Event № 1 : January 2024

[silentspringmods]

Event № 1 : January 2024
Part I; Chapter 2. Silence tells me secretly everything

universe/setting information, role assignment, and FAQs

I. A Thought Is Haunting Me

January 1st.

CWs: nonconsensual memshare/receiving of memories, flashbacks to combat zone and injury, blood, hearing loss/burst eardrum, panic attacks.

Just in time for New Year's Eve, the town square that held a magnificently decorated 15-foot Christmas tree last week now has a glittering silver ball to rival New York's own waiting atop a flagpole rooted in the same spot. Strings of lanterns illuminate the snowy brick courtyard, lined with stands offering hot cocoa, ciders, and various warm snacks, or perhaps characters are more interested in obtaining a pair or two of silly New Year's glasses that allow them to look through the numerals 1961. Eventually, though, all goes quiet for the exciting countdown.

'Five... four... three... two... one!

The ball drops, and confetti streams down onto the square (and the people standing in it!) as the Sweetwater High School Marching Band picks up a jaunty rendition of the New Year's classic Auld Lang Syne—but characters will likely find themselves distracted by the dark spots that appear in their fields of vision, gradually expanding until everything is eclipsed entirely by soft blackness. They feel less and less of the world around their bodies, numbness starting at their fingertips and toes and creeping up their extremities until they feel touchless, floating, completely absent of sensation. Then something replaces it: fragments, or perhaps all of what follows.

The world flashes black, then returns, hazy and doubled, half obscured by smoke as you lie face down on the hard, rocky earth. One ear shrieks, a whine that grows higher and higher. Hot blood streams down the other earlobe and drips onto your neck, washing off sweat and grime as it trickles toward your collar. Pain slices through what you think must be your eardrum like a jackknife shoved into your skull. You cough, throat burning, ribs protesting the movement. A coppery taste, a warmth, fills your mouth. You check with your tongue and all of your teeth are there; the blood is coming from your broken lip. The hair on top of your head feels hot and wet. You know your cheek is scraped open from the gritty sting taking up most of your face.

The doubled image of a medic gets into your face, his lips silently moving. You try to shake your head, to communicate that you can’t hear him over the shriek of your own tinnitus, but your neck is too stiff. Your brain slams against your skull and your head feels like it’s been hit with a brick. Blood drips off of your brow and into your eye.

The medic squeezes your shoulder and pushes off, scrambling across the debris until he disappears in the gray-brown smoke. There’s a moment of irrational fear: he’s leaving you here to die. You’re hit somewhere and you’re last in triage. You’ve heard about soldiers not feeling the gunshot until much later. When he and his buddy come back with a stretcher, surprise mingles with the dread of being lifted.

You shut your eyes tightly, trying to recalibrate your vision, but it still swims with the pitch and yaw of the rocky earth beneath you. When you open it, he’s trying to look into your eyes, hand on your shoulders, his lips finally moving in a pattern you recognize: Going home. Going home.

Going home.

You close your eyes.

*

You stare at a long tawny finger as you wind it into the red plasticized cord of the phone set, doing nothing when it begins to throb against its tethers, the single physical sensation anchoring you in reality.

“Listen to me. I need you to be calm and handle this. Someone will be there in thirty minutes, Ron. You need to keep it under control until then or we’re going to be in a world of shit you can’t even imagine—Put up roadblocks. Say a convict got loose. I don’t care. Do what you have to. Don’t call me unless it’s resolved or someone’s fucking dying, Ron, do you understand me?”

*

The door opens as the emergency light comes on, flickering. The room fills with the suffocating stench of diesel. A candystriper’s golden-brown hands wrap around your thin wrists, pulling you as she rocks back on the heels of her wet tennis shoes with all of her might. Tears stream down her cheeks, strands of relaxed hair hanging in her eyes. She chokes her words out around sobs of her own, eyes wild with terror, screaming: Miss Ruby, you have to get up! You have to get up, Miss Ruby! But your legs won't move. Your breaths shudder ragged in the air just like the volunteer's.

