A Lucky God

The next few moments, minutes, hours, pass by in a blur with only his empty glasses for company. No more were the joyful bar patrons, no more did music fill the room as jukebox laid dented and shattered after a particularly bad episode, no more was the warmth and it's glow. He was cold, despite being inside of the once cheerful bar, he was so cold.

"You should go home Sans," he hears his old friend mutter. "The tabs been closed for hours now. Normally, you'd be home by this hour. " Sans didn't bother replying. The sigh Grillby let's out could only be described as reeking with loathing, "What would Papyrus think of you now?"

Sans didn't pay any mind to the voice talking to him. It wasn't real, no one was real anymore. Sans knows he isn't real, given that his flame wasn't coating the room in a lovely glow. He knows that, if he were to look up, he would see the long dead wisps of his flame still drifting aloft, his soaking wet tux that almost melts off of him, and a single hole where he drived a bone right through his old friend's soul.

He isn't real. He knows this, and yet, he still can't stop himself from listening to the bastardization of his friend's voice. So Sans closes his eyes, and imagines the days that have passed long ago, and that nothing is wrong, and never was.

The illusion of tranquility shatters when he feels something brush against his ribs.

Sans jolt back to the world of the living was so fast, the whole room spun with such velocity he almost didn't catch the new monster sitting right next to him. They were like no monster he had encountered before. They had a dark, slender form that seem to almost be constantly dripping and pouring off of their bones. The deep viscous substance reflects the low lighting in a dazzling way, almost as if the stars themselves were trapped underneath their skin. And when Sans finally focus his vision? It was onto a single cyan eye piercing straight through and staring into his soul.

He didn't speak for a moment, still startled that this hallucination had touched him. They had never been tactile before, but hey, there was a first for everything. He still remembers the first time they started, some months after the human didn't come back, when he decided to try smoking some cannabis for the first time. Figuring it might be renewable way to get his fixed.

It was, but it came with the price of new experiences.

It was small at first, just the subtle whispers of monsters he had fallen. But it quickly became figures at the edge of his eye sockets, faces, screams, pleading, accusations, Alphys begging, Undyne hunting him down to make him pay, the sound of the Papyrus just asking, 'why?' over, and over again.

He goes to grab his empty glass out of habit, wincing at the pain laced in within his knuckles.

"You are hurt." the monster states. They're voice echoes throughout the room despite the quiet tone.

"Huh?"

"That hand is injured, yet, you still use it. Why?"

Oh, one of these hallucinations, "Aren't you already in my head?" He says as he rolls his eyes. He doesn't know why he's even bothering with this.

"Humor me then, Sans."

He turns away from the shadowy figure, the grip on his glass tightening as he starts muttering, "… I dunno, it's not like anyone's around to care anymore," he admits as he brings the glass to his mouth, "I sure as hell don't… it doesn't matter if I break a bit more.

"Besides… we deserve it for what we've done."

"'For what we've done'?" they say with a mild laugh, the ones where you're not sure of there're genuine, or if it's just to brush you off quicker. "My, where did this come from? I have done no such thing, boy."

"You're part of my messed up psyche; part of the problem."

"Color me curious then; what is this 'problem'?" The figure says as they lean closer, perching their head upon their hands. Sans can almost smell a floral note in their breath with how close they are to him now. "For how I see it, we've just meet, and yet, you've already made it your truth that we are one and the same. Curious, no?"

Sans takes a deep breath, long and slow. 'It's not real,' he thinks. 'Just stop talking to it,' and yet, he doesn't.

"We've killed people." he murmurs simply. There isn't much you can say about slaughtering all of your friends in the hopes it would save them. But Sans doesn't miss the way their eye twitches and their fingers stiffen at the statement. So, he continues, "We've turned so many innocent people to dust. People we've known, people who've trusted us. We know the feeling of their dust falling onto our bones intimately. We let it gather onto our bones and let it sit there like the weight of our sins. They were people, so, so, many people… and now? They're all gone, and they're not coming back. Because in the end, our choices don't matter; they're all dead in the end anyway. And worst of all? We couldn't even save a single person, not even ourselves." he finishes bitterly.

They stay silent for a long while. They're body frozen so still Sans wouldn't blame anyone if they thought he was sitting beside a statue. As the monster process the information, his eyes started to wander.

He watches the subtle way the darkness of their clothing flutters in cyan hues. How he truly can't tell if their ink colored body is made of bones and cartilage, or if their skin was stretch so thin it's like it wasn't even there. Or how it seems to flow like an endless river dripping down and starting a new. He's taking a cautious glance downwards their rib cage, watching how the cyan glow seemingly dulls and brightens with their breathing. Sans can't help himself from staring for a while before his eyes trail back up to their collarbone, sitting on the purple light and watching how it shifts and dances in a slow rhythmic pattern.

