i need not be flattered that you've never been here before

[returnvoid]

After he'd taken leave of the room-- he can do that, how different-- he takes to wandering. Never too far from the shadows, where the pitch of his coat blends in more than with the golden of the hallways. But he is somewhere new, and coherent, and feels more substantial than he has in a long time, so after the shock had settled of course the curiosity took hold. Doors take a little bit of work, now that he's found he can interact with physical matter, but after one or two hopefully unwitnessed, embarrassing attempts he manages well enough to peek into the rooms he comes across.

That's about as much as he does, really. He's mostly just cataloging what there is to see here, but there isn't anything in specific he's looking for as he wanders. So he's content to simply do that much, at least until he comes across the music room.

Funny how such a shadowy figure can practically light up at the sight of something. Before he realizes it he's rushing in and flitting quickly over to one of the pianos. There's so much in the room they can't possibly all be that well-maintained or tuned, but none of it could be worse than whatever water damage and blunt force trauma happened upon the instruments that used to fall into the Underground, surely? The door's left open behind him, out of oversight, but he doesn't pay it any mind as he settles down on the bench.

He warms up slowly. Scales and runs to test himself first, see if his motor memory still serves. Then, when that's judged satisfactory, soft, lilting, maybe even somewhat eerie simple melodies, all atmosphere and percussive rhythm.

Eventually, he sits back. Hums a little. Eyes the other pianos in the room. Gestures, curtly, tightly, with his hands.

And more hands form out of nothing to array themselves out around him. They hover there, briefly, before floating over to the other pianos in the room, a pair each.

Then he lets his focus spread, just a bit, glancing over at the other pianos, before seguing into something a... bit more involved.

Comments

SO THERE'S NO NEED TO MENTION THAT YOU'VE NO FIRSTS ANYMORE also hope this is ok!

[trombones]

It's been a while since Sans really wandered around. He had taken his time (as usual) to recover from his wounds (not so usual) from the weeks past. The skeleton wasn't so fragile that a papercut could kill him, but he also didn't take to being hurt all that well. Even after the other Sans saves his life, the exchange of soul energy to do it was a whole other kind of tiring.

So here he was shuffling around the halls again, still feeling pretty stiff. Before he got to the music room, that soft and lilting piano got his attention. That changed by the time he actually got to the room, practically exploding into a whole symphony of people. Who the hell decided to start an orchestra around this time of day?

Then he actually stepped into the room.

And froze.

Somehow, it's not as shocking as it should be. Still. The man in front of him, the man who was supposed to be nobody... of course this place would bring him here. Of course they'd figure out how to drag somebody out of literal nothingness and put him here like it never happened.

... Well. Sans took that back. It looked like something happened. But that was the last thing on his mind right now. He felt that foriegn piece of soul inside his start to resonate again - the result of the accident in Sans' version of things. He grips his ribs at the sudden sensation, mind still reeling, struggling to remind himself that he was awake and this was real...

... maybe. It wasn't really working. Surreality hits him too hard.

"Da..."

He stops. The shock aside, he could at least think clearly enough to remember that this could be a whole other "version" of Gaster, regardless of where or when he came from. Dad? Maybe. Maybe not.

"... Doc."

There's a dumbfounded look on his perma-grin expresion he's not quite aware of. If anything, he feels himself move a little from his frozen-in-place spot. His fist clenches and unclenches. That's something, right? Sure. Yeah.

BUT IF YOU LET ME BE YOUR SKYLINE I'LL LET YOU BE THE WAVE aka a-ok yes good!

[returnvoid]

Part of him hears and notes the address, knows it's someone familiar, but all the same it takes him a brief moment to readjust to the present after having immersed himself in what he was doing. His head turns after all the hands have stilled; he must have forgotten to close the door, perhaps disturbed someone, though he freezes abruptly when he catches sight of Sans proper.