At 12:01, characters return to consciousness: but there are little changes, twinges that make this a bit realer than a dream. Perhaps their index finger twinges as blood returns to it and the impressions a tight phone cord left on their skin fade, or maybe they find themselves wiping a few droplets of blood from the corner of their jaw. Perhaps their ears ring, gradually giving way to clearer sound—or maybe they awake sitting on the ground with their arms around their bent knees, face wet with tears, overcome with a raw panic unlike anything they’ve ever felt. How very odd.

Notes:
—Characters can experience all of the memories, or players can pick and choose.
—Characters do not have to be in the square to receive the memories.

II. In the Valley of the Dolls We Sleep

January 13-15th.

CWs: violence, entrapment, hypnosis, living mannequins, dismemberment.


'New year, new you!' the cheery saleswoman on the radio and television ads for the local two-story department store proclaims ad-nauseam, becoming more and more of a regular guest in characters' homes as time marches on toward the 15th of the New Year. There are great sales to be had, and would you look at that, characters have a few gift cards to this very store in their respective purses and wallets! Over time, the voice of the young woman in the advertisement almost seems to grow more insistent, even though the same ad plays every time: surely it's just familiarity altering one's perception of her voice, right?

On the morning of the 13th, characters wake up to the sound of every radio and television set in the house turned on and blaring the ad. The saleswoman reminds them that time's running out, and that the sales will only last for another 48 hours before they're gone. If characters can't hear, they only make it as far as the living room before the television screen comes into view, the same message scrolling across the bottom of the screen in large close-captioning... even if they haven't turned it on. This time, something feels different, and characters find themselves compelled as though by a supernatural force to go check out the sales being advertised.

Characters may notice once they're inside of the building that it's only new arrivals here: the townspeople of Sweetwater seem to have already done their shopping! Fortunately, there are still some great items left. It may be when looking at that cashmere sweater or a nice pair of snowshoes that characters catch a tiny flicker of movement out of the corner of their eye: but when they turn in that direction, there's nothing except a faint, nagging sense that something's not right. It happens again as they pass through the store—and then, with no warning, the faceless, eyeless mannequins throughout the store burst into motion at the same time as the sales associates collapse to the floor unconscious, attacking characters with inhuman strength and whatever items they have at their disposal with the intent of bludgeoning them to death.

If characters try to escape from the way they came, they will find that the automatic doors and fire doors are all locked as though from the outside. The windows cannot be opened or broken, nor can the glass of the doors—they're trapped here. Really, truly trapped.

To make matters worse, the mannequins, unlike the salesman, seem truly impervious to... everything. Guns can pierce them, but they have no blood to lose or brain to damage. They can be dismembered, but they're strong, and hard to pull apart; even if a mannequin's head is removed, the body will still function. Characters have one advantage, however: the mannequins are not as intelligent as human beings, and seem to mostly lack object permanence. If characters can stay silent and out of sight after finding somewhere to hide, the mannequins will drop their pursuit after about fifteen minutes of trying to get to them.

The mannequins stay alive for 48 hours, and the doors stay locked for the same amount of time. Characters who do not find a way to sleep risk sleep deprivation symptoms similar to the ones detailed in the explanation of modes of torture in Sweetwater, and will be slower, weaker, and less able to fight off or escape from the mannequins. 48 hours is also a very long time to go without water, which can only be obtained from the sinks in the bathrooms... both of which feature nicely dressed mannequins in one corner.

