Skelehawk

————-

It had been midnight when the barrier combusted.

The great explosion of magic brought forth by the raw power of seven human souls had rung through every nook and cranny of the Underground, from the dreary cesspits of the Capital’s bars to the eerily still halls of the Ruins. There wasn’t a single monster who hadn’t heard the highly pitched sound. If it had been quieter, it could even have been akin to the striking of a bell.

As it was, the deafening noise shook the Underground like an earthquake.

Such a noise was not going to go unnoticed by those who lived beyond the barrier.

So when a fifteen-foot tall king of monsters led his people out into the radiant light of the moon, they were not as alone as they had expected to be. The sky, dotted by stars and planets and galaxies, was soon crowded with great hunks of metal that buzzed like enormous flies and drowned out the soft celestial glow with harsh, blinding floodlights of their own. This did not sit well with the ex-inhabitants of a sparsely-lit cave.

None of the monsters could quite put their finger on why the idea of violence suddenly seemed so daunting. They had trained for a millenia on each other, culling the weak and ensuring that the strong survived to lead the assault on the human front, taking back what had been stolen from them so long ago. The lot of them were nothing but ruthless killers by now.

…Right?

Nonetheless, the crowd of a few hundred monsters stopped in their tracks the moment that the human forces turned their focus to these alien creatures. The flying metal machines circled in a manner similar to vultures over roadkill; the air was silent save for the dull churning of their motors and uncomfortable murmurs from the beasts echoing across the mountainside.

The stillness lasted for maybe a half hour. A calm before a storm.

It was then that a lone straggler drifted down from the steel flock to land in front of the soul-gorged monster king. Five humans emerged from the belly of the aircraft. All but one wore thick black garments from head to toe. The more dapperly dressed fifth human stepped forward and extended his hands toward the robed behemoth.

They were empty.

It was a stark contrast to the black-clad quartet behind him, who stood stoically with massive, shiny devices clutched between their gloved hands.

To their obvious surprise, the beast before them opened his maw and spit forth words in a human tongue.

A minute sprig of tension uncoiled between the two factions. Contact had been established. No one was dead. Yet.

The monsters began to back away from their leader at his behest, allowing him space to speak with the human ambassador with as much privacy as his booming voice would allow. It was in their best interest to respect the wishes of the benevolent tyrant who had lorded over their lives for so many bygone centuries.

As such, not a single living monster would know the exact phrase that ended the peaceful relations.

The king, who would soon fall, was left to contemplate his final sentiments entirely alone:

“If seven had to die, so be it. I did only what was best for my people.”

————–

“My brother, my brother, tell me where he is, I know you know where he is, ya fleshheaded bastards!”

Two pairs of hands pushed his flailing limbs to the ground while a third pulled some sort of thick mesh around his mouth and set it in place with a metallic click. His captors had learned early on that his sharp teeth weren’t just for show. Unfortunately, with his magic completely shot, that also meant that his sole defense mechanism had been ripped away from him without a second thought. It felt to be a rather… compromising position.

Sans didn’t know whether he appreciated or hated the fact that he could talk through the mesh. Sure, he was fully able to express his frustration as loudly and graphically as he wished. It was cathartic, to say the least.

It also meant that he got to see for himself just how little his squabbling really mattered in the grand scheme of things. He could count the times that anyone had shown even a facial reaction to his fervent complaints on a single hand.

That was how he was coming to view many things in his life: a mix of tentative appreciation and hatred at the same time.

The tiny room where he slept was spartan and lonely, a constant reminder of the fact that his brother wasn’t there to yell at his shitty puns or tell him to get off of his ass and tackle sentry duty. It was a grim contrast to everything that his life had once been. But at the same time, the room was safe. It was a constant; it was predictable. The humans would leave him to his business, as simple and dull as it may be, and never stepped foot within its confines so long as he complied when they wanted him to leave.

…which admittedly was rare.