"✌☟📬📬📬"

There's a long span of a moment where all he does is just return Sans' dumbfounded expression, eyelights flickering to life in his approximation of a wide-eyed stare. Then, as if remembering himself, he shakes his head briskly, smiles gently, and re-situates himself where he's sitting. The hands at the other pianos clatter down before vanishing one by one and he's left with only the ones that are a part of his body, which he raises to begin signing with.

I hardly think... that there is any need for titles right now.

Each motion is deliberate and controlled, a far cry from the wild, sweeping manner that they used to tend to. He can't be sure what manner of world or Sans this is or what the script is supposed to be, only that this hasn't ever happened before, this isn't the Underground, and that there's no reason to either antagonize or shock Sans further, not when he looks like that.

AWESOME otherwise I would have tried to convince you with more Death Cab for Cutie lyrics

[trombones]

Still staggered, it takes a second. He opens his mouth, ready to speak the same 'language'(???) as the monster in front of him, but all of a sudden he can't think of the right words.

Finally, his hands go up. For a moment his hands hover, swaying and fingers clenching, in what might as well be a gesticular version of stuttering. But it's easier to think of what to say like this, and finally he starts signing properly.

Not much else I can call you.

In truth, he didn't know what to call him. But it was still true. What COULD he call him?

... I call you "old man" sometimes. Where I come from.

That's a joke. It actually helps a little. He feels himself chuckle a little.

what, more Death Cab for Cutie lyrics? swoon uh i mean no it's not ok gimme the DCfC

[returnvoid]

He hums through what might have been a soft laugh and his eyes, empty of light again, seem fond. Cheeky. Irreverent as ever... out of principle, I should object. Out of sentimentality, on the other hand, I would rather not you ever change.

If the nature of the address bothers him, it isn't reflected in anything more obvious than how the subject is skirted around.

But I understand. 'Doctor,' then, for lack of other forms of address.

There's a gap in his signing, slowing down toward the end of the sentence previous. A though's been nagging at him, but only now does he realize to voice it. Or not voice it, as it were.

You did not forget.

QUITS THREAD BLASTS DCfC also let me know if I should change this!

[trombones]

Heh.

"Doctor" and "old man" it is.

Sans confidence comes back, just a little, and he winks. The shock is thankfully wearing off, even if it still doesn't quite feel real yet. And now that he can think a little better, you know what? He might as well spit it out. This was different than what happened with Toriel.

There's... He hesitates. ... "dad". But I'm guessing you're going to want something more neutral.

So that's out of the bag. No point in keeping it a secret, right? Besides, Gaster was already addressing the bigger elephant in the room.

Whoops. Sans hesitates again. His hands go to his jacket pockets - his outfit the same as ever minus his greasy t-shirt, which he had to shuck after he got hurt. He looks away, quiet for a moment, then shrugs.

Nope. Never did.

SWOONS OFF A RAILING AND INTO THE CORE

[returnvoid]

I am going to regret giving you full permission to call me that, aren't I?

'Dad.' Yes, that was what Sans had started to say earlier, wasn't it? There is something of a curious lack of reaction in him to the title. Whether suppressed or nonexistent to begin with is hard to tell. ...Either way.

I think. That will be for the best, for now.

His signing is slow and measured, weighted with apology. It tinges the edges of his fixed smile.

There is more for him to apologise for, though he doesn't know where to even begin. He rambles instead, movements loose.

I will admit... that in a way, it is heartening that you can say that. I do not believe... A break; he lowers his hands for a moment, before resuming, this time with certainty. I am not so selfless.

The CORE is one thing, and the shades of monsters scattered around the Underground another. But if someone who was still a part of reality remembered him, then he had existed at some point. It's terrifying to think that you might have lived your life in vain, that nothing you did ever meant anything at all.

... Ha. But this isn't about him, or any amount of existential crises or validation. He's far from the only one to ever have suffered them, after all.

But, when I know what you...

