thisavrou_log | with scarves of red tied 'round their throats

"Ok. Okay, fair, but." She’s intimately, unpleasantly familiar with the consequences of that kind of coffee, but even that had been on an infinitely lesser scale. Alice suppresses the feeling like she's being watched. "If it was a spell? You'd siphon it off into supplementary architecture, across multiple parties. Something to feed the excess into, like. Lightning rods."

"That way you aren't trying to hold it, just direct it." Alice taps the bottle, then neglects the glass to take a swig from it directly. She pulls a face as it hits her throat. Not smart. Not smart at all. "But you're right. Even then, something has to get fried."

How do you manage that without obliterating everything in the way? It’s not an easy question, even with people like the Hulk aboard.

"What if we tried pouring it into another Ingress." It's all theoretical, why not.

Edited 2016-04-22 06:10 (UTC)

Theoretical. Sans' second favorite word after 'crapulence'. How rare an occasion it was that both words could apply.

He takes another drink.

"I dunno if you've been paying much mind to how things are going lately on our travels, but every Ingress we've come across has also been broken. If we could fix one up enough to active with a big power charge, then we could just tweak the one we have and be done with it."

And another.

"--But since we're going hypothetical here, I guess, technically, we could create something new that's kinda like an Ingress and use that instead. Something that taps into dimensional rifts, a quantum particle organizer, a... heh, a time machine."

Edited 2016-04-22 06:27 (UTC)

Alice holds up a finger.

"The one on Ceta worked. Just randomly, intermittently. Busted the same way as ours, but it worked. It spat out the latest crowd."

So...what? It doesn't get them any farther, just means they'd need one hell of a synchronous coincidence. But they'd had that, hadn't they? Some of the new crew had come through on the ship as well.

A time machine, though. A way around the necessity of timing (and into a whole new mess of causal tangles).

"I've seen — stasis, over larger areas. Entropic reversals over smaller." It's easier on the second swig, this time she's expecting the burn. "To go back very far, you'd hit. Issues."

To put it lightly.

"But it sounds more feasible, honestly, than the rest." She still isn't wholly certain how Aqada ran it, faulty and patchwork as it turned out to be. "It's not like there's any shortage of genius engineers here."

"Issues. Heh. No kidding. More like a newstand."

There's a long period of silence, punctuated only by an airy chuckle that Sans seemed to wheeze out subconsciously. With a clink, he sets down his drink and wobbly hoists himself up from the bar. This is a bad line of thought. He's exactly one more wrong association away from putting himself back in his lab, banging his skull against the wall and wondering why he can't fix it.

"You're right about that. N' y'know, I think you'd be better off continuing this conversation with one of them." Sans grins, offering a quick salute as he stumbles down to the ground, clinging to his stool for balance. "I'm just the janitor around here."

Edited 2016-04-22 06:50 (UTC)

"You and me both."

But she lets it drop. There's an old pang there, the faint nostalgic sting of rejection. Still, Sans looks like he's about to tip over any moment.

"Here." Alice shoots a glance behind the bar, then slips the bottle beneath an arm. They won't miss it. She offers the other one out to Sans. "Let me walk you back. I don't feel like drinking alone."

That's what Ryan's for. She hesitates, then panders:

"Or walking alone. Really. Come on, we should both go with somebody."

Being drunk never stopped Sans from teleporting before, but that doesn't make it any less of a bad idea. Besides, Alice was good company, even if she brought out a side of him he thought long buried.

"Sure, why not." He takes her arm, stumbling slightly. "What deck are you on?"

"Mero," She announces, steps slow and careful. "Home of weirdly public showers, and breakfast-themed furniture."

Alice slips him a sidelong look as they walk.

"Hey — I've been meaning to ask. Ratchet. Small, furry, with the eyebrows."

She'd flutter a finger near her own for emphasis, if that wouldn't mean dropping the bottle. (Sans is about the same height, but that's hardly the point.)

"Great, you can drop me off at--" Well hey, she just went ahead and finished his sentence for him. It's enough to make Sans laugh, eyes alight with the sheer humor of it all. "Yeah, how'd you guess? Just pour me in his room, he'll know what to do."

As in, he'll know to just step over him on the floor and not tell his brother about it.

"What about 'im?"

"Can do." Alice knows her way to that room by heart. But seriously, Ratchet? "Are you guys, you know."

She's always known he was a questionable judge of character. It's probably why they're friends. It's just, you know, this is a little farther along than she was expecting. And she's a little drunk to question it.

(Some quiet voice reminds her that not everyone spends three months trying to get to the point of hand-holding.)

"Like. Together?"

"Well, right now he's in his room and I'm here with you."

Sans grins wider, luxuriating in vagueness as he leans a little harder on her for support. The lift isn't that far, but to his sauced up feet it may as well be ten miles.

