Picasso & Ink Sans Part 3
“SANS!”
The door to Grillby’s slammed open, startling the bar tender and the half of the clientele not yet drunk off their ass. The three Sanses and two honorary-Sanses currently in attendance at the bar turned to face the fuming fifth, all shaken out of their various states of inebriation. The shorter Papyrus – Stretch, of the Swap Clan – lazily lifted his head, chewing on the end of his unlit cigarette as he watched the fuming Creator storm into the bar. Beside him Fell-Clan Red groaned and tightened his grip on his mustard, sending some of the thick condiment dribbling from the tip and onto his phalanges. Alpha Sans thought quickly through the pranks he’d pulled that day, noted that he hadn’t pulled any on Ink, and relaxed against the bar, back pressed against the shining top, elbows holding him up. Mobsy of the Mob Clan was sitting in a similar position, pulling it off much better than his original counterpart. He had his fedora tipped back a bit, and a cocky grin on his face. Beside him Swapfell-Clan Papyrus, nicknamed Slim, threw back a shot glass full of extra-hot sauce, then picked at one of his four golden fangs. All five gave the seething Ink Sans an intrigued-bordering-on-bored look.
“What’s got your panties in a twist, Ink?” Sans asked when their fellow skeleton didn’t immediately start hollering at their attention. In fact, the artist looked rather sick, black ink dribbling from the corner of his mouth before he reached up and wiped it away with the back of his hand.
“Where’s Error? Or Fresh?” He demanded, voice slightly strained, the way it did when he got over-excited. “Where are those AU hopping asses?”
Stretch whistled a bit between his fangs and leaned over to Red. “Never heard him swear before,” the Papyrus admitted. “You?”
“Only when I stole his brush that one time,” Red returned, licking the spilled mustard off his phalanges before taking a swig from the bottle. On the far end of the bar Slim clucked his tongue at the language from the normally-calm (if mischievous and arrogant) Ink and poured himself another shot of hot sauce. The rest of the bar followed suit – in the past twenty years above ground, the antics of the various Sans & Papyrus’ had become common place and not worth turning attention from available alcohol.
“No need to yell, Ink,” Mobsy kept his voice pleasant, “Not when there’s kiddos around.” He nodded to the booth closest to the bar, where two more skeletons sat: Sans and Papyrus, the adopted sons of Grillby and Gaster, alongside a little Reader in a silver sweater who was glaring daggers at him with frosty gray eyes. Ink immediately stiffened (he always found it odd to see children versions of him and Papyrus, though it also made a warm little flicker appear where his SOUL should have been), then drew back his shoulders and stormed towards the bar as quietly as possible.
“Where are they?” He demanded, gaze focused on Mobsy and Sans. Out of the time-and-space traveling skeletons assembled, they were the ones who looked sober enough to give him a straight answer.
“Do I look like an idiots’ keeper?” Mobsy snorted, picking up a tumbler of fine whiskey on the rocks and taking a sip. It burned down his non-existent throat, giving him a shock of awareness followed by a drowsy wash of pleasant numbness.
“You look like a guy who always knows what’s up,” Ink corrected. He was tugging on the end of his scarf, which was covered with scribbles and designs, none of which made sense to the gathered skeletons.
“And…?” Mobsy relaxed a bit more against the bar, the wave of booze doing its work. It’d been a hellish day of chasing after shadows, and he wanted to unwind, not fight with the stuck-up Creator. Behind him, Slim snagged the edge of his half-full whisky glass and dragged it over, filling the empty space with hot sauce before throwing it all back. He barely managed to put the glass down before his forehead hit the bar, followed shortly by a soft snore. Mobsy snorted and motioned to Grillby for another round in a clean glass.
“I’m not trying to draw any conclusions, here,” Sans interjected, “but what do you want with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb? I thought those two drove you nuts. Hell, you’re practically mortal enemies with Error.”
Ink dropped the end of his scarf, eye lights brightening, one forming a red ‘X’, the other shifting into a white swirling vortex. “One of them has been destroying my Doodle Sphere,” he admitted, reaching back to grasp at the handle of his paintbrush.
The barstool skeletons sat up straighter (aside from Slim, who had vastly underestimated his ability to hold his liquor compared to Mobsy) and gave him rapt attention. While none were particularly fond of the stuck-up skeleton, and while they often teased him about his role as ‘Guardian’ of the AUs, they understood that he had a job to do. If someone was messing in his Doodle Sphere – especially someone with as much power as Fresh or Error – then their very existence could be in jeopardy.
“What kind of destroying?” Stretch, level-headed as always (when it didn’t involve his brother), dug straight for the details.
Ink sniffed, sounding insulted not by the question, but by the very thought of what had been done to him. “Graffiti,” he hissed, “All over the paths and on my house!” There was a pause as he looked at the Sanses, waiting for a similar outrage, only to see relief cross their skulls at the news.
