☆TRACK V: I WILL TWIST THE KNIFE PT. 2

[interdimanagers]

Who: Everyone in the last part of the log.
What: Everyone has a terrible night.
When: December 7th, 2054
Where: Naomi's ocean side mansion, followed by a secret Pride laboratory.
Warnings: Violence, blood, and at least one murder. Vague gore. NPCs being unhinged in a threatening way, though it's possible to have your character avoid ended up in the ballroom if you don't want to see this mess.

☆I WILL TWIST THE KNIFE The bubble has burst. The chaos of the night’s violence has finally boiled over into something uncontrollable – blood has been spilt, screams have been heard. No matter where you are in the mansion, you know by now that something is acutely wrong. Multiple members of Pride have been hurt – possibly killed – and you may still have no idea why. Some will try to escape. Some will try to fight back. Yet, as any rebellion starts to descend, a piercing note - a melodic cry - will summon you towards the ballroom. It can be resisted, in part - but only as far as you find yourself frozen in place instead of moving forward, at least while this spell holds. It's drawing you to the source...if you follow it, maybe you can stop it. The compulsion is strong for members of both labels. The cry seems to echo long past its termination point, to be heard wherever you are. If followed, it will bring you to Naomi Rivers in the center of the ballroom, her expression creased with strain. Though you may desperately want to strike her, something intangible is holding you back. "No!" she shouts at any Virgo nearby. "It isn't done! You need to...you need to finish this!" She'll point desperately at the nearby Pride, rendered unable to flee. "Get them now!" You don't want to. "Do it!" The compulsion weighs heavily on you - for Virgo, to act, and for Pride to surrender themselves. All subtly has disappeared. This last effort is unconcealed and nearly hysterical. You feel yourself slipping beneath the soundwaves. Power rolls off of her, the energy thick in the air, like something you can taste and smell. You can't do this. "I command-" The fabric of space-time cracks like a peal of thunder. All at once, the spell shatters.

Comments

[exhumerus]

"Heh. Touche."

Maybe it's Greg's willingness to let him continue, or maybe it's the fact that he's playing again - either way, Sans starts feeling at ease enough to continue. Even if he isn't really sure what kind of point he's trying to make. It'd be so easy to just brush it off as not at all about him, just one more thing outside of his control or care...

Damn it, he's trying to do the right thing for once, and it just isn't working right. He spent all that time in the bathroom, the whole shuttle ride back, rolling over the events of the night again and again but it doesn't fit together right. It doesn't make a whole picture. What does he have to do to get his head together in a way that makes sense?

"You wanna know why I dropped that glass so fast when you came up? It was because there was something so...so perfectly jarring about you just waltzing on up and...and assuming the best out of me. You're always doing that, and it's painful to watch, man, I just...I don't know where it comes from."

His blunt is about finished. He tosses it.

"Nothing makes you feel worse than some dope falling for you hook, line, and sinker. 'N what I don't get is why you keep falling for me." There's a moment of pause there, and it seems like he backtracks, like that isn't quite the route he intended to take. "I mean...I don't want to give you the wrong impression, here. I'm not exactly a bleeding heart."

"If I just sit here and, uh, say...let's blame magic singing, or whatever. You're just gunna wipe my record clean and that's that. It doesn't really strike me as fair." He wishes he still had something to be doing with his hands. He shouldn't have thrown that blunt away. What the hell is he trying to say? He doesn't really know anymore. He stands up again and paces around, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.

"There's something to it, isn't there?" he finally says, tapping his temple with a pair of fingers. "All the stuff going on in our heads? There pretty much has to be, now, with...with all this. Can't just write it off as a gag anymore. Memories, visions, whatever. It's gotta mean something."

"I killed a kid, Greg," he says, finally, the point he's leading up to through this whole rant. "I killed a kid and I didn't even feel bad. I still don't. I don't even feel half bad about just going to bed tonight and carrying on like this was just another day at work. I did it before, and I'll do it now."

And he still doesn't get why.

[panspermia]

It's all right if it takes Sans a while to figure out where he's going, Greg figures, plucking away. Talking things out is sometimes the best way to get to it yourself, and listening isn't hard.