Notes:
— The departments of the store are as follows:

- Women's Clothing
- Men's Clothing
- Children's Clothing
- Furs
- Baby/young child supplies
- Home appliances
- Kitchen
- Decor
- Furniture
- Toys
- Hunting, Fishing, and Outdoors (hunting-style guns, ammunition, snowshoes, fishing rods, flies/fly-tying equipment, dog beds, hunting blinds)
- Tools ( Limited. There aren't any electric saws or more specialized tools like bolt cutters to be found, but simpler "Little Joey picked this out for you, Dad!" wrench/screwdriver sets, branch loppers, lawnmowers, snowblowers, etc. - in general assume that there aren't any power tools player characters can use to bulldoze the mannequins with, but there might be some tools that could help with other things... )
- Fine Jewelry/Watches
- Ladies' Gloves

— Deaf characters and characters who wear earplugs to bed will be awoken by their spouse moving, or will randomly wake up even though they can't hear the ad.
— Players who wish to opt out can say that their character simply slept through it and woke up after the doors to the department store had already locked.
— The mannequin limbs are inert after they've been removed, but the mannequins can still operate without a head.
— Characters may try to investigate at the risk of leaving cover. If a character is able to get close enough to the service desk on the second floor, they may also notice that one of the customer service associates, a teenage girl, lies slumped over the counter as opposed to on the floor with her coworkers, an unlabeled, recently installed button depressed beneath her shoulder—she was leaning forward before she lost consciousness. If her body is moved, the button stays anchored in place. If characters check it again, hours later, they'll notice that it can't be depressed or lifted, but seems a little higher—almost as if it takes a set amount of time to return to resting.

III. Drill it in like J. Paul Getty

Throughout January.

CWs: torture, non-fatal electrical shock, restraints, medical/psychiatric abuse, nonconsensual drug administration, altered states of consciousness, needles/injections, gaslighting, brainwashing, sleep deprivation torture, antipsychotics overdose, smoking.

Should characters discuss the horrors of the month on the network, over the telephone, or in places where townspeople can hear, they’ll face the consequences. They go to bed the night of the offense as usual—and come into consciousness in a dark room, a basement of some sort, bound to a chair with leather restraints buckled onto their wrists, their ankles. A leather strap runs across their chest, holding it to the back of the hard wooden chair they’re bound to. A few feet away, the static electricity of a television box provides some measure of light as noisy waves ripple across the screen.

Upon further examination, there’s one more thing on characters’ left wrists, directly north of the leather straps holding it to the armrest: a set of electrodes and thin wires that run down and across the room.

“You’re awake. Good morning.” None other than the town’s private practice doctor, Norman Pollock, greets them, with the same matter of fact tone he’d use during a standard physical exam. “You seem to have lost sight of what makes Sweetwater so special, so we’re going to watch some videos, get your head on straight. We can’t have this kind of subversive behavior when the country’s already under attack, Sweetheart.”

He presses a button on the television remote—which characters might notice has a second, less refined one taped to its side—and a program comes on: What Communism Will Take From Us.

For the next 36 hours, the hour-long video plays on repeat, showing idyllic scenes right out of a Norman Rockwell painting, detailing the joys of the American way of life, emphasizing all of the ways subversive thoughts and actions undermine it, and how they hold the door open for the Red Menace. This is what’s at stake, what little towns like Sweetwater, Maryland have to use. Norman sits in a chair nearby, smoking cigarettes, reading issues of the New England Journal of Medicine, the remote never leaving his hand. The moment characters’ eyes close for longer than a single blink, the electrodes on their wrist deliver a nasty shock to help them wake up, growing in intensity with every additional offense. His never do for longer than a regular old blink.

By the end of the 36 hours, characters can expect reality to begin to blur at the edges, and may be experiencing auditory hallucinations, paranoia, and their minds wandering in ways they haven’t before. At 36 hours of sleep deprivation, the body cries out for it, desperate to rest. Maybe they erupt into hysterical laughter, or weep uncontrollably, or panic. Norman is unphased by all of it.

