Handplates - Pills -

Shake

Sans sits in his cell, counting down the minutes. Papyrus has moved to another cell, the little suck-up spending his hours buttering up the old doctor. His snooty little brother, nose in the air, stopped talking to Sans long ago - all of his joy, his happiness and his doting affection was cheerfully poured into Gaster instead. 

Sans spits. He doesn't miss any of it, he tells himself. Little sod turned traitor. 

The cell is empty, apart from the bunk bed shelf and a screwed up blanket lying on top of it. Sans sits cross-legged in the centre of the room, watching the blue lasers flicker up and down. They cast harsh stripes across his face, sharpening his cheekbones and teeth. At 2:06 AM, for the first time ever, those lasers will switch off, thanks to some modified program on Gaster's computer. That bit, mindlessly trawling through the doc's computer, was the hard part. It took hours of broken up sessions, teaching himself the code through painstaking days of trial and error. What remained was easy. 

He drums his fingers up and down on the concrete cell floor, mentally ticking off the seconds. His arm fracture has largely healed - Gaster didn't finish it completely, (a move that was no doubt deliberate), leaving a series of spiderweb cracks across the lower two bones of his forearm. Perhaps he should give Gaster a similar break. The irony makes him smile. 

Clack. Clack. Clack. Chapped white fingerbones drumming out a pulse. 

His gaze drops to his hands and he idly studies them as time crawls on. The pills worked. He's hooked on them, and can barely go a day without the cravings. That one scene, again and again, fills his dreams and fuels his anger. His hands tremour a little, as he thinks of his next dose. He clenches his fists. No sign of weakness. 

The positive side of the pills have gone unnoticed by Gaster, but Sans smiles as his clenched fist glows. Magic. The doc was too caught up in the glitching visions, in little Papyrus' affection and in Sans' unexpect cooperation with the pill project, that he forgot to test for signs of skeleton power. The dumb shit. Sans twists his fingers, neatly folding up the blanket on his bed, watching as the cloth seems to fold itself, glowing faintly. 

Only a few minutes to go. 

He's ready. He's always been ready. 

Silently, silkily, he gets up off the floor and stands patiently by the lasers. 

Three seconds. Two secon-

Suddenly, the world seems to have emptied out. The hum of the electricals, a sound that has accompanied Sans' whole life, has cut out.  The cell somehow seems seems loose, slippery and lucid, as if he's finally got water out of his ears and can hear properly for the first time. Hell, even the dank, stinking cell air smells fresher. 

This is what he's been waiting for. He's surprised at the fear that has crawled up his throat. He tastes bile and swallows it back down. He can't be scared. He has no need to be scared. Such compromising emotions are pitiful. 

 He forces one trembling foot in front of the other, over the line of the cell boundary, into the corridor. His fingers twitch. He stands, by himself. Alone. The shiver turns into a shake, and crazy, maniacal, laughter presses in his rib cage and squeezes round his lungs, but he holds it in. Freedom drives his eyes black and he grins. 

He stands tall, casting off the slouch he's always worn around Gaster, and walks. Great shudders wrack his body and he smiles through them, his cheeks almost splitting open from the pressure. 

Freedom is close, but he has something to attend to first. 

He makes his jerking, uneven way down the corridor, into the darkness.