“Is that all?” Sans relaxed once more, reaching for his bottle of ketchup. Without realizing it he grabbed one of Red’s yellow bottles and squirted a nice, big glob of mustard in his mouth. He immediately spluttered, spitting it out and gagging. Red cackled as he snatched the bottle back, muttering about wimpy clans with no taste for the spice of life. Stretch brayed with laughter at the pun on his other side, exclaiming it was a sweet pun, tipping his honey bottle to Red as he did so. The two burst into laughter, ignoring Sans as he wiped out his mouth and drowned the taste of mustard with chilled ketchup.
“What do you mean, ‘Is that all’?” Ink demanded, raising his voice to mock Sans as the skeleton recovered. Sans frowned at the attitude, but quietly reminded himself that it was just Ink being Ink.
“It ain’t that bad,” Sans explained around the nozzle of the ketchup bottle. “Can’t you just use your fancy brush to paint over it?”
“I do,” Ink said in a tone that suggested he thought Sans was an idiot for suggesting such an obvious solution, “But it just reappears the next day! And it’s always different.”
“So what, is Error writing dirty limericks or something on your front door? Like,” Papyrus cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his seat before beginning to recite, “There once was a man from Nantucket-“ Before he could get any farther Grillby whacked the back of his head and, with a stern glare, pointed at the booth where his sons were doing their homework. Red snorted, spraying mustard over his jacket, and muttered the last few words of the infamous poem beneath his breath. This time it was Gaster who delivered the hit as he passed by to gather up his three charges and sweep them away upstairs. The two children, bright-eyed and ready for dinner, gave their alternate selves a wave before following their adopted papa into the back. From Papyrus’ shoulder, Silver gave the adults a stern look and, when certain the kids were distracted chatting with their papa, flashed Ink a middle finger.
The guardian reared back a bit, face flushing in anger at the cheeky move, but before he could retaliate they were gone. Sans chuckled, eyeing the swinging door that led to the kitchen. “Heh, they don’t like it when people swear around their monsters,” he explained, “Takes after Grillby.”
“Hmph.” Ink crossed his arms and glared at the five in front of him. “Do you know where Error and Fresh are or not?” He demanded, risking raising his voice now that the impressionable youth were gone.
“No idea,” Sans shrugged, followed by similar answers by Stretch and Red. Mobsy, sipping his new glass of whisky, nudged Slim for an answer but the skeleton was out cold.
“Ain’t seen or heard from ‘em since you bought us all drinks,” the dapper skeleton said, pulling out his phone and texting his brother for a ride. Slim would need a place to sleep off his hangover without that shrieking banshee he called a brother waking him before dawn. “Speaking of, it’s been three whole days. You sober enough to try out-drinking me?”
Ink fumed, both eyes flashing to red skull-and-crossbones. “You aren’t taking this seriously.” He accused.
“So they decided to prank you a bit across space and time,” Sans waved a hand, as though shooing off the problem. “You can fix it with a single stroke of your brush. They’ll get bored, and you’ll have your magical doodle circle back.”
“Doodle Sphere.”
“Whatever,” Sans shrugged, pushing himself off the stool and squirting the rest of his bottle in his mouth. “I gotta go read Paps his bedtime story. Night, guys.”
His fellow skeletons (sans Ink) waved him off. Grillby crackled something about his tab and Sans laughed, thanking him before disappearing out the door. Mobsy stood not long after, dropping several gold coins on the bar top and dragging Slim up, one of the Papyrus’ arm over his shoulder. He gave his own farewell and pulled Slim from the bar to the car where his brother was waiting.
Ink fumed at their dismissal. How could they not see how important this was? Someone was attacking his home with graffiti! It was a threat to his safety! What if they touched one of the doors? Even a small change, like an extra stroke of paint in the wrong place, could destroy the spell and seal the universe off until he could build a new door. That itself could take weeks – if this was Error or Fresh, they could be doing this on purpose to destroy one of the many AUs that he protected. It was a disaster!
“What about Dream?” Red suggested quite suddenly, “They can do that AU-hopping stuff, right? Or that one guy, the creepy one with the scythe – Death? Yeah, Death can hop too. So can some of the Gasters, and those creepy River brothers – Delta and what’s-his-face.”
“None of them can access the Doodle Sphere at will, since they’ve never been there. It has to be either Error or Fresh leaving the pictures.”
“Pictures?” Stretch was tall enough to glance over Reds head at Ink. “You got any photos?”
Ink dug out his phone, wiped off a glob of ink, and flicked it on. He’d taken photos of each incident of vandalism before painting over them. The pictures weren’t bad, per say – in fact, with some practice and guidance, the artist could prove to be quite capable. But they were unwanted, which made them a problem in the delicate Doodle Sphere ecosystem.
Red and Stretch examined his phone, flicking through the paintings. Sunsets, sunrises, various monsters, human-like creatures, sprawling patterns with no real start or end, mandalas of growing difficulty, colored patterns that looked like hopscotch courts, all with the remains of chalk, crayons, or paints about them.
The Underfell skeleton tapped the screen, a frown on his fangs. “These are all small,” he pointed out, looking thoughtful for some reason. Stretch kept flicking through until he came to the mural painted on the side of Inks house: Queen Toriel riding a triceratops regally while battling what looked like werewolf Whimsuns.
