Visiting hours were over. All visitors must leave the wards after a certain time to let the patient rest. Exceptions were made for parents, spouses and legal guardians, even then they had to ask permission.
And monsters got no permission.
Night shift equals to minimum staff. Humans were largely diurnal despite a few exceptions. There would be fewer people around.
Perfect, Sans thought.
He first let himself be seen with Toriel and Asgore. No shortcuts this time.
He was there when they flagged down the taxi.
He was there when Asgore and Toriel argued about who would pay the fees. Toriel winning at the end as usual.
He was there when the Boss Monsters struggled to squeeze into the comparatively tiny vehicle.
Then he sat in the back seat, next to Toriel, until they reached Ebott’s Town Square.
Asgore headed straight home. Toriel accompanied Sans all the way back to the latter’s home as a token of friendship.
They wished each other good night. The ex-queen watched her joke buddy enter his house. She then turned around to return to her dwelling.
Sans’ setup for an alibi was done. This should create enough time discrepancies to fool the police for a while. If, he ever slips up in the first place.
… Sorry Toriel. I’m doing this for the kid.
He felt like a piece of trash for using his friend… Then again, he had degraded into a piece of trash a long time ago. Trash will be trash: that’s what they are.
He searched under his treadmill machine for his secret notebook. That’s one advantage of standard paper: no need to worry about charging their batteries. Just pick up and go.
Armed with a pen, a book, and a sharp mind… Sans lifted his mattress with magic.
Doing so revealed an octogram. It’s drawn in school chalk, a substance that could easily be swept away. Easy to erase. Easy to tell if anyone tempered with it.
Sans prepared the site ever since he started receiving copies of Frisk’s pictures. He realised that something was off, and he might need to dust off some of his neglected studies.
Doctor Gaster taught him everything of relevance, which included Seer magic. Their science, their history, and all the things that could go wrong. Not that his parents had any idea what it entailed. Dear mother in particular would be concerned if she knew the exact details; she could be quite a cynic.
Fortunately for his mentor, she was mostly left in the dark. Maybe he should have shared more, maybe then she could've pulled him out of training sooner.
…But that would've make dear father unhappy. Gaster was his best friend. The pain and hassle from making his parents argue was not worth it.
Besides, the lessons served him well. And they will continue to do so no matter which timeline.
Sans summoned his collection of bones. He began placing them down with precise magic, making sure that they’re not misaligned.
It’s hard work setting this up. Thus, best reserved only when it mattered.
He left the ends -- the points of the star -- empty and disconnected.
The hospital had no direct shortcuts. The one I took with Toriel required two jumps: Ebott to the Central Train Station. From the Station to a five minute walk away from the hospital.
Using a stable portal is too risky. Too far, too open. If the Magi had ‘that’, I’m sure they could trace shortcuts. Maybe. I can’t risk it. I need to dig a path that I can destroy later.
If I mess up at any point, all implications should fall square on me. Not on anyone else.
Sans conjured a humerus. He then concentrated a tiny bit of his disintegration powers to the tip of his index finger. With it, he etched down a string of hieroglyphs on the side.
Coordinate Alpha: the canteen. Latitude, longitude, height. X, Y, Z… This should be it.
Once he was satisfied with the code, he floated the large bone over to an empty point of the octogram. Set it down like a key to a keyhole.
The bone clicked in place. It turned yellow: primed for calculation.
Coordinate Beta: Frisk’s ward.
Sans surveyed the hospital ever since he brought Frisk past the doorstep. He committed the layout to memory. Whenever he could, he excused himself. Told Asgore that he’s going to look around, take a break, and buy some snacks for Frisk.
Look around, he did. He noted the paths, remembered the departments, counted the number of rooms per floor, tracked the traffic, the location of vending machines where night shift workers might grab refreshers from…
He observed the general staff, the doctors, the guards. How they behave. When their shift started and when it ended.
The dejavu was strong. As if he had done the exact same thing multiple times in the past.
A boon, in this case. The stronger the dejavu, the quicker he’ll recollect and retain the details.
Coordinate Gamma: Neurological Department.
Heard through the hospital’s grapevine: Cenna was a regular customer in the Neurological Department. Used to attend a different doctor before she was forced to resign from the police force one year ago.
They may not know her by name and which doctor she’s visiting, but everyone described her as an ‘ultra-cool lady who kept her hair long over the year.’
What luck. Frisk, Frisk’s parents, and their enigmatic Magus aunt: all their records under the same roof.
Coordinate Delta: Morgue.