Not the leaving part, no; that special event occurred at least once every time the blaringly bright overhead lights flickered to life. (So, a day? Maybe?) The rare facet of these confrontations was his compliance with orders. The humans who posed as his twisted caretakers certainly incentivized the submission well enough - he was promised actual food instead of the pills that he was given daily, containing just enough magic to keep him alive - he simply couldn’t stomach the idea of admitting he was beaten. (Like he had so many times before…)

All of these factors had led him to the position he was in right now. Writhing around on the floor with disgusting, oily human hands clamped around his humeri, just below where the sleeves of his baggy, sterile, short-sleeved shirt cut off-

“Skeleton.” The soft voice was enough of a shock that Sans ceased his frenzied squirming and jerked his head toward the source of the sound. The speaker, though too far behind his back to be seen from his awkward positioning, loosened their grip on his right arm just enough that it no longer cut into his bone and removed one of their hands entirely. It would have been a perfect opportunity to wriggle free… but in the end, he would accomplish nothing.

He let himself lay limp.

What he wasn’t expecting was for the feeling of the hand to return, this time on his skull, on the portion of his temporal bone located just behind his jaw. Tension seeped out of his body as a few fingers carefully pet the oddly specific location. He shuddered.

It almost felt like…

Like…

The duo sat, clutching one another, Sans shivering uncontrollably in his brother’s arms. He had just witnessed his sibling, his entire world, come face to face with death. If he hadn’t come home within a time frame of five seconds, Papyrus would have been nothing more than a pile of dust on the decaying carpet. If his attack had missed, if he hadn’t hit the massive canine across the eyes, if he hadn’t sent him running…

“Sans, I am okay. You are okay.”

Papyrus brought his hand to the side of Sans’ skull and ran his phalanges along the bone in careful, comforting circles. Sans let out a shaky sigh.

They fell to sleep in each other’s arms that night.

“Papyrus.”

There was only one way that this human could have known the motion that would snap him out of a panic.

“What did you do to him?” He croaked the question out in a whimper, utterly despising how much influence a simple touch had over his entire being. (Pathetic.) A chuckle from the human assured him that his self-evaluation was correct.

“Hush, skeleton.” They continued the feather-light ministrations while the other two humans looked on. “Your brother has been closed off to us, but opened up as soon as your care came into the picture.”

Sans felt a sinking feeling engulf his soul.

“He told us only that light pressure to the side of your skull over an extended period of time could keep you from hurting yourself. I suppose he wasn’t lying, for once.”

Betrayal. The notion rang through his mind; raw, plain, and simple.

Papyrus had given into these bastards?

“You’re smart, buddy,” the voice went on. Sans let out a halfhearted growl at the overly friendly designation. “And you know that we can achieve our goals together. Administration is willing to let you visit Papyrus if you begin to show even minimal cooperation with their reformation efforts.”

With a defeated sigh, Sans snapped his drooling mouth shut and attempted to draw his head away from the human’s incessant carressing. “Okay, okay, I’ll bite. Just fuck off with the petting thing. You’re a buncha creeps.”

There was, predictably, no response to his verbal jab as the humans on either side of him tucked their hands under the meeting points of his clavicles and humeri and lifted him to his feet. The ease at which the massive creatures could hoist his frame into the air was… disconcerting at best. (Why was he so goddamned small?)

He was shunted out of his room’s door and briskly escorted down the hallway, once again cursing his minute stature as the hands on his shoulders pushed him along at a pace too fast for his legs to keep up with. The scrabbling of his bare phalanges on the concrete floor echoed down the otherwise quiet, whitewashed corridor. (No way in hell was he wearing the bizarre laceless shoes they’d given him. If he was going to wear proper shoes instead of slippers, they’d better be able to appear consistently untied, dammit.)

The jaunt came to an abrupt halt when the party reached an open door labeled “Conference Room 5” in neat black script. He felt the presence of the human who had been petting him continue on down the hall as he was led through the doorway.

A telltale click indicated that the room’s single exit had been shut behind him.

Sans was all too familiar with this nondescript space, and if asked, could describe it in perfect detail with his sockets tightly shut. It was a sizable rectangle with the building’s typical white walls and ceiling. Instead of the accompanying tile floor, however, Conference Room 5 had a seaweed-colored carpet that was soft under his feet. Four cheaply upholstered chairs were nailed in a “Y” pattern to the floor. Three of these chairs - the middle of which Sans was being seated in now - faced a “mirror.” (It was obviously one-way glass. He still didn’t understand why the humans had initially tried to hide it from him.)

