*sans the skeleton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trombones) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rackofbadcds2017-02-16 05:03 pm
trombones) wrote in rackofbadcds2017-02-16 05:03 pm
Entry tags:
open post??????????
How did you wind up here? Who knows. Who cares. One minute you're on a walk, the next minute you pass by this guy's driveway.
The faint sound of something plays as you get closer. There's a guy there. Or rather, a skeleton. Skeleton monster. Whatever, he looks like a cartoon. He's reclined back in a lawn chair with a long twisty straw in his mouth, attached to a bright pink drink in a mason jar. Next to him, two child's playpens are just barely holding themselves together on the concrete.
A good collection of eight or nine roombas move around inside them. They're all on. Circling the pen, bumping into the walls and each other, turning, circling, cleaning. It's a weird dance at this point.
There's a cardboard sign between the pens:
roomba daycare
$1
roomba eggs not guaranteed
The faint sound of something plays as you get closer. There's a guy there. Or rather, a skeleton. Skeleton monster. Whatever, he looks like a cartoon. He's reclined back in a lawn chair with a long twisty straw in his mouth, attached to a bright pink drink in a mason jar. Next to him, two child's playpens are just barely holding themselves together on the concrete.
A good collection of eight or nine roombas move around inside them. They're all on. Circling the pen, bumping into the walls and each other, turning, circling, cleaning. It's a weird dance at this point.
There's a cardboard sign between the pens:
roomba daycare
$1
roomba eggs not guaranteed
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But. When you decide to take a beautiful night jog to clear your head, this... is usually the last thing you expect to see.
Usually. It IS Sans.
Mettaton stares at the pens, then flickers his gaze back to Sans.
"Why."
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As if he has any shame in this. He's wearing flannel, sunglasses, and drinking out of a dollar store mason jar. He didn't even bother buttoning it up. Even though it's the middle of the night, not a sound to be heard but the sweet, sweet sounds of eight tiny vacuums, like crickets chirping. It's really romantic if you don't think about it at all.
Anyway. Sans own gaze flicks up from his margarita to Mettaton. He lowers his shades.
"Oh, hey. Didn't see you there."
Because he's wearing sunglasses at night. He tosses them behind him, onto the grass.
"Why what."
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This is what Undyne and Papyrus have been texting her about?
Morbid curiosity drives her feet forward, and she walks up to the playpens. Looks down. Watches the little robots scooting around. Sighs.
"Y-you know roombas don't lay eggs, right?"
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Sans tips his sunglasses down. They fall off, because he doesn't have a nose. Or ears.
"'Sides, who am I to judge? Life--" uh "--finds a way."
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"Yeah, l-life does! But, um, I am kind of... the leading expert in mechanical life? Those look like th-they're just roombas, no magic to them."
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"So you're telling me robots can't roboprocreate."
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"That's what I'm saying," she confirms. "Not if they're human-made, because, without souls..."
She trails off, reconsiders, and lights up with a new idea.
"U-unless there's still human mages, doing things the others don't know about! Have any of them said anything? Or d-done anything magical??"
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Sans takes a tiny sip of margarita before he waves a hand towards his handiwork. Which is still baby playpens. Full of roombas.
"Where's your sense of wonder? The surface has a crapload of crazy stuff."
One of them knocks at one of the collapasble walls just enough to tilt it an extra 45 degrees. He never said they were sturdy.
"Whoops. They're getting feisty. Anyway, eggs or no, I'm just babysitting. Most of them are Papyrus's. He got them online once he found out robot vacuums were a thing. But he typoed pretty hard on the order screen. Then he managed to turn them all on."
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...Okay, it totally is, she was in the middle of a
twitter slapfightserious debate on the Undernet and took a wrong turn as she walked and texted. But since she's here, she may as well say hi????She stops as she looks up from her phone and sees... whatever the heck this is.
"Where did you even get all of those?"
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Sans cracks one socket open. His glasses immediately dislodge at the slightest movement and fall of his face. The only downside to being a skeleton is lacking in what makes up most of a face, like ears and a nose.
"Hey, Alf."
His grin goes lopsided.
"Papyrus. Most of 'em, anyway. I'm babysitting."
Meaning at least, like, one other person contributed to this. He takes a long, slow drink of pink mason jar slush. One of the roombas takes a hard left and bumps the collapsable wall just enough to tilt it at a 45 degree angle.
"Uh-oh. They're getting feisty."
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"I have an idea."
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"Uh-oh."
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Sans stays where he is.
"There's a hook on the pen."
He's helping???
