freedom.
Sans wasn't looking at what he was tossing behind him, a bit over the whole treasuring hunting shtick for the day. At first he tried to dig up, but gravity wasn't working in his favor. He would yank an object free to push forward only to have what was behind pummel him in the face. With his luck it was only a matter of time before something heavy struck him wrong in the head, like a bowling ball. Sure, Sans was no stranger to pain but his HP had always been abysmal—why take the chance. After all, Sans didn't live as long as he did by making risky choices when avoidable.
To the side, he only dug in one direction, logic being he would eventually reach the outside.
It took a lot longer than he expected to get out. Whenever he moved the clutter in front of him, more shifted to fill the place. Of course, nothing unexpected-just annoying. In fact, so much so that it was really grating on Sans's nerves. Suddenly the encompassing garbage felt more dangerous then comforting. Instinctively he channeled his red magic to lightly engulf his body in a protective shield. Sans barreled forward and he tunneled through the trash like a worm would an apple.
Still, his magic and growing agitation about his situation didn't seem enough. If Sans were a lesser monster panicking may have been an option, only briefly considering the notion that he might die buried in a trash heap. He held in a smirk, Boss would think that would be a fitting end.
It was at times like this that Sans cursed himself for not knowing more varied magic attacks. His blasters, which would have been perfect to blast a hole in the mess, were simply too big, and summoning smaller ones would make the beam too weak, running the risk of just setting things on fire.
Of course, bone attacks were just as useless. Summoning up attacks was bound to only add to the clutter, lacking the strength necessary to push forward. In theory, the magic concentrated around his body could be more intense, explosive even, to bust out of the heap; however, Sans had too low an HP to try his luck. Plus, the waste of magic would be too substantial.
Ahh, there was teleportation—it was his best trick! Though Sans grew more bitter as he realized that the trick required a strict idea of point A and B. Sans had no idea where he was and thus didn't have a clear point A. Without knowing point A, he could easily mess up the accuracy of his landing at point B. He could go crashing into a wall, or worse—teleport inside it! That, or becoming stranded in the void…one of the deadliest places anyone could end up.
He rubbed his head in frustration, leaving huge dirty smudges. It was his one rule—to never take risks if it could be avoided-so teleporting was out. He wasn't about to slip into a reckless habit with no pay-off. Sans chuckled, he liked to think he was a bit smarter than that. Sans ended up curling in up on himself, still chuckling—fighting back a nervous fatigue. His problem wasn't even a big deal! Nothing was chasing him for EXP, he didn't have any debts to settle, or even a shift at a sentry station for the day!
Clicking his teeth in hot anger, he mulled over how a nice outing went so quickly wrong. Boy, the Universe must really like messing with him!
The chuckling grew slowly into laughter, a habit being that once he started it was hard to turn things off. Rarely did he let his guard down to even let a giggle slip out, though that was another reason why Sans liked the Dump so much.
He could cut loose and laugh a little! Its when he dared to mutter jokes that would normally earn him some enemies and the prize of a beating!
"Gee, I guess I really got myself into a sticky situation!" Sans calmed down as he regarded the grime he was still covered head to toe in, melting into a sticky residue due to the concentrated magic. He dispelled it and stretched as much as he could in the cramped spot, popping his bones in relaxation.
Sans was more than ready to settle into another nap, fatigue again winning him over; however, something stopped him, an instinct of sorts. Confused, Sans snapped to attention. It's not that he didn't feel safe, if anything being lost in the trash heap reaffirmed his idea that a monster wouldn't find him, but the laughing fit filled him with motivation he had to capitalize on.
Pushing again forward, Sans ignored any discomfort—his mind a clear slate—he was determined, perhaps.
A long time Sans spent digging—it was dumbfounding. Just how deep was he? Slowly Sans's motivation wavered. He stopped, reassessing the situation. Digging up at a slope and in one direction was the logical approach, but Sans couldn't help but feel he was missing something. Twisting around to view the tunnel, he felt oddly compelled to go back down.
A nagging buzzing was growing at the back of his skull. He recognized it as his magic, the buzzing growing more intense the longer he gazed down the tunnel. Sans grew unnerved, a conditioned paranoia that kept him alive for so long came surging back. The darkness of the tunnel became ominous, as if it held an attacker just out of sight. Sans's instincts screamed for him to flee, to dig faster—but his back was pinned to the wall, his gaze locked onto the tunnel. He had no choice but to fight.
Sans went back down the tunnel. Both hands steadied himself as he half tumbled down, back to the starting point. His skull whipped around at all sides, his back bristled as he anticipated an imagined attack.
Eventually he realized that his nerves had gotten the better of him. Sans would have smacked himself for being so silly, but he didn't, the buzzing had only grown stronger in his skull. The paranoia was justified as Sans became possessed to slide his hands along the walls of trash, as if searching for a secret compartment. That's when it hit him, he was searching for something—it was calling out to him, like a siren's song.
Unconsciously he began to dig in a new direction, his magic flaring from his sockets, spurring him on. He knew it was foolish. He wanted nothing more than to continue his original path—but he had learned long ago to never ignore his magic or the instincts that occasionally compelled his body. Sans embraced the buzzing urging him forward, digging and digging with abandon.
Inevitably the pulsing grew so strong it couldn't be contained. Sans paused, focusing. Seconds later, a sharp hissing emitted from his sockets. Then a literal blinding pain.
"Wha…fuck!?" An explosion of red clouded his vision—raw magic! And it burned like a bitch!