While his escorts took their seats at the two uppermost points of the “Y,” Sans stared blankly at the occupant of the bottommost chair.

Doctor… something. Sans had intentionally forgotten her name. She was his interrogato- er, helper. He’d spent his time in this room completely silently, staring at a wall while Doc asked him questions and occasionally reminded him that he was “safe now.”

Apparently, in order to see Papyrus, his selective muteness would have to be put on hold.

Doc caught his gaze with a wave as he listlessly glanced around the room.

“Good morning, skeleton. I heard you might be ready to talk with me today?”

God, her voice was so sickeningly sweet. Sans took a moment to roll his eyelights before grudgingly nodding in her general direction. (It’s just for Papyrus’ sake, just play along, just-)

“Hun, I’m going to need to hear your voice at some point. I appreciate your effort, I really do, but we’ll need to communicate in order to deconstruct the cycle of violence that you were exposed to while living underground.” She placed her index finger to her lips in thought. “Let’s begin with your name. Can you do that for me?”

Silence reigned for an uncomfortably long time while Sans wrestled with his conscience. (Could they use his name against him? Well, of course they could, but would they?)

Doc seemed about ready to speak again, coax him one more time, when he finally quashed his wary nature.

“Sans.” He whispered suddenly, a growl running through his throat.

“What?” Doc looked astonished that he’d actually complied.

“Sans.”

She heard him that time, as indicated by her careful nod. “Well then, Sans, share with me what you are comfortable with, and we can work from there.” The sides of her lips curled upward into a soft smile.

Sans narrowed his sockets, eyelights brimming with suspicion. (What did these creatures want from him? Which words should he avoid? Which words would place him in a better position?)

He eventually decided upon a topic that was straightforward enough.

“Well Doc, you already know something about me; something that ya successfully used to your advantage.” He watched her expression morph into something resembling… concern?.. before continuing. “Maybe you’re looking to learn about my bro, huh?”

He carefully observed her facial features to locate any tells of excitement or malice at his statement. He found none, save for a slight tilt of her head likely indicative of her willingness to listen.

Sans didn’t know whether he was more relieved or let down by the lack of confirmation of his hunch.

“Welp, if you are, then that sucks for you. Lemme ask you this instead: have you ever tried running a hotdog stand?”

——————-

“BROTHER?”

Sans leaned back onto his dingy pillow and wove his fingers together behind his head. Might as well get comfy for the day’s routine existentialist chat. He called out in a voice just loud enough to reach the top bunk: “Yeah, boss?”

A groan.

“Ugh, SANS! I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING ME BY THAT RIDICULOUS MONIKER THREE WEEKS AGO.” His voice softened. “Brother, that is what unnerves me. I try to keep all of the numbers in my head, but they slip. What if I count a day twice? What if our feeding schedule was changed a while back? How do I know it has truly been three weeks since our agreement and not three months?”

Sans inwardly flinched, but kept his voice steady. “Y’gotta trust your intuition, bro. ‘Sides, you were the most organized monster in the whole damn Underground. If anyone can keep track of something as mundane as a mental calendar, it’s you.”

A weak laugh escaped Papyrus’ maw. Sans heard shifting from the bunk above him and a heavy thud as Papyrus slid from his mattress to the floor.

“SCOOT.”

(It was difficult to resist the usual “Sure thing, Boss.”)

Sans kept his arms folded behind his head and lazily dragged his legs to his chest. He had an image to maintain, after all. Papyrus simply shot him a withering glance before taking a seat at the end of Sans’s bed. Several minutes passed in amicable silence before Papyrus spoke once more in the soft, gentle tone that was so alien to hear in his voice.

“Sans, I feel scared.”

With those four little words, Sans shot up from his pillow, exhaustion completely forgotten. “Papyrus, what-?”

“My human told me that I was here to become a better monster. That once I had escaped my violent nature, I would be released.”

Sans nodded slowly, unable to see where this was coming from. He had been given the same talk by Doc many times before.

