Save Point (Sans x Reader)

Chapter Forty, Part Two

Little by little, you begin to open your eyes, dingy and unfamiliar surroundings forcing you to stay on guard. You lay on a mattress old and grungy with fungus stains, the rest of the room appearing normal were to you overlook the walls long faded of their colour and the questionable stains splattering the floor. The tiny dresser and worn night table hooked up with a working lamp makes it seem as if this were still a room frequented by someone, with the exception of the bed and the poor, if not nonexistent tidiness of the premises. Lack of windows or any ventilation of the sort, it’s hard for you not to feel nauseous when you’re forced to recycle old, stuffy air.

You stand up, wobbling twice when you set foot on the floor. It's unpleasantly cold when you touch it, bare feet making you feel every little, unwanted detail about the cleanliness of the room. The floor's coated with a sheet of dust thick enough to make your steps slippery and stray, yellow shards of glass warn you not to step on them. You stand in front of the dresser's mirror, frowning when you see yourself sporting a black eye and a purple hue overtake the (s/t) shade of your neck. You had been stupid and rash this morning -- if it even was the same day -- choosing to confront Jessie's so-called friends head on. They had been waiting for you by a cafe, following the same instructions as those Jessie had given you of going there for the sake of keeping your close ones safe. Such a straightforward decision had let to you getting poisoned. You could tell that much by the soreness of your throat and the faint, purple colour that covered your neck. The black eye, though? You had no idea how it got there.

A loud, bursted laugh is the only thing you can manage doing when you realize what situation you got yourself in. Just a year ago, you used to train and work in the police force, for Heaven's sake -- You should have known better than to let yourself swallow that drink!

As an icy tear and another two leave your eyes, you laugh at yourself and scoff. "Jessie's right," you mutter, closing your eyes. "I was and still am a shit cop."

You don't restrain yourself when tears keep pouring down, these now warm with the rising temperature of your cheeks. The dresser's the only support you have as you lean your body over it and bring your hands over your face. Your body hurts just as much as your forehead does, the bone-deep tiredness you felt since a few days ago almost unbearable to you now.

"Need another drink, (Y/N)? I wouldn’t mind giving it to you the same way she did."

Instinct over reason, you jolt away from the dresser, wipe your face free from tears, and look towards the voice, eyes coming across a tall, young man smiling down at you, an amused glint in his eyes. He doesn’t appear to be a year older than you despite his towering height, messy hair and casual clothing making him look like anything but a kidnapper. There’s a yellow parcel held under his right arm and a drink similar to the one the woman had forced you to swallow on his left hand. Grinning, he winks at you, swirls the liquid around, and brings the cup closer to his lips, mocking you further by taking it down in three chugs.

"Can't believe it was that easy to capture you -- You’re weaker than I thought.”

Your eyes search for an immediate weapon, the sheer emptiness of the room making it hard for you to find one fast enough. You think about using the lamp as a sharp object to protect yourself with, though that would result in you breaking it and sending additional, tiny shards of glass around the room, endangering your bare feet. The only other option you have are your fists and feet.

“Stay away from me,” you warn, shifting into a fighting stance. “Wh- What did you do to me?”

“Nothing, nothing!” the man exclaims, his honeyed voice and gestures reminding you of Mettaton. “Why would I do anything to hurt you? You’re not my target.”

“Then who is?”

“Allow me to correct myself, (Y/N) -- You are the target, but I’m not the one who wants you here. I’m only following the doctor’s orders!”

He throws you the parcel, muttering a heads up for you to catch it. You do it just in time, the package landing on your open, outstretched arms. It’s not too heavy in weight, though it’s big enough for you to hold with both hands. 

“Change into those clothes and meet me at the central room -- Just go straight and then take a left.” The man moves away from you and stops, turning back to you quickly. “Dare try anything and your brains’ll end splattered on the floor.” He points at the ceiling, where a camera is set, grin falling from his face. “We’ve got eyes all over the room. One wrong move and a bullet’ll be aimed right at you.”

Done speaking, he waves playfully and leaves the room, footsteps growing faint the more seconds you wait. You can’t find the will to change out of your clothes knowing there were cameras on you now, a shudder trailing up your spine when you think of how the watcher’s eyes could scan you. Beyond exhausted, you let your eyes close briefly and try to gain mental well-being. You force yourself to take the parcel and set it down on the dresser, hands patting it until you find a good place to open it from. 

Rip.

Your entire self grows frigid when you make the first tear, eyes already spotting something too bizarre for your mind to comprehend. You keep tearing up the package bit by bit, thoughts going blank when you process the fact that you were supposed to wear this over your body.

The clothes shouldn’t even be called clothes. 

The main piece is quite literally a large, transparent onion sack with stains of earth still stuck to it, accompanied with two paper-thin, plastic sandals that you were meant to wear as shoes. It’s impossible for you to wear it in a way that wouldn’t show your underwear. As if that weren't enough, you’re given the option of a small-fitting, scratchy cloak to cover up part of your body, though it has profanities and insults written all over it, both front and back: from ‘two-faced cop’ and 'adulterous traitor' to 'easy', 'sissy', and more. You don’t know what’s worse of an option: strutting around in your bare underwear or letting the cloak take away the last bit of dignity you had left in you.

“Are you done yet, (Y/N)? We’re gonna be late to your commemoration!” 

“Almost,” you shout, blatant lie urging you to gather what was necessary for you to begin dressing up. Breathing out, you close your eyes tight and begin taking off your work uniform, forcing yourself to look down at the floor to avoid making eye contact with the camera looming from above.

You want to call for help. . .

. . .But you’re unable to.

The only remote thing you had to protect yourself with had been taken away from you. The weapon you had hidden under your foot disappeared along with your shoes, leaving you with nothing else but your bare feet and hands to fight with. It’s right then that you remember you hid the locket in your work uniform’s back pocket. You hurry to find it, sore eyes stinging and vision blurring when you see it cracked, the picture vandalized by the word ‘freak’ carved with a knife.

At a loss for any other options, you try to stay determined. . .

. . .But you can’t.

Falling on your knees, you cover your face with your hands and let out a groan muddled with frustration. Your chest heaves once and you find it difficult to keep your stance upright and unshaken. 

Your tardiness drains the patience of the man waiting for you to get dressed, his rhythmic footsteps sounding closer with each passing minute as you feel his hand grab your arm, forcing you to stand up.

“Get a grip already,” he demands, words carrying the same amount of poison as the drink. “You’ll have enough time to wail when you’re locked up.”

Angry and tired, you can’t tolerate his words. You throw yourself at the man, yelling at him to ‘screw off’ as you land a punch right at his nose. The camera above zooms in on your opposition, shooting panic straight through your body when you see a subtle, red light start blinking close to the lenses. You close your eyes and wait for the shot, not knowing where it could possibly land on you.

Bang!