#I think the article is rather scattered and surface-level to be honest but there are some interesting bits

[ironworked]

[...] says veteran ER and The West Wing producer John Wells. “Not having [new episodes] available for a long period of time is one of the reasons why shows decline rather than build an audience — even shows that come on big in their first year.”

A programming exec at a major streamer concurs, arguing that “familiarity” is what sets television apart from the feature film experience.

[...]

Insiders point to three big factors behind The Big Wait:

TV shows have turned into spectacles: in the Disney+ era, both Marvel and Star Wars shows have felt like elongated movies which may or may not get sequels years after their initial release. The outsize ambition of these tentpole projects — even a period costume drama like Bridgerton — means turning around a new season every year “is just physically not possible given what needs to be shot.

Movie people don’t know how to make shows quickly: the near collapse of the mid-budget theatrical-film business has forced less-famous movie vets to seek work in television. [...] “But they came from a different system where things took longer to get made, and they brought that kind of approach to TV.” [...] streaming execs [...] could have found a way to keep this sort of episodic TV factory going, but instead opted to follow Netflix off the short-season cliff, believing audiences wanted to hook up with a sexy new show every few weeks rather than form long-term relationships with a few really good series.

The streaming production model doesn’t encourage timeliness. in addition to more time required for complicated special effects on many shows, today’s global platforms need “as many as 120 days to conform it to all the various territories that it’s going into,” [...] Then, once a new season of a show finally does premiere, streamers will often take their sweet time deciding whether it makes sense to order another season. “Tech companies wait 30, 60, 90 days after a binge drop to get performance data,” [...] “specific metrics: completion rates of episodes and the full season, did it attract new subscribers, did it attract high income viewers.” Those numbers then get measured against the show’s overall production budget [...]

Can This Be Fixed?

The success of linear faves such as Suits and Prison Break has resulted in a new-found appreciation for “network”-style shows which can be produced more quickly, while the post-Peak TV era has ushered in a new age of fiscal discipline. “I think you’re seeing services trying to move themselves back to getting these shows on the air more regularly, particularly those who are not just dropping all the shows at once for binging purposes,” says Wells.

He should know: The veteran producer is currently overseeing a medical procedural for Max called The Pitt that will release 15 weekly episodes in 2025 and, if renewed, will have the potential to turn around a second batch of episodes within a year. [...] to allow the audience to become connected to these characters and be excited when we’re coming back.”

[litwitlady]

whatever walked there, walked alone - part one

My Halloween fic which I love writing too much to abandon. Content warnings: mentions of child abuse, Alex is dead and not coming back to life, blood, emo poetry.

Michael Guerin exits the city limits and heads west. The sun is beginning to set, framing the mountains in flames of orange and red, painting the sky in purples and pinks. His phone GPS says the house is 13.3 miles from Roswell city center. A scant ten-minute drive.

A few miles later, the ironwork of the property’s fence comes into view. The house is hidden behind several large hawthorn and plum trees, creating a dense canopy that protects the mansion from the blazing desert sun.

Michael parks outside the gate and pulls a bolt cutter from the bed of his truck. The ornate ironwork is buried in English ivy. He clears the vines away and breaks through the chains locking the gate doors, swinging them open. They creak and moan as the rusty hinges strain after years of disuse.

It’s like walking into a dream. Or a nightmare. Another planet, maybe. The desert disappears and suddenly there’s thick grass beneath his boots. Flowers bloom despite the heavy tree coverage and everything green is overgrown. But the house is finally visible – the cornices crumbling, the menacing marble lions shrouded in yellowing moss.

A breeze rustles through the leaves, sending a shiver up Michael’s spine. He feels eyes on the back of his head and spins on his heels. A cat hops out of a maple tree, sending several birds flying from their perches. Michael laughs to himself and turns back towards the house.

