[The first thing that hits Sans is the subtle current of pine, a floral spiciness that warms the cold air of Snowdin almost as much as the perpetual mirth of its people. It's the scent of familiarity, his company during those lonely, chilly nights out on sentry duty when he could catch only the tiniest melody of laughter from the nearby town underneath an inky black 'sky'. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't the surface everyone longed so desperately to reach, but it was home.]
[For a few brief, but panicked moments, he wonders if another RESET has thrown him from the strange colony on another planet back Underground. He wonders if he's experiencing the last of his memories before he has to relive the same life again, unknowing of his prior experiences outside of a couple of quick snippets in his dreams as every RESET acts like a recurring cycle of metaphorical death and twisted reincarnation. He wonders how many times he'd felt this way before disappearing into another repeat of his and everyone else's life.]
[When he realizes he's still 'there', however, Sans' trepidation melts into bewilderment, and his focus hones in on the present. The present where Snowdin is smothered by an eerie quiet outside of the uncharacteristic piercing crunch of ice and snow underneath tiny feet that most certainly aren't his. The (slight) difference in height points to someone just a little bit smaller than he is, more 'solid'... he's a human, made out of carbon and water and proteins instead of magic and dust.]
[Specifically, he's Frisk. Weird, but okay. It's similar to before when he'd experienced a memory through Papyrus' eyes, although that memory, pleasant as it was, ended with the younger skeleton completely forgetting Sans' existence. The panic rises again in the back of Sans' mind as he considers the very real possibility that this time Frisk will forget him as well, but as the memory continues to play, he realizes that everything's about to get so much worse than that.]
[Just the sound of Papyrus' voice slices a deep, stinging wound into Sans' heart, compounded by the anger and frustration welling from within Frisk's endless and seemingly insatiable determination. He watches helplessly as their dust covered hand swings at his brother with a weapon he can't discern--he's too busy wanting to shout for them to stop, for someone to come stop them, for Papyrus to stop opening his arms and run the hell away for once.]
[But nothing comes out.]
[Back in reality, a paltry whimper just manages to escape as Sans continues to live through the memory of his brother crumbling into dust, encouraging the human who'd just killed him until his final breath. Because that's the kind of guy Papyrus is: forever optimistic, forever encouraging, and forever believing in the best of even the worst people.]
[As Frisk steps over Papyrus' dust, barely visible against the stark white of snow, Sans' own memories come into play: sleepless nights tossing and turning in his messy bed while he's plagued by fragments of other timelines. Fragments where Sans trudges through the paths around Snowdin, stumbling on a red scarf and the remains of the last person in the entire world who deserved the merciless gaze of a cold-blooded murderer. That particular nightmare had prompted Sans to meander from his room to Papyrus', sneak inside, and plop himself next to his little brother, as if he could ward off any harm that could possibly come his way. As if the evils of the world would dissipate at the sight of something more disgusting and terrible in the guise of 'just some guy' who couldn't muster up enough shits to protect the one person who mattered in that microcosm of monsters buried deep beneath a mountain by the humans who wanted nothing more than to see them destroyed.]
[And that was the issue, wasn't it? Or at least a good chunk of the issue. Sans could feel the burning hatred fueling Frisk's determination until it twisted into a bloodlust uncharacteristic of the child he'd befriended and grown to love as his own. Something, someone pulled them, perhaps literally, into these heinous acts. The same acts that Sans could have prevented had he just been there like someone with even an iota of responsibility. It was his fault, too. He wants nothing more than to express that to the human child slowly emerging in his peripheral vision, but he can't. Not when his next words, quiet and barely louder than a whisper, are so full of venom and vitriol.]
What... What the hell did you do, Frisk?
[As he stumbles backwards and catches himself on the bench's arm, Sans is barely able to choke out the question. The cool metal is barely registered beneath his clenched fist. His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms heavy.]
goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend
[For a few brief, but panicked moments, he wonders if another RESET has thrown him from the strange colony on another planet back Underground. He wonders if he's experiencing the last of his memories before he has to relive the same life again, unknowing of his prior experiences outside of a couple of quick snippets in his dreams as every RESET acts like a recurring cycle of metaphorical death and twisted reincarnation. He wonders how many times he'd felt this way before disappearing into another repeat of his and everyone else's life.]
[When he realizes he's still 'there', however, Sans' trepidation melts into bewilderment, and his focus hones in on the present. The present where Snowdin is smothered by an eerie quiet outside of the uncharacteristic piercing crunch of ice and snow underneath tiny feet that most certainly aren't his. The (slight) difference in height points to someone just a little bit smaller than he is, more 'solid'... he's a human, made out of carbon and water and proteins instead of magic and dust.]
[Specifically, he's Frisk. Weird, but okay. It's similar to before when he'd experienced a memory through Papyrus' eyes, although that memory, pleasant as it was, ended with the younger skeleton completely forgetting Sans' existence. The panic rises again in the back of Sans' mind as he considers the very real possibility that this time Frisk will forget him as well, but as the memory continues to play, he realizes that everything's about to get so much worse than that.]
[Just the sound of Papyrus' voice slices a deep, stinging wound into Sans' heart, compounded by the anger and frustration welling from within Frisk's endless and seemingly insatiable determination. He watches helplessly as their dust covered hand swings at his brother with a weapon he can't discern--he's too busy wanting to shout for them to stop, for someone to come stop them, for Papyrus to stop opening his arms and run the hell away for once.]
[But nothing comes out.]
[Back in reality, a paltry whimper just manages to escape as Sans continues to live through the memory of his brother crumbling into dust, encouraging the human who'd just killed him until his final breath. Because that's the kind of guy Papyrus is: forever optimistic, forever encouraging, and forever believing in the best of even the worst people.]
[As Frisk steps over Papyrus' dust, barely visible against the stark white of snow, Sans' own memories come into play: sleepless nights tossing and turning in his messy bed while he's plagued by fragments of other timelines. Fragments where Sans trudges through the paths around Snowdin, stumbling on a red scarf and the remains of the last person in the entire world who deserved the merciless gaze of a cold-blooded murderer. That particular nightmare had prompted Sans to meander from his room to Papyrus', sneak inside, and plop himself next to his little brother, as if he could ward off any harm that could possibly come his way. As if the evils of the world would dissipate at the sight of something more disgusting and terrible in the guise of 'just some guy' who couldn't muster up enough shits to protect the one person who mattered in that microcosm of monsters buried deep beneath a mountain by the humans who wanted nothing more than to see them destroyed.]
[And that was the issue, wasn't it? Or at least a good chunk of the issue. Sans could feel the burning hatred fueling Frisk's determination until it twisted into a bloodlust uncharacteristic of the child he'd befriended and grown to love as his own. Something, someone pulled them, perhaps literally, into these heinous acts. The same acts that Sans could have prevented had he just been there like someone with even an iota of responsibility. It was his fault, too. He wants nothing more than to express that to the human child slowly emerging in his peripheral vision, but he can't. Not when his next words, quiet and barely louder than a whisper, are so full of venom and vitriol.]
What... What the hell did you do, Frisk?
[As he stumbles backwards and catches himself on the bench's arm, Sans is barely able to choke out the question. The cool metal is barely registered beneath his clenched fist. His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms heavy.]
[Mom's spaghetti.]