Sans (
ribticklers) wrote2021-05-30 02:49 am
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username: s[Distant trombone noises.] art credit code credit
INBOX
private message / text / voicemail / phone call / action
username: s
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[But with more negative emotions to start with, it follows there would be faster formation. Not a definite explanation, but a possible one, in Sans's opinion.]
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...I don't think. That's, exactly the case.
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Really?
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[He doesn't think it's true at all, but explaining his reasoning... Ugh, does he have to? Does he want to? Other than out of impulses like the want to throw his unhappiness in Sans's face, even though that'll just make them both unhappy?]
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Well, I guess it doesn't matter. Yeah, I could be wrong, I'm wrong all the time.
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[It comes out before he stops himself, the notion having been against he back of his teeth from when Sans first voiced the theory. He stiffens, tries to talk it back.] Or... sometimes... spend more time, being unhappy. And expressing it. In ways.
Shit. [The last is to himself, a frustrated and regretful noise. It's not like he thought calm would be easy. But trying to balance with literally only a half of himself - or 55.55%,, or something - is a real struggle!]
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[It's not the calmest way of reminding himself about distorted thinking, his voice raising through it, but it's earnest.]
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...Are they supposed to be out long? [Why are they walking around wasting energy when it's cloudy?]
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[Well. Probably. That would be pretty rude, if nothing else.]
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[He trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence and struggling to decide. Would they know, feeling it across some ineffable connection? Would they be injured the same way? Would there be no sign at all, like with all the other disappearances, like any number of monsters who dropped to dust after an accident out of sight? He's full enough of thoughts he scarcely notices if Sans starts to answer, busy muttering to himself.] ...I should contact him.
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Yeah, maybe we should check on 'em.
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...Some of those feelings get recursive, feeling down on himself for feeling down on himself, when he remembers successfully pushing through the difficulty of it so many times, why should it be different now?]
...Did... You... You talked. To him. Both of them. Did they... What am I asking, they weren't upset about you, right? [Only because they couldn't be, he suspects.]
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[Sans's positive emotions being somewhere has to be better than them being nowhere, but positive Papyrus was just encouraging. Too bad all that encouragement got wasted on him.
Sans pulls out his phone again to shoot out a quick "you aren't dead right?" message to both their positive counterparts. The other Sans replies with "not dead, stop worrying", which probably means he needs to keep worrying to make up for the lack of it.]
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He's distracted from making any defensive comments about it by feeling his phone light up with a text message - the same one Sans has just sent to the other Papyrus, cloned to his by virtue of having the same number.]
That's what you're...? [He cuts himself off again, as unrewarding as this exercise is still feeling, and corrects to:] ...Thanks for not giving me away.
[Meanwhile, to Sans's phone - and Sans's phone only - a reply comes back:
NOT DEAD, BUT THE PROUD OWNER OF A CAN OF POWDERED MILK!
WE CAN SEE HOW IT TASTES SOON, I'M AROUND THE CORNER.
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE WORRYING ALREADY...
SO I'LL COME BE IN THE LAWN UNTIL YOU FEEL A LITTLE LESS BAD.
(I KNOW BETTER WILL TAKE A WHILE.)]
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Why does he keep trying? [Sans can't decide if he feels more guilty or frustrated by it.]
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...Trying?
[Even if feelings of concern aren't quite happening, more a fragmented mix of curiosity and worry, at the very least asking after Sans's problems lets him dither on sending his message. (That's not how it works, he can multitask to do them both easily. But it's an excuse.)]
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He's heading back here. I'm guessing you didn't see the message. [Otherwise he wouldn't have had to ask what Sans was talking about.]
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[But he could follow that with where, and when, because those thoughts are fleeting or shunted to a smaller partition - the bigger and more alarming thought is that the countdown's already on. And, going by his internal model of his old usual behavior? It's probably less than ten minutes, if he's texting about it without specifying a time. Papyrus mumbles a couple more swears, then focuses. Not texting and having an angry confrontation about existing seems awful compared to giving a heads up and meeting each other outside. In the lawn, to be flowers or whatever, if they must. He sends a message off, and doesn't share it with Sans.
Sans, though, gets another text from Papyrus's number.
I JUST GOT A WEIRD TEXT,
THERE'S ANOTHER ME?]
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You text him? He's asking me about you.
[There's a pause as Sans considers the appropriate response, and finally he just sends back "yeah".]
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[Another text comes back after a few seconds, a stream of thought response.
OH, THAT'S EXCITING!
I THINK.
HOPE YOU'LL BE OKAY WITH DOUBLE THE PAPYRUS COMPANY!
If the budding conversation between the Papyruses is giving him the impression sticking around wouldn't be welcome, he's not mentioning it.]
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Guess I'll meet you guys outside, then. [And Sans vanishes, teleporting to the front yard.]
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Outside, Sans quickly receives the reply, "I WON'T ARGUE THAT!! SEE YOU SOON."
It's belated, because that Papyrus is already in sight - several houses down the street, and he waves enthusiastically the moment he sees Sans appear in the yard.]
Hey!! You beat me to the yard, I wasn't expecting that. Congrats!!
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I've always got a shortcut handy. [The shortcuts thing is a dumb joke, usually one he tells mostly to himself in front of people who don't know about his teleportation, but also one that sees a lot of use in the "make Papyrus roll his eyes" department. Always a busy department. Sans doesn't feel anything about making it this time. Not a surprise; he's just trying to act the part.
The second Papyrus better get out here soon. It can't take that long to walk from Papyrus's bedroom to the front door.]
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i have to drag it out just long enough to appreciate the 2 simultaneous threads here
multi-thread drifting
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we've hit danger zone: conversing with each other directly, rather than at someone else in tandem
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