BAH. Anyway. Um. /o\ I made dinner tonight (a delicious spicy shrimp dish) and will have leftovers tomorrow. Aside from that I wrote a bunch. I've been posting part of my Undertale mob AU to FFA once a post (ish) but I'm running out of buffer and someone said they really appreciated seeing some every post, so I was like MAN I NEED TO GET ON THIS. I'm happy with what I have right now, though today researching for it did result in me downloading Solitaire (they don't... have it on Windows 8??? They reintroduced it in Windows 10, though) and wasting a bunch of time.
I'm kind of bummed that my desktop's not up to handling Flight Rising right now because I mostly missed the Crystalline Gala, which I was super psyched for earlier in the year. :\ I really need to get this thing in for repairs.
Also, I forgot to go pick up my new glasses today. TOMORROW. I hope. But I finally remembered to open the package my aunt sent me (I got it like, the day my parents told me the dog died so I kind of just forgot it entirely) and it's this cute little solar-powered lamp! Still deciding what I want to do with it; might use it in my room.
IDK, today was not a very exciting day, but I got a lot written and I cackled over a bunch of it, and I'm really super excited to get to the cracky portion of the plot.
Also, I would like someone to write an Undertale/Star Wars fusion where Papyrus is the stormtrooper who defects. (I guess Flowey is Kylo Ren? At the very least, he and Kylo Ren should hang out and talk about the edgy mcedgelord OCs they designed when they were 12. Frisk is obviously Rey. I feel like Sans should be BB-8 because they are both round, cute, and don't do much except follow the protag around, although that makes the Sans & Papyrus relationship... way too different.)
Currently the only Undertale/Star Wars fusion is set between RotJ and TFA, and contains the tag "Some things will be changed to fit Star Wars theme" which just makes me envision the opening crawl as A LONG TIME AGO IN A GALAXY FAR FAR AWAY, TWO RACES RULED OVER THE GALAXY: HUMANS AND MONSTERS, and the Star Wars theme is in the Dogsong soundfont, and then I can't take anything seriously at all.
Blah blah whatever. OH OH ALSO. If you want to nominate things for the Hugos, you have to register before 8:00 am GMT on February 1, 2016, although I think we have until the end of March to actually get noms in? Which is good because I need to do some reading. (Will probably concentrate on short stories, because I love short stories and wish they got more attention, and also that I could write them, hahahaha.) You can do that here for $50. (I could actually probably go to Worldcon relatively easily this year, but I'm not super plugged into the SF fandom scene and feel like my first con should be either attended with people I know, or not huge.)
MORE MOB AU. Under the cut is some unpleasant stuff: mistreatment of the narrator by the police, including brief but painful stuff to do with eyes, so maybe skip it if you're not up to those things. Also there's a pretty terrible physics pun.
This part's not real funny. Sure you don't want me to tell you stories about Papyrus instead?
Well, all right. You asked for it.
Loathe as I am to admit it, I'm kind of fragile, even for a monster. Even I'm surprised I haven't turned to dust yet.
My first secret is… naps. It's also why I'm such an easygoing kind of guy. Naps are very healthful, I think. There's never a bad time for a nap. Think about it: when little kids get cranky, you put 'em down for a nap and then when they wake up they're little rays of sunshine, right?
(At least, Papyrus was, although to be fair he's like that so much anyway. You're sure you don't wanna hear ...okay, yeah, no. You just wanna see me suffer, huh? Well, I guess it's not like I have much more control over this narrative than you do. I won't judge.)
My second secret, and this is a real secret, is Temmie. I first encountered Temmie because the rumor was she'd buy anything. Anything. See, in my line of work sometimes you just kinda… end up owning a thing or two you didn't own before, maybe even a valuable thing. You gotta get rid of it somehow, especially if the original owners are looking for it and the only reward they're listing is one (1) knuckle sandwich payable on delivery. As the saying goes, good fences make good neighbors, and Temmie's the best fence this side of the Onion River. And, don't ask me how she does it, 'cause it ain't my area, but she also makes the best goddamn bulletproof, magic-proof, steel-toed-boot-proof vest I ever had. Comfy, too. Of course, it's made of cardboard, so if the cops throw me in the river again it'll dissolve and I'll be out five hundred bucks. (I know, I know; for that kind of money I could buy a decent car! But trust me, it's worth it. Besides, what do I need with a car? I can't reach the pedals and it'd just slow me down.)
My third secret is that the cops are dicks. Trust me, I'm not real happy about that fact, but it's actually saved my ass repeatedly. See, monsters are made almost entirely of magic, and magic reacts to things based on thoughts -- intent, emotion, that kinda thing. Unlike physical matter, which cares only for cold hard facts, magical matter can pick and choose what rules it wants to behave. (That's why a monster can break almost any physical law if it's funny enough. Or dramatic enough, I guess, but I never tried that myself. Never had to resort to high drama when the lowest form of humor's within easy reach.) So, the cops are dicks. How does this help me? Well, the cops ain't hitting me because I did anything bad and they want me to stop. They're trying to get revenge 'cause I keep making 'em look like morons. They want me to hurt. Ergo, no matter how hard they hit, how shitty their intentions are, and even if I forget my cardboard undershirt and I been up all night on account of Papyrus and Undyne set the place on fire again? I'm still probably gonna be okay. Because if I die? I won't hurt, and they won't get what they want.
