"No damn sense at all," Lambert snorts, sounding equally cynical. He wears the stress worse than Sans in some ways, but then again, humans are adaptable. However, what Sans says is interesting enough to make him perk up a little.

"Same thing happened to me. Sort of. Some guy showed up at the cafe knew my name, called me a Nightrider." He rests his arms against the table, only to wince and shift, taking his weight off his injury again. His brow is knitted in frustration, but there's something subdued in his expression, all the same. At this point, he hasn't yet had that conversation with Strange, so he's hasn't gotten the idea of how widespread this phenomenon really is...

"So what's the theory? That people like you and me--" He gestures derisively between them, and admittedly, it's ridiculous: do they have anything in common at all? "--are both cuckoos in the nest or something? Like changelings, but for this world?"