“Such a trivial matter should come easily to the Great and Terrible Papyrus, yes?” A spark ignited in Papyrus’ eyelights as he quipped his preferred title. It flickered for a moment, then died as he was pulled back into the present. “I’ve been trying, Sans, I’ve been trying so hard to prove my worth to these outlandish humans! They would be imbecilic to miss just how far the Great Papyrus has come!” He let out a dejected huff and turned to Sans. “I’ve even been able to quell my penchant for lashing out when exposed to unexpected noises.”

Sans sank back into his pillow in a flash of understanding, suddenly realizing where Papyrus was steering his train of thought. “They want something more from us, Sans. Something other than the simple taming of our impulses. I don’t know what it is yet, but I fear it will not turn out well for us monsters.”

The little skeleton felt a shiver run through his bones. He’d never trusted the fleshy beasts himself, but he’d tried with all of his pathetic might to keep Papyrus as distanced from his cynical mindset as possible. Papyrus deserved happiness, for once in his life. He deserved to live in some semblance of safety, without worrying about his broken older brother, without constantly having to look over his shoulder to avoid a painful dusting. Even if that sense of security was rooted in lies.

Sans did the only thing he could think of in that moment to comfort his little brother: extend his arms and offer him a hug.

Papyrus obliged.

The two sat like that, curled in each other’s arms and souls glowing softly in unison for what seemed like an eternity. The only indication that time itself hadn’t stopped were their occasional whispers; quiet, hopeful little things that only they would know.

“Y’know, Papy, I’ve heard that humans on the outside have entire restaurants dedicated to the art of fine pasta craftsmanship.”

“Nyeheh, maybe I’ll grant them the privilege of witnessing true, monster-style cooking!”

“What would we do with all of that spaghetti afterwards?”

“Have an elegant, gourmet picnic consisting entirely of my artistry! Obviously.”

“Bet you’d attract quite the crowd, all clamberin’ for some of that pasta.”

“That’s why we’d have it in a field! One with grass. And one where we can see the sun.”

“That’s a bright idea.”

“I know! Oh, Sans, I am so excited to see the sun! I’ll look so majestic and powerful when bathed in its gassy, fiery rays!”

“Yeah, you will, Pap.”

(Aren’t his dreams so beautiful?)

——————-

“As you may have realized, the amount of magic contained in the meal provided to you earlier today was slightly larger than your daily magic output rate.”

Sans glanced at the gangly human to his left and acknowledged their statement with a curt nod. While he wasn’t about to let them know, he most certainly had noticed what he’d assumed was a slip-up on their part. After being fed just enough magic to keep him alive for months on end, the excess spark of energy pulsing through his soul was expressed in his every movement. His steps had a gentle, lighthearted bounce to them. He slouched a little bit less. The pinpricks of lights within his otherwise empty sockets glowed ever so slightly brighter, allowing him to witness vibrant colors in a world that had looked washed-out and dull for an unbearably long time. (He hadn’t seen colors this intense since he’d channeled every last grain of power into his brother’s soul on that fateful first night on the surface, eons ago. Papyrus’ skull had been hit multiple times and he was so close to dusting; his skull was caked with chalky white dust and his crimson soul was cradled in glimmering tendrils of Sans’ veridian healing magic-)

He put an end to that line of thinking as his mask began to slip. Thankfully, none of the humans present decided to comment, instead keeping to their work.

The one standing directly in front of him, between Sans and the one-way glass, was arranging several unfamiliar devices on a folding table. Each was placed in a seemingly predetermined location and secured with a liquid adhesive. Some had lights, others gauges, and a few had numbers. All were made of the same reflective metal.

Sans knew data collection instruments when he saw them.

A tightening coil of revulsion wove its way down his spine.

Fortunately, the gangly human must have sensed his discomfort, and put an end to Sans’ confusion. “It has been determined that, because of your cooperative behavior, we would begin the next phase of your rehabilitation.” The human bent his knees in order to be at eye-level with Sans. It took all of the short skeleton’s willpower to not blow a fuse then and there. “We are putting a lot of trust in you, Sans. Please demonstrate that this trust was not misplaced.”

As the fleshy creature straightened his legs again, Sans was left to shiver at the bizarre contrast between the gentle tone of voice and steely, clinical gaze. The occupants of this room all looked at him with the same detached, unempathetic interest that reminded him so profoundly of the way a scientist might look at a drugged rat.

