aftr_stories | [MU] - AUGUST STORYTELLING

[MU] - AUGUST STORYTELLING

This should, as of the last dream, be a far more familiar setting than it was prior. The flames flicker with an almost hypnotic effect, and round slabs of driftwood form log-like seats around the bonfire. This time, however, you are not alone with the elephant or rabbit or dog or Storyteller in the room - and they are in the room, taking whatever shape they deem most suitable for the situation.

This dream is shared.

One by one, you will each have the opportunity to share your stories. Stories have a certain power that cannot be replicated or cast aside. As far as those for whom this is their first Storytelling, the Storyteller will not require that the story itself take place in LifeAftr, though all Storytellings from this point onward will.

If you prefer to keep your mouth shut, that's always an option, though you're more liable to benefit if you do. Perhaps you'd rather not relive any of your history, varied and variegated as it must be. Or maybe you're something of a compulsive un-truther, prone to embellishments and long, fanciful tangents. As long as the core of the story is true to its spirit, you are free to spin your tale however you like. Longer, more entertaining anecdotes will be far more appreciated - and, indeed, useful, - than the verbal equivalent of a third grader's "What I Did On Summer Vacation" essay.

So choose your tale wisely.

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So he is here, same as everyone else. Tim watches with a contemplative slope to his shoulders. He doesn't look away for the duration of the skeleton's story, not even when Sans trails into a long chain of ellipses that might be innocuous enough from an externalized perspective, but from an internal one -

It doesn't much matter. Tim doesn't smile, but he utters a puff of a snort, the closest he gets to laughter, and leans back, hands catching the wood of the log seating.

"You must've been an absolute menace," he says, idly.

That voice sounds familiar, and Sans only just then notices Tim's presence, given how the small lights in his sockets brighten in what might be interest -- or recognition. Sure, he was looking around as he spoke, but there's just so many of them, and, uh. If he's honest, Sans has this little specist problem of thinking most humans all look alike.

Considering monsterkind is comprised of a much more overtly diverse population in a greater variety of forms and sizes (and consistencies, etc.), guess that's understandable. But still awful.

"Woah, it's you," he says, softening that with a chuckled, "Wow. What is this, a reunion? We got Wade and that old geezer, too. I think he was before your time, though." It's gonna get awkward fast if he finds out this isn't the Tim he thinks it is, but hey, it didn't really occur to him that might be a thing.

Despite kinda being that guy with regards to Newt. Oops.

"Looks like," he says, drawing the words out idly. Rest assured, it's the same Tim he knows - pills and all. Unfortunately for everyone. The peculiar sensation of knowing that he understands something that Sans doesn't is one he's not sure he'll ever get used to, and is quietly hoping that he never does.

It's not a comfortable feeling.

"Didn't know that many people from the old homestead were gonna be showing up."

"Yeah, me neither," Sans says, shoulders shrugging as his hands shove into the cradle of his hoodie's pockets, "So much for gettin' sent home on good behavior." The avatar had screwed up plenty of times, maybe this was just the latest in a string of mess-ups that he couldn't fix.

Oh well.

"Could be worse," admits the skeleton, whose eye lights fix back on Tim in a manner he may remember from not too long ago.

"You, uh," Sans begins, pausing as he makes a show of looking for a free spot of ground to sit on. There's plenty of options. "Gonna be ok? That Storyteller--" He probably doesn't need to finish that sentence. Tim knows how things worked with Ozuma, after all, it's not a huge logical leap to assume he might trade a tale for some pills.

"I'll work something out." Does he mention that his meds are currently in the hands of a small child who's partially erased from everyone's heads? No. That sure as hell wouldn't go over real well for anybody, let alone someone who's just made it plain that he doesn't remember said child.

For the best, right?

"Hopefully my, uh, 'story,'" note the scare quotes, "will be enough to keep me refilled."

For the best? It's been like bleeding out of two child-shaped wounds you can't feel, there's been blood and tears spilled and nobody remembers why. Everything has been worse without them and, despite everything, some of them are still trucking along.