Dead, drying leaves are scattered across the stone steps. The giant wood doors are also locked with chains. Michael makes quick work of them and pushes against the splinted oak. But the doors won’t budge. The moisture and heat have warped the wood. So, no matter how hard he pushes, there’s no give. With a sigh he climbs back down the stairs. Vows to come back the next day with the necessary tools.

And maybe not alone.

But as his boots sink back into the grass, he hears the doors open. A thick, musty scent settles in around him. When he glances over his shoulder, the doors are gaping at him like a hungry mouth ready to swallow him whole. The cat dashes past him, through the doors, and he swears he hears his name whispered from somewhere deep inside.

He swallows hard and pulls out his cell phone. But there’s no reception. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to go inside. Definitely not by himself. Wants, instead, to head back to Isobel’s and crawl inside his warm bed. Wants to forget this dilapidated old house even exists.

Michael takes several deep breaths, reclimbs the stairs. And then he forces himself to cross the threshold into the darkness.

The foyer floors are filthy. Covered in muck and grime, the black and white checkered marble barely visible. Spiderwebs crisscross from surface to surface, collecting dust and other debris he’d rather not think too much about. The windows are all curtained with heavy, velvet drapes – allowing no light to pass.

Michael runs his fingers along a gilded mirror, eyes catching on a group of picture frames still hanging from the garish floral wallpaper. He leans forward, blowing the dust from the glass. Sneezes several times. The photos show a family. Father, mother, and four boys – the youngest just a baby. In most of the pictures, the father is dressed in full military regalia. His wife pretty and unsmiling. The children with hands in pockets, devoid of that devilish charm so common to young boys.

He begins to notice a pattern as he follows the frames down the hallway. Three of the boys start to grow up – getting taller, shoulders broadening. But the youngest never grows past eight, maybe nine years old. Michael feels a sadness clutch at his heart. Wonders what happened to the little boy. Suspects it’s nothing good. And likely the reason the house has been left to rot for so long.

The cat reappears out of a hall closet. Michael startles and watches him dash towards the curving staircase, bounding up the stairs. He looks back at the front doors, making sure they are still open. The sunlight is entirely gone now. He pulls out his phone and clicks on the flashlight app. Continues further into the belly of the house.

In the kitchen, he finds the cabinet doors all removed – probably stolen by some house foraging flipper – but the bowls and plates left behind. An eight-burner stove takes up a third of the room. The gigantic commercial refrigerator another third. There are two center islands and clearly the kitchen was for catering lavish parties. Michael is unimpressed by the cold austerity of the space and is already mentally remodeling.

He putters through the cabinets and stumbles upon a collection of toddler-sized sippy cups. There are four – each with a boy’s name painted across the top. Clay, Gregory, Flint, and Alex. He reaches up and pulls the one labeled ‘Alex’ from the shelf. The cup is cracked and chipped around the rim. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck shiver, sending another chill down Michael’s spine. He drops the cup onto the floor, the crash echoing down the hallway.

Upstairs the cat screeches.

Michael hears his name whispered again.

And then the doors slam shut.

***

‘The house is haunted, Iz.’ They are at the grocery store, restocking for the week ahead.

She rolls her eyes at him while grabbing more cereal. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts, Michael. It was just the wind.’

He stares back at her like she’s stupid. ‘There’s no such thing as aliens either. And there was no fucking wind.’

Isobel, hands on hips, stops mid-aisle. ‘The place is a gothic nightmare. It got in your head and freaked you out. The sooner you sell that place the better.’

Intellectually, Michael knows she must be right. But he can’t ignore doors closing on their own and floating voices calling his name.

‘Do you know what happened to the original family? I think their name was Manes?’ He’d pulled the old deed. There wasn’t much to go on other than the name Jesse Manes. ‘I don’t remember them from when we were kids.’

She grabs a bag of rice. ‘Jesse Manes was a General in the Air Force. Served as Chief of Staff to the entire USAF when we were in high school. Really big deal. His kids all went to some military academy on the east coast.’

