Meanwhile, the railing is all that's keeping Sans propped upright; he's sunk his whole weight into the elbow perched on it, his cheekbone cradled by his fist. Surely it's a trick of the scant illumination from the quarantine zone's lights, but it almost seems like there's a little give in that solid bone, half-dipped in his hood's shadow.

"...Heh, point taken," replies Sans. "Right down to it," he notes, swinging his eye lights to the drop on the other side of the railing. Sure is a long way down to construction half-clotted with sprawling vegetation, and the silvery threads of light reflected on the river below.

"Ok."

As wondrous as the sight above is, Sans, who has lived his whole life with a ceiling over his head, still has the strangest feeling the emptiness above might pluck him right off the surface of the planet and swallow him whole.

"Ain't it obvious? I'm a skeleton," he finally answers, lifting a phalanx, "The name's Sans. And that makes it your turn."