[Sans eyes the crowd again. There are still people trying to get out and find children or husbands or wives. A symphony of screaming and crying and muttering in the artificial lighting of the shelter. Strange to see humans like this; it's a fun house mirror of home. Easier to look away from again, even if it doesn't sit quite right either. He looks back at Papyrus.]

Dunno, looking at it again, I'm pretty sure this is what anyone'd call a tough crowd. [Sans doesn't want to stand out in a small space he can't escape from, not that he'll admit to that. He doesn't want to wander off away from Papyrus either. He treats the suggestion like a joke, but it's strange that he can only decide it's probably a joke and not definitely one. If Sans is doing paperwork and research who knows what else he might be up to?] Looks like I'll have to keep practicing on you.