Who: Sans + Lara + Miles When: Directly after this. Where: Observation deck + Miles' office What: The inevitable aftermath. Warnings: Talk of murder, genocide, and sad stuff probably.
Speared through with bones, the child's body barely looked human anymore. Sans couldn't look at it long. He took no pleasure in the act itself, only a bone deep relief that he survived this round. There would be another, of course, probably many.
The child was only so strong. They would have to lose at least a dozen more times before the learned his patterns and dusted him for good. Not that even that was permanent.
With a wave of his hand, the bones disappeared and Chara's body thudded lifelessly to the ship floor. Sans knew he wasn't new to this, not technically, but the knowledge that he killed before was quite different from seeing it first hand.
Taking a moment over the body, Sans is completely oblivious to any activity at the doors behind him.
It's a strange feeling to have to world shift suddenly out from under your feet. Lara has felt it so many times before that she looks down when it happens again, tensing for the life or death jump. The floor of the Moira stays where it was. She looks up. The bloody smear that had been the strange child she met... What days? Hours? That was still there. So was-
"Sans." Her voice sounds strange in her throat, raw and hurt, and she doesn't know what she's doing til she's moving. Reaching for- something, she doesn't see what, but it whizzes through the air. The arch is wide and the gardening trowel clangs off a rack of sprigs near Sans' head.
It wasn't out of surprise or even fear that Sans froze, bones going rigid all the way down to his joints. There wasn't anything stopping someone from walking in on them, after all. Hell, Sans was surprised it didn't happen sooner. That wasn't what sent an icy feeling of regret up through his marrow.
Of all the voices he could hear, that had to be one of the worst.
"Heeey, L." His recover was slow, but he was smiling all the same. His jacket and uniform were splattered with blood. Nothing much he could do about that. "What's up?"
The casual tone of his voice makes her want to scream. She nearly does, but it gets tangled up in her lungs with a sob. The noise that comes out is a strangled sob. There's blood everywhere, and of course she's seen plenty of it, but never from a body so small.
Her hand lands on something else and she throws it without thinking. Her aim improves with the cold focus that seemed to settle over her. She knows this, she knows blood and death, but this is wrong.
It's not the first thing Sans expects, but it's not the last, either. All it takes is a quick side step to avoid the projectile, though his foot nearly slips in the blood. Sans' smile has yet to falter, but there's a fresh pain behind it now.
"Explain." The word comes out gritted and sharp, distantly Lara marvels that she's able to speak at all. "Explain what. Sans, you killed-" But hasn't she, isn't she so much worse, does she even have a right to this anger. "You killed a child."
It sounds horrible when she says it, and Sans can't really find it in himself to argue. That's exactly what he did. The proof is in the body by his feet. But he also can't manage to summon much remorse for them, either.
Honestly, most of what he feels is numbness. She could throw something else and it would probably hit this time.
"Heh, you're right." He chuckled, looking down at the body with a distant sort of humor. "Looks pretty bad, doesn't it?"
She would throw something, except her hands are curling into fists, short nails pressing in her palm.
"Stop laughing." This comes out as a hiss. She had heard him laughing, just before, it's what made her go into the garden to begin with. Now the sound of it makes her feel sick. "Just shut up."
She looks terrible. Even as distracted and numb as Sans feels, he can't avoid noticing that. She cared about him. That was sort of dumb of her, but then again, he cared about her too.
They were both dumb.
"Alright," he agreed, lamely. There wasn't much fight left in him at this point. Still, he stopped laughing.
The problem is there's plenty of fight left in her, but... This isn't one that she wants to fight, that she could stand to. She can hardly take being in this room, but just leaving seems even more wrong.
She turns sharply, stalking through the garden, then turning and tracing her path back. She needs to call someone, probably, but god who.
"I'm calling Miles," she says before the idea even has the chance to take firm root.
She turns at the sound of his voice, drawing herself up in a show of silent rage her titled ancestors would have been pleased by. The thought doesn't occur to her, only the wild desire to lash out.
She's a towering pillar of strength. Hell, Sans is almost proud of her. Tough as nails and not letting anyone pull shit, not even him. It's an admirable quality, one many of the people in his life lacked.
Who would ever need someone as useless as you. Cheap bait, roared at him by a desperate and furious child. But bait or not, they were right in this case.
Lara didn't need him. Never did, really. And that's okay, Sans is sure. In fact, it's better this way. Not that she would remember any of this when the timeline reset, but maybe some vestige would hold over. Maybe she would keep her distance next time, even if she can't quite place why.
