Well, that's usually not a good first thing for someone to say to you. Sans sinks at the shoulders nervously, sweating a little under his hood. The last he remembers of Greg, he was taking his hand with that familiar, stupid look on his face. Sans had barely known his coccyx from his cervicals at the time, but it had been purely compassionate.

But maybe that was before he'd been caught. That was a week ago, at least. A lot can happen in a week, and the idea of it terrifies Sans down to his core.

"Greg, I gotta get you outta here. Now."