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...
He looks...
Impressive? Bizarre? Like an abomination from a child's nightmare?
If there is a correct description for his new form, Sans sure as hell doesn't know it.
He's known, logically, that he looks vastly different than he did not too long ago; that the body he now bears is so removed from the short, pudgy skeleton that Grillby's regulars have come to known that none of the townsfolk have even made the connection between the arrival of "Wingdings" and the missing Sans. He knew it when he absorbed the SOULs, filled to the brim with so much power (burning, vibrating, invigorating) that it felt like the core of a neutron star had taken home in his body, dense, overwhelming, electrifying energy pushing out, his form growing and shifting to accommodate the slightly-terrifying well of magic that now danced at his fingertips. Knew it when he felt a new weight and tugging on his back, nerve sensations making him feel the twitching and flexing of wings before he could even examine them for himself. Certainly knew it when he stood in front of Undyne, and found himself straining his neck to look down instead of up.
And yet, it's taken several days of settling back into his normal routine (or about as normal as it could be, considering the circumstances) for him to catch himself in the mirror. Kind of embarrassing, if he's being honest with himself.
Not that surprising, he figures. He's a slothful gremlin that never bothers with cleaning up the ketchup stains on his hoodie and shorts beyond just a quick wipe with a napkin, and if his appearance is ever slightly presentable and less like he was laying in bed for 14 hours after chomping down on burgers and fries then its because Papyrus finally got fed up with him enough to manhandle him into a bath and some clean clothes (washed by Papyrus, of course). He can't even recall how long its been since checking himself in the mirror was a part of his daily routine.
Now that he's staring at himself, though, there's a part of him that wishes he hadn't.
The ribs are similar enough to his old form (if you ignore the, uh, red Human SOUL locked inside them). He still has large, round eye sockets with glowing white pupils, and the shorts he's wearing are just a slightly bigger version of his usual pair.
Aaaaand that's about where the similarities end. His skull looks like it's been sliced in half, with the bottom part being replaced with three unhinged jaws perpetually opened, baring rows of sharp fangs. Three large bone protrusions jut out below each eye socket, and Sans can't help but imagine a walrus skull gone horribly wrong.
His arms have been blackened, and look almost muscular in appearance. His shirt and favorite blue hoodie are gone, replaced instead with a rainbow, fluffy cape that covers his shoulders and extends down his bare back to just above his long skeletal tail because oh, right, he has a tail now, for some god forsaken reason.
Makes more sense the wings, at least, Sans thinks, pondering them. Stupidly large, multicolored, and a general eyesore, the three pairs of them don't even match up. One feathered, one bat-like, and one that's just bones. Each one adorned with a different colored heart-eye, looking around or examining him independent of his will.
And, as if on cue, Sans hears them speak up: faint voices that seem to echo directly inside his head, coming from no particular direction.
[Pretty crazy looking, huh?]
[I think he looks majestic!]
[Appearances are a bother, anyway.]
[We can strike fear into the hearts of evil like this!]
[Kind of gaudy if you ask me.]
[I don't think he likes it, guys...]
[...]
[Are you alright, Sans?]
Sans lets out a long breath, slightly shakier than he would like, and the voices dim slightly, some still conversing with each other in quiet, hushed tones.
[...no matter how you look, you're still the same person ins—]
CRACK.
The reflection fractures; several cracks immediately form around the mirror, particularly concentrated by the fist that just slammed into it.
The voices immediately fall silent, and Sans holds his fist there for a bit before slowly pulling it back, instead pressing them on his forehead as he shuts his eyes and tries to get his body back under control.
(He didn't want any of this. He just wanted the cycle to be over, to finally just relax and not wonder if it would all be reset in the next hour and if this time they would all be slaughtered and left to rot for good.)
(His course of action seemed so obvious, so logical, when he finally did his job and plucked out a red, beating SOUL from a child's warm, still, broken body. When he had ignored Asgore's pleas and ripped the SOULs out of their prison of tempered glass and gentle sealing magic, and let their power fall into himself; when he took that power, and ripped open the Barrier like it was just a wall of cardboard standing in his way. For one minuscule, infinitesimal moment, it felt like the first time he had beheld the Sun and the fresh air: freedom; relief; hope.)
(Instead, all he has done is turn himself into a demon, and potentially burned bridges beyond repair.)
((he's a failure he's useless he's ruined everything why does he even try why—))
"Sans?"
Sans jolts, his head snapping left towards the voice that came from the end of the hallway.
Standing half outside his door, Papyrus is staring at Sans intently, gloved hands held over each other and brows furrowed in clear concern.
"I felt a large thump from my room and I thought I heard something shatter. Is...everything alright?"
Oh god, now he's worrying Papyrus even further with his ridiculous angst. Already bad enough to stress him out with the whole "your brother defied the King and turned himself into a god after murdering a child" situation; Sans does not need to let him know how much these changes are actually bothering him, or engage in any further property destruction than he already has.
"Uh, of course bro. I just...tried to swat a fly on the mirror. Underestimated my strength. Happens, now." Sans attempts the most laid-back and casual tone he can manage, as if he just knocked some crackers off the table by accident. He's not sure he's managing it. "Guess limitless power isn't all it's cracked up to be." Sans forces himself to chuckle; short, mirthless, and probably entirely unbelievable even to a stranger.
Papyrus steps out fully now, looking at the now-ruined mirror, which, now that Sans is looking more closely at it, seems to have an almost fist-like impression left from where he punched it.
Papyrus must notice this too, based on the way his brow manages to furrow even further.
"Well, don't worry I'll about it. I'll get us a new one. Nothing to bother yourself with. Anyway, I think I'm gonna hit the hay for a bit. Catch some Zs. Real tired after a long day of...uh..." Moping. "Patrolling. See ya."
And with that, he whirls around, heading towards his room at a brisk pace just slow enough to still be considered walking, and slams the door just as he can hear his brother calling out his name again.
Papyrus sighs, his outreached arm falling back to his side as his whole form slumps, and turns back to the horribly cracked mirror.
Only a sad skeleton is there to greet him in the fragmented reflections.