Gaster's movements come to a stop mid-sentence as he searches for the words and comes up empty for what he wants to say. What is there he could say? He is not Sans. Eventually he sighs deeply, unhappily, and carefully signs, Why did you not? at the same time that he says,

"✋❄ ⌖⚐✞☹👎 ☟✌✟☜ 👌☜☜☠ ☜✌💧✡ ☞⚐☼ ✡⚐✞ ❄⚐ ☞⚐☼☝☜❄📪 ☟✌👎 ✡⚐✞ ☹☜❄ ✡⚐✞☼💧☜☹☞📬"

holds up boom box and plays El Dorado outside ur window aka the abyss

[trombones]

Yep.

The part about regretting full permission, he means. As for the apologize he can see in Gaster's gestures... he shrugs. There's something vaguely disappointed in his own expression, but it was okay. Really. He didn't expect the Gaster in front of him to come from "his" version of events. It's not like he could blame him.

Sans wondered once if the rules of this place would stay the same for Gaster, but after vague conversations with the other Sans-es around here, he wasn't surprised anymore. Just surprised that it actually happened.

He shakes his head. He still doesn't look at Gaster, spare a glance when he sees those hands move out of the corner of his sockets. Another silence passes, this time longer than the other. No point in keeping something like this quiet. Not from the source of a lot of his secrets.

"Truth be told, doc, in my version of things... I barely remember you as is. But... it'd be hard to forget you, even if I wanted to. I don't, for the record. But..."

The words come out in slow bits and pieces. It was a little surreal, finally saying all this stuff outloud to somebody, even Gaster. His hand trails up to his chest, and his soul glows through.

"... I've been carrying around a piece of you around for a long time."

It's more like a sliver of a soul, barely visible in a scarred part of Sans' own soul. Kind of like a old splinter that never left.

"Happened in the accident. Hurt like a mother, by the way."

juryrigs something together to blast Black Sun right back out the window aka the abyss

[returnvoid]

Even having prepared for it, seeing that Sans has seemingly inured himself to inevitable disappointment causes a twinge of... something, within his core. He...

would have hung the moon/snatched the stars from their sky/taken everything apart and left it broken and shattered

for Sans and Papyrus, once.

(Don't think for a moment that he hasn't noticed the stiffness, the ginger care taken with some movements.)

The breath he lets out, low and whistling, warped with static, pulls from some reservoir within him he didn't know he possessed. 'Barely' is more than he would have expected of anyone. Even the smallest fraction was already infinitely larger than zero. His expression is wry.

"✡⚐✞ 💧✌✡ 👌✌☼☜☹✡ ✌💧 ✋☞ ✋❄ ✋💧 💧⚐💣☜❄☟✋☠☝ ❄⚐ ✌🚩⚐☹⚐☝✋💧☜ ☞⚐☼📪 💧✌☠💧📬"

The impetus being that it is not. Gaster is, in equal parts, thankful and rueful. Though he has to stop himself from startling when Sans reveals his soul, eyelights pinprick dim as his hands come up to his own chest.

His mouth works uselessly, a moment, as his sight flickers between the fragment and where his own soul would be if he'd let it shine through the darkness of his form. That's-- him? It is at the very least something close enough for there to be a faint sympathetic resonance, an echoed feeling of duality and memory just beyond his reach as his sockets shutter closed and he gives up on the task of restraining his soul. It glows freely but dimly, the light fainter in fine lines spidering across the inverted heart.

"✋📬📬📬 ✋ 💧☜☜📬" I'm sorry. "❄☟✌❄📬📬📬 ⌖⚐✞☹👎 💣✌😐☜ ❄☟✋☠☝💧 👎✋☞☞✋👍✞☹❄📪 ✡☜💧📬"

[[gonna give the unicode one more shot before switching over to css font styling if it's still hecking up on your end]]

n i c e

[trombones]

[ooc: nope! this is fine. the text looks different to me but i can use hovertext all the same, so it's no big deal to me one way or another.]

(Yikes.)

Sans was about to explain the apology in his voice when he felt the resonation too. It's hard not to, when you have a piece of someone else's soul jammed in yours. It glows on as well, though somewhat dim as well from inside of the other soul around it. The skeleton watches Gaster's - the one in front of him - light up too.