‘Was? Is he dead?’ He sneaks two boxes of pop-tarts into the cart.

‘Not that I know of. He was dishonorably discharged. Not too long after his youngest son died. Something about an extortion scandal.’ Isobel shrugs her shoulders and turns onto the next aisle.

‘His youngest son? The little boy – Alex.’

She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Alex Manes. Yes. But he was 28 when he died. Killed overseas. Maybe he’s your ghost.’

‘Wait – that doesn’t make sense. That house looks like it’s been abandoned for at least a decade.’ He tries to do the math in his head. Three years might lead to some broken windows and cobwebs, but not the level of decay he’d discovered. The grime on the floors alone would have taken at least twice as long. And the bannister was literally rotting.

‘Don’t know what to tell you. Happened three years ago. I was working with the General on a military fundraising event. And then, poof! He was just gone. Nothing left behind but newspaper gossip. And that house.’ She looks down at her shopping list. ‘I’m going to grab some milk – meet you at checkout.’ She gives a little wave and rolls off.

Michael leans against the row of shelves. Thinks about what Isobel’s told him. He doesn’t know why Edna May Rollings bequeathed the property to him in her will. Or all that money. Sure, he’d mowed her grass a few times – changed her oil. But the Manes property was worth well over a million dollars.

Nothing was making any sense.

*

Later that afternoon, Michael decides to do his own research at the town library. He pulls up article after article from the Roswell Gazette highlighting the many philanthropic endeavors of the Manes family. Jesse Manes often lauded as a hero. His sons all highly decorated military officers themselves.

In all the articles, he only finds mention of an Alex Manes once. In his obituary dated October 14, 2018. The paper mentions he’d been killed by IED while serving in Iraq. There’s a grainy, black and white photo above the obit. Captain Alexander Manes in his uniform, blank expression on his face. And it’s a good face – cheekbones for days, expressive eyes, and a full bottom lip. Michael stops for a minute to admire the handsome soldier and to lament his early demise.

He pulls out his notebook and writes down the names mentioned in the obituary. All of the survivors – mother, father, brothers, distant relatives. Surely, one of them lives within driving distance. If not, there’s always the phone or email. He intends to find some answers.

Michael leaves the library and drives to the Roswell cemetery. The plots are arranged alphabetically, for the most part. And he finds the Manes family relatively easily. Alex’s tombstone is the white marble of fallen soldiers. But there’s no inscription beyond his name or the relevant dates of birth and death. It’s odd not to see a ‘beloved son’ or ‘cherished brother’. He’s beginning to suspect the Manes family buried more than just their son three years ago.

*

The next day Michael heads back to the house. But this time he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by an entire cleaning crew and Isobel. Who merely intends to rifle through the family’s forgotten belongings and steal whatever trinkets catch her eye. And to tease him mercilessly about his ghost.

Michael does his best to avoid everyone. He has his own mission in mind and doesn’t want to be disturbed. The upstairs hallway leads to all the main bedrooms – master on the left and the four smaller rooms on the right. Each of the secondary bedrooms is nearly identical in shape and size. Except for last room – tiny and dark. A single bed compared to the doubles next door. He knows deep in his bones that this was Alex’s room.

A terrific sadness envelops him when he steps inside. He tries to flip the light switch, but nothing happens – the only light whatever sun fights its way through the dirty window.

Michael starts there – wiping the glass clean. He sweeps and mops the floor, dusts the baseboards, and removes the cobwebs. Opening the closet door, he finds a torn cardboard box tucked inside. Pulling back the battered flaps, he discovers several yellowing journals. Pages and pages of scribbled notes and poems and the various ramblings of a teenage boy. He takes the journals to his truck immediately, stashing them beneath his seat.

As the day stretches into night, there’s no sign of any ghosts. No weird noises. No strange whispers. Isobel has taken every mirror in the house among several crystal dishes. Most of the rooms are as spotless as they’re going to get, the smell of bleach giving him a headache. But the place is starting to feel less creepy.

