cherry boy ( underfell )

Cruelty

i wanna be ten feet tall
i wanna grow big red horns
fingers covered in thorns
that pierce everything
ー ten feet tall, cavetown

The thick, smothering air is fit for a lungless skeleton. Cavern ceilings encase the snowed in town, stalactites seeming to shed weightless, pearl tears. The only diner within miles is always stocked with mustard and technically, there's two roofs sheltering him from another cruel world. Sans could define this as the perfect life if he wanted. It certainly won't improve from this. That's what he told himself, every afternoon when he finally woke well enough to process things. Things won't get better. But, that really was alright. He never got anything that he didn't already have coming for him. Sustenance was what mattered. Papyrus made that clear. Here in the Underground, everything revolves around fear. If you didn't have that, then you might as well be dead. And if anyone bothered counting, they'd see how much of an important rule that is to go by.

Fear.

Everyone had it. That clenched feeling in their chest and heavy weight on their shoulders that made each step laced with dread. But there were some that didn't walk in it, but with it. The Great and Terrible Papyrus was a chiseled example. There wasn't a more callous monster that persisted in Snowdin. His fingers were wrapped around each citizen's throat like a venomous snake. The heir to the Captain of the Royal Guard was ruthless, even in a society functioned by cut throats and cruelty. Asgore have mercy on any unfortunate soul luckless enough to cross paths with him. The man took what he wanted and more in the name of preservation, having of only two main motives: Capturing humans and becoming Captain.
There wasn't a thing he would hesitate upon to get what he wanted. Sans knew that more than anyone. Not even his own kin had any say. If Undyne were to say 'execute everyone', Sans wasn't excluded. Many nights, the smaller skeleton was kept up with the muffled screams that echoed from the basement below him. Many more, he was the one suppressing cries in the same dark and cold space.

Everything always tasted faintly of metal. Crimson was a harsh compliment to the town's grays and blacks. Sans grew up in this dull world, trapped miles beneath the surface, so dark days were casual. The stout skeleton's worn shoes trudged over the trampled and dirt-stained ice as he made his way to the designated sentry post. He loved this time of day, usually because the work area near the RUINS are always quiet and no one's ever around except for an occasional myopic guard dog. Whenever he's alone in the forest, somehow life was kind enough to give himself around a half hour minute grace period for when his brother wasn't breathing down his neck. Since he's just a straight forward failure, Papyrus checks on how he performs his task too often for him to have any free moving space. The only thing disconnecting the two from a consistent co-op function would be him vigorously recalibrating puzzles and the fact that Papyrus cannot stand being in the presence of a good-for-nothing monster.
The environment isn't as overbearingly warm as Hotland nor is it as eerily quiet as Waterfall. If the distant maddened banging of a human-eating goat is ceased by a cumbersome sleep, Sans could even say that the place is a little serene. His job isn't hard, either. Keep a socket out for humans, don't nap for over ten minutes at a time, and resist the temptation to grab a bite of Grillbys after he's just eaten lunch; those were his only needed regulations to keep up everyday. For the most part, it's pretty easy. And if he did think so himself, he was doing particularly well today. For some unknown reason, Papyrus had decided to accomplish an exceptional amount of work set aside to complete, meaning he'd pay much less attention to his brother. If Sans could take a guess as to why, it'd probably be so the menace wouldn't have to catch up on any extra tasks after he spends the entirety of a day cooped up in a basement, giving some poor idiot a torturous time. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Either way, it didn't matter to him, seeming he was beginning to tire even before he sat himself down on the rickety station stool. As he took his regular position, like any other day of the week, he folded his arms over one another, hunched himself over the wooden counter, and pressed far enough forward that no snow fell into his jacket hood where the roof had open spaces. Here, he has a clear cut view across the pathway and a broad enough sight that leads a few hundred meters into the thin, towering evergreens. There was no sound, pine needles still and snowfall ginger as it pressed into the ground. No humans would pass by today. At least, that's what he surely thought. He didn't last three minutes before his sockets dimmed and he fell asleep.