So far, the only unifying factor linking them all to being here is the fact that they've all presumably died. But Sans isn't trying to figure out why they're here or how, he hasn't cared about that even since the first day he woke up on that raft with two strangers.

That he and Tim are on the same page about his medication is... well. A relief. Things are rough enough without, y'know...

"Cool. Uh, word of warnin', though." The skeleton leans in, covering his perpetual grin with a bony hand, even though he has no lips to read. "The guy who looks like a robot, he's from where me and Papyrus were from. He's, uhh... let's just say he's gotta bone to pick with humans, so you're safer just giving him a wide berth."

A robot. It's possible that by scouring through borrowed memories he could pick apart the specifics of which robot, precisely, that is, and what kind of things he might have to fear. But doing so would invoke that kind of psychological dissonance he's trying to avoid, for the most part.

"What, uh...do you know why?" It's not like there's a whole lot of robots around here, he's assuming, so said misanthrope should stand out like a sore thumb, at least.

He'll, uh, make a note to pass the warning down the line.

"Give him five minutes and he'll tell you his life story," answers Sans, with a negligent flick of his hand, reappearing for a few moments before it's back into its hovel, otherwise known as his left pocket.

"Like you'n me, the guy ended up embroiled in some other nonsense in another world. From the sound of it, signing his life away to be a big damn hero didn't end up too glamorous. Go fig."

If there's more details, more relevant information, Sans doesn't consider it terribly important. Ultimately, the message is pretty simple: Steer clear of this one guy, or things will take a turn for the worse. The hows and whys don't... don't really matter. And the fact of it all is... sometimes enough is enough. Guys like them just want a break.

"Just do yourself a favor and steer clear of Mettaton, capiche?"

Mettaton. The name might be pinging at the back of his skull with a quiet familiarity...or it might not. He's making a conscious choice not to examine what he knows without question and what he merely suspects, because heading down that twisting rabbit hole means he's likely to get stuck in a looping jag of dissociative feedback, a spasm of input-output that will fail to shed any light or grant anyone clarity, least of all him.

Mettaton. Steer clear of Mettaton.

It takes him a few seconds longer to sift through all the wreck in his head, and then he nods.

"Okay." Maybe - too clipped. Fuck. Whose thought patterns is he imitating again? He's supposed to be over this. He's always supposed to be better.

Better than he is? Not fucking likely.

"So. Is this a frying-pan-to-fire kind of deal or what?"

"I wouldn't call it a fire, pal," Sans says, the tip of one phalanx scratching at the nicked supraorbital ridge of one eye socket. "I'd say this is better than some bee-ess war we got no business fightin', but who knows?"

Sans sure doesn't. And, well.

He's a little suspicious of powers greater than himself having the ability to call all the shots in his and everyone else's lives, so... probably not the most unbiased opinion, here.

"Just sayin'... steer clear. Most of these guys are pretty decent. But I don't know about Mettaton yet. Ok?"

Maybe it's not a war, but it's pretty resourceless. Probably not near as bad for a skeleton who, as far as Tim can tell, doesn't require much besides a handful of bad puns and three times the amount of naps normally allocated to a living creature to keep living. But for human-shaped folk and the like, it'll probably be a bit more of a struggle to get by.

At least they're not being hounded by shadows or trapped in cages. Yet.

"Thanks," he says. "I'll, uh...keep an eye out for any robots and stay outta their way. Can't imagine there'd be very many here."

Little does Tim know that Sans could get done in by stepping on a Lego.

Was he around for the time they all almost starved to death in the castle? Sans can't recall. His memory's usually a sieve -- guess he's too lazy to bother remembering stuff regardless of its importance -- but it's been especially lousy in the last like... man, he doesn't even know.

Welp, whatever.

"He's pretty easy to pick out. Wears his 'heart' on his, uh... stomach?" He wiggles his phalanges vaguely. "Can't miss it."