After everyone else leaves, Michael takes one more trip up to Alex’s bedroom. Sits in the middle of the room and waits. For what, he’s not sure. A presence maybe. Which he knows is insane, but something or someone called his name the day before.

The sun is nearly gone. The room is dark and still. That sadness from earlier still pushes at him, but he doesn’t feel afraid. Oddly enough, he feels safe and warm. And then the floor creaks. Not just once. Over and over again. Like someone’s pacing from the window to the bed and back again.

‘Hello?’ His voice sounds scratchy, dry and nervous.

The footsteps stop. Michael’s breath catches as he strains to listen. ‘Alex? Alexander Manes?’ Something blows across the back of his neck. He swallows but stays still.

‘I’m going to bring your journals back. I promise.’ Making a ghost angry is probably a bad idea. ‘I just wanted to get to know you better.’

Nothing happens. And he feels a sinking sense of loss.

*

At Isobel’s later that night, Michael is curled up in his bed staring at Alex’s journals. He’s anxious about reading them. Worries that what he’ll discover is worse than anything he could have ever imagined. Worries that he’ll meet someone in these journals that he’ll come to love. Someone that he’s already lost.

The first journal is marked 2003. It’s plain black with a Further Seems Forever sticker peeling along the spine. Opening to the first page, Michael is struck by how neat the handwriting is. His own is nothing but chicken scratch. But this kid wrote in neat, tidy letters – not a smudge in sight.

July 2003

Today I am a teenager. And I missed mom for the first time in forever. I came home and dad was drinking. Started yelling at me to put his ladder back where I’d found it. But I never, ever touched his stupid ladder. That was Flint. He didn’t care. And now my ribs hurt. Happy Birthday, Alex.

I’ve only been home for two weeks, but I already want to go back to school.

Michael’s fists clench but he continues.

August 2003

Flint got his learner’s permit today. Dad is teaching him how to drive stick. Will probably even buy him a car to take back to school. I fucking hate Flint.

I wrote a poem or maybe a song that I actually like. Here it is:

‘The hallways are empty

And I am blind

Locked in this castle

Where no one is kind’

I know that’s not much. But it’s a start. Been saving up for my guitar. Greg is going to buy it for me once I have enough money.

September 2003

It’s because I’m gay. Why he beats me and no one else. I will try so hard not to be gay anymore.

Tears burn Michael’s eyes. He picks up another journal. This one gray with lots of cartoon doodles marring the cloth cover.

September 2007

Senior year has begun. The Academy finally feels bearable. No upperclassmen to avoid. My fucking dad has me flying out this weekend to interview at the Air Force Academy in Colorado. Fourth son, fourth branch of the military. None of us got a choice, but of course he saved the Air Force for me. Of fucking course.

I snuck out with Maria last week to sing at an open mic night at her mom’s bar. I’ve never felt like that before – enjoying all those eyes on me. Most times I just want to disappear. Forget I exist. There was a guy – curly hair, big hazel eyes. He was beautiful and I worked up enough to courage to talk to him, but he wouldn’t stop staring at Maria. So.

I guess someone at the Pony must have known my dad. Because he was waiting up for me when I crawled back through my bedroom window. I didn’t beg this time. Just let him do what he was going to do. Honestly, I felt like I deserved it. For thinking that guy might actually want to talk to me.

Michael stops breathing. He tries to recall a night at the Pony from fourteen years ago. But he can’t remember ever meeting Alex. He had dated Maria, briefly. Maybe it wasn’t him – maybe he wasn’t the curly-haired, hazel-eyed boy. But the possibility lingers thick in his chest.

December 2007

I’m not going home for Christmas. Even though mom has agreed to show up for appearance’s sake. A perfect fake fucking family. I won’t be missed. Dad laughed when I called and told him. Called me a coward and hung up. He won’t have his favorite punching bag and I hope that means he won’t turn his fists to someone else. Like mom.