"You'll have to be more specific."

"Dating. Courting. Going out. Whatever." Alice tips her head to the side a little, considering. "I mean, it's not like he ever talks about that stuff."

It's not like either of them does. Alice is pretty sure she's never so much as mentioned Guy, can't think if he even knows about Quentin.

"Why, you like him?"

Sometimes questions you know the answers to are the best to ask, and Sans looks positively pleased with himself as they ooze into the elevator.

"Nah. Just, you know." She resists the urge to elbow him. She'd drop the bottle. "That he's my best friend, and if anyone ever did anything to hurt him, I would turn them into a xylophone and donate them to the music class."

It's a little hard to give a skeleton a flinty look. She settles for rolling her eyes.

"Ouch."

But Sans is laughing, and not just because he's drunk. That's a solid burn. Top marks for creativity.

"I'll keep that in mind. You don't have anything to worry about, though." Because they aren't together, but actually spelling out what he means wouldn't be anywhere near as fun. "But..."

He shrugs, grinning up at her from where his head is pressed up against her chest.

"Seeing as we're now bosom buddies and all, I think you're honor bound to share some dirt. Nicknames, baby photos, tales of traumatic embarrassment -- no featherweight stuff. Give me something I can use."

Anyone but an apparently sort of gay skeleton would get their ass kicked for that move and pun. As it is, she settles for gently shoving him off, towards the wall. If he crashes, so be it. So. Be. It.

"Honour is for suckers. What am I getting in return out of this?"

Bless the inventor of the hoodie, they're fantastic for shock absorption. Slumping contentedly against the wall, Sans shrugs with his usual grace and aplomb.

"Ratch's unending humiliation, obviously."

This one time he was puking up blood, it was hilarious, Doesn't quite meet qualifications.

Shit. They really haven't had like, any fun have they?

"I don't know, uh. We used to know this guy who wore a lot of spandex, and a helmet everywhere?" She pulls the bottle out and takes a swig, considering, before offering it briefly in Sans' direction. She has no idea if he can even get drunk off normal alcohol. "Oh. Oh god, wait. You need to. You need to tell him you want to talk. In the shower. Tell him it's really important."

Whether or not he can or not isn't answered; Sans would take a bottle of motor oil from her at this point. Most of the contents of his swig winds up on the front of his uniform, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Pfft, what?" He snorts, handing the bottle back. "Welp, alright."

Pulling up his MID, he's already half laughing as he navigates to Ratchet's inbox.

"Hey, uh, Ratch?" Keeping a straight face is one of his best talents, and he somehow manages to keep himself sounding mostly normal. Whether Alice and her clinking bottle is as talented in that regard remains to be seen. "I've got something really important to tell you. Can you meet me in the showers up on Mero? I'll uh, be...?"

He shoots Alice a look, nonverbally asking am I supposed to be taking a shower in this scenario?

She shakes her head quickly, holds up a finger, and fumbles for her MID. Text quickly flashes up into view:

you want 2 discusz some1htng
with him
about the captains

Alice pauses, takes another drink.

u think its the safest place 2 talk but he has 2 bring
um

She gestures back, hand spinning as if waiting for Sans to contribute the perfect noun.

Edited (DOUBLE EDITS THIS SORRY) 2016-05-12 08:09 (UTC)

Sans nods along with her once the texts appear -- the nod of a guy who's had way too much to drink and risks unbalancing himself in the process.

"I gotta discuss you with the captains." He starts, then stops. "I mean, I gotta discuss the captains with you. It's the only safe place since there are no cameras but uh you gotta bring..."

He gets the signal, screwing up his expression in deep thought.

"--You gotta bring all the sheets in your room. Like, all of 'em. It's really important." Satisfied, he leans back, shoulders practically vibrating with resisting the urge to bust up laughing. "Okay, thanks, see you there, love ya, bye."

As soon as he ends the feed, the pretense of sounding composed falls away. Sans falls away too. Literally. The man is on the floor. If he's laughing, wheezing, or literally dying, it isn't clear.

"He's gonna--" Another gasp, still laughing, still not done. "He's gonna shoot us."

"Nah," Alice considers. "I mean. He might shoot you."

She slumps back against the wall beside him, easing down onto the floor.

"So are we gonna document this, or let him hang out there a while first."

"I dunno. Walking is hard."

Sans runs his hand down his skull, fingers catching in his eye sockets on the way down. The laughter is dying down, leaving him feeling warm and spent and tired. He hunkers down deeper into the comfort of his hoodie, eye sockets drooping on cue.

"Here, hold onto my arm." He nods lazily for her to take hold, stifling a yawn in the process.

Edited 2016-05-14 23:03 (UTC)

with scarves of red tied 'round their throats

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