It rained.

Mystique sighed as the drops pounded on the window. She knew rain was a blessing,

essential to survival, but it didn't mean she enjoyed it. Being stuck in the house for a week

hadn't done much good either. She hasn't seen Sans since the other day, but that in itself

wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the lack of harassed looking villagers pounding on her

door complaining about lost chickens and a figure lurking their shadows.

But at the moment she didn't care. It was raining.

Tssssssssssss

Drip drip

She wondered if you could go crazy from a noise. It was so quiet in the house nowadays, her ears could pick up the tiniest sound, which was helpful at times. She took some kind of comfort in the creaking of the floorboards under Sans feet as he came home from a week of absence.

She sometimes thought though, which she preferred; the house's current silence or the previous frenzied screaming of her father. She snorted; really difficult decision there.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhk. Shhhhhhhhhhk. That was really what it sounded like, her knife cutting across the wood, the sandpaper smoothing out the rough bits. She was making arrows. Not because she needed them, gods knew she'd created enough this week, but because what else could she do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sans sometimes wondered about what death felt like. The fairly complex thought for his usually simplistic mind usually came as he was ripping off some animal of another’s flesh. Like if it hurt or not.

The things he killed usually went very swiftly, usually not even getting in a squeak of surprise. Unless he didn’t like them. Then he made sure that they died very, very painfully. Like that bastard Phoenix he thought in so many words; his mind didn’t operate like a normal person’s; he didn’t think with words. It was more like a blur of images, feelings and instincts; most of which were of dark, bloody and painful things. At times his mind was more animal than human. But being half-succubus and half-crazy did that to you.

He finished whatever animal he’d been eating and threw it into the muddy underbrush. Slowly and carefully, as though he wasn’t quite sure of his limbs, he stood up and stretched. His white hair was soaked, but even that didn’t calm the messy array of hair, but it was a sure bet that once it dried it would be a frizzy mess.

He gazed off into the forest, even though the rain’s mist made it impossible to see. He thought about Mystique and wondered if he should go see her, let her know he was alright. For a moment he was seized with guilt; his sister was the only person he had left, the only person who cared about him, and the only person he cared for. Even if he was a crazy, sadistic, murderous (*Sans hits the author, making her get on with it*) bastard, she continued to take care of him.

Sans gazed up at the gray sky. The pain pounded on his face and fell into his eyes, causing him momentary pain. He hissed and turned away, dropped on all fours, and took of in the direction of home. Stupid rain.