According to his research on human laws, surviving relatives can request for a post-mortem. A coroner will check the body for a main cause of death. Should they find a criminal element, they will call the police to lodge a report.
Usually, it’s to help grieving families accept the passing of their relatives.
If, by any chance, this hospital performed the post-mortem on Frisk’s parents… their records should be there.
That’s four points on the octogram. Sans filled the rest with clauses and syntaxes. For example: shortest route to the neurological department, far away from Frisk’s ward, and not smack dab in the middle of security. Along with other fine-tuning of mathematical nature.
If only Pap’s here. He could stabilize this thing.
…Nonononono you’re not getting your brother involved in any untested new skeleton rituals, Sans! Especially not of this level! There’s a reason why you sealed him in the first place.
Welp. If anything happens to me, the kid will RESET. And I’ll be back here. I hope.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Eight humerus locked into place. All he needed to do now was to execute his final command.
His left eye shimmered blue and yellow. Sans then spoke his command in the language of hands. ‘The Code’, as his kind called it.
[Compile coordinates as per syntax. Disintegrate central point. Allow collapse to set perimeters. Hold tethers for three seconds.]
[Activate.]
The bone octogram flashed, puffing into a tri-coloured tornado of charged particulates. Its rotating force blew and scattered the chalk draft into the air, along with everything else he owned.
Not that anyone would notice, as everyone thought he’s just too lazy to clean up.
The tornado grew thinner and thinner at the center, refining themselves into a keen drill. Its purpose was to puncture into spacetime itself and tunnel a path to Sans’ desired destination.
It’s mad science. He knew that if any of his calculations were off by so much as a single digit, it’s going to create a vacuum to the void.
Either that, or explode with enough force to destroy half of his house. He won’t survive either way. That’s the danger of untested spacetime magic.
He muttered to himself three words of self-disbelief: “I’m fucking insane.”
This was a theorem he wrote as his final thesis: a formal graduation from university and his discipleship with Gaster. It was his pitch as an alternative to using the Human SOULS.
But due to its massive dangers, he scrapped the project and filed the writing away. To replace it, he hammered together a shorter piece of work that still got him a pass.
That second thesis helped create the broken machine rusting in his laboratory.
Down the magical drill went, grinding not into the floor but through the observable dimensions of reality.
Once the drill vanished, he would have exactly three seconds to act before his own safety measures let spacetime heal itself.
One: verify the end location.
Two: jump. Prepare to correct positioning once he’s past the hole.
Three: pull the mattress down so that it’ll cover up any evidence of his madness.
The drilling was complete. He peeked into the hole. It’s the hospital ceiling alright, but he had yet to know which floor.
He prepared his SOUL for auto-reorientation. Then he jumped into the hole and pulled the mattress down. It landed on the portal with a huge thud.
As Sans fell through, he felt the fabric of his jacket stand on ends. Static electricity: the currents popped from the sudden change in atmosphere.
He used his gravity magic to try flip himself the right way up. Except, he overestimated the momentum a wee bit.
Instead of graciously landing on his feet, Sans ended up rolling on the floor. Just once. To his fortune, he didn’t slam into the wall or any other objects.
The portal collapsed on the fourth second. There’s no turning back.
Oof.
Okay. That didn’t nick off my measly 1 HP or break any bones. Phew.
So… where in the world am I?
He sat up and took a quick look around his surroundings. It’s dim with only the night lights on. The place smelled of machinery oil despite its sterile-looking ceiling.
I’m outside the loading bay. Jeez, that’s the nearest safe zone I got? It’s quite a walk to the neuro department.
Sans pulled up his hood and started walking down the hall. It’s time to put his stealth-skills to use.
He kept his senses open. All six of them. If he detected any change that didn’t come from himself, there’s someone’s around the corner. Avoid detection. Wait for their presence to pass.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
The dejavu grew stronger and stronger.
I’ve done this too many times.
But they’re not all on the same day. Or even the same season.
He paused to read an information poster about heart diseases. It’s rather aged.
I have a feeling that they'll replace this with a new one in the coming Spring.
Left turn. Wait for patrols to pass. Walk behind them until the first right turn. Then head to the staff elevators.
The side walls seem empty. There should be more stuff here. Murals, maybe. Or a new billboard for the staff.
On the way, Sans glanced at the staff schedule.
At one point, I’ve read the same name appear in multiple extended shifts. Someone had to fill in for the holiday season. Poor fella. I don’t recall who though.
There were cameras at the elevators. He couldn’t go in, poke a button and hitch a ride. Being a trespasser meant having to take the hard way.