Things with Danny haven’t progressed at all. I thought he was flirting with me at the football game, but he hasn’t talked to me since. He’s shy though – kind of like me – so I think I may still have a chance. He’s not going home either – his parents are overseas on some mission trip. Maybe I will be brave enough to kiss him. I’ve never kissed anyone and I’m already 17. Pathetic.

January 2008

Sometimes I look up at the stars

And your eyes look back at me

Filled with the fire of an exploding sun

Sometimes I look up at the stars

And there’s nothing there at all

Just empty space, hollow and undone

So, Danny is dating a townie girl. I’m always so, so stupid. But I’m not giving up on myself no matter how hard this world tries to beat me down. And it’s trying pretty damn hard.

March 2008

Dear Alex,

you are blue and black and yellow

bent and bowed like the dying myrtle tree outside that window

your pliant plentiful petals putrefying in the blades of summer grass

you are unseen and forgotten, disgraced by the midday sun

blown apart like the dandelion waste of suburban landscapes

wilted and wallowed and left without a trace of your own dignity

June 2008

My father’s hands have spent so much time taking. Splitting me open and unthreading the blood, the sweat, the tears of me. Spilling my insides and then stuffing the gore back deep in the darkest recesses of my heart.

I want hands that will take but give something back, leave something behind. Hands that will heal and stitch the splintered parts back together. Hands that will shape the dark edges of me into something bright like hope. I want hands with wings to fly me out of this nightmare.

But instead I’m going to war.

After Alex graduates the military academy, there are no more journals until 2017. Michael spends the next several hours poring over the earlier ones – meticulously kept records of a broken childhood. One abuse after another. Cracked ribs, a shattered wrist, and a never-ending deluge of bruises.

But also, so many dreams. Alex was a hopeful kid, despite the sad poetry, with music in his future. There are pages and pages of songs – the scratching down of harmonies and verses. Intricate details of chord progressions and key changes. Michael grabs his own guitar, strums through some of Alex’s notes. The songs are simple but refined. He wishes he could hear them sung with Alex’s voice.

The 2017 journal stares at Michael from his nightstand. It’s dirty and pocket-sized, bent and beaten at the edges. Caked in blood. He opens to the first page. Alex is in Iraq – the place where he dies – and Michael’s not sure he wants to read further. But he also can’t stop himself.

November 2017

The desert here is different. Hotter, I think. I am always sweating and never clean.  

February 2018

There was a boy. In the carnage. Riddled with bullets. Bullets that may have been my own. I tried to feel something. I did, really. I tried.

March 2018

Only two more months. And then one war exchanged for another. Clay is getting married. I think I’d rather stay here.

The next several pages are stuck together with the dull, brown ink of dried blood. Michael can’t make out more than a word or two through the thick stains, but the entries seem longer and more rambling. The back half of the journal is empty – filled with nothing but blood splatter.

Michael pulls out his laptop. Something about the timeline feels off. Alex’s obit and his tombstone both marked his date of death as October 14, 2018. That’s months after this journal stopped. Months after whatever nightmare caused all this bleeding. He thinks briefly about calling Liz and asking her to ID whoever all this blood belonged to.

He googles ‘Alexander Manes Iraq death’ and nothing obvious pops up in the searches. But on the next page he sees a newspaper article from a Virginia paper, clicks it open. It’s from summer 2018 and includes a list of purple heart recipients. A Captain Alexander Manes among the names.

So, he made it home. Hurt but alive. Michael’s best guess is that he returned to Iraq before his death in October.

He runs several searches for Alex’s brothers. He gets a hit on a Gregory Manes. Local newspaper photo of him with several kids from a science fair. The school is near a reservation in the northwest corner of the state. He jots the information down but decides to start a little closer to home.

People in Roswell must know the Manes family. And so that’s where he’ll begin. Starting with local business owners. First thing in the morning.

