A/N: I am going all out in this story - I appreciate feedback on how to make writing in second person more fluid as I haven't written this kind of perspective before. I'm doing this as a tasty treat for all those Sans lovers! I'm in it for the long haul :D

With a huff you flick your hair out of your eyes again - damn it must be a state by now - and you stretch out your back before, once again, picking up the splintered handle of your best buddy Broom; every evening it's just the two of you clearing up after everyone else, sweeping away hairballs and dust bunnies.

What a romantic prospect.

You can hear soft chirps and mewling from further down the shop, the fluffy and feathered residents settling down for the night - you'd finished cleaning all the pet enclosures about an hour ago (... an hour after closing time which is also when you stop getting your hard-earned pay) and you let out a tired sigh, wanting to just curl up and sleep too.

After another fifteen minutes you chuck the broom in the store cupboard, finally mustering enough resolve to just head the hell home. You grab your threadbare tartan parka and fling the furry hood over your head, fastening it tight and brace yourself as you attempt to open the pet shop door -

As you open it a smidgen, a spiteful burst of wind grabs it and hurls it open with a clatter, practically dragging you with it. You can feel biting snow flick against your face as you strain to rummage for your keys, actually get out of the doorway and close the damn shop.

You manage to slam it shut with a shuddering bang, momentarily empathising with the animals inside, and turn into the wind - you only live around the corner but this is not going to be easy.

Wrapping your arms tight around yourself, you bow your head and push through the unrelenting gale, grumbling about how winter is apparently ending sometime this week. Fat bloody chance: ever since the Underground and all its residents become part of the known world it seems that every winter is just that little bit longer.

It takes about ten minutes for you to slip into the little alcove sheltering the front door to the block of flats you live in, the wind howls nastily behind you almost trying to reach in and grab you - cat and mouse.

You hurry inside.

It's warm and toasty - everyone must have their heating on full. You manage a small smile knowing you won't have to put yours on since you're near on the top floor - money's tight so any chance to scrounge, right? You shake any clinging snow off in the hallway and head up, ready to grab some hot chocolate and snuggle in front of rubbish telly.

You've been looking forward to it all day - it's the small things you need to focus on when times are a little rough.

Usually falling asleep is a breeze - except when you've got a gale-force "breeze" shaking every window frame in your building. You grumble, pillow over your face and repeat the routine 'sutra of hard times' in your head:

Cheap rent. Good location. Cheap rent. Good location. Cheap rent - leaky pipes. Good location. Cheap - wallpaper.

...

You reassure yourself that it's just the weather getting you down - spring is meant to be right around the corner.

Pulling the covers tighter, you roll over, letting your pillow fall to the floor. You think back to a programme you had seen on Discovery a while back about the alterations to the Earth's magnetic field: that they had changed with the crumbling of the barrier and consequently Mt. Ebott - it had been four years ago and the ripples from the massive event had died down in the media and in society but apparently Surface physics are still adjusting to the outpouring of new atomic laws - hence more extreme weather.

The monsters were helpful in figuring out why the seasons had fluctuated worldwide and several spokespersons from their faction expressed genuine concern for the effects on humankind.

Seems like monsters were a nice bunch of considerate people, in the beginning.

You sigh, knowing that unfavourable encounters between the odd human and monster are now as regular as bog-standard human crime. In your point of view it's just another thing to worry about. You used to hope that maybe the introduction to what humans thought was fantasy would make society better somehow - unite people, open minds...

It didn't happen.

At sixteen years old; you were pretty naïve back then. Better keep your mind focused on the real world - the one you live in. The one where you have a decent(ish) living: you make some money, you live on your own, you're independent... You're an adult making it in a less than ideal world just like everyone else. And monsters too.

"You're late." Mr. Geller states, eyes small beneath an irritated heavy brow. You never know if he is actually annoyed since his face is always the face. Literally - you've not once seen it change in your two years working here. He used to scare you but now you see him as a bit of an enigma.

"I stayed extra yesterday - I didn't get out till dark." You try smiling to cover your own irritation, one or two customers in the shop already.

Mr. Geller's beady eyes roll and he looks sidelong at you "That was your choice. You don't get paid after five." He somehow frowns more "And you don't get paid for being late."

Your smile goes but you hold in your argument (being that he is a grumpy old prune who has no soul) and you turn away, opening the cupboard and resisting the urge to just chuck your coat in, grabbing Broom and beating the old git with it.

The crappy encounter gets you down for a while but after going through your morning routine with the animals - feeding the peeping budgies, the skittish kittens and tubby rabbits - you find you feel determined to make sure the grisly sour prune-face doesn't keep hold of your mood.

So you decide to defy him in the best way you know how - by being the fantastic hard-worker you are. And it feels great because it's the one thing he just can't argue with.

You serve customer after customer - the small store is buzzing every Sunday - and you pamper all the animals with love, care and attention. You beam at every customer that leaves, almost each of them complimenting you on your service and demeanour.

If someone like Mr. Geller decides your day is going to be bad, you just have to turn it around. It may seem trivial to some people but to you: every time is a victory.

As you poke your head out the front door to wave at sweet old Nancy (a regular customer who definitely overfeeds her cat or has twenty of them, you're not quite sure) you decide to check over the noticeboard on the store window.

You take a couple of out of date flyers down - one is for puppies for sale last week, another offering a pet-sitting service over Christmas (wow, that was definitely an old one) and... You notice a crinkled bit of paper and your heart sinks when you read the dreaded word in bold writing:

"MISSING"

Just as you're scanning the heartfelt passage about how this beloved pet disappeared just a few nights ago you see the picture... And let out a sarcastic laugh.

It's a rock. A rock sitting on a bed of hay with... Sprinkles? Yes, that's what they were: a bowl of sprinkles nestled next to it.

"Hilarious." You mumble and rip it down.