(no subject)
So I have to admit partly I'm just posting this in the hopes that bitching about my heat will bring it back. That's how it seems to work, for some reason. I guess I'll text Hapless Repair Guy tomorrow and let him know it's still randomly cutting out. Have to admit my computer works better in the mid-60s, though. Man I gotta get this thing into the shop before it dies completely.
ANYWAY, IDK, I feel like I've kind of lost direction; my focus has been on this fic. In fairness this fic has not let up or bogged down or anything; every time I think it will it magically comes up with a solution to the problem I was going to run into. But yeah, I feel like aside from writing my dumb fic I haven't really been doing much of anything new or interesting. (I'm wondering if I could actually post the fic as a WIP and still have a regular update schedule, but that seems like tempting fate. Plus I don't have a beta.)
I did make chicken pot pie (sort of) tonight and that was really good, so I'll definitely be reusing that recipe, because my previous attempts at that have involved overly-elaborate recipes that you're supposed to make over like three days, and I never have three days in a row where I have the energy to cook, but I love chicken pot pie. (This one had, like, biscuits instead of a crust.) I'm glad I did that, although the main reason was because it used the oven and was therefore a way to keep my apartment a little warmer for that period of time.
Anyway, more Undertale fic. Then I'll make lunch for tomorrow, put some laundry away, and huddle in my room and write a super-tropey ridiculous installment of the fic. Also I'm going to have to come up with an entire mean-spirited standup routine about egomaniac robots. (Mettaton really should have let Sans take the night off.) Why do I do this to myself? Oh right, because it's fun.
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."
He rushes out and I'm left with Dever. Now, Dever's a decent cop. He's still a cop; he don't like the Dreemurr gang, but he don't like any gang, and he's a stickler for the rules.
Dever sits himself down at the interrogation table. "Mr. Sans. Really. Be honest."
"When am I anything less?" I ask.
"Most of the time," he points out. This is true enough. "Do you know anything about the kid?"
"I don't even know what kid you're talking about," I say.
"It looks pretty bad," he says. "What with the Little Underground half-empty today, and you gluing cops together all last night."
"What do you mean, half-empty?" I ask.
"...Well," he says. "I'm just saying, it looks pretty bad."
"You and Boone should take your good-cop-bad-cop routine on the road," I grumble.
He considers it for a moment. "It'd never play in Peoria," he says finally. I laugh, because I have played in Peoria, and the crowd was a bunch of dummies. (No, I mean, literally dummies. Stuffed with cotton, button eyes, and not much for conversation.) In other circumstances, I wonder if maybe we coulda had a nice conversation about my days working the old Chimera Circuit. "You sure you don't know anything about the kid?"
"What kid is this?" I demand, not really expecting an answer.
He considers it for much, much longer than a moment. Finally, slowly, he says, "There's a kid missing. Like last year, you know the drill. Good family, kid missing, mayor riding our asses, et cetera. It's an election year, so he wants us to find the kid by yesterday."
"Did you check the uncle's wine cellar?" I know it won't make him laugh -- I sure as hell don't find it funny -- but I can see he gets the gist of it.
"I didn't think that little detail made it to the press," he says.
"It didn't. I looked into it. Found the court records. Repeatedly raiding a guy's neighborhood can make him real curious."
He nods. "Fair enough. ...I wanted to check the uncles, believe me. Evil uncles were the first thing I thought of."
"And?"
"No uncles." I am not sure where this is going at first. "No aunts. No cousins. Nothing. Grandparents conveniently dead, both sets. They moved here from New York last year, but their old neighbors never heard of them. Also, they blamed the monsters straight away. Said you people were hanging around their house, watching, stuff like that. It strikes me very funny, is all. Very easy."
"Well, I don't know anything about this kid," I tell him.
"It's very hard to trust a guy who smiles all the time, you know that?" he says. "But I know when I'm getting taken for a ride, and I don't think you're the driver this time around."
"Detective, I swear to god," I tell him, "I an innocent pedestrian on the road of life, at least in matters concerning kids who are missing from families that don't exist."
He nods. "Well, you hear about the kid, you tell me. Missing kids are serious shit. We'll make sure the family's not crooked before we hand the kid back, don't worry."
He sounds like he actually believes that, too. "What's the kid's name?" I ask. "I could ask around." I mean, I probably won't, but I could.
"Frisk," he says. "Frisk Addison."
I nod. "I can't make any promises. But, well, if I hear about the kid…" ...if I do, and it's this Frisk, hey, I still didn't make any promises. I don't gotta tell him anything.