Even though Greg has to bite down an objection, he lets him figure out his point. Greg sure can't figure out what he's getting at, and now he wants to know, because if Sans is hoping to convince him he's not a good person, he's got a long way to--

Sans drops that bomb, and the melody twangs to a startled halt. What? When? Tonight? But that's... he couldn't mean...

His hands don't shake when he plays. He starts again, the music disjointed and halting, but it's still music. Anything, to keep himself calm.

"So?" Greg's voice cracks. "Why are you telling me this?"

[exhumerus]

Yeah, that's what he thought.

Like, to be fair, he's pretty sure the kid in question was some kind of kung-fu devil child, based on things he's recalled about a similar fight with similar knife wielding ten year old. He's also pretty sure that he himself had some kind of magical powers, given all the special effects that had been going on. It's not totally dissimilar from the trick he picked up recently, in fact...

But all of that seems less relevant to him than his emotional reaction to it all. He'd done it after offering to spare them. To call a truce. Hell, he'd beckoned them forward for some kind of hug. And then he'd speared them on bone shrapnel.

The good guys are supposed to feel bad, when they kill someone. Even if it was necessary, even if it was just. But then...he didn't really feel anything. If anything, he just thought it was funny. He'd done the equivalent of tea bagging the kid with a rare note of vicious satisfaction, telling them not to come back. Who does that?

If that was really him, in any capacity, he's got some serious issues. The real trouble is why it feels so perfectly coherent with his inner self. The inner self that has been done with life since he was a teenager. The self that has felt strangely callous about the world around him for as long as he can remember.

Greg is scared. Or maybe that's giving himself too much credit when it comes to being threatening. He's freaked out, grossed out, something. Whatever it is, he's fishing for something, and Sans is pretty sure this could be the breaking point if he wanted it to be.

"Because if I didn't, I'd just be doing it all again! Pulling one over on ya, sitting back and riding the wave where I get to pretend this isn't my problem."

A hand goes to his chest, over his heart, and he can feel the ache of the stress pains within. Maybe this part, at least, is hurting more than he would have expected. Maybe that's a good thing.

[panspermia]

For how much Greg was just thinking it's good to talk through your thought process and figure things out, he's too tangled up in his confusion to do the same. This is one heck of a thing to learn about someone you thought you knew, with them standing right here, waiting for your response.

Who was this kid? Why would Sans hurt them? When did this happen? There has to be reasons, this can't possibly exist in a vacuum, maybe Sans is a bit of an asshole but he can't just murder someone for no good reason, that's not something people do.

It's pretty twisted, trying to justify why someone would kill a kid. That's got to be why Sans is such a wreck, too. Or, part of it.

He's never seen Sans like this, he realizes. The gibbering, nervous wreck, obviously, but he hadn't thought much of it a minute ago. They'd all seen some serious terror tonight, something that none of them were likely to forget anytime soon. Being erratic and dazed and frightened made sense. No, Greg realizes, that's not the thing that seems so completely new about Sans.

"Wow. Sans, do... do you know what this means?" His laugh is a tiny, sad little noise. "You're finally... really being honest with me."

[exhumerus]

Already being keenly prepared for rejection, that reply manages to catch him totally off guard. Of course, though. Of course that is the part Greg finds shelter in. Killed a kid, huh? Well, at least you're honest!

He feels like he should cry or something, but he just feels numb inside. Stressed and numb. Anxiety without emotional depth.

Sans takes a step back. He sees his discarded blunt on the ground and considers smothering it, but...he isn't wearing any shoes. Huh.

He laughs. It dwindles into something staccatoed and tense.

"There's something wrong with me. Something...something worse than all this. I can feel it, but...I don't know why. Isn't that fucked up?"

For once, he sounds desperate.

[panspermia]

One note after the other. That's all he can do. He's trying so hard, putting every last bit of desperation into keeping himself in one piece, but between everything that's happened tonight, this is just turning into too much. This is the only thing he can focus on anymore, the music is keeping him from totally falling to pieces.

What's he even doing here? What is any of this? How is he supposed to move forward, when honesty between friends is "ps i'm a habitual stabber of young people"? And this isn't even the worst of it, now.