Another spurt of dualed memory, unfurling across the posterior of his own mind. Turn it over and over. Shut your eyes and count to five and pluck it out from the soup of someone else's thoughts and memories. You have boxes, in your mind. Three boxes, different colors, different shades. It's not altogether clear which box that one goes in, but it's clear which one it doesn't go in.

It doesn't belong to him.

This is not for you.

Set it aside. Hot pink highlights and glossy metal and a beacon-like heart poised at the center of mass. Set it aside and put it away, Timothy Wright. Seal it up with ~~mask~~ing tape and don't look back.

If he drifts, he doesn't for very long. He blinks, and he lowers his head in a nod.

"I'd guess that's a figure of speech, but knowing your world? I'm gonna say no."

"Heh, a mangled one," he confesses, shoulders twitching up in a shrug. "With luck, you won't get more than a glance. The guy likes to put on a show, and you never struck me as the kinda guy who'd go along with it." Sans means to say that Tim is probably, maybe, possibly safe. And isn't making any promises to keep an eye socket out for the guy, even if he might be a little more tense if he sees them anywhere near each other.

Besides, Sans may not have any hard evidence to point at in his own history, but he's pretty sure he'd be bad at keeping an eye on anyone. Mysterious tropical island full of who-knows-what notwithstanding, the guy can barely take care of himself.

"Just got one question," Sans says, in a way that suggests a change of topic, "Where'd you go?" Back home, like Rob? Nowhere? Maybe he'd been doomed to serve the Queen as a shadow. Hell if he knows, and it's probably none of his business.

Nah. Sans knows why he's curious. It always comes down to his brother.

The guy likes to put on a show. Sounds like he and Alex might actually get along. Either that, or they'd hate each other's guts. Somehow, he finds the latter to be more likely, though that could be his own internal biases talking.

He's not about to go playing along with anyone's pity parade. He's made that mistake too many times- mostly where he himself is concerned.

That doesn't get anyone anywhere.

Sans's next question lifts his eyebrows for a moment before they furrow downward in apparent confusion.

"I, uh...what d'you mean? We both ended up here, right?"

This prompts a lift of his supraorbital ridges, and a single utterance as he 'palms' his mandible with one bony hand.

"...Huh."

Far as Sans knows, he hadn't seen Tim for a while, but then, he kinda stopped making public appearances. The whole dreamworld nonsense happened, and then everything they thought was reality began splintering apart. Could be he was around and laying low... but it could be he was just gone the way some other people were just gone, and here he is, like there was nothing in between then and now.

Begs the question:

"What's the last thing you remember happening?"

That sure is a question, isn't it?

Kind of jags his cover some, too. Maybe he hesitates a shade too long - but he's a practiced liar, and the solemnity of considering his story lines up nicely with what actually happened. His gaze swivels to the fire, his shoulders hunching slightly.

He doesn't have to pretend, when his hands curl around his middle. The hard cut of a knife entering the warm red of his soul, and cutting it apart, tingles in his ribcage with a phantom edge.

"Got on the wrong side of...something," he says slowly. "Might've been a shadow. I dunno."

They'd doubtless find that funny, in their own macabre way. Kidwun, a shadow - as if they wouldn't already call themself a copy of a copy, barely counting as real on a good day.

"I guess that must've been the end of the line, for me."

For the time being, anyway.

Everything about his body language speaks to the trauma of a run in with one of the Queen's own -- getting on the wrong side of something adds right up. So Sans, he doesn't question it, shrinks from the topic he himself approached. It might have been a shadow, and Sans thinks maybe it was like that for his brother, every time he disappeared.

It brings him little... not relief, but anything at all.

"Gotcha," Sans answers, with a rasp as his hand drags over and down the back of his skull. "You were gone some months, so I thought-- well, whatever. You didn't miss much."

Just a whole lot of bullshit.

"Sorry, pal."