“Anyway, your powers are tied to your biological structure and to your soul, and as such, are inseparable from your being.” The words conveyed the disconcerting implication that an attempt had been made to strip a more volatile monster of its magic. Sans wasn’t about to contemplate the outcome of said attempt. “We believe that finding constructive outlets for your magic is a crucial step toward reintroduction to society.”

Sans nodded, trying his hardest to keep his smile lax.

(Something was wrong. If the sheer quantity of bodies in the room were needed for security’s sake, then where was Doc and where were the scary, muscular humans who had pinned him to the floor so many times during his first month trapped in the facility? No, the creatures present were clearly related to the data collection devices. But why were either necessary?)

The whirling torrent of thoughts coursing through his mind were almost painful in their relentless assault, but he had to keep them in. He had to play the part of the compliant, trustful drone. He needed his magic back.

“Through your own words and others’ testimony, we have determined that you possess both projectile and gravitational magic. Is this correct?” (Shit.) The human stared at Sans while he ran through dozens of possible responses in his head. In the end, he decided upon the answer that would raise the fewest questions.

“Yup.”

The look of disassociated interest intensified. “Excellent.” A single hand strayed to the back of Sans’ head, and applied just enough pressure to indicate that he should move towards the table. (Don’t freak out don’t freak out just obey be good obEY OBEY-)

Sans took three careful steps forward and gingerly placed his phalanges on the edge.

“As you can see, a plank of wood has been placed in the center of the table.” An entirely unnecessary wave of the hand accompanied the statement, as if Sans wouldn’t understand which object was being referred to. “While you don’t have much extra magic today, we estimated that you should have enough to pierce the plank. Get a sense for using your powers after so long without them, you know.”

(No, he didn’t know. Magic came to monsters as easily as eating. It was just as stupid to imply that he would have forgotten how to use basic attack magic as it would be to imply that a starving beast would forget how to devour a corpse. …Not that these crazy fuckwits would understand that.)

He had to play it cool. Gather some information, maybe. He glanced back at the table and honed in on the metal instruments. “Oh, uhh, yeah, of course.” A pause. “You wanting me to do anythin’ with the other stuff? The shiny bits? Stab them through with another bone or just punch ‘em with my bare fists or somethin’?”

The gangly mouthpiece of the group raised an eyebrow, probably confused as to why the board hadn’t already been eviscerated. “No. Pay them no mind.” His tone was somewhere in between chiding and irritated.

(Could he push a little harder without seeming too suspicious?)

“Isn’t it a little dangerous to have all of these sharp objects around a magical field? I mean, what if they got knocked off and hit someone in the phalan- foot?” Two  humans across from Sans exchanged glances, while the talkative one adopted a face of unadulterated exasperation.

“They’re stable and attached to the surface. They have been requested to enhance your safety. Now, the wood?”

(Safety. Code word for “shut up, we aren’t going to tell you.”)

Sans made sure to hide his sigh as he focused on targeting the plank. A familiar heat rushed into his left socket and arm. His soul pulsed wildly as it fed magic into his body; his emotions burned brightly and free, screaming to take physical form. He allowed his anger at the humans, for killing his king, for imprisoning him, for crushing his brother’s dreams to be directed at the simple board.

CrRRK!

A thin, spindly bone bore through the wood. Sure, it wasn’t a very impressive attack, but it was all that he could manage considering his incredibly low magic reserves.

At least the humans seemed delighted. A few had even allowed their impassive masks to break, revealing surprisingly innocent expressions of wonder. (Maybe, in another life, the entire population of the room could have enjoyed a picnic together. Eaten some spaghetti, laughed over some puns… heh, what a joke.)

————–

Papyrus was miraculously asleep, and Sans had been able to convince Doc that he was feeling horrifically ill and needed to join his brother in the comforting nothingness of unconsciousness.

Today would have been another “Applied Magic” day. The sessions were getting more frequent, and he was getting larger portions of food more often. This also meant that he had been able to squirrel away food almost every day.

