God I hate this chapter. It's just late filler. Arrrrgh
BUT! The next chapter will be looooong.
Onto reveiws, because ya'll are asking some good questions. :3
TrainerFiona: Hey you didn't kill Hobbes! I'm so proud of you Sans! And hello Brackets, how are you? *Eh-em (how do you actually spell the sound that comes wheny ou clear your throat?) Anyways... on to important buisness! I would like to tell you that I loved this chapter (and probably all the future ones too, now that I think about it...) and loved all the silly qurstions too. But. There are two important questions I feel you either forgot, didn't think of, or intentionally didn't put in this chapter.
1. When the Monsters are released,how deal with this pregidous and dangous world where the humans are going to be at the very least, scared of monsters.
2. How did Sans get out of the game and how did it force their two worlds together?Well thats all I can think of! See ya later! P. for noticing me!
[Hi. Doing pretty well, thanks. Life is good and all.]
1. It's going to be slow and painful. Since I'm bad at strategy and worse at politics, I'm not going to get very specific. A human ambassador will help, and of course Jean can guilt everyone about stuff like how badly America treated the blacks and first Americans. "This is a chance to redeem yourselves, to show that you can change for the better" etc, etc. They definitely won't be able to refuse with the media doing their job: the various news networks will leap on the government like wolves if they start exhibiting distasteful attitudes towards the monsters. Being sapient and having a bunch of cool gadgets, a king who likes flowers, an incredibly nervous Royal Scientist who's infatuated with anime, and magic healing food are also some major plusses, and oh yeah that one ginormous geothermal energy plant called the CORE (:D) only madmen say no to free green energy.
2. I'll get to that. I have a really evil idea (=w=) ...
Pandaxoom: This is awesome. I love it. Sans isn't even that out of character, but more puns would be nice. Is Dad gonna find out about Sans? Is someone else gonna spot Sans? Please don't stay up late if it is stopping you from writing, you need and deserve sleep. BYE
*gasp* you're too kind! And Sans isn't All that out of character?!
YESSSSS
More puns you say? I can try that. Heheheh
Q 1: I can honestly say without a doubt that I will answer that literally in the next few chapters. Although, considering how long they are, it might be five. Its in the plot and everything.
Q 2: you're just going too have to wait and see~
Thank you for worrying. I deserve sleep? Is this flattery?
Joannabear43: I think I might be a little addicted to this...
Mission Accomplished!
SquareRootOf-1: Like all the chapters before it, I think this one was perfectly paced and well-characterized. I didn't see anybody out of character in this chapter. It was a blend of funny and emotional, which I think you did really well. Keep it up!
(I can't find the answer to this! Ack! Thank you anyway, you're very nice. OwO)
Also there's a new person joining us I didn't answer. Say hello to catsareawesome. Thank you all so much!
Jean puts the sandwich in the fridge. We're going to take advantage of the time-distorting cold, and watch as the ketchup soaks into the bread, because the next twenty minutes aren't really of much concern- idle conversation- and if the creator uses the quotation mark key any more-
Brackets! What did I say about interfering with the story?
[What?]
You know very well what. Narrating like that is taboo.
[Fine. It's still very accurate that using the quotation mark key much more will make it give out.]
… Touche.
So the reader's attention focuses on the ketchup sandwich, as the bread dries out slightly where bared to the cold, dry air of the refrigerator and the ketchup slowly soaks into the bread and congeals. The tenant- Heinz ketchup on honey oat bread- tries to shrink towards the back, where cottage cheese, sour cream, a tub of applesauce, fourteen eggs in a styrofoam 18-egg carton and half an onion huddle together in wary, chilly silence away from the door, which has several shelves of various condiments. It's not the hot fudge, butterscotch, dijon mustard, relish, strawberry syrup, ketchup or mayonnaise the leftovers were anxious about; rather it is the soy sauce, Tabasco sauce, marmalade and especially a highly suspicious-looking jar of elderly basil pesto that causes the perishables to quake in their containers. Much to the chagrin of the chocolate and strawberry syrup-who were exchanging sappy (syrupy) love notes thanks to their close proximity, the refrigerator door opened; two Dominoes boxes, long leached of any warmth, were removed by hand; the milk later reported them screaming, "No! Please, No! I don't want to be eaten!"
Then again, it was the milk. Scrubbing dishes was one of the most tedious chores next to laundry. Tedious meant one could think easily, and with six different self-maintained debates raging in my head at once I was starting to think this was a bad thing. What did Sans really think of me? Could I manipulate Frisk from afar with the game? How was everyone in the Underground doing? Did they remember Sans, or had he disappeared from existence like Gaster? How had the shutdown of my computer interfered with everything? Most importantly, should I ask for someone's advice or help? I lied. This wasn't a debate so much as a fruitless worrying what with all the variables.
(God, I hate variables.)
There was a crunching of rocks, in between tires and asphalt. I snapped my head around frantically with an oh-fudge-did-I-forget-something-instinct with essence of Dad's Coming Home And There's A Monster Living (sleeping) In My Room.
… This was going to become a habit, wasn't it.
