Thus comes the inevitable moment. Sans turns to that beckoning hand with a look of total disinterest - like he resents being force to give this consideration for the few moments that he's going to. His fists are clenched, shattered glass, metal, and spilling ooze around his feet.

"And who the hell are you, exactly?" It comes out sharp and impatient. There's a sick feeling in his gut (?) at the sight of him, and he doesn't like it. The way it connects to the rest of this place, to this feeling in his head, is aggravating. His left eye flickers blue, and then gold, his grin more a bearing of teeth than a smile.