"Wait." He tenses, eyes locking to Sans's eyesockets with an abruptness that should scare him, considering how unnerving the skeleton's look can be, when he requires it. He doesn't enjoy eye contact, not on even his best days, but that arrests his attention like nothing else Sans has said does.

"Months?"

Months?

He was just there. Wasn't he?

He was just there.

Months. Sans can see that disturbs him, but still he nods. He could assuage the concern he sees it brings, or assumes it brings, and yet Sans doesn't bother. Here's a guy Sans hopes to shield from unnecessary bother and yet here he is, adding to it.

Typical.

"Hey," he attempts, spreading his hands. "Don't worry 'bout it. Guess it doesn't matter if you--uh."

Die?

Yeah, that's what he meant.

"Anyway," Sans says, "This is a helluva lot better than joinin' the Queen, right?"

Loss of time is nothing new. It shouldn't prickle at the back of his neck the way it does, but - but it would make sense, wouldn't it? Time must've kept passing once he was out of the picture. Enough time for a plan to be enacted. For someone's CORE ideals to be upheld. For it all to come to pass.

His shoulders drop. He shouldn't be surprised and, on some level, he isn't; he'd figured time had to have passed, to an extent.

He just hadn't thought it'd be so much, so fast.

"Is that...?"

God.

Fuck.

He exhales, a slow, weary trail of breath that has him scrubbing at his face with his hands.

"Jesus."

Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

He looks at Tim, watches him sigh and pass his hands over his face, looking bone-weary and worn thin, and decides, yeah. He really shouldn't have said anything. Sans can only imagine what it's like to lose time without knowing. Can only imagine, because it's never happened to him.

Not that he can recall, in any case.

"Look on the bright side, pal," he attempts, grinning at him, "We ain't fighting somebody else's war anymore." Just fighting for their lives, their day to day survival. Sans prefers that to the alternative, honestly. He's used to being in survival mode.

"No," he says, drawing the word out, attempting to sound anything but bitterly resigned to the way things are at this point. "Just scraping things together with rocks and sticks and risking death by exposure every day, but sure."

Fuck. Can't even look at the bright side when he's being explicitly urged to by a nihilistic skeleton. Why the hell did Sans even give him that second chance, anyway? Why the hell's he even bother putting up with him?

Cut it out.

Get the hell over it.

"I guess...I mean, I can see why that'd be an improvement, I guess."

Nice backpedal, Tim.

Yeah, their situation's... not great. Sans remembers sitting on a rock watching the impossible vista sparkle before him, an ocean he thought he'd never see, thinking all of this must be some crazy dream conjured up by a crumbling soul in one last gasp before oblivion, a consolation prize that would eventually, inevitably fade to black.

That even if it wasn't, Sans didn't have much reason to bother getting through the next hour, let alone a whole day.

So... yeah. Ok. He knows how bitter it tastes, to have no control over your fate, to be saddled with circumstances completely outside of your skillset, your qualifications, your interests, your whatever. They don't get a say in this.

Sans watches Tim work out something that sounds reasonably conciliatory, thinks he's just trying to fake 'normal'. Guess he understands that, too. Sounds a little like his own wan grins and creaky reassurances on the bad days that made his brother worry.

"Ok. Yeah. It's a stretch," he admits.

Sans thinks he should say something, maybe... try to set this guy at ease, or anything. But nope. He's got nothing. Or more like, the idea of drumming up something at all sits behind his sternum like a lead balloon swelling and straining inside his ribcage. Phalanges scratch at one hip through his shabby track shorts.

"Anyway, good seein' ya."

He didn't try at all.

Pushed it too far. He's - maybe he's compensating, at this rate, for the fact that Jay would be doing the same in his place. Would be, might have, if only he were alive to say for himself. He can't say for sure. And he doesn't. He sucks in a false, metaphysical dream-breath and sighs it out again.

Good seeing you.

"Yeah," says Tim, a shade heavily. "You too."

Maybe it's for the best if they don't try a little harder.

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[MU] - AUGUST STORYTELLING

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