And for a while, he does just that. Watches it. Silent. Then he closes his sockets.

"... It's okay. It means I got something, even if it's just... pieces of memory in between all the holes.

It means that whatever happens or didn't happen, at least Gaster was there with him in some way.

isn't it, also crap i can't get off the tl;dr train

[returnvoid]

"✋☠ ☜✠👍☟✌☠☝☜📪 ✡⚐✞ ✌☼☜ 💣⚐☼☜ ✌⌖✌☼☜ ❄☟✌❄ ❄☟☜☼☜ ✋💧 💧⚐💣☜❄☟✋☠☝ 💣✋💧💧✋☠☝📬"

Gaster breathes deeply in and out. One. Two. He opens his sockets only after he has tamped down on his magic and the disquieting sensation of reflection had begun to fade. Bits and pieces of himself have fallen between the cracks in his memory, patched together as haphazardly as it is, but he is whole. His soul is fragmented, but intact.

(But suppose he wasn't, and only just was missing the smallest unnoticeable slivers of himself, the parts that had possessed all his certainty of who and what and when?)

Sans' sockets are still closed when he opens his. That, at least, leaves Gaster certain of at least one fact: this has altogether strayed all too far into the realm of the serious.

"📬📬📬 ⌖☜☹☹📬 ✋☞ ✡⚐✞ ✌💧😐 💣☜📪" he says, loftily, solemnly. "✋☠ 💣✡ ✟☜☼✡📪 ✟☜☼✡ ☜💧❄☜☜💣☜👎 ⚐🚩✋☠✋⚐☠📪 ✋ 👌☜☹✋☜✟☜ ✡⚐✞ ⌖⚐✞☹👎 👌☜ ⌖☜☹☹ ✋☠ ✡⚐✞☼ ☼✋☝☟❄💧 ❄⚐ 👎☜💣✌☠👎 ✌ ☼☜☞✞☠👎📬 ✋ 👎⚐ 👌☜☹✋☜✟☜ ✡⚐✞✟☜ 👌☜☜☠ 💣✌👎☜ ✌ 💧☟✌💣 👎☜✌☹📬"

He is well within his rights to attempt to inject some levity into this conversation, damn it. Is it morbid when they're discussing his own... death, which was and wasn't a death at the same time? His smile is tight but warm as he continues, "⚐☞ 👍⚐✞☼💧☜📪 💧✋☠👍☜ ✋❄ ✋💧 ✡⚐✞ ❄☟✌❄ ✋💧 👎✋☼☜👍❄☹✡ ✌☞☞☜👍❄☜👎📪 ✡⚐✞☼ ⚐🚩✋☠✋⚐☠ ⌖⚐✞☹👎 💧✞🚩☜☼💧☜👎☜ 💣✋☠☜📬 ✋☞ ✡⚐✞ ✌☼☜📬📬📬 ☞✋☠☜📪 ⌖✋❄☟ ❄☟☜ 💣✌❄❄☜☼📪 ❄☟☜☠ ⌖☟⚐ ✌💣 ✋ ❄⚐ 💧✌✡ ✌☠✡❄☟✋☠☝ ✌👌⚐✞❄ ✋❄✍"

Gaster maintains his expression for a while longer before it falters, he looks away, and it collapses back down to a skeleton's standard set.

"📬📬📬 ✋ 💣✋💧💧☜👎 ❄☟✋💧📬"

its ok me neither half the time

[trombones]

"... Heh!"

Okay, that helps.

Sans eyes stay closed for the moment, and his permagrin spreads a little wider. Eventually, he cracks out eye open to step closer to Gaster (having finally realized he's been stupidly standing at the entrance this whole time) and sit at a chair nearby. Stiffly, being careful to keep his torso straight. Despite how serious the conversation had turned, he's aware enough of the presence that he realizes a familiar guitar case was nearby. Oh, right. That's where he left it. He kicks it closer, in front of his feet.