Detective Dever seems to fill in the blank with what he wanted to hear. "Well. All right." He looks worriedly at the door to the interrogation room. "You know you're gonna pay for that glue stunt, though."
I sigh. "Yeah."
"And you know I can't do anything about Boone. He's got friends. You know how it is. Politics." In this city -- heck, in this whole county -- "politics" is almost a synonym for magic, except with magic you at least gotta have a sensible explanation. With politics, on the other hand, the law of gravity could be reversed within the city limits for an entire fortnight if it'd help the mayor's buddy pick up some roofing jobs.
"Yeah," I say tiredly. "I know about politics. Good thing I don't bruise, huh?"
I must not be looking as chipper as I want, because Dever shakes his head. "You bring this on yourself, you know," he says. "...I'll try and get you your phone call later."
So yeah. Boone comes back with a bandage, all out of proportion to the damage. He smacks me around a little more, this time being more careful with his own personal skin. I got a few fractures and my jaw ain't feeling too good, which Boone sees as a personal triumph because I ain't smiling anymore. A few teeth go skittering to the floor. They'll reattach as long as I can grab 'em before I leave and get 'em back in within a day, but the worst is they're still part of me, so I can feel 'em on the cold floor. It is a long morning, basically.
I don't get my phone call. I sure as hell don't get breakfast. Or lunch. Dever slips me some disgusting coffee at one point, and I doze a little (caffeine always makes me sleepy) but they're sure hoping to get more out of me, or at least trying to charge me with something more than Reckless Gluing Cops Together.
At some point, when the questions start getting boring and I've cycled through all my best material, I start worrying about what they mean about the Little Underground being half-empty. Did something go wrong last night? Should I have stayed and seen it out to its conclusion?
Now, you may be looking at me and thinking, this guy can't be very useful in a fight. And you're right. I can't be good in a fight. If I was, people'd ask a lot of inconvenient questions. Plus, I've found that generally the reward for good work is just… more work. Who wants that? I sure don't.
Eventually, long after I've given up pretty much any hope, two officers seize me by the shoulderblades, uncuff me, and shove me out into the lobby of the station. They stuff my hat onto my head roughly and tell me I'm free to go. I blink, partly because it's a lot brighter out here, and partly because there is absolutely no reason they shouldn't press charges.
However, when my eyes adjust to the light, all is explained. Toriel's there, holding my trombone case. While she's certainly a sight for sore eyesockets, she looks pretty anxious, and that's never good. I wonder what she needs me for, and what strings she had to pull to get me out.
ANYWAY, IDK, I feel like I've kind of lost direction; my focus has been on this fic. In fairness this fic has not let up or bogged down or anything; every time I think it will it magically comes up with a solution to the problem I was going to run into. But yeah, I feel like aside from writing my dumb fic I haven't really been doing much of anything new or interesting. (I'm wondering if I could actually post the fic as a WIP and still have a regular update schedule, but that seems like tempting fate. Plus I don't have a beta.)
I did make chicken pot pie (sort of) tonight and that was really good, so I'll definitely be reusing that recipe, because my previous attempts at that have involved overly-elaborate recipes that you're supposed to make over like three days, and I never have three days in a row where I have the energy to cook, but I love chicken pot pie. (This one had, like, biscuits instead of a crust.) I'm glad I did that, although the main reason was because it used the oven and was therefore a way to keep my apartment a little warmer for that period of time.
Anyway, more Undertale fic. Then I'll make lunch for tomorrow, put some laundry away, and huddle in my room and write a super-tropey ridiculous installment of the fic. Also I'm going to have to come up with an entire mean-spirited standup routine about egomaniac robots. (Mettaton really should have let Sans take the night off.) Why do I do this to myself? Oh right, because it's fun.
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."
He rushes out and I'm left with Dever. Now, Dever's a decent cop. He's still a cop; he don't like the Dreemurr gang, but he don't like any gang, and he's a stickler for the rules.
Dever sits himself down at the interrogation table. "Mr. Sans. Really. Be honest."
"When am I anything less?" I ask.
"Most of the time," he points out. This is true enough. "Do you know anything about the kid?"
"I don't even know what kid you're talking about," I say.
"It looks pretty bad," he says. "What with the Little Underground half-empty today, and you gluing cops together all last night."
"What do you mean, half-empty?" I ask.
"...Well," he says. "I'm just saying, it looks pretty bad."
"You and Boone should take your good-cop-bad-cop routine on the road," I grumble.
