[ White phalanges set down the ketchup bottle's cap with a deliberate click against the pitted, well-used bar, and Sans angles his eyelights over at the boy. There it is again -- that shift of the supraorbital ridges, like he's raising the eyebrows he can't possibly possess. ]

What, nice kid like you? Heh. Would've thought you'd have loads of friends back, uh, wherever you came from.

Earth? Or another one of 'em. [ He goes back to tapping the tip of a phalanx against the bottle held in his other hand. Not an impatient gesture, mind -- he's just giving it a few little infusions of magic, waiting for it to take. Just makes this human food easier to process for a monster like him. ] I can't keep all these worlds straight.

Anyway, why's that normal for ya?