Goals

tically:

Cash tried not to look bored, and succeeded. Faking it was second nature, by now. If I let this piece of shit come on my face, Sans gets to eat tonight.

And so he did.

…

Whispered words failed to bypass his notice. To be alert was to be prepared, and prepared is much, much safer than surprised. Still, he feigned it when they approached him.

“(Watch this.) Hey! Jerry thinks you’re too chickenshit to run through Dust Row and call them all pussies! I told him you’d do it for 5g.”

Their laughter rang out, an accompaniment to the melody of war cries and bullets hitting snow. What a cheap whore, he heard one say. Bargain entertainment. But Cash patted his pocket and smiled.

…

Stepping over the threshold into a 20 degree temperature variant and a thick cloud of curry worked a spell on him. The tension dropped out of his shoulders, and he stripped outwear, leaving a trail along the den floor.

He admired his handiwork from the couch. Sans was chatting on about a weapon he designed and cast from an anime Alphys made him watch. Sans is proud of the craftsmanship in the same way Papyrus is proud of Sans’s slight pudge of magic lifting the hem of his shirt.