It was freely pouring from Sans's sockets, unrestrained as if sourced from a pipe.
His hands slapped across his sockets—a dull throbbing in his skull grew in intensity as his magic began pooling around him. Sans clawed at his face, breathing fast. He hadn't called upon his magic! He choked as he tried to suppress the flow, which only increased as he gave it more attention.
Fortunately, the pain didn't linger and Sans kept his wits about him, scanning surroundings for a culprit. The flowing magic suddenly condensed, a pair of red ropes extended from his sockets and blinded his vision. Sans gave a breathless scream, shocked as he was violently jerked forward. The ropes began to drag him, with debris clinging to his jacket and as directions of the pull changed, his skull bobbed listlessly. Suddenly, he smacked into a heavy object. Sans instinctively hugged the offending object as the ropes of magic slowly dissipated. It took several minutes for his vision to clear, yet a red mist still illuminated the area.
The object Sans had hugged was a box, cardboard and capped closed with a lid. The box was also horrifically moldy, as Sans's nasal cavity had the fortune to be pressed up against the soggy texture. The box was radiating red, overflowing with Sans's magic. He was furious, a trap no doubt! Still in a hugging position, Sans pierced claws into the disgusting box, keen on its destruction.
He'd stumbled upon some kind of magic-harvester. Raw magic was a valued commodity with the substance being popular in the production of drugs and various weapons. The box glowered like a red-hot cube, full of the stuff! All his!
Well, no magic was going to be stolen from Sans, never! He summoned up a tiny bone, pointed like a dagger. A stab to the lid ripped open the contents and he threw it behind. He bounced back, distancing himself from the box, anticipating an explosion or attack. However, nothing happened, not even the forced flaring of his magic started again.
Sans gnashed his teeth, unnerved but curiosity had him crawling back over. He held the sharpened bone over the box, ready.
He peeked inside and...oh…now he wasn't ready…not for such a damning discovery. He clenched the bone dagger tighter, hand shaking.
A bomb, yes. A cache of gold, maybe. Heck, even a box of Asgore's nudes-but this…never—a discovery like this. It just didn't make sense!
Only years of conditioning, of holding in his surprise and fear allowed Sans to do nothing. All he could do was stare, not caught in a trance from a supposed trap—no, he was just utterly dumbfounded.
His sockets had snuffed out their lights, and he hissed from his nasal cavity as air was sucked in to calm himself.
Shakily, a claw reached out to poke the contents of the box. It moved.
Inside wrapped in a bundle of dirty green fibers, was a baby skeleton. The bone dagger remained at the ready. It could easily be an illusion, a rare trap made with a cruel deviousness—perhaps buried for that very reason. Still, Sans's curiosity won out and instead the tip of a claw touched the child. It didn't disintegrate, or fade away like a hologram—it looked real, felt it too.
"N-no, f-fucken' way!"
Reassured it wasn't a trick, Sans placed his hand over the child. It was about the same size, amazing given the fact that Sans was small himself. He picked it up, gently cupping it in his hands. He held it away, still anticipating an attack, but nothing happened, so he drew it closer.
"Wow."
Gently, his claws ran over small, thin bones. The coloring was an alarming grey, speckled with green and yellow. Sans held it out again, disgusted-a little disappointed. The child was obviously sick-it smelled just like the moldy box. A claw twitched over its skull, just a little more pressure and it would dust—a mercy killing.
If it had been a rabbit, a pup, or any other sort of monster, the job would have already been done. Finding a baby in the garbage meant it was obviously unwanted-something likely being wrong with it-and Sans wasn't keen on fixing other people's problems anyway. He had enough of his own. Sans stared up, claws gripped the tiny skull—just one pinch and it would be over.
Of course, the fact the child was a skeleton, changed things. The only other skeleton besides himself in the Underground was the Boss—Papyrus. So, the kid must have come from the surface, how curious. He stared at it and it stared back, its grim expression reflected Sans's own. It looked defeated, hopeless.
Sighing, the claws drew away. He'd give it a chance.
As if aware of the given chance, it grew bold and began to wiggle around in his grasp like a maggot.
Hrm…maggot. Its bones were yellow enough and he did find it in garbage.
He'd call it maggot.
Sans was a bit startled by his decision. It had only been a few seconds and he'd already named it—sort of. Flustered, he raked his claws down his skull. The resulting grooves were oddly cathartic.
He sternly looked at the kid, sighing as he concluded that it was now his responsibility—great, just great. Sans conveniently forced the details concerning his predicament to the back of his mind.
It began wiggling back and forth, much like its namesake—it wanted to escape Sans's grasp, obviously. The maggot was looked over in more detail and Sans noted, its spine was the distinctive C-shape of an infant—which kept it firmly on its back.
"Ha kiddo, don't get yourself bent out of shape on my account."
The child continued, rocking back and forth. Not wanting it to fall, Sans brought it closer.
"Eh, what?"
It latched onto Sans's jacket and tiny hands cut into the fabric. Akin to a primate, it began to climb up. Huh, so it had more mobility than initially thought.
It stopped at Sans's neck. Sans froze, and for a fraction of a second the idea it may try to decapitate him was entertained. He couldn't help but feel a bit foolish when it chose to rest its skull against his clavicle, exhausted.
Well, that settled it. Sans was keeping the kid, sick or not—he couldn't just leave it, anyway!
Besides, leaving the place empty-handed would be a bummer.
