Handplates - Pills -

Soon

"Welp, here's the better question."

Sans rolls his shoulders, hands firmly wedged into his pockets. Chara, clutching a knife at the other side of the room shivers. Once, he found these words alien, this posture bizarre, but now... well, now, it's as natural as breathing. He thrives off it. The words roll off his tongue like honey, his baritone voice edged with malice. 

"Do you wanna have a bad time?"

Sans knows the little scientist upstairs is taking notes, reading his pulse, analyzing the time frame, but that means nothing to him. In the real world, he would be examining the doc just as carefully, sketching out the details of his plan and erasing the data on Gaster's computer, but this? Here in the vision? This is practice. These days of mindless pills and plans are drawing to a close, and Sans is determined to enjoy every last minute. Free bloodshed and a temporary fix. How could he not?

"Cause if you take another step forward, you are REALLY not going to like what happens next."

His grin widens, as, like a fly drawn to honey, Chara shuffles forward. He tilts his head, taking in he scene. He can see them tremble, he watches them as they adjust the grip on their knife. He loves to see the fear in their eyes. He loves knowing that he is the reason Chara can't sleep. He loves it all. He breathes in, savouring the stench of sweat and blood blended with the dust of the hall. 

"Welp. Sorry old lady."

He opens his mouth to deliver his favourite line but... something stops him. Literally - his lips are parted, teeth glinting in the golden light, but he can't move. The doc upstairs must have stopped the vision. Taken away his playtoy. Anger steams under Sans' skull- who is Gaster to play god? He pushes against the time freeze, straining against the block, but, as usual, nothing happens. 

A crackle cuts across the frozen hall. Gaster's voice, instead of cool and confident, seems flustered. "I-I-I'm not sure what's h-happened, 1-S. The mainframe seems to have blocked, the code ruptured. I know it's unscheduled but I'm afraid I'll have to pull you out now." His voice shuts off abruptly before starting back to life for a quick warning: "I-It's going to hurt." 

The realisation slides through Sans like a snake down his throat. This has never happened before. This is - how could? - but surely... he forces himself to focus. Just a few short weeks ago, he would have muddled about in confusion and braced for the pain, but now, he has the insight to utilise this for himself. The doc is losing his touch. The vision may even stop working all together. The path of action is clear: he must speed forward his plan. 

He feels his vision constricting, but instead of tensing, he relaxes, opening himself up for the pain. As the blood pounds around his head, and his bones scream in unison, he slowly closes his eyes. His sentence from the vision, left unspoken and abandoned, hammers into his mind. 

"This is why I never make promises."

He'll visit Gaster tomorrow. A reckoning is in order.