He teleported to a blind spot. Then he started calculating the space he needed to go up.
The Neurological Department is on the fifth floor. I’m on ground level. Do this step by step, or jump straight up?
I better play it safe. The dejavu is not strong enough for a direct multiplication. Don’t wanna get myself in trouble.
Each time Sans teleported a floor upwards, he’d check for any discrepancies. Either in the environment itself, or on his gut feeling. Though he had no gut to speak off.
On the fourth floor, he heard some maintenance work going on right above his head.
Welp. I wonder if lazy me ever thought of taking the easy way and got myself arrested. Probably did. Then Papyrus bailed me out. Or Undyne. Both. Yeah. Both is likely.
The next safe route should be the emergency stairs. Ugh. Echo central. If I use that, I’d burn myself out from all that precision teleporting.
Just as he pondered, he heard the sound of a cart coming through. He quickly hid himself behind a potted plant. His lack of height allowed him to fit in.
It’s the laundry cart. Half-filled with bedsheets, blankets and the like. No hazard warning. It meant that these came from non-infectious patients, and maybe the doctor’s dorms themselves.
They’ll try to collect a full quota before taking them to the loading bay. Dang, I wish one came by earlier. But then again… they would have noticed the shift in weight if the cart was empty.
Break the lights? Or teleport once before using his time-freeze abilities? Fancy or pragmatic?
He must decide fast before the window of opportunity passes.
In the end, he settled for simple sound. Gave the bush a firm shake.
“Wha?!” the staff member exclaimed. “Who’s there?” Out of habit, the worker pulled the cart right behind her. The results were better than expected: he didn’t need to run to his hiding spot after all.
Before she spotted his blue hoodie, Sans teleported away from the bush and to the back of the cart. He shuffled into the fabric pile while the unfortunate staff member continued to investigate.
Seeing no one, she grumbled. “Oh c’mon not another ghost prank. I hate night shifts…”
The worker then resumed their duties, pushing the cart towards the elevator.
One floor up. Please for the love of probability, one floor up and no more.
The stars of timelines must have aligned today, because she did exactly that. The cart got off at the fifth floor.
Sans tried his best to remember the layout. She will make a turn away from the Neurological Department at one point, heading towards the Orthology section where they had some wards.
He will need to create another distraction before teleporting out of the pile. Otherwise, the shift in fabric would be far too noticeable.
At the first junction, he spotted yet another potted plant. With some magic, he made it shake.
“Oh god, really? Really?!” The woman was exasperated. She must have been the victim of butt jokes for a while now. With more anger, she again dragged the cart behind her as she investigated the pot.
This time she searched under the benches for any signs of pranksters. Sans capitalized on the opportunity to slip away.
I'm back on track.
That was the best possible outcome. Better make the most out of it.
There were a few neuro specialist clinics around. Now to read every name for the biggest dejavu.
What if he didn’t get any, though? This could be his first truly successful run. Who knows?
Sans reached for his books and started checking his notes. A part of him regretted not investigating more about Cenna before embarking on his quest.
He stopped at the note ‘13 HP’.
A healthy kid had 20 HP. A healthy adult, somewhere in the 30s. Cenna only had 13. Taking into account her police history and the strength of her powers… her LOVE should be somewhere about 5. But I couldn’t see it at all. It’s likely that she had training to mask her true numbers.
Nonetheless, she should have way, way more HP than 13. What in the field of neurology could degrade an athletic woman in her prime to almost half of a modern human kid?
A lightbulb of epiphany lit up in Sans’ noggin. The key word was ‘degrade’. He remembered Alphys reading up about human diseases, not all of them infectious.
At one point she asked about Frisk’s gender because she was concerned about possible genetic disorders.
Genetic disorders.
Neurology.
Degradation.
Could it be…?
Sans began searching the nameplates for the doctor’s sub-speciality.
Neurosurgeon. Nope. Not this guy.
General Neurology. I’ll come back to this if I can’t find anything specific.
Neuropsychiatry. Nah. She’s a bit suicidal, but that shouldn’t contribute to her low HP.
Then, he hit the jackpot.
Neuromuscular. Nerves and muscles. The building blocks of the human body. This could be the answer.
He placed his skull close to the door and tapped the surface with his fingers. Used the resulting sound to gauge the thickness, density and width. This won’t win him any world record awards, but it’s enough to not get stuck.
Now he must imagine the ‘fold’ of space between point A and point B.
Trying to mesh entire space into compounding halves took too much effort and energy. The more efficient option was to ‘drag’ the distance between two known spaces. It’s like folding the mid-point of a piece of paper.