[vickyvioletdraws]

COMIC SINS - Ch. 14 Warm

Chapter 14. Warm

There is a prophecy. The Angel. The one who has seen the surface… they will return. And the Underground will go empty.

---------------

Inside a homely, small town inn, the darkness spread itself thin. Heavy shadows surrounded the front windows, and the glass shook from the winter's raging winds. The front door did little to blot out the blistering cold, and the room fell even chiller. The atmosphere of the inn's lobby grew colder than it had ever been, and not only because of the air's dropping temperature.

The front desk became refuge to a white monster, whose clammy bones wrapped around themselves in regret.

Across from him leaning against the wall laid a small, human child. They too had curled up their body, trying to keep themselves warm beneath their ragged pajamas. The innocent one glared coldly at the monster just a few feet away, their steady gaze unblinking.

Closing his eye sockets, the room that was once deathly silent began to fill with a deep hum. The skeleton's breathing had shifted, and his shoulder bones began to slouch.

The human perked up at this sudden shift in movement. "Sans?" They muttered, a bit vexed. The child wanted to continue fussing with him, but decided they no longer enjoyed disturbing monsters while they slept.

The youth stood up, ready to be on their way. The abrupt act was enough to jog the creature awake once more. "k-kid?" He asked in a troubled tone.

Frisk looked back down at him angrily. "Haven't you had enough sleep?" They accused.

Sans sat back at this. "n-no. i haven't. sorry." He admitted woefully. The human did not appear to have so much as pity. "i haven't been able to sleep, really."

The child huffed at this, but leaned back down to the monster's level. "Is that so? You seem to be good at it. Must be a talent." They answered condescendingly.

"heh heh, good one." Sans chuckled weakly, raising his scapulas. "but… no. truthfully i haven't slept in what feels like weeks. no, it's definitely been weeks."

Frisk leaned back in confusion. "Well, what do I know about how much sleep a skeleton needs, anyway? How do I know a magic bag of bones needs sleep at all? Maybe you just do it for fun." They shrugged in discomfort.

"heh heh! maybe my brother was right all along! maybe i am a pile of lazybones." Sans said, almost laughing genuinely.

"Oh." Frisk recalled. "Papyrus..."

"yeah!" Sans chimed in. "you two are a lot alike. you would have been great friends, i know it." His voice raised at this, attempting to lighten up the mood. But the child only frowned at the floor. No answer was received. "you know i… haven't slept… since he died, so..." He continued, a lump clogging his deep voice. Frisk looked up at him then, sorrow now rising up in the both of them. "thank you."

Addled, the child spoke up. "For what?"

"for letting me sleep." He assured pensively. "i mean, i haven't been able to rest like that in a long time. having someone around that i trust… really put my mind at ease, you know?"

"Sans, I don't understand."

"i know, kid." The monster uttered, aching in his bones.

The pair fell silent for a long moment. The room somehow drooped darker, and the dusty air nipped even colder.

The two decided to speak up again, both voicing simultaneously. Not being able to hear the other, they both stopped.

"you go first, kid." Sans insisted, waving his phalanges towards the small human.

Frisk shook their head. "You go."

"oh? heh heh heh, okay." He chortled. "i just needed to let you know that i haven't been completely honest with you." Sans started up. "what i'm dragging you into is very dangerous, and i understand if you want to turn around and leave."

Frisk shook their head. "But Sans, I want to do it. I need to, I-"

Sans gestured with his metacarpals, hinting that he was not finished. "you saw it, didn't you?" His eyes fell black, and his expression became difficult to read. "the town. everything is in shambles." His voice was serious and level. "but did you see… my house?"

The child sat for a while, over thinking his questions. "Well I..." Just then a dangerous idea clicked. Frisk had a gut feeling they knew which one he was talking about, but the thought scared them.

"heh." The monster came in again. "i'm sorry you had to see that."

"It's okay..." Frisk said, though they did not believe even themselves.