His stash, located in a hole that he had carefully sliced into the side of his thin mattress, now contained enough food to account for two meals. Maybe it was a bit of an overkill, but he had to make sure that he could shortcut at a moment’s notice. Today, he would be doing some snooping. He was going to find out what all of this rehabilitative nonsense was really about.

(If nonviolence was all they wanted, Papyrus would have been out months ago. In a more perfect world, he never would have raised arms another creature in his life.)

With one final look back at Papyrus (remember who all of this is for), Sans gathered his concentration and prayed that no one was using the hallway outside of Conference Room 5. Now, he just had to imagine that his room’s door was open, and that instead of leading to its typical destination, it led to Conference Room 5’s destination. He closed his sockets, took a step forward…

And when he opened them again, he was alone in a bleach-white hallway.

He turned around, and came face to face with cleanly stenciled text:

Conference Room 5

(Thank heavens.)

Now, if he were a human, where would he store data outputs? (Well, either a storage closet, or a lab. Duh.) But where exactly would that lab be?

…

Time for some good ol’ fashioned trial and error.

With as much haste as he dared, Sans scrambled through hallway after hallway, peeking around every corner and fixating on every passing soul. (He paused for a moment just outside of a door concealing a soul that called out to him, and had the uncanny urge to drop his mission then and there and bust out a knock-knock joke. With a pang of remorse, he pulled himself away from it and continued down the twisting halls.) Once, he even had to dive into a wall and shortcut around the corner, just barely avoiding detection by a man in a sweater vest.

The close call turned out to be a blessing in disguise. His shortcut spat him out in front of a heavy white door with just the label he was looking for: Filing Room.

Resisting a dance of joy, he grabbed the sleek handle and twisted it slowly, as if the speed at which he opened the door would determine whether or not a human was lying in wait. (Please let the room be empty please let the room be empty-)

By a second stroke of luck, the door revealed nothing but a darkened room full of shelves, piled high with folders, papers, and glass vessels of all kinds. Sans stepped onto the carpeted floor and closed the door behind him. The room was now pitch black. All it took was a bit of fumbling around on the wall to find a light switch, thank fuck, to brighten it up like a Gryftmas tree. The search could now commence.

It wasn’t long before Sans learned that if there was one thing dedicated humans excelled at, it was organization. Despite the cluttered appearance of the shelves, they were alphabetized perfectly. It was more than he could say for his own lab notes. He absentmindedly ran his hand across a stray folder’s label: Cannibalism.

(Nope.)

He ran several shelves down and checked another folder: Snowdrake, Composition. He didn’t stop to take in the fact that the folder was propped up by two jars of grey powder. He had to stay focused.

Two shelves in the opposite direction revealed a more promising Manticore, Behaviors. His goal was almost in reach. One shelf to the left was full of folders and collections of paper labeled Magic. Bingo. Now, if only he could figure out what he was looking for, exactly. Skimming the labels might help him narrow his search a bit…

Magic, Theory. Magic, Typology. Magic, Usage. Magic, Weaponization. Magic- (Wait.)

With a shaking hand, he pulled the Magic, Weaponization file from its place on the shelf. Several papers fell from the folder to the floor.

He picked one up and began reading.

“…and if the explosion at Mt. Ebott was any indication, this power can be converted into a highly concentrated, destructive form. Interrogation upon various subjects has revealed that consumption of a human soul by a monster can lead to a metamorphosis of sorts, creating a monster as massive as Asgore Dreemurr. With the right training, a monster such as this could be a valuable offensive asset to the armed forces…”

(No. Oh, no. Papyrus, no-)

Crrrreeeeek.

Sans froze, paper still in hand. Someone was behind him. Someone had just entered the room.

“M-monster? Put that down, and don’t move!”

Sans didn’t spare a second to see who was talking. He had to get back to his brother. Now.

He made a dive for the wall, closed his eyes, and…

“OOF!”

…crashed into something very boney. “SANS? WHERE- Where were you? And why are you using magic?”

Without even meeting Papyrus’ gaze, Sans threw himself toward his mattress and tore open the side. Enchanted food - a few apples, half of an astoundingly intact sandwich, a bag of chisps, and several packets of mustard that he’d earned for exemplary behavior - tumbled to the floor. He launched an apple toward Papyrus, who caught it with relative ease. Sans himself sliced open the bag of potato chisps with a canine tooth and shoved a handful into his mouth.

