[When it came to dreams, Sans walked the familiar caverns of the Underground most frequently. And while that place had its fair share of picket fences, he couldn't recall one that was quite so protractor-straight as the one he found himself in front of now.
The more variable details of his life -- the places he may have traveled in or outside his dreams, the memories repressed or otherwise -- were nothing more than a distant fog. What was left behind was a more base version of himself. Sans Classic, as it were.
But even Sans Classic knew the Underground didn't have a bright blue sky. Not even his wildest dreams had that.]
Huh. [He flicks at the tip of the fence, as if it might warp into nothing when pressure was applied.] Lemme guess, this your place?
[A man -- completely nondescript aside from the word human -- moves past him as if on a track. Good morning! he replies, in a booming gregarious voice. Sans' sockets follow him on his morning st(roll), watching as he offered the same morning greeting to the next house. And the house after that. Like a recorded playback.
As Sans moves down along the cul de sac, more of those human specters appear. One was dressed as a milkman, another tried to sell him a paper, a figure in a dress told him to have a be-YOO-tiful day. Just like that. With the YOO right in the middle, sandwiched like mayo between two pieces of white bread.
Suffice to say, the first person Sans comes across without a glassy eyed stare catches his immediate attention.]
You. [He says, suddenly. The figure he addresses is turned away, but there's a solidness to them that sticks out from the manicured lawns and people. Whether the conspicuous skeleton caught their attention before it, y'know, spoke... well, maybe that's a normal occurrence in the dreams of this stranger.] I dunno if you've heard yet, but word on the street is it's a good morning.
sans | undertale (OTA!)
[When it came to dreams, Sans walked the familiar caverns of the Underground most frequently. And while that place had its fair share of picket fences, he couldn't recall one that was quite so protractor-straight as the one he found himself in front of now.
The more variable details of his life -- the places he may have traveled in or outside his dreams, the memories repressed or otherwise -- were nothing more than a distant fog. What was left behind was a more base version of himself. Sans Classic, as it were.
But even Sans Classic knew the Underground didn't have a bright blue sky. Not even his wildest dreams had that.]
Huh. [He flicks at the tip of the fence, as if it might warp into nothing when pressure was applied.] Lemme guess, this your place?
[A man -- completely nondescript aside from the word human -- moves past him as if on a track. Good morning! he replies, in a booming gregarious voice. Sans' sockets follow him on his morning st(roll), watching as he offered the same morning greeting to the next house. And the house after that. Like a recorded playback.
As Sans moves down along the cul de sac, more of those human specters appear. One was dressed as a milkman, another tried to sell him a paper, a figure in a dress told him to have a be-YOO-tiful day. Just like that. With the YOO right in the middle, sandwiched like mayo between two pieces of white bread.
Suffice to say, the first person Sans comes across without a glassy eyed stare catches his immediate attention.]
You. [He says, suddenly. The figure he addresses is turned away, but there's a solidness to them that sticks out from the manicured lawns and people. Whether the conspicuous skeleton caught their attention before it, y'know, spoke... well, maybe that's a normal occurrence in the dreams of this stranger.] I dunno if you've heard yet, but word on the street is it's a good morning.