Yeah. Better this way. Even if the sucking feeling in Sans' chest is starting to ache.
"Heh, nah, you're right. No need to get short, L, that's Miles' job."
The walk to Miles' office felt longer than usual, made longer by the silence between them. Sans visited this place every day, after all, depositing a variety of ill-advised suggestions. On good days, thinking about it made him smile.
And though Sans was still smiling even now, as he dragged himself into the chair opposite Miles' desk, it was with a sick sort of numbness behind it.
Miles' stomach had gone cold the second Lara called him and told him it was Sans, and seeing the gruesome scene in the garden didn't warm him any, either. He's been uncannily quiet for the walk back from the gardens, his usual wild energy not gone, just focused tightly in on itself, an illusion of stillness. His chest has been tight with resolve since he started running for the gardens.
He lets Sans pass through the door past him, locking it behind them. More to keep others out than Sans in; he knows Sans could teleport out of here without a thought. He watches Sans drop into a chair from the door.
"Yeah. A real shitstorm." There's none of the usual humor in his voice, not even a dry note. He begins to pace.
"Don't get too comfortable. I've already reported this to the captains. I'll be escorting you to the hold shortly." He glances at Sans briefly. "I suppose I don't need to ask you to come quietly. If you were going to bail you'd have done so already, and you still could if you changed your mind. And if it came to blows, well -- it's not like I could do anything to stop you from reducing me to a bloody pulp if you decided you really wanted to."
There's a sort of wry laughter writ across Sans' monstrous features, bubbling to the surface occasionally with a fresh grin or chuckle. It's hard not to laugh, though he's sure it would help his case considerably if he could get a lid on it.
Chara's body, Lara's face seeing him, the captains, Miles' cold expression now... It's just all too damn funny.
"Wouldn't do that to you, man," And he means it, for all he's slouched so deep in the chair he might as well disappear completely into it. Miles' instructions about comfort are definitely going unheeded. "'Sides, smart money's on you in that particular hypothetical."
Well, that's about what Miles expected, anyway. He doubts Sans is really comforable at all, despite that slouching posture. The laughter isn't a total surprise either, except in tone. Nervous giggling of some sort, sure, he's been known to do that from time to time (all the time), but this? What is this, the laughter of self-defeat?
Miles raises an eyebrow, tapping rhythically against his MID band. "How do you figure that one?" he says blandly. "As you know, I'm more fragile than most children, and we've got a pretty good baseline for what you can do."
"Most children could beat monsters to a pulp if they wanted to. In fact, the more they want it, the more dangerous they are."
Slouching deeper into his seat, Sans makes a long study of his slippers. They're bloody, and though its mostly dried now he'll still need to throw them away. It's too bad. He liked these.
"Look. I don't regret it. I'd do it again, actually. So I don't blame you for doing whatever it is you gotta do. This is your job, I get it."
"Actually, it's not. 'Personnel Officer' doesn't mean 'Head of Security', although with how things are around here lately it might as well. I only came because Lara called me."
The look Miles levels at Sans says enough. He'd seen Lara's face when he got there, heard it in her voice. He doesn't really know the extent of her relationship with Sans, he just knows they have some kind of friendship or another, but it's enough to know that Sans was the one responsible for that barely masked panic and despair. Miles cares a great deal for Lara. It doesn't exactly sit well with him.
"And in the grand scheme of things, I think you're lucky it was me. And I don't just mean for your benefit, I know you don't give half a shit what happens to you now, although as far as I'm concerned that's not just nihilism, it's irresponsibility."
Miles finally stops pacing. He's still flat-eyed and cold, but it burns in him, humming like he's vibrating in place, too fast to see but plenty slow enough to feel. He closes his hands into loose fists just to feel his fingernails touch skin.
"I can't even punch my cousin in the face without breaking my hand." It's the sort of remark that would come out of Miles' mouth with a grin, or at least some self-deprecating humor. But it comes out flat and naked, no humor to it at all. "So how exactly does that work?"
The indignation wasn't unexpected. Sans killed a child, after all. And if the righteousness on Lara's behalf bothered Sans on some level, he probably deserved it. If there was one thing he regret, it was the one in a million throttle of bad luck that made it her walk through that door first.
Hell, he'd take someone who hated his guts over someone who liked him any day. This conversation was worlds easier.
"Time is not a flat circle," he muttered, vaguely, while popping each of his fingers one by one. "And it probably isn't in me or my brother's best interest to explain how easy it is for humans to take us down, but since you're a friend: your souls are to our souls what steel is to tissue paper. The more someone hates us, the more dangerous they are to us.