If characters try to fight back, or prove too argumentative and unwilling to learn, Norman will produce a glass syringe and draw up a thick fluid from a dark glass bottle, which, if characters have the necessary visual acuity to see, reads haloperidol. He jams the needle into their gluteus and injects; within 10 minutes, characters will feel very, very sedate, almost catatonic in their stupor. Effects vary from person to person, but it is not a pleasant experience: in addition to the deadness it brings on, hearts race and mouths go dry. It gets harder to swallow, or maybe a character’s vision begins to blur. The limbs contract in fits and jerks in the immediate and for the week the drug lasts. The face twitches uncontrollably, muscles ache in their rigid stiffness, and it becomes hard to stay upright throughout the week as the drug interferes with the character’s balance, making them dizzy and confused.

THE TOE TAG
If characters fight Norman, however, they may find that he backs against the nearby metal filing cabinet–knocking loose a piece of paper hanging from a half-open drawer when he does. It’s recognizable as a photocopy of a toe tag, the kind affixed to corpses in a morgue, but characters have seconds before their vision doubles and blurs too much for it to remain readable. Characters who are injected with haloperidol for subversion, either for talking about the murder or a different offense, may comment to the event post under the designated mod comment to take a shot at reading the tag. Remember, though, it’s probably best not to advertise that they saw anything out of the ordinary, or to even mention what happened to them, on a publicly visible communications channel…

They wake up in their own bed shortly after losing consciousness, and spend the next week corpselike.

IV. It's Freezing and I Am Watching You Shovel Snow

January 7th onwards.

It's a cold winter for Maryland, characters will hear their neighbors complain, and within a few days of the New Year they have reason enough to complain too: the snowstorm everyone's been talking about in the neighborhood clubs comes on the 7th of January, dumping a foot and a half of snow. Better grab that snow shovel, or find someone to help you if you can't! A snowstorm like this takes multiple visits outdoors to keep up with, so maybe now would be a good time to practice divvying up responsibilities with characters' new spouses or children—or for bachelors to seek out the help of a neighbor. Characters may also have to deal with a power outage lasting up to 14 hours—better visit a house that has power if they need anything, but at least this is the kind of experience that brings a parent and child or a new couple or even two members of the same community closer. At least in theory.

It’s not all near-death experiences, psychological torture, and power outages, though! Characters who find themselves in need of some R&R will be pleased to know that the local fire department has tested the municipal park’s pond and found the ice is now suitably thick for ice skating. Characters will find lace-up leather ice skates in their size hanging from their tied-together laces in the garage, though this probably isn’t the best way to learn to skate if they haven’t before, given the lack of rail to hold on to–unless they have a friend to help them balance?

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Comments

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus doesn't repeat the hysterical laughter at the joke, but he chuckles and leans a little harder against the doorway as his arm jerks. It's funny, because Sans is always napping, skeleton or human. It's funny because Papyrus is exhausted now, and maybe it's because he didn't amass naps all those years to have in storage now. Or maybe it's all the electrocution! But he manages to tune in again for the followup question, and think.

"I... stood up," he says like it's agreement, but he stares down at his legs uncertainly. Even now that he's out here, he's not entirely sure how he got out here. All of him wants to be lying in bed, shivering or twitching or whatever this is, except for his mind. His mind does not want to be in that bed, in an empty house. No wonder he got out here, somehow. (Aches on his legs suggest, he didn't walk most of the way.)

[ribticklers]

Sans feels like he's prickling inside and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like any of what's going on right now, but the way his own feelings jerk around and clench at his stomach isn't helpful right now. He needs to get Papyrus off this lawn. He can't leave Papyrus alone like this.

"Yeah, I figured you didn't just appear right here," Sans says, but honestly, can he really prove Papyrus didn't? Sans still doesn't know the rules of this place. Regardless, he reaches for Papyrus's hand to try and pull him upright, prepared to let Papyrus lean on him. He really hopes his extra foot of height and however much mass will help him out here. (It will, but he's never tested it before right now.) "C'mon. I've got a couch."

