Sans hit the floor with a clatter of bones, his arms and neck bound with what used to be Blanche's hand, and is now all too reminiscent of the tendrils that have trapped him the first time they fought. The energy isn't attempting to crush him like it is with the other two - maybe Blanche realizes how easy it could kill him, now, and doesn't want to risk being that merciful - but it only takes a moment to realize that its keeping him from taking a shortcut.

His soul has stopped pulsing uncontrollably, but that burning rush and the rough handling has left him strung out on the marble floor. He feels like his magic is being smothered out, and his focus is gone. His head is flooded with images of what comes next, now that he's trapped, and at first he feels like succumbing to it is inevitable.

But then he sees Greg stop playing, and a sliver of hope returns. He struggles to pull himself up enough to speak, Blanche's grip still closed around him tightly and trying to pull him back down to the floor. He just wants Greg to hear him. Even if it doesn't accomplish anything.

"Greg," he calls out over the general chaos. "Hey, buddy. One time... you told me that if you ever started putting stuff like money and power before the fun, you wanted me to take you out." He laughs grimly at that, but it's rasping and brief. "I don't think I've got it in me, but... this hasn't been fun for a while, huh?"