Greg can't believe how stupid he is. It's been true from the very start: every time he thinks he knows how bad it is, it keeps getting worse.

He looks up at Sans, silent but for the guitar. Keep going, the music urges. They've come this far, what point is there in holding back?

[exhumerus]

Silence.

Well, okay. Fair enough. He'd say 'tough crowd', but in reality Greg is about as good of an audience as someone could hope for in this situation. The fact that he hasn't told him to fuck off at this point is a marvel.

He feels like he should keep talking, but he's not sure what to follow that up with. He guesses he could explain more of what he's been seeing? He's not sure that the context he understands for this particular murder makes it acceptable, but it's not like it was unprovoked.

"Y'know...I watched that same kid kill some innocent fish lady. Or at least I think that's what I saw. I'm assuming these events are related. I just...wow, I hated that kid. But I didn't stop them then, when I coulda. Was that mercy or just being a callous prick? I've got all these thoughts in my head without any motive. When do these things start really belonging to you?"

He laughs.

"If they're even real, that is! We've obviously got some kind of evil corporate wizard in charge, but what's with the head games? Do they select for people with awkward reincarnation problems, or is this the symptom instead of the cause?"

[panspermia]

"Sans, I have a kid."

The words jump out of his mouth before he can stop to consider them--before he can acknowledge that he's telling this to an apparent child murderer. The statement hangs for a second, heavy. Why did now feel like the time to say it? Why to him?

"I forgot. I forgot all about him. I still can't remember much of anything, but..." The music, halting and desperate, starts to come together into something more solid. "That's the only thing I'm sure is real, anymore. It feels... I don't get it. I don't understand it, it scares the piss out of me, but I know it's right.

Greg takes a deep breath. "You've always been sort of an asshole, Sans. But I knew you weren't a bad guy. This is... a bigger scale of it than I expected, is all." Way, way bigger. "What--what I'm saying is, I... we don't... know anything about ourselves, anymore. We've got a heck of a lot to figure out."

[exhumerus]

Oh. Well, then. Why couldn't Sans be fortunate to dream about having illegitimate kids instead of whatever fucked up nightmare his particular infant is involved in. Unless that child is his kid. God, he hopes not. That would just add insult to injury.

He looks back at Greg, his gaze a bit calmer now, more accepting. They've hit some kind of equilibrium, at least. A place where they can just talk it out, no matter how insane it all is. There's nowhere to go from here but up. (Thought with the notable dread of being wrong.)

He still doesn't understand that Greg means a kid that is literally here, in this physical universe.

"...So that's it, then, huh. This is really happening. Really and for actual." His mind whirls with the thought of it. From the very start he'd always thought of his own visions as some kind of memory, but actually have solid confirmation of it...too weird.

"You definitely believe this kid is real?"

[panspermia]

For whatever this is, they're here now. They had more than enough opportunity to hide from it--they'll have more, probably. But they've committed to this point. Go team.

"He's here."

Greg strums at the guitar, and laughs. It's a sad, small little noise.

"Y'know, ten minutes ago, I was thinking it'd be cool when you get to meet him? That you'd be funny together." He could just imagine Steven getting indignant over Sans' teasing. "Not... not so much anymore."

[exhumerus]

'Ouch,' is the first thing he thinks about that response. Having your mystery kid actually be here...well, that's gotta add a whole new level of stress to things. And here he was thinking it was more of a theoretical, back in whatever verse he was dreaming about kind of thing. Secondly, he considers that having two people that supposedly knew each other with such a close bond in this parallel world would be an excellent source for accumulating data. Maybe see how it all ties together.

But, those two thoughts leave his focus fairly quickly. Mostly because he's not really sure how to take Greg's reaction there, at the end. Maybe he's misunderstanding, but he's not really sure. What had been a searching expression - one part curious, one part concerned - goes cold.

He looks away. Despite how self deprecating he's been...he guesses there are limits.

"You know I'm not a serial killer, right?" he says after a moment, his tone much the same as usual but somehow entirely without humour. "That wasn't actually the end note of this little morality tale."