[spaghettimonster]

"Is it green?" It should be green, he thinks, and says before he can even consider why he's asking. Better that than saying that he has a couch, not when he doesn't want to go back inside to it, and maybe that's why. He misses their couch, jangly as it was.

Meanwhile Papyrus accepts the hand as best he can, trying to use the lift and the doorway together to help himself get upright. He does have to lean on Sans to stay upright away from it, between another wave of dizziness and muscle spasms. Everything feels even stiffer, maybe from sitting there in the cool air too long, and he forgets he's leaning on Sans, too busy wondering whether all the water in his human parts has managed to start freezing.

[ribticklers]

Sans wobbles a little, but not as much as he really expected. Papyrus is heavy like this, but it's manageable as long as Papyrus doesn't forget to support at least some of his own weight. As far as the couch--Sans can't, for a moment, remember what color it is at all. He thinks of their green one instead, the one Papyrus obviously means, and wishes they were there.

But if Sans goes back, he'll be alone. So it's not worth continuing to think about.

"Nah, it's beige-y brown. Came with the house." Like all of the furniture, and also Sokka. Speaking of the kid: "But if we head back to my place maybe you'll run into Sokka."

It's been kind of funny seeing how long it takes for Papyrus to actually see the other person that lives in Sans's house, but now Sans wishes he'd been a little more proactive about arranging a meeting. Or active about it at all. This isn't an ideal meeting situation.

But he can't leave Papyrus alone. So he starts walking, seeing if Papyrus will be able to keep up without shaking out of his skin.

[spaghettimonster]

Well, the shaking absolutely continues. But where Sans's answers and comments help distract Papyrus from the idea that he's freezing, the first step draws his attention back to his body. He staggers with the motion, but leans a little more into his brother's shoulder as he starts a very shuffling stride to keep up.

"I still can't believe... you named the sock."

To his mind right now, it's the most sensible explanation. One of the two inanimate fixtures of their old house traveled with them, somehow, across wherever they've come to - and the pet rock didn't transform into a human, the way they did. But if anything else were to haunt their lives, it would surely be that sock. What better to name the fake son of the photos around Sans's new house, than after it?

[ribticklers]

Sans makes a little grunt of exertion as Papyrus's weight presses down further, but once they're both walking, it's okay. He can manage this. He hopes none of the people who live here question them, but Sans devotes some small portion of his mind to coming up with potential excuses just in case. This would all be a lot easier if he could just take a shortcut.

"He named himself." Or, more likely, one or both of Sokka's parents did, but regardless, Sans had nothing to do with it. He might play up the ambiguity a little more under better circumstances; as it stands, Sans is a little distracted.

[spaghettimonster]

"Of... course he did," Papyrus says, tone clearly humoring him, through the effort of keeping upright without the solid doorframe. Classic Sans, pretending he doesn't know the things he clearly did. There must be a punchline coming up.

But his brother doesn't make it right away, and the process of walking takes a lot. His new muscles are stiff, like they're expending all their energy into these uncontrollable-thus-far twitches and jerks, try as he might to walk more smoothly. Past that, he's dizzy, still hearing snippets of a voice like a description of how wonderful this town and country are, along with what's probably conversations in the houses they're slowly passing. Probably.

He tries to swallow, and tries again when it doesn't work. Maybe he's forgotten how to swallow, or maybe those muscles aren't working right either. But he has forgotten what they were talking about, so he has to ask: "...Where are we going?"

[ribticklers]

"My place," Sans says, when what he wants to do is take Papyrus to the hospital except he's not putting his little brother in the hands of the humans who live here. The house Sans is stuck living in is going to have to do, even as Sans tallies up strange symptoms and wonders how much Papyrus is even going to be able to tell him about what happened once they're inside. "I'm loaning you my couch and I'm gonna teach you how to take a nap."

