"Hey, you over there!" A low, but insistent, voice calls out to passers by. "You. With the face."

If heeded, it won't take long to discover that the voice belongs to a man waving from a makeshift stand a ways down the beach. The stand itself appears to be hastily constructed of an old cardboard box, the words LEG CON written on the front in loopy letters.

Oh, and the guy manning the stand also happens to be a skeleton. A skeleton slathered in sunscreen, no less. Apparently you can never be too careful.

"C'mon, I don't bite. Got a few questions for ya." He waves again, motioning them closer. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your legs?"

As a rule, R&R isn't something that really happens for the Moira crew. It's enough to make a guy suspicious, even when presented with enough sand and sunshine to make someone without skin worry about melanoma.

Fortunately for Sans, he's never been one to needlessly worry. Sure, all the clothes they're buying were probably made from the hides of babies and the mud he just finished soaking in was almost certainly laced with poison, but that was tomorrow Sans' problem.

Today Sans had his arms loaded to the point of bursting with packages and shopping bags. He still smelled faintly of cucumbers, thanks to one stubbornly falling through his eye socket and planting itself at the back of his skull. It itched uncomfortably, but not enough for him to make an effort of dislodging it.

Spying a hair salon, Sans slowed, squinting at the sample photographs. Vision already obscured by his bags, it's too late before he realizes what he's on a collision course for.

"Aw, jeez." He winces, bags strewn over the sidewalk. Toy robots, sweets, action figures, and clothing all at least two sizes too large for him are littered everywhere, but Sans seems a little more concerned with the person he just careened into. "I'm sorry, I'm an idiot. You okay?"