“These are good,” he admitted, handing the phone back, “Doesn’t look like Error or Fresh’s work.”
“Can’t be anyone else,” Ink countered, glaring at his phone, still fuming that his bursting in and threatening the skeletons hadn’t worked in his favor.
“It could be a-“ Stretch was cut off by a sharp elbow in his ribs, curtesy of Red.
“Couldn’t be,” he cut the Papyrus off, a mischievous sparkle in his eye lights. Stretch raised a brow but obediently shut up, not about to ruin his friends plan.
Ink, who had been absorbed in mentally critiquing the photos on his phone, glanced up at the pair. “Were you saying something, Papyrus?” He asked, tucking the phone in his pocket.
“Nothing.” Stretch held up his hands and wiggled his phalanges. “We’ll keep an eye out for your vandals.”
Ink gave him a mistrustful look, then relaxed and nodded. “Right. Thanks, Papyrus.”
“Stretch.”
“Uh-huh.” Ink had already gone back to his phone, squinting at the detail in Toriel’s fur. He muttered to himself about brush strokes and color blending as he left the tavern, nudging a few patrons out of the way without noticing. As soon as he was gone Red cracked open a new bottle of mustard and swung his barstool towards Stretch.
“How long do ya think it’ll take him to realize?”
Stretch fished a fresh bottle of honey from his hoodie pocket and sipped it thoughtfully. “I say…a week.”
“Heh, yer giving ‘im too much credit. I say a month.” Red squirted more mustard past his fangs.
“Wanna bet?”
“Wouldn’t’a asked if I didn’t.”
“Loser pays off the others tab.”
“Fair ‘nough.”
The two knocked their condiment bottles together in agreement and cackled at the trouble they were helping to cause. After all, how would Ink, who’d never properly met a Reader, figure out it was one doing the damage?
Heaven. You were in heaven.
There were art tools scattered everywhere. The skeleton monster – Ink – was an artist, and left his supplies all over the place. You could only travel on the one large island you’d originally landed on, the other, smaller pieces of floating land out of reach, but that was fine. You had more than enough room to express yourself. Each cobblestone was a brand-new canvas, as the walls of the small house Ink lived in provided plenty of space to experiment. Paint, chalk, charcoal, pencil lead, markers – any and all tools were scattered in the grass or on the patio for your use.
True, your work didn’t last long – only a day or two, if that, and it reminded you of Rivet and her scrub brush far too much for comfort. But there was something different about how Ink handled the vandalism. Whenever he found one of your masterpieces, he’d growl and gruff, then examine it and talk to himself about the details or the color or the potential. He’d take out his phone and snap a picture of it before painting over it with the giant brush on his back. It still irked you, that your work was being erased, but at least this monster took the time to appreciate your skills.
In the week you’d been in this odd world – Ink called it a ‘Doodle Sphere’, which was as good a name as any – you hadn’t felt sleepy or hungry once. The sky hung in perpetual twilight, providing enough light to see but still dark enough to let the stars stand out in the ombré evening. There were fruit trees among the thick woods that took up a good chunk of the island, and tangles of raspberry and blueberry bushes in the field by Ink’s house, but you didn’t feel the need to eat like you had in the other world. Sleep was the same thing. You could fall asleep, you’d found. After Ink found your mural on his wall (a companion piece to the one you’d painted for Spice), he’d paced about the entire island for hours. You’d hidden beneath a thick bush and, bored out of your mind, had drifted into a light sleep, despite not feeling tired.
These were exciting revelations. Not having to stop to eat or sleep allowed you to spend that much more time on what was important: art! Every drawing you created was an improvement on the last, every sketch more detailed, every stroke of the brush more precise. It was as though simply being in this Doodle Sphere was making you a better artist. Or perhaps it was that you could do it freely now, without the worry of persecution? Unless of course Ink was there, but he spent most of his time on the other side of the various doors on the far islands, or one his phone yelling about (or was it at?) someone named Sans.
Now, on the evening of your second Monday in the magical land, you stuffed your backpack full of all the chalk you’d scrounged up over the past week, and topped it off with a raspberry. Just because you didn’t need to eat didn’t mean you wouldn’t – the fruit and berries here were perfect in every sense of the word. It would make a good celebratory desert when you were finished with your newest masterpiece. Hiking the bag on your shoulders, you left the hidey-hold you’d created beneath a bush and set off for the far side of the island.
Away from Ink’s house, from the pond and waterfall, from the meadow and the odd spot where Ink opened his portals, was a bluff. The land wound upwards, creating a cliff top that gave a good view of the entire land, and all the door-topped islands beyond. There were large slabs of stone at the top, for use as seats and decoration. They were smooth on the side and would be a perfect canvas for your one-week mural. Sure, it was a few hours hike, and you’d be sweaty and gross by the time you reached the top, but that was a sacrifice you were willing to make.
Really, what’s the worst that could happen?
Sorry, this has turned into a 4-parter! I’ve been distracted by the news all day, and this seemed like a good spot to insert a cliffhanger. I hope you all enjoyed! I love writing all the different Sanses and Papyrus’ together - their personalities are so fun to bounce off each other! Let me know what y’all think!