Transmission, Intermission - [Sans x Reader | Old Version!]

22 - Hurricane Tortilla

You take your first risk by elbowing his face, hitting him right on the nose. 

He shouts out a curse and then an insult at you, knife falling off his hand as he shoves you aside. 

"I'm gonna hurt you even worse now," he barks, voice muffled by the hand over his face.

You spare a moment to look around and see the bear monster's no longer here. Only his documents remain, these still stacked neatly on top of your desk. There's not much to defend yourself with aside from the knife you claim as yours and a pair of safety scissors on one of the drawers, so you make do with what you have. You find shelter behind the desk and hold the knife tight; calming down, if only scarcely, is the first step you can take. 

Elbow against nose was enough to leave the man bleeding and pained, though based on how angry he sounds, the fight's far from over yet. The wound on your stomach, however small, stings when you crouch down, yet you bite back the pain, its gravity still nothing in comparison to the risks you're about to face. You pull yourself together and get down on one knee; the small space left between wooden boards allows you to see him, still struggling to see through the mess he's made of his injury, blood being smeared all across his face.

Whoever the man was, it's clear he's  inexperienced or that he's been fueled to do something like this all of a sudden. He was no professional and he seemed to be after you more than anyone else, but that didn't make him any less of a threat.

"He's behind here!"

The young bear's voice from before sounds muffled yet close, alerting both you and the man laying on the ground. The man stands up, takes his weapon, and points it out at the door. His stance is shaky and the gun almost slips from his hold, though he stays facing the door nonetheless, in wait for anyone to pass through it.

Barely thinking it twice, you move away from the desk and rush up behind him, throwing yourself at him. You use the knife to stab his armed hand, though he still manages to pull the trigger, aiming at the floor as it falls. It hits one of the chair's legs and veers off back to him, missing him and meeting its end on a cement wall, hardly inches away from the door.

Everyone's voices gather in exclamations and the door bursts open, revealing a bunch of people, from Undyne ready to kick butt to your ex screaming and sobbing, and asking if you're dead. The distraction helps you take ownership of both the knife and the gun, the first one you hand over to the nearest person available and the second you hold as carefully as a newborn baby in fear of mishandling it. You set it down on the desk and stand behind it, not too trusting of having it in your hands or anywhere near the man now thrown on the floor again. Meanwhile, he struggles to free himself from the woman's grasp. His arms are already locked tight behind him, blocking him from making an escape. There's your ex looking about as relieved as Frisk does to see you fine, the youngest of the two who runs over to your side and takes you in for a strong hug.

Looking outside, you can see all students have evacuated their classrooms, most of these accompanied by teachers while others have security guards near them. Everything seems to be fine now, though you can't help feeling as if something's missing.

Every room has its own group of children waiting outside, with the exception of the chemistry lab. The hour marked on the wall clock suggests there should be class right about now, so at the very least, the few students advanced enough to be there should be out in the hallways. Your moment to rejoice is cut short when you bring that up, saying, "Where did chemistry class go to? I can't see them outside."

Shock makes Undyne stop wrestling the man down, yet he's thankfully too tired to fight back anymore. One of the guards drags him off, though; just to be safe. There's a bit of collective silence, one you remember from the initial days when you were confronting monsters over hurting Frisk; a tense, guilty sort of silence.