Magic's kind of a bitch, huh?
Anyway, don't you worry about old Sans. You'd have to be pretty determined to kill me.
So when I come to, I'm at the station. The cops are really pissed off, more so than I ever seen 'em. It feels like they've been knocking on my skull with a sledgehammer, maybe, or possibly a piano fell on me. They got Detective Boone on the case, and he's always ready to do whatever it takes to protect the city of Ebott from the monsters who are ruining America. Or whatever. In this particular case, soon as I come to, he slams my head on the table, and then, like an asshole, he grabs my skull like it's a fucking bowling ball and lifts me up by the eyesockets.
This hurts. It's all I can do not to, uh. To react.
Anyway. Last time they did this shit to me, they were tryin' to get me to confess to a murder. I do not murder people. That is not what I do. Trust me, in the event that anyone ever ends up dead because of me? They got a very good reason to be dead, and my alibi is airtight.
This time? This time I figure they're just pissed off because that epoxy's probably not so great for human skin. Hell, if it's really that bad, they should be thanking me! I just ensured that none of those cops are ever gonna leave their prints next time they plant evidence.
"Jeez, officer," I say. "Eye think this is taking blind justice a little too far, don't you?" I consider making a pun on 'orbit' but I don't think these guys have much knowledge of anatomy beyond where to point the gun. Also, the pain is making it real hard to come up with new material.
But then Boone says "Where's the kid, skeleton man? Where'd you fuckers take the kid?"
What kid?, I wonder.
That kid, I realize.
"What kid?" I blurt. I am not prepared for this. I don't have a shaggy dog story to tell 'em. I don't, in point of fact, know where the kid is. Or how they know about the kid. Maybe it's a different kid. Last year there was this horrible thing where a kid went missing -- a human kid from such a nice family, a good kid, a smart kid, the kind of kid who should never go missing, a tragic loss. Well, of course the cops went looking all the usual neighborhoods; Franklin Heights, Chinatown, the Little Underground, Italian Village, Odessa on the Lake... you get the picture. It would not surprise me if this was a similar situation.
(In case you're wondering, it was the kid's uncle that did it. Such a nice family.)
Boone is no use, of course. "You know what kid, boneface."
"Boneface?" At this point it's kind of automatic. "Boneface, is that the best you can do? Why not bonehead? It's a perfectly good insult. Or! You could work in a short joke and call me Bone-aparte. Hey, or how about --"
"Shut the fuck up and tell me where the kid is," says Boone.
"How'm I supposed to tell you something if I gotta shut up about it?"
"JUST TELL ME." He is not a model of patient policing.
"I don't know about a kid," I tell him, as serious as I can be without creeping the humans out.
"Really? Your brother sure did. Told us all about it. Told us what you sick fucks were planning."
He's just lying to get a rise out of me. Unless Boone thinks of spaghetti and puzzles as abject cruelty, Papyrus hasn't told him a thing, and I'm skeptical of Papyrus' ability not to talk about spaghetti and puzzles, so probably Papyrus is okay. "I don't know about a kid," I repeat. "Don't I get a phone call? Jesus, at least get your fingers outta my eyesockets, I might blink on accident and I warn you, that's really gonna hurt."
There's a moment where Boone, I'm pretty sure, is trying to remember if he's ever seen me blink. Then he lets me go. I'm glad I didn't specify who it would hurt. I rub my eyesockets a couple of times, and then get a real look at the room.
Boone's partner, Dever, is standing in the corner. He ain't all that impressed. "Jesus Christ, Boone, give it up," he says. "You'll kill him if you're not careful, and then there'd be riots. You know how these monsters are. I don't think he knows anything."
"Hey!" I say, indignantly. "I'll have you know I'm a very educated guy. I know all kinds of things! Go ahead, ask me to explain Heisenberg's uncertainty principle!"
"What the fuck is he talking about?" Boone asks Dever.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Boone asks me.
"I'm not sure," I say, shrugging broadly. That should be punchline enough, but hey, sometimes you get inspired. "Guess I gotta be in a more coherent state. ...eh? No? Oh well, I guess I'm playing to the wrong crowd."
At this point Boone slugs me. It hurts like hell, but it was exactly what I was going for, since he got me right in the nasal bone, which is kinda sharp, and hurt his widdle knuckles. "Shit," he mutters, and I see he's leaking red stuff. He ain't too comfortable with the sight of his own blood, looks like. Maybe that's why he likes beating up monsters. "I gotta -- I gotta go."