He could teleport wherever he liked in the Underground because he knew the layout on the back of his hand. The Surface beyond Ebott Town proved a lot trickier. He couldn’t cut through an incomplete map.
Analyze. Assess. Archive.
That’s what you’ve been doing for your entire life, Sans.
Let’s get this done and over with.
He imagined the space between the door to not exist. Then, he ‘walked’ forward.
Past the door.
Into the unknown darkness.
When he’s back in reality, Sans found himself standing at the doorstep of a deserted clinic. Everyone had gone home. There’s no night shift here.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
Time to investigate.
The easiest computer to access was the one at the receptionist desk. So, Sans started his work there. More dejavu, but not in the same location. Perhaps he learned more about computers not because he wanted to mess with Alphys… rather, he needed to break into hospital records.
He kept watch of the time. He wanted to get this done before the dawn of Saturday. Clinics can choose to open at a different schedule to accommodate the majority. He didn’t want to find out if this was one of those.
Let’s look for Cenna Caraway.
The computer found no name that matched his input. Somehow, he’s not surprised that the Magus used an alias. What a headache.
Okay. Think again. She claims to be Frisk’s aunt. I was under the assumption that Cenna just bunked there and kept her old family name.
What if she had a full adoption, with name change and all? What was Frisk’s surname again? It’s a pretty unusual one.
The poor kid didn’t even know they had a surname until they were warded. It seems like the foster families kept it a secret for some convoluted reason. Probably to prevent the kid or any other nosy folk from tracing back their roots.
Once he replaced ‘Caraway’ with the presumed surname, the search function found a match. He opened the file. It was… the Magus herself. But the portrait was outdated: she had a short boy’s-cut. Complete with a police uniform.
This confirms that she’s a patient here. Now I just need to get into the doctor’s PC and read the diagnosis.
The doctor’s computer was not even protected with a password. All security measures went into the door proper, which Sans bypassed with ease.
I’m not getting any dejavu here. Damn. If it’s this easy, why didn’t I check this clinic in the other timelines?
Unless… life is the greatest password protection. I ended up here because of a unique circumstance. I’ll need to ruminate on that later.
So, what ails our hot-shot Magus?
The answer: ‘young onset progressive neuromuscular degeneration’. The first symptom was recorded three years ago in the form of a chorea.
Brief, abnormal movements that are not repetitive or rhythmic. Bad news for someone in charge with weapons.
Huh. But she quit the force one year ago. They kept her around for two extra years. Why?
Sans searched the pages for a clue, but he found nothing but a long list of complicated health issues.
He doesn’t understand everything. But, judging from the context… it’s amazing that Cenna could still strut around in style. Her movement problems should only get worse, but he had yet to witness an episode. Not only that, she could still fight Papyrus and attempt to pick a bone with him.
Hm? What is this? ‘Due to connections with the Magus Association via family bonds, the patient sought for intensive treatment outside the field of physical medicine. The Association granted permission to research the effects of Psychia Reinforcement on the physical body’.
…Reads like the base of a new monster thesis. It seems that it’s not just the police force that accepted the aid of magic. Doctors. Scientists. They’re interested too.
Well shit. I guess there goes our presumed advantage. Progress happens. If my society can make progress in science, what’s stopping the humans from improving on their limited magic?
It’s by grace that they didn’t launch an attack the moment they left the Underground.
Sans took out his pen and started writing down notes.
‘Psychia’ may be the human’s formal academic term for SOUL magic. I reckon that they’ve been researching ever since they sealed us Underground. Jeez. We’re complacent to the bone compared to these guys.
So much for superior magic if we’re not efficient in its utilization.
At least I know half of the rumours are wrong. Cenna’s primary doctor never changed. Rather, she had a collaborative treatment with another Magus elsewhere.
When he reached the bottom of the page, Sans noticed that the desk drawer was not pushed in completely. It had a locking mechanism, but it didn’t do its job because of the misalignment. Seems like the doctor was in a hurry.
Sans decided that he shouldn’t be touching more than he needed. So he pulled it open with magic.
It’s full of printed research notes. After memorizing their layout, he started levitating the pages. Once he’s done he had to place everything back in their exact order. Otherwise, he’ll end up as a suspect.
Yup. I was right. The doc’s collaborating with the Magi to conduct a clinical experiment. Quite a few patients volunteered. Cenna was one of them.
Since there are genetic diseases involved, he had their family records too. Hmm? Apparently this preliminary experiment is limited to families with Magus connections. Save for a few controlled cases--
A sudden surge of pain pierced his left temple. He almost dropped the pages all over the floor. Now that would be a disaster.
