Ace in a Hole: Collaborative Shenenigans

Chapter 4

They are similar.

It's something Sans realizes as he ends the call that day. Third time was the charm, he supposed. Well, technically, fourth.

In all aspects, they shouldn't be. From what Sans knew about Alastor the radio demon, he was a dick. A human from the 1900's who lived and died before Sans was even born. A human man in a species that outcasted its own people, who took on a radio job and was a serial killer before being thrown into hell.

Sans was the Royal Judge, whose job once was to kill people like him. To hunt them down through L.V and stop them. A man who took a science career and was able to escape his intended damnation underground. Everything in Sans' life built him up to despise a man like this. And he did.

But... but...

Sans feels like he just spoke to a different flavor of himself. It's a realization that sits heavy in him.

Just in a few meetings, Sans can taste their similarities. Their shared love of puns. How they both smile not because they want to, but because they feel the need to. How they can have a conversation, whipping out insults back and forth, and not buy a single thing each other uses as a front. They kept their cards close to their chests, and yet, they were still being peeked at.

They led such different lives and still could listen to one another and instinctively know they were on the same platform. Both wanted something from the other. Knowledge. Both had similar humor. Both were filthy liars and jokesters.

It's disgusting. It leaves a taste of bile in Sans' mouth.

So he continues their conversations.

Sans knows he shouldn't. This was territory that Sans absolutely should not throw himself into. Alastor was a serial killer from nearly one hundred years ago with dozens of bodies to claim as his victims. The man had every bone in his body flaring with warning. A voice that made Sans want to set fire to the building just to rid himself of it. Sans should be trying to figure out ways to get rid of him.

He knows, he knows this is a bad idea.

But self-destruction is comforting. So Sans opens his arms and lets himself fall into the situation. Let the wind tumble through his hoodie and let the darkness consume him whole, the temptation dragging him down with sharp claws and soft whispers.

Oh, how Sans hates him. But that hatred keeps him chained to the idea of the demon, to rip apart the man who resembles him so much and so little and see what makes him tick. It doesn't help that Alastor is the first person Sans has had a real conversation with in forever, and his therapist was practically telling Sans to throw himself at this man. So he might as well, right?

(No. This is a terrible idea. Sans literally was trained to kill people like Alastor.)

(Don't do it. He should be searching for an exorcist.)

Sans arrives next week with a pot of coffee and a few scones he picked up from a local bakery.

They're lemon berry. Shit, really. Sans doesn't mind lemon but he can tell artificial flavoring, and holy shit, this is artificial. He feels like he's eating one of the plastic lemon displays from some antique shop. The kind that looks as fake as it tastes. Sans was one of those kids who, when they saw anything that looked possibly tasty, would eat it immediately. Sans had a lot of textures and flavors under his belt as a result. From personal experience.

"Why, hello there Sans!" Alastor sounds all hip and joyful as Sans tugs on the headset. "Right on schedule. How are you doing this lovely morning?"

Sans grunts. "Hot. Summer here sucks. How about you? I'm assuming hell as hot."