give the man a nobel

[voidster]

Birds are singing, flowers are blooming... and one useless old man is playing cards against another faceless (and useless) old man, outside in the gardens.

It seems the real thing has finally made peace with his double--or at least taken pity on him enough to stop ignoring him. It's wearying, carrying around all that animosity for someone who literally can't venture too far without being summoned back, and who can't help what he was created for. (To nag and nag him to murder a friend.) Life has been rough and he's... lonely, in a sense. It's good to have someone to play a game with nearby, and who has nothing better to do.

They've brought a little table and four chairs with them, on the off chance anyone wants to join. It's nice here, in the shade of a tree, sun shining through the leaves. Sit with them and wonder how in the world the rune-faced Gaster sees his cards without any eyesockets?

gospel;

[encre]

Some time has certainly passed. How long? No idea. How's he supposed to keep up with the schedule if there is no calendar, no clocks, nothing to go by? And still not a single familiar face from the crew in sight. Not even any of his fellow cast members. No, in all the long days he's been here, there hasn't been a single word from any familiar face at all. And that's more than a little concerning.

How is the show supposed to stay on the air if nobody's showing up to work? How is he supposed to follow a schedule if there is no schedule? What are his lines, what's the setup, what's his motivation and goals and especially his costars?

What's the point in any of this?

It's thoughts like that, that have been plaguing his mind not long after his arrival. And lately, it's becoming more and more likely that this - all this, this strange world full of strange people and strange sights - were not actually part of the show at all. That maybe, just maybe, this is real. And that's the troubling part. Because if all of this is real, then that means he's real, not waiting for the artist to get out the ink and brush and start making the magic happen with him and his costars. He's actually existing, in the real world, walking and talking with other real existing people. What in the seven Hells was Sammy up to?

As it consumes him, possesses his every waking thought and haunting his dreams at night, the mess starts to get ... much, much worse. The small leak at the top of his head was ignored for the longest time, but now, only the wide toothy grin is visible as the ink pours over the rest of his face. His long arms and legs appear to be melting, dripping black splotches of inky liquid to the ground, and leaving a very obvious trail behind. It starts out in the graveyard, wandering haphazardly between gravestones, before eventually heading back into the castle. Flashbacks hit him all at once, everything from the circular markings on the floor to the chanting and praising, that when he eventually reaches the castle's thrown room, he appears to be nothing more than a massive, grinning blob slinking across the floor.

It's not entirely clear what said blob is trying to accomplish. But, an existential crisis is an existential crisis.