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Alphys linefaces at him, then grabs the hook and fishes the feisty roomba out of the pen. It's still whirring along as she holds it triumphantly in her claws. She has to resist the urge to laugh maniacally.
"D-don't worry, little guy, this'll only hurt for a m-minute!"
She fishes something out of her coat. It's... a screwdriver!?
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Sans puts the straw to his lips???????????? and quirks a browbone as he watches Alphys go to work, doing absolutely nothing to help or stop her.
"Dang. My daycare's getting dark."
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Well, partly responsible. They were supposed to be running around inside. But in the hour Papyrus spent on the computer and the phone, searching for the answer of how so many arrived, it seems they've all been relocated. The part where they're outside in a makeshift pet pen, that's all Sans.
"SANS!!!"
He shouts from the doorway, having just slammed the front door open. He turns every which way in search for a familiar skull, before noticing the lawn chair. And the fence. In the driveway.
"Umm. Brother, what... are you doing...?"
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Sans doesn't even look up. He takes another swirly-straw slurp.
"Corraling the kids. They all kind of just turned on, so."
Why not make the best of it, basically.
"What's up?"
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"Why are you corraling them here? They could do so much more good in the living room!"
He looks around him at the rest of the driveway.
"Oh! I should get a leash, and take them on walks."
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Sans actually has no idea why they have playpens. They don't have babies, much less anyone that would fit in one. Besides the roombas, I guess. Finally, he looks over his shoulder.
"Hey, good idea. A couple people left me theirs. We made 2 bucks so far."
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But since their existence is out of the bag, so much for that plan. Papyrus taps at his chin, considering the rest of Sans' bizarre statement. As he's standing closer to the house, with the advertisement sign out of sight...
"You're doing practically nothing, and still making money. I'm impressed! But why did they pay you?"
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Long pause.
"Good idea."
Literally childproof your brother. He can't really argue that.
Anyway. Sans looks down at the pen. His hand comes up and a finger counts the roombas. Two. Right, two.
"For babysitting."
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Or it would be if they were actually secure. Papyrus steps over, adjusting the fences to fix that ominously tilted one, and notices the sign.
"Ohhh. Wow, I can't believe someone took you up on this. Sticking them in a cage, without any food, and you aren't even entertaining them. Lackluster babysitting, brother! You should spruce the pen up!"
This calls for something... more. he taps his chin, looking around the yard, wondering what they can do to add to it.
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He glances back up as his brother starts to look around. Oh. He sees where this is going.
"We still got the flamingos from that flea market we went to. And that garden gnome that looks like... what'd Frisk say his name was? Elvis?"
To be fair, a lot of their stuff was from thrift stores and flea markets. Sans and Papyrus always found SOMETHING weird to take home when they went shopping.
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Thrift stores and flea markets are pretty great. All the delights of shopping at the dump, including the very low prices, except this way they weren't soaked in water and moldsmal slime! And, so far, no fleas. It must work on a roulette basis or something.
"Those flamingos stand up on bendable poles, right? Let's secure the pen with them. Decoration and stability, what a deal."
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Sans shifts up to get a better look.
"Oh, yeah. Good idea. I think they're still in the flower bed."
He's helping... by pointing out where they are.
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More like a giant lawn goat. Even if he uses clippers on the hedges he shapes, instead of teeth.
Papyrus shakes his head a the very sedentary help, and crosses the lawn to the flower bed. Now they have a lawn gnome and a lawn skeleton! Truly, the Johnsons stand no chance in their competition of ornamentation.
"Do you think it's bad for the flowers, if I take these?"
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Especially when Asgore wears that floral pink shirt.
Anyway. Sans finally sits up. Of the few things he's bothered to do so far, putting his spine in a barely-straight position is one of them now.
"Nah. Flamingos are freeloaders."
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Sans sitting up when he doesn't have to... It's a Christmas in July Miracle.
"Not for long, they aren't!" Papyrus plucks the plastic birds from the soil with all the care and attention of ripping a bandage off.
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"Dang. It's like that one time I wound up in the dirt too."
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Their lawn might have some holes in it now, though. As though a small but determined dog had started to bury many tiny bones wherever the flamingos had been. But that's hardly an emergency; the lawn's herbs and wildflowers and grass and stuff, it'll grow back to cover them eventually.
"...This incident is escaping me. Should I be glad I don't remember?"
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Sans shrugs his non-margarita hand up in the air. He high-fives the roomba next to him in the process. No elaboration. These are just things that happen in their lives, apparently.
"And you pulled me out kind of like that, because I was pretty stuck. Neck-deep stuck. I bend better than the flamingos, though."