He considers it for a moment. "It'd never play in Peoria," he says finally. I laugh, because I have played in Peoria, and the crowd was a bunch of dummies. (No, I mean, literally dummies. Stuffed with cotton, button eyes, and not much for conversation.) In other circumstances, I wonder if maybe we coulda had a nice conversation about my days working the old Chimera Circuit. "You sure you don't know anything about the kid?"
"What kid is this?" I demand, not really expecting an answer.
He considers it for much, much longer than a moment. Finally, slowly, he says, "There's a kid missing. Like last year, you know the drill. Good family, kid missing, mayor riding our asses, et cetera. It's an election year, so he wants us to find the kid by yesterday."
"Did you check the uncle's wine cellar?" I know it won't make him laugh -- I sure as hell don't find it funny -- but I can see he gets the gist of it.
"I didn't think that little detail made it to the press," he says.
"It didn't. I looked into it. Found the court records. Repeatedly raiding a guy's neighborhood can make him real curious."
He nods. "Fair enough. ...I wanted to check the uncles, believe me. Evil uncles were the first thing I thought of."
"And?"
"No uncles." I am not sure where this is going at first. "No aunts. No cousins. Nothing. Grandparents conveniently dead, both sets. They moved here from New York last year, but their old neighbors never heard of them. Also, they blamed the monsters straight away. Said you people were hanging around their house, watching, stuff like that. It strikes me very funny, is all. Very easy."
"Well, I don't know anything about this kid," I tell him.
"It's very hard to trust a guy who smiles all the time, you know that?" he says. "But I know when I'm getting taken for a ride, and I don't think you're the driver this time around."
"Detective, I swear to god," I tell him, "I an innocent pedestrian on the road of life, at least in matters concerning kids who are missing from families that don't exist."
He nods. "Well, you hear about the kid, you tell me. Missing kids are serious shit. We'll make sure the family's not crooked before we hand the kid back, don't worry."
He sounds like he actually believes that, too. "What's the kid's name?" I ask. "I could ask around." I mean, I probably won't, but I could.
"Frisk," he says. "Frisk Addison."
I nod. "I can't make any promises. But, well, if I hear about the kid…" ...if I do, and it's this Frisk, hey, I still didn't make any promises. I don't gotta tell him anything.
Detective Dever seems to fill in the blank with what he wanted to hear. "Well. All right." He looks worriedly at the door to the interrogation room. "You know you're gonna pay for that glue stunt, though."
I sigh. "Yeah."
"And you know I can't do anything about Boone. He's got friends. You know how it is. Politics." In this city -- heck, in this whole county -- "politics" is almost a synonym for magic, except with magic you at least gotta have a sensible explanation. With politics, on the other hand, the law of gravity could be reversed within the city limits for an entire fortnight if it'd help the mayor's buddy pick up some roofing jobs.
"Yeah," I say tiredly. "I know about politics. Good thing I don't bruise, huh?"
I must not be looking as chipper as I want, because Dever shakes his head. "You bring this on yourself, you know," he says. "...I'll try and get you your phone call later."
So yeah. Boone comes back with a bandage, all out of proportion to the damage. He smacks me around a little more, this time being more careful with his own personal skin. I got a few fractures and my jaw ain't feeling too good, which Boone sees as a personal triumph because I ain't smiling anymore. A few teeth go skittering to the floor. They'll reattach as long as I can grab 'em before I leave and get 'em back in within a day, but the worst is they're still part of me, so I can feel 'em on the cold floor. It is a long morning, basically.
I don't get my phone call. I sure as hell don't get breakfast. Or lunch. Dever slips me some disgusting coffee at one point, and I doze a little (caffeine always makes me sleepy) but they're sure hoping to get more out of me, or at least trying to charge me with something more than Reckless Gluing Cops Together.
At some point, when the questions start getting boring and I've cycled through all my best material, I start worrying about what they mean about the Little Underground being half-empty. Did something go wrong last night? Should I have stayed and seen it out to its conclusion?
Now, you may be looking at me and thinking, this guy can't be very useful in a fight. And you're right. I can't be good in a fight. If I was, people'd ask a lot of inconvenient questions. Plus, I've found that generally the reward for good work is just… more work. Who wants that? I sure don't.
Eventually, long after I've given up pretty much any hope, two officers seize me by the shoulderblades, uncuff me, and shove me out into the lobby of the station. They stuff my hat onto my head roughly and tell me I'm free to go. I blink, partly because it's a lot brighter out here, and partly because there is absolutely no reason they shouldn't press charges.
However, when my eyes adjust to the light, all is explained. Toriel's there, holding my trombone case. While she's certainly a sight for sore eyesockets, she looks pretty anxious, and that's never good. I wonder what she needs me for, and what strings she had to pull to get me out.