What the hell was that? A dejavu?
Whenever he glanced at that particular page’s direction, the pain returned. So, Sans began putting aside anything that didn’t trigger a reaction.
The process of elimination continued until he was left with two certificates.
He placed them down on the desk. Ignoring the pain, he tried to read the contents. Whenever did so, however, the words slid off into incomprehensible gibberish.
…As if he was inside a dream.
A blue glow illuminated the room. The fire of his left Eye grew violent and wild, screaming at their owner to cease operations. The more he tried to resist, the more it flared.
The intensity of the wisps had grown bright enough to rival a lamp.
Every bone in my body is begging me to not read these.
Why? Maybe it’s a good idea to listen. Quit before I hurt myself.
… No. If I’m getting such an extreme reaction, it means they contain key information. I can’t back down here. I will do anything to keep Papyrus safe in this timeline. Even if it means fucking myself up.
Yeah. I’m insane. There’s no arguing about that.
Sans forced himself to read. Stare at it. Stare beyond the almost-blinding glow of his own protesting body.
C’mon, brain. Get your damn act together! Nothing’s worse than watching your brother die over and over and over. You should be fine.
After an intense amount of concentration, the words stopped sliding away.
They’re death certificates for Frisk’s parents.
‘Cause of death: Work-related falling due to quake-induced structural collapse. Crushing was post mortem.’
‘Time of death: 15:20 approx.’
‘Location of death: Mount Ebott.’
The Ebott Rockfall Quake.
The Core Incident.
The death of Frisk’s parents.
They’re all one and the same.
Sans started to feel faint. His non-existent gut threatened to hurl out his ketchup. Or whatever else.
No… it can’t be true!
It can’t be, this is impossible, why must this be the truth?!
Pieces of memories flooded in. Memories from a different timeline, a difference circumstance, a different department of the hospital… Yet he ended with the exact same evidence.
The exact same conclusion.
The truth cannot escape his Eye.
Either about others, or about himself.
With what remaining composure he had, Sans packed the documents back into the drawer. Was it in correct order? He doesn’t know nor care anymore.
If he gets arrested for trespassing come morning, he’ll accept it.
Trash will be trash: trash should get dunked.
He swiped his notebook. Then, he started to flee through space and time. He burst into a series of short teleports: Jumped past the door. Down the hall. Out of the window.
It’s five floors off the ground and he didn’t care. A part of him wished to hit the ground and die. But upon his fine-tuned self-preservation instinct, he applied his gravity-altering magic to cushion his descent.
Why?
He continued making those small jumps. He needed a place to just let his magic loose and not be seen. To scream without being heard.
Why???
His slippers touched sand. It’s a beach. Silent due to the cold weather, surrounded by nothing but sand and salty water.
WHY???
He warped straight into the cold, dark, turbulent waters of the sea.
And down there, at the base of the seabed… he let everything go.
The burst of magic erupted into a violent tornado of cyan and yellow. It towered high above the surface, both rising and collapsing in a cycle of self-destruction.
Bone shards sliced through the water, creating pockets of vacuums and bubbles that drowned out the unearthly tormented screams of a man dead inside.
How long did it go on?
He doesn’t know.
Despite all the noise, nobody came.
When he woke up, Sans found himself half-buried on the shore. Seawater rolled around his soaked bones, unable to decide if they should pile more sand on him or drag them away.
He had washed up on the beach along with the other flotsam of the ocean.
Trash. More trash just like him.
The sun had risen high enough to see the daylight looming high over his head.
The sky is grey and cloudy.
On days like these, trash should be trash.
…But if I lie down here for too long, a random human will mistake me for a dead body and call the cops.
I’ll make everyone upset. Especially Papyrus.
Sans pulled himself up from the slurry of wet sand. His exhausted body struggled against the non-Newtonian fluid.
Papyrus. I need to see Papyrus. It’s Saturday. Just one more day before his powers normalize.
Then I can hang out with him at home again. Yeah. It’ll be like the old days in Snowdin. Eat his spaghetti. Crack jokes and puns. Read Fluffy Bunny. Get scolded for not managing my laundry.
I can watch him play with Frisk. Get suplexed by Undyne. Be cool to Monster Kid. Have proper cooking lessons with Toriel. Dance with Mettaton. Nerd out with Alphys. Go gardening with Asgore.
The thought of seeing Papyrus again motivated this tired bones to walk back home.
To stay alive.
To persevere.
Yeah. That sounds good. Great. A quiet life is great.
A quiet life is great.