Miles' eyebrow twitches up at friend, but he doesn't interrupt Sans. He tucks away that comment about time in the back of his mind for later inquiry, but it's not important right now. His eyes narrow in curiosity, not quite pacing, but he's not exactly standing still, either.
"I don't quite follow," he says, fixing Sans with an intent look, though it's open, waiting to receive any further explanation Sans might offer him. "Setting the theological discussion for what constitutes a soul aside, I don't see how that makes us -- or me -- dangerous. Just what effect does one's soul have on someone llike you? What, exactly, is so dangerous about it?"
It was a bigger question than Miles probably realized he was asking, in Sans' opinion. And his research and observations aside, Sans isn't sure he knows how to answer it.
If it weren't all a matter of public record back home, Sans might be reluctant to share the information. But as things stand, he's not sure he has a choice.
"Monsters leave dust, humans leave corpses." It's vague, but it illustrates the point at least somewhat. "It's the same with our souls. Monster souls shatter into nothing, but humans? They persist."
Sans chuckles darkly, rattling his finger bones against the desk.
It sounds like something out of his mother's theist religion -- the persistence of the soul -- a karmic give and take, although Miles is fuzzy on the details. Miles takes after Barrayar in that regard, and Barrayar doesn't really dabble in religion, an empire of atheists; the closest thing they have to religion is more akin to ancestor worship. And his only other dealing with religion... Well, that had all been pretense and real faith all at once. For those that shall be the heirs of salvation...
Miles taps his fingers on his trouser seam, gaze still fixed on Sans' face, or perhaps some invisible point six inches behind his skull. His MID chimes at his wrist, but he doesn't so much as glance down at it. "How so?"
Long shadows cast in the hollows of Sans' face, leaving him somehow more gaunt than before. He looks tired. How a skeleton can look tired doesn't seem to matter. He's exhausted, and it's showing.
"You much of a science guy, Miles?"
Sans' isn't sure what tastes odder, being upfront or Miles' name.
Miles' gaze sharpens at the use of his name. If Sans didn't have his attention before, he's certainly got it now.
"More of a military man, myself, but we've all got to take at least crash courses on wormhole science and aeronautics." He gestures to Sans in a go on gesture, conceding the floor.
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☠ Lara
The child was only so strong. They would have to lose at least a dozen more times before the learned his patterns and dusted him for good. Not that even that was permanent.
With a wave of his hand, the bones disappeared and Chara's body thudded lifelessly to the ship floor. Sans knew he wasn't new to this, not technically, but the knowledge that he killed before was quite different from seeing it first hand.
Taking a moment over the body, Sans is completely oblivious to any activity at the doors behind him.
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"Sans." Her voice sounds strange in her throat, raw and hurt, and she doesn't know what she's doing til she's moving. Reaching for- something, she doesn't see what, but it whizzes through the air. The arch is wide and the gardening trowel clangs off a rack of sprigs near Sans' head.
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Of all the voices he could hear, that had to be one of the worst.
"Heeey, L." His recover was slow, but he was smiling all the same. His jacket and uniform were splattered with blood. Nothing much he could do about that. "What's up?"
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Her hand lands on something else and she throws it without thinking. Her aim improves with the cold focus that seemed to settle over her. She knows this, she knows blood and death, but this is wrong.
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Not that he blames her for a second.
"Can I explain?"
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Honestly, most of what he feels is numbness. She could throw something else and it would probably hit this time.
"Heh, you're right." He chuckled, looking down at the body with a distant sort of humor. "Looks pretty bad, doesn't it?"
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"Stop laughing." This comes out as a hiss. She had heard him laughing, just before, it's what made her go into the garden to begin with. Now the sound of it makes her feel sick. "Just shut up."
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They were both dumb.
"Alright," he agreed, lamely. There wasn't much fight left in him at this point. Still, he stopped laughing.
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She turns sharply, stalking through the garden, then turning and tracing her path back. She needs to call someone, probably, but god who.
"I'm calling Miles," she says before the idea even has the chance to take firm root.
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So much for his vow of silence. Sans didn't look uncomfortable with the idea, per se, but there is a definite twinge to his voice when he presses her.
"Sure you want to wake him up for this?"
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"Would you prefer I call one of the captains."
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Who would ever need someone as useless as you. Cheap bait, roared at him by a desperate and furious child. But bait or not, they were right in this case.
Lara didn't need him. Never did, really. And that's okay, Sans is sure. In fact, it's better this way. Not that she would remember any of this when the timeline reset, but maybe some vestige would hold over. Maybe she would keep her distance next time, even if she can't quite place why.
