"I tried to tell ya, buddy."

What happens next is fast. In the space of a moment, the emptiness of Sans' left-most socket fills with sickening, strobing blue-yellow light. In the next, his hand is raised, flung towards the hold ceiling. Then down again. Then up again.

Sweat beads at Sans' forehead, before hurling Rinzler back to the floor. No bones. This isn't that kind of discussion.