Dad whooshed in for the second time, chilly rags defiantly clinging to his sweater in a last-ditch attempt to survive the killing warmth and small eddies shaking their fists as if to say, "One day, it will be winter! I swear it!" Hobbes nipped in before the door slammed shut, streaking past and thundering up the stairs as though a pack of car salesmen was after his blood. I wiped off my wet hands- wet from doing a sink of dishes- on a towel and said, "Hey, dad. Traffic?"
"Not atypical," he winced. Traffic was killer right around five and would not let up until six, or even six-thirty. The joys of living nearby the city, it seemed, although conveniently close to school and various stores. Definitely not handy when it came to hiding, say, a sapient and cunning creature who could slam you to a wall and char your flesh with either terrible puns or laser fire.
"Well, I'm doing some dishes, but other than that, absolutely nothing. Loads of fun."
"... Jean, I don't have anything to wear tomorrow."
Dad. Why. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I told you to do the laundry yesterday."
Flapjacks. My face scrunches into one regretful wrinkle. "... I knew that."
Dad throws another Look- this time at the cieling- and says, "Do your chores."
I rip off a crisp salute; "Yes, sir, permission to finish the dishes, sir!"
His mouth twitches a little. (Score!) "Permission denied."
"Sir yes sir!" Wiping my hands on a towel, I trotted into the entry hall and up the stairs. When I peek into my room, Hobbes is sprawled smugly across a snoozing Sans.
"Cheeky fuzzball," I mutter at the lump. "You're laying on top of that poor guy explicitly because he doesn't like cats, aren't you."
Hobbes says, "Mrrup."
"I agree. His loss."
Walk past my doorway to Dad's, nip in and grab the laundry basket. Walk past my room aaaand nope? Alright, my legs are now acting without consent of my brain. Thanks, legs, go right ahead, no of course I don't mind… now what are you doing? ... Okay, sure, loiter in my doorway, that's perfectly alright with me…
Pff. Purrfectly.
…
I blame Sans.
Hobbes gives me that "Hey, dummy, you're supposed to be petting me" look all cats have while I frowned speculatively at Sans.
What the actual h#ll.
A skeleton- I'm sorry, I mean magical skeleton- pops out of a mirror (a mirror in the flipping basement, old enough to probably have actual silver in it somewhere) three hundred sixty-five convenient days after my- my mother's death five days before FLIPPING ALL HALLOW'S EVE and is now sleeping underneath my cat in my BEDROOM. I don't know why I'm just now getting hit by this, but I am and it's hitting hard.
Just. This literally sounds like some kind of half-baked fanfiction.
This is so- dangit, I'm just a weird messed up human being who is flawed and I freaking cannot do this with my luck Sans will end up dusted, I can't do this, I can't I can't it's hopeless-
Nope. Nope, nope, nopin' right out of this situation. Deep breaths, keep going, there are things to be done.
Man, it has been forever since that happened.
Guess my luck ran out.
Nothing much interesting happened for a while. Laundry was done, dished were finished, counters were wiped, floors were swept, and last-minute homework (math, blargh) was fretted over. Oh, yeah, and I incessantly worried, thought about and/or fretted over a certain bag of bones who was a very hapless tenant of my house. That too.
It is so weird, how suddenly hyperaware one becomes when someone else is staying the night in one's room. You have to change in the bathroom, dress in more than a shirt and underwear to sleep, and the list just keeps going.
So. I had to pull on some actual pajamas (GASP!), in the bathroom (DOUBLE GASP!), have another, smaller philosophical realization, (joy) and then I fretted like a parent with all of her children at the front lines of WWII over what I should do because dear God Sans was in my room and he flipping despised me.
…
I think.
I mean, I literally deserve it anyway? Killing peoples' brothers is generally regarded as uh. Egregious to the power of dreadful, buuuuuuuuut I don't think any of these charac- people even existed before all this-
Hey wait.
I definitely didn't do this, right?
… No. I would have realized.
Then who?
Gaster? Chara? Both have, um, displayed bizarre tendencies to overlook the laws of practically everything so, maybe?
Well, if I think any more then I will stay up past 11:00pm whether or not I wish to do so. Sighing through my nose, I spit out toothpaste-and-saliva foam into the sink and turn off the water. Trying to kneecap my thoughts proves to be frustrating and slow work, lasting through a goodnight peck to and from Dad and all the way up the stairs.
Where I stop.
Slowly walk down the landing to my room.
Into my room. Come on legs, it's not that hard! My left knee begs to differ. I scowl at it until it starts working again; chastised, it ferries me to my bed.
I slide under my covers. They're chilly, but my face is on fire.
Ohhhhhh God.
The grouchy realist in my head harrumphs something along the lines of, "He's a depressed monster who's biggest interest is his brother, further heightened by an intense and eternal sense of paranoia, which in turn is caused by post-traumatic stress and quite possibly depersonalisation disorder from you. You have no reason to be embarrassed. Get. Over. It." I listened to it, I really did. Except for my cheeks. Thank you teen hormones, remind me to throttle you tomorrow…
Ten minutes of thinking in meeps, listening to Sans breathing (?!), of staring at the ceiling and listening to cars passing by.
Then I finally started to loosen up.
An indefinite unit of time later, my world was written in nothing but dreams.
Guess what I forgot?
I.
HAVE.
OVER TWO THOUSAND VIEWS.
*ETERNAL SCREAMING*
Lemme know of any typos, grammatical errors, canonical divergences, plot holes or pickles. Have a great day/night!