Yeah. Better this way. Even if the sucking feeling in Sans' chest is starting to ache.
"Heh, nah, you're right. No need to get short, L, that's Miles' job."
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☠ Miles
And though Sans was still smiling even now, as he dragged himself into the chair opposite Miles' desk, it was with a sick sort of numbness behind it.
"Pretty crappy weather lately, huh?"
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He lets Sans pass through the door past him, locking it behind them. More to keep others out than Sans in; he knows Sans could teleport out of here without a thought. He watches Sans drop into a chair from the door.
"Yeah. A real shitstorm." There's none of the usual humor in his voice, not even a dry note. He begins to pace.
"Don't get too comfortable. I've already reported this to the captains. I'll be escorting you to the hold shortly." He glances at Sans briefly. "I suppose I don't need to ask you to come quietly. If you were going to bail you'd have done so already, and you still could if you changed your mind. And if it came to blows, well -- it's not like I could do anything to stop you from reducing me to a bloody pulp if you decided you really wanted to."
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Chara's body, Lara's face seeing him, the captains, Miles' cold expression now... It's just all too damn funny.
"Wouldn't do that to you, man," And he means it, for all he's slouched so deep in the chair he might as well disappear completely into it. Miles' instructions about comfort are definitely going unheeded. "'Sides, smart money's on you in that particular hypothetical."
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Miles raises an eyebrow, tapping rhythically against his MID band. "How do you figure that one?" he says blandly. "As you know, I'm more fragile than most children, and we've got a pretty good baseline for what you can do."
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Slouching deeper into his seat, Sans makes a long study of his slippers. They're bloody, and though its mostly dried now he'll still need to throw them away. It's too bad. He liked these.
"Look. I don't regret it. I'd do it again, actually. So I don't blame you for doing whatever it is you gotta do. This is your job, I get it."
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The look Miles levels at Sans says enough. He'd seen Lara's face when he got there, heard it in her voice. He doesn't really know the extent of her relationship with Sans, he just knows they have some kind of friendship or another, but it's enough to know that Sans was the one responsible for that barely masked panic and despair. Miles cares a great deal for Lara. It doesn't exactly sit well with him.
"And in the grand scheme of things, I think you're lucky it was me. And I don't just mean for your benefit, I know you don't give half a shit what happens to you now, although as far as I'm concerned that's not just nihilism, it's irresponsibility."
Miles finally stops pacing. He's still flat-eyed and cold, but it burns in him, humming like he's vibrating in place, too fast to see but plenty slow enough to feel. He closes his hands into loose fists just to feel his fingernails touch skin.
"I can't even punch my cousin in the face without breaking my hand." It's the sort of remark that would come out of Miles' mouth with a grin, or at
least some self-deprecating humor. But it comes out flat and naked, no humor to it at all. "So how exactly does that work?"
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Hell, he'd take someone who hated his guts over someone who liked him any day. This conversation was worlds easier.
"Time is not a flat circle," he muttered, vaguely, while popping each of his fingers one by one. "And it probably isn't in me or my brother's best interest to explain how easy it is for humans to take us down, but since you're a friend: your souls are to our souls what steel is to tissue paper. The more someone hates us, the more dangerous they are to us.
"And trust me, that kid? Not a big monster fan."
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"I don't quite follow," he says, fixing Sans with an intent look, though it's open, waiting to receive any further explanation Sans might offer him. "Setting the theological discussion for what constitutes a soul aside, I don't see how that makes us -- or me -- dangerous. Just what effect does one's soul have on someone llike you? What, exactly, is so dangerous about it?"
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If it weren't all a matter of public record back home, Sans might be reluctant to share the information. But as things stand, he's not sure he has a choice.
"Monsters leave dust, humans leave corpses." It's vague, but it illustrates the point at least somewhat. "It's the same with our souls. Monster souls shatter into nothing, but humans? They persist."
Sans chuckles darkly, rattling his finger bones against the desk.
"Sometimes in multiple senses of the word."
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Miles taps his fingers on his trouser seam, gaze still fixed on Sans' face, or perhaps some invisible point six inches behind his skull. His MID chimes at his wrist, but he doesn't so much as glance down at it. "How so?"
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"You much of a science guy, Miles?"
Sans' isn't sure what tastes odder, being upfront or Miles' name.
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"More of a military man, myself, but we've all got to take at least crash courses on wormhole science and aeronautics." He gestures to Sans in a go on gesture, conceding the floor.
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