Finally, the one sitting beside him speak again with something so stupid he couldn't even try making it up: "I think I can help with that. If you will permit it, that is."

Sans almost hollered at that, "And how?" he spits out, "Can you bring them back from the dead or somethin'? Are you some Angle that decide to walk down here and bless me despite all I've done?" They moved to speak but he didn't let them, "Or are you just here for your own entertainment? To tell me a lie and watch me plead for your gift? For your mercy? For something that will never come true like a false prophet?" Sans knows he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be entertaining the hallucinations, it never makes them better, but they always feel so real. Some days, it feels like they are they're one of only things keeping him here.

Sans opens his mouth to continue but they cut him off, "I cannot heal your blight." They admit solemnly. And even with a frustrated glare leaking through their mask, they keep a leveled tone. "I can do nothing for the ones you have already lost, but I can aid you in forming new connections. It will not empty the pain or guilt you feel, but you can find solace in the people around you."

"And the catch?" Sans say with a glares with heat that could rival the Core's, his glass faintly clicks against the countertop, "no savior comes without a cost, so what's yours?"

They hum softly, gingerly tapping their face with their claws, almost as if contemplating the question. But despite their facade, Sans feels like they've known their answer well in advance, "To carry a piece of me."

Sans would have spat out his drink if he still had any, "I'm sorry??"

"Not in that fashion." They state sternly, brows creased as if disgusted by the very notion, "It is simply a method for connection, nothing more. But that connection will bring you everything of importance; lively company, safety, a routine that isn't slowly killing you… wouldn't that be lovely to have, Sans? To be capable of living day by day without worrying about the Core giving out on you?

"So let me take you out of this place, Sans. Let me save you."

"There's still other people here," he fights. He doesn't want to know why his soul is hammering against his chest as he stares into their eye. He doesn't know why he can feel sweat starting to trail down the side of his skull. He doesn't know why his hands are shaking. He doesn't know why he's still talking, "They're Amalgamates now, have been for a long time. They're still hidden deeper underground, like all secrets, you know? I can't let them know what I've done. To their old friends, to their families…

"But I can't leave them. They need me.

"Please," he whispers like a prayer, "don't make me leave them." Sans knows he's pathetic the way he's pleading with them. The way he feels his warm tears fall silently down his face with no regard for the monster watching his every move, every breath, every twitch.

He wipes his eye sockets roughly, when did he start crying?

"That will be no matter." the monster says sweetly, whether that sweetness is false or not Sans can't tell. "I can take them in too. Give them a real home for a change. One where they aren't forced to live in isolation, even from the dead. However…" they trail off, "judging by that look, you don't seem too keen on that."

In an instant, he buries his face in his hand. The monster hums, "You can always come back for their care. Our agreement will not lead to their deaths, that I can assure you." They pause, taking their hand to gently hold his jaw, forcing his head to face them.

He lets them.

"You've taken care of them for so long, Sans. It's been a whole year since the human's stop coming back, hasn't it? Wouldn't it be nice to have someone take care of you for a change? To let all your worries wash away? Even if only for a little bit?

"I only want what's best for you, Sans." They end with a smile so gentle he can't help but trust it.

But he shouldn't, he doesn't know this monster. Doesn't know their goals, their strategies, what they're planning, or why they're trying so hard to convince him.

Why was this damn hallucination trying so hard to get him to agree?

............. ....... ... .. .

Right… the… the monster sitting next to him, the monster holding onto his face with a gentleness he hasn't felt in years is just his own screwed up mind playing a trick on him. None of this is real. Whatever he says isn't going to matter in the end. Accept or deny, he's just going back to his sad little place where the walls are too big, air is too still, the sounds are too quiet, the whispers too loud and-

Just as it should be.

But he doesn't want to go back.

He straightens up as the figment of his imagination drops their hand, "Sure, ain't like my choices matter anyway." he mutters into his empty glass.

"That's wonderful to hear," they preen with a glistening smile.

Sans watches as they take their hand and push it through their rib cage, watches the cyan hues blossom in a shimmering spectrum as they extract something. It was small, no bigger than a single joint, but its color was immaculate. A deep color that almost looked black but was clearly purple with help from the light bouncing off the seed's shiny shell.

He was breathless, reminded him so much of the glittering stars across the night sky.

They move the glass away from him, but when Sans looks to meet their eyes, that's when he realizes they were now looming over him. They look so different at this angle, now the inky darkness of their bones had deepen into an almost abyssal black, their seafoam glow was so bright it stung his eye sockets.

They place their hand over top of his mouth, slotting the seed past his teeth. "Now, all you have to do," the hand tightens on his mouth, "is swallow." they state with finality. All the while their piercing eye stares into his soul.