He's not really used to feeling this particular brand of concerned for Papyrus. Not for a long time, anyway. Papyrus, as a rule, can take care of himself better than Sans can. But right now--he just has to deal with this, he guesses.

[spaghettimonster]

"Ohhh. That's... that sounds. Acceptable," Papyrus concedes, with an attempt at nonchalance as slow and stumbling as his own steps would be. He knows he tries not to let on to his brother when serious things are wrong, especially not things that Sans can't help with. He tries to keep the earnest expressions of frustration to the more superficial, to the things they can joke about or the things they can more easily resolve. Complaints about cleaning, complaints about food choices, complaints that lead into chances to brag about his brilliant oncoming plans.

It's hard to focus enough to do anything of that, so he admits, "I could, probably use that. I don't think I slept."

He frowns down at his brother's shoulder, at the sidewalk passing underfoot as their feet find some kind of rhythm to keep from jostling him off. The sidewalk isn't blurring into repetitive imagery the way the video did, but the conversation has something of deja vu to it. "Did I... say that, already? I think I said that."

[ribticklers]

"Yeah," Sans says, and it's not great, but Sans already realized Papyrus wasn't quite following the conversation when he asked where they were going, so additional confirmation doesn't shake him too much. "Which is more proof you need a break. Don't worry, I won't say I told you so."

Of course, in totally-saying-I-told-you-so-by-saying-I-won't, Sans is trying to give Papyrus something more normal to focus on: exasperation with Sans.

[spaghettimonster]

Yeah, that's at least a familiar conversational gambit. Familiar enough for Papyrus to follow and make an amused sound before he can help it. "I... see. You're going to, instead, say... I told you so."

Since he apparently has, at least twice...? Awful. Exactly the kind of distracted weakness he should never reveal to Sans. If things are really bad, it will just worry him, and if things are only kind of bad, his brother will make fun of him with it. Especially now that... he gave Sans the idea? He grumbles, with the sort of exasperation Sans was aiming for, only to startle a little at the sensation of it. It's so strange, feeling things like that somewhere inside his neck.

[ribticklers]

"Nah. You fell for my trap. I was gonna make you say it for me." Sans rolls easily with the conversation; talking about nothing of importance is his specialty, after all. He turns Papyrus down the sidewalk to his (temporary, he always thinks of it as temporary) house, slowing down because he's not sure Papyrus will recognize it when he's this out of it.

[spaghettimonster]

Another amused noise, but the conversation cuts off with the unanticipated turn worsening Papyrus's dizziness. He stumbles and tightens his grip on Sans's shoulder, leaning more weight for balance, before managing to resume the gait his stiff and erratic limbs allow.

Once that's established, he does peer up at the building, eyes squinting more than usual to try to make sense of it. A house, sure, he can see that much - like he sees the shapes of light and shadow and color of the neighborhood. But he watched the shadows and large shapes like passing people because the finer details are escaping him, and right now there's no recognition on his face.

[ribticklers]

Sans slows further as Papyrus stumbles, glancing over at his face. Yeah, that's definitely an expression that says Papyrus has no idea what house they're looking at. Of course, Sans still finds coming back to this house strange, too, but the complete lack of recognition is a different kind of uncertainty.

"Yeah, it ain't much to look at, but it's home, I guess," Sans says, letting that 'I guess' do far more than its fair share of heavy lifting. He fishes the keys out of his hoodie pocket, a motion familiar to him from years of wearing it, which is strangely comforting in Sweetwater.

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus blinks a few times at that comment, weighing those last pairs of words back and forth, back and forth. Right... They were going somewhere. Not quite back home, but this is Sans's home away from home, isn't it? If with all the reluctance to accept it as such, crammed away in that guess.

His left hand shakes, and spasms, before clenching up - whether it's dangling free or clutching at his brother's shoulder for support. They're supposed to make the most of this wonderful life, this beautiful community.