[panspermia]

"That's not what I..." No, that is sort of what he meant. One person's already tried to kill him today. Blanche threatened him, veiled but definite. And now Sans is saying he killed a kid without remorse.

"Sorry. If you can believe it, I'm feeling sort of paranoid."

How exactly should he be reacting, Sans? He sure doesn't know.

[exhumerus]

The weed sure as heck isn't making this easier for him to process rationally, but it just feels like there's...some kind of moral grey area here that should be explicit. Didn't he just say the kid killed someone in front of him?

It's complicated, and it bothers him, and it makes him feel complicated, and he doesn't want to pretend it isn't complicated, but...this isn't what he was hoping for when it came to getting this off his chest. Maybe it never will be. Just another thing he'll never be satisfied with without understanding why.

'Somewhere in there. I can feel it. There's a glimmer of a good person inside of you. The memory of someone who once wanted to do the right thing.

C'mon, buddy. Do you remember me?'

The clarity of that statement catches him off guard. When he'd recalled the event before, he feels like he'd just said something blase about friendship and for whatever reason the child had complied. But...had it been more than that?

There's so much more to all of this. He's frustrated, and he hates it.

"Greg...I didn't just stumble upon a lust for nonspecific kiddie murder in the last six hours. In what universe are people ever that simple?"

Goddamnit, either disown him or don't. He can't take this uncertainty.

[panspermia]

"Cripes, Sans, what do you want from me?" He's not angry, just tired. He might be angry, if not for the music, but he's making sure to keep the tune mellow in spite of it all.

"You're my friend. And I guess you're a murderer now? Like, jeez. Sort of a bomb to drop on a guy. Sorry for being rude, I guess."

He closes his eyes. It would feel sort of good to cry right now, he thinks, but he doesn't even have the energy for that. "I don't get it. Any of it. I don't get you, I don't get being a dad, I don't get this crap going on with our heads. I'm just not that bright. I'm just going to keep playing my guitar for a while, all right?"

[exhumerus]

Sans doesn't really have an accurate measure on how angry he is or isn't, and this whole soothing music business is seriously skewing his readings. It has generally seemed pretty easy to keep his cool, relatively speaking, which is maybe why it feels so off putting when something finally snaps and relents to the rising frustration in his gut.

He'd thought he wanted Greg to understand he wasn't a very good person, but receiving feedback that suggests he's succeeded doesn't make him feel any better either. Forgiving him outright and saying it was okay would feel stupid and cheap, while calling him a murderer...it doesn't feel fair, and it doesn't feel any better. Maybe there's no actual words that can magically give him what he wants out of this, when what he really desperately needs is for this rare plea to be understood without complication.

Maybe Greg isn't very bright, or maybe Sans is just impossible to please. As usual. Heh. What Sans absolutely doesn't have is the capacity to deal with failure when it comes to showing this shred of emotional intimacy.

He instinctively feels like this would be a really satisfying time to vanish. Not in a self hating sort of way, specifically, but like...literally to disappear without another word. Like, it would feel sort of hardboiled, you know? And that overt act of being badass and cool would mean that he wouldn't have to deal with the awkward situation that this has become emotionally.

Turning your back first makes you feel like a chump.

His knuckles crack with the pressure he's putting on his own balled fist. Sans isn't a guy that makes a habit of being angry, and now that it's happening...well, this is something that needs to be analysed, and not vented. Just say something and then go. He's silent for another lingering moment, and then:

"...Take it easy, Greg."

And then he stalks off.

[panspermia]

There was a better way for this to go, Greg's sure of it. It feels like a loss for things to end here, right now--for once, tonight, he would have liked something to go right. To come out of a conversation feeling better instead of worse. Knowing he has a friend on his side would make this mess seem... not better, but bearable. He supposes he botched that chance.

There's an opportunity, as Sans walks away, to call out again. They can keep trying, until they get it right. Greg doesn't want to be alone.

It's too much, though. He knows it. On top of everything else tonight, this is too messy to navigate. He owes Sans a clear head, a proper response, and he's just too tired to handle that right now.

"Later," he murmurs, likely too quiet for Sans to hear. They'll figure it out. Just not tonight.