"frisk, i'm asking too much of you." He boomed. "the creature that has destroyed this friendly town... the monster that i am facing alone… the demon that is responsible for the mass murder of the whole underground..." Sans proceeded his anecdote without displaying a single emotion. "that person is you." His teeth only seemed to grin wider. "heh heh, well, at the very least a person who looks just like you."

The child searched themselves, attempting to find lost answers. The scattered thoughts danced in their head chaotically, until they found something to say. "So… that's why you… attack me? Why you try to… kill me?"

White specs illuminated in the monster's eye sockets. He moved away, a tad perturbed. "well, yes and no. it's why you're here, kid! it's why you got caught up in all this!"

Frisk focused on the floor. Their small arms clenched around themselves even tighter, and they felt a slight pain in their chest. The little human ground their teeth in deep thought, and their muscles began to quake.

Observing the small youths trembles, the skeleton stood up. "wow, it's really cold, huh?" Sans said, removing his blue hoodie. "c'mere, kiddo. you need this more than i do."

Frisk hesitated at his gesture, but could not deny their body's painful shivering. They were once again dependent on the monster's offerings.

The human slipped their skinny arms inside the sleeves easily, as the article of clothing was several times their size. The fabric was nearly as cold as the air, as its owner seemed not to emit body heat. The sweater slid off of their shoulders repeatedly, despite Frisk's attempts to keep it up. The monster promptly took hold of the rarely used zipper pull, and zipped it all the way to the top. Though still shivering, Sans' hoodie made all the difference. Frisk's cheeks turned red.

"you were really chilled to the bone there, pal." Sans joked. "how you feelin'?"

"...Um," The child mumbled, blushing. "I really like… wearing other people's sweaters." A wide smile was strewn across their face, and they put up their small hands, hidden by overly long sleeves, up to their face, trying to hide their warm grin. "It's kinda like an indirect hug."

The monster's confused expression changed to one that matched the human's. "aw, kid, you're making blush." He admitted. "do you want… a direct hug?" Sans asked with open arms.

Frisk paused for a brief moment, then nodded shyly. The two leaned into a paralleled embrace. "i'm sorry for being such a butthead." Sans added. "do you wanna go home?" The child shivered more under their padded jacket, but shook their head vigorously. "heh heh heh, okay buddy. you're a real tough cookie, you know that?"

The child giggled beneath the muffled fabric. "Sans, you're not a butthead." They lifted their squished face from the monster's rib cage and looked into his large eye sockets. "You can't be. You don't have a butt OR a head!"

The skeleton laughed a hearty guffaw. "oh no, i've been caught!" His teeth grew wide, beaming. But his boisterous bellows soon quieted down. "are you ready to go, frisk?" He asked, still light in his tone. Frisk shot him a determined look, and they dragged Sans to the front door without a second thought. "whoa there, kid!" And before he knew it, the two were outside.

The roaring winds had finally calmed at this time, however the chilly air still threatened the human's comfort. Deep in the distance, hiding in the winter's east, something tiny rifled. Something yellow.

Sans spun around rather fast and swiftly pulled the hood over the human's head, panicking. "get back inside the inn!" He breathed urgently. "go, now!" Frisk did not know if this was some sort of test over following directions or facing real dangers, but they took it as a challenge and heeded the beast's warnings. The small child made their way inside as quickly as Sans had made the instruction.

Leaving the front entrance open so they could still hear, Frisk hid inside and inspected the skeletons movements from the clouded window. Sans stood his ground, when from out of the snow popped a tiny, golden flower. The friendly looking plant had eyes and a mouth, and looked much like something Frisk would doodle with crayons.

"Sans, there you are!" The little flower spoke. Sans started to speak when the yellow petals drooped and the tiny creature bore a most grim expression. "Sans, you failed!"

"what?!" The white monster accused. "i didn't fail..."

"Oh, but you have!" It exclaimed. "The king is dead!"

——————————————————–

CHAPTER ARCHIVE