"Don't say that, it's... a nice house," he says, with something forced to his voice. Then, a little more quietly, he adds, "maybe... not enough lights." Not that his own new house is properly decked out in trails of colorful holiday lights, either, but... there's at least a string or two still up.

[ribticklers]

Sans watches Papyrus's face again. Even in a human body, it's a familiar look, the one Sans wears when he's trying to study someone. Like he's trying to look under their skin. It's there for a moment, and then it's gone, with Sans shrugging with one shoulder so he doesn't knock Papyrus off-balance again. "You can put some up later if you want. It'd make it easier to find on the street." So many of the houses here look almost identical to him, like they were all started from the same mold and just painted differently.

Sans almost pushes Papyrus inside as soon as the door's open, locking the door behind them just as quickly. Finally. "So, where were you?"

[spaghettimonster]

Yeah, he's seen that expression before, on occasion. Not usually directed at him, though. Some things, Sans knows entirely too much about him to have any cause for that look. Other things... Papyrus has gone to a lot of trouble to cultivate his privacy, and if that means throwing other feelings and worries out like detritus to distract, then so be it. Now, though, he's too tired to manage any such deliberate trickery, too tired to enthuse about decoration plans, and too tired to really make sense of everything for anything like a coherent description.

Instead of answering right away, he hugs at himself with one arm, the right clasping at the left just to affirm that he can. "...I don't know. It was dark. I don't... remember, going anywhere." Not that this necessarily means much, when he's been having deja vu and forgetfulness since whenever Sans found him. His hand tightens again.

[ribticklers]

Not a great answer. Sans herds Papyrus to the couch. He wasn't lying about getting Papyrus to lay down being one of his goals, here. He hands Papyrus a blanket, one he keeps on the couch for important nap occasions. "Okay, maybe somethin' more general, then. What happened?"

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus accepts the herding, making his way to the couch with more stiff movements and more of a backwards falling than a sitting down. He accepts the blanket, too, but not in an important nap way - he just rests his hands on the material, insofar as they'll stay still. "...I watched a movie."

His eyes slide away from Sans's watchful expressions, looking at the blanket like it's fascinating. It is, in a way - it's a different texture than the armrests were.

He could maybe recite whole scenes of the video, if he tried. If the words themselves would stay in his head. The voice stays with him, the overall impressions of the story it told. Repeating ideas in a wavering space, with him restrained and exhausted yet unable to stop moving or watching. A wonderful country, beautiful communities, strong yet fragile, so vulnerable to questioning... under siege from an ambiguous yet relentless menace. He doesn't want to undermine anyone's lives.

[ribticklers]

"A movie?" Sans isn't sure what kind of response he expected, but it wasn't that. There's more to it, obviously, and Sans needs to dig through it. He needs to.

But.

Sans sees Papyrus sitting there, staring at the blanket. He sees how Papyrus keeps twitching. He sees the exhaustion in his brother's face in a way he's never seen before. Sans is pragmatic--some might say pessimistic--and he doesn't have much patience for formalities or needless politeness when he wants to get something done. But Sans sees Papyrus like this and he pulls his punch. He picks up the blanket again and he unfolds it with a quick snap of his wrists.

"...Lay down. I said I was gonna teach you to nap, yeah?"

[spaghettimonster]

It's just as well Sans doesn't take long to make this decision. Papyrus's fingers haven't yet started to dig into the blanket as a lifeline, so it's not the last straw when it's pulled away from his grasp. He watches it disappear, stares at the familiar-unfamiliar pajamas his legs and arms are clad within, then swivels his head up to stare at Sans for the unfolding process.

"...Yes," Papyrus says, a lie of agreement to cover a lapse in memory, until he blinks. "Oh. Yes. You said that."

It takes him another second to connect the dots that Sans had said something along those lines, and Papyrus had agreed, and that now Sans is saying to lay down. That's another several seconds - trying to swivel in place, having to lift stiff legs to complete the swivel, and actually laying down.