“Mnfph. Regain as much magic as ya can, Paps. We’re - crunch - bustin’ outta this joint. We got two minutes before I’m makin’ a run for it.”

Papyrus seemed to be visibly fighting his instinct to chastise Sans for his manners. In the end, he settled for digging into the apple before kneeling with his back to his brother on the floor. “Eh-hm. THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS MUST OBJECT TO YOU ‘MAKING A RUN FOR IT,’ RUNT. DUE TO MY SUPERIOR SPEED, I WILL HANDLE THE RUNNING. YOU WILL HANDLE THE DECIMATION OF ANYTHING THAT STANDS IN OUR WAY.” He looked over his scapula and shot Sans a withering glance. “THIS IS THE PART WHERE YOU PUT YOUR ARMS OVER MY CLAVICLES AND I SUPPORT YOUR FEMURS WITH MY HANDS.”

With one last crunch of a chisp, Sans obliged, and pressed himself up against his brother’s back. The close proximity of the duo’s souls eased Sans’ worries ever so slightly. His grin felt a little bit less forced as Papyrus rose to his feet.

(Now, where might an exit be? Well, he was always taken left to visit Doc and the winding hallways had been left as well… Right, then. It was the best guess he had.)

“Bro? Close your sockets, and walk into the door. We’re taking a shortcut. When we emerge, start running, no matter who or what is out there. Got it?”

A shimmering burst of confidence from Papyrus’ soul told Sans all he needed to know. He felt his brother take a careful step forward…

Take a deep, albeit unnecessary breath…

…and take off flying. Sans flicked his sockets open and readjusted his eyelights to better take in the bright surroundings. Doors whizzed past the two at incredible speeds. (Whoa. He’d forgotten just how quickly one could run with the aid of longer legs.)

His soul nearly stopped beating when he heard voices carrying down the hallway.

“We’ll need to check cell twenty-five. Davies claimed that a skeleton monster was loose near the storage rooms.”

“And you believed the old kook? Lord knows she’s halfway to a psychotic breakdown with the shit she’s done here.”

Papyrus sprinted around a corner only to come face to face with a trio of chattering humans. For a moment, no one moved a muscle.

Then, everything leapt into motion all at once. Two of the humans barreled toward the skeletons while the third pulled a small, grey box from their belt and frantically shouted something into it. Sans, on the other hand, wordlessly tapped the side of his brother’s skull and pointed to the wall. Trust flowed freely between the two as Papyrus pressed his sockets shut and ran towards the concrete without a second thought. Reality began to shift.

Once it had straightened itself out again, the skeletons were behind the group of humans. From then on, the two moved as one, Papyrus blindly running forward and Sans casting shortcuts to put precious distance between them and their pursuers.

Both had nearly collapsed in exhaustion by the time they reached their goal.

Two windowed doors stood stoically, displaying green on the other side. Somehow, it barely seemed real. Months had passed in wait of this moment, and the days of the facility were very nearly behind them.

Papyrus, as if in a trance, placed a hand on the handle and pushed. It didn’t budge.

That was okay, though. Sans still had another shortcut in him. A single snap of his fingers, and the two were on the other side of the doors.

There were no words for the sight that greeted them. To most, it would seem perfectly ordinary. Green grass bordered a parking lot filled with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. A wing of the building rose up on their right, red bricks faded and mossy yet still perfectly intact. A few dandelions bloomed in the field beyond. All was still.

All was peaceful.

No sight, however, could compare to the magnificent colors that painted the sky. Directly above the duo’s heads, blue became a soft purple where fluffy clouds rested in the sky. Closer to the horizon, the purple became pink, then red, and then orange. And at the center of it all was the sun.

It was brilliant in its majesty. Radiant, powerful, and all-consuming.

Papyrus was the first to break the awestruck silence.

“Sans? It’s so… so beautifu-”

BANG!

Suddenly, Sans found himself falling at full speed toward the ground.

His landing was cushioned by a pile of… ash? It was soft, and warm, and welcoming. As he moved his legs to right himself, it was stirred into the air, and clung to him as it settled back down. (Where did-?)

“Papyrus?”