"Well... 'fine' ain't exactly the right word. I can't say it's what I wanted. But it's the closest thing to anything I'm going to get. So. Sham deal or not, I don't want a refund."

Meaning Sans wasn't looking to get the sliver out of him any time soon. Aside from it being incredibly dangerous and probably killing him - he didn't want to lose those few memories he still had. He had tried working on that machine in the workshop for too long now. It couldn't be fixed. He failed. His father wasn't coming back. Would the Gaster he knew be disappointed in him? Hate him?

As if sensing his thoughts, the soul inside him glowed just a little bit warmer to reassure him. Sans blinked, then looked down at his chest. A pause passes, then his smile turns just a little more genuine, if bittersweet.

"... Heh. Thanks, old man."

Finally, he looks back up Gaster. The one in front of him. Despite everything, well. Gaster was standing in front of him, wasn't he? He had that much now too.

"Me too. I missed... having you around, if that's not too awkward to say."

As much as Sans missed his father, he was the last person who wanted to force that on somebody who probably wasn't - much less trying to figure out who he was. He had to deal with something similar with the little Papyrus around here.

shitpost central makes for long tags read all about it

[returnvoid]

"✋❄ ✋💧 ☠⚐❄📪 ✌💧 ☹⚐☠☝ ✌💧 ✡⚐✞ ✌☼☜ ✌☹☹ ☼✋☝☟❄ ⌖✋❄☟📬📬📬"

He just gestures as he looks back to Sans, waves himself up and down, before waving back at where the sliver of a soul that wasn't quite him had been. Then he picks right up from there, forgoing his voice. The motions are sketched out with a strange sort of crispness to them despite otherwise being fairly loose.

I would hate to intrude. It is not very polite, especially when a place isn't mine to take.

They probably mirror Sans' posture, really. Both in the restraint involved, and the off-seeming nature of both of them. It is a strange timeline indeed where Sans even approximates perfect posture, and seeing something even close to that on the one sitting near him is disquieting.

Given that his gaze is aimed downward while facing Sans (facing, examining, mulling over), it's hard to miss the case that Sans had kicked. Gaster lets out something that could have been an amused cough as he rouses himself from thought, expression and signing smoothing.

Anyway. What did that guitar case ever do to you?

A++++++

[trombones]

"Good."

Sans nods and lets out a small, relieved sigh as he runs a hand over his 'stomach'. The suddenly proper posture wasn't because he wanted to. Slight movements still ache, and he has to force himself to keep still sometimes and let his injuries heal right.

"Yeah, well..."

Finally, Sans switches back to signing himself.

You're not intruding. If it helps, I'm not going to force the "dad" thing on you. Whatever you got going on, whatever kind of relationship we have on your side of things, that's you. I learned how this place works a long time ago. I'm not the only Sans here, for starters, and... Well. What I learned a long time ago, is that you're you, They're them. Even if you and the Gaster in me were nearly the same guy, it's an infinite possibilities sort of thing.

That's meant to be more comforting than it probably is, but Sans hopes he gets the message across regardless. He's not going to judge him, and he wasn't out to make the Gaster in front of him uncomfortable either.

Still. Even if it wanted to, it was hard to deny that he missed him - whatever form he took. Seeing Gaster whole like this was more than he ever thought would happen again. So it helps. A lot.

Back to less serious stuff, though. He glances down at the case.

"Huh?"

Oh. Pfft.

I'm just moving it. I thought I lost this thing.

[dustless]

Music? Music. As soon as they catch the sound Frisk is there, nevermind that they were a floor and several halls away before and end up panting a little bit when they get to the doorway.

And then they freeze, because--a part of them expected somebody new, 'cause nobody they know here could play something that involved, but...

...they'd met a Gaster once. Almost a year ago. And they've got...mixed feelings about him, or at least some versions of him thanks to the lab their brothers came from. But that might not...be this one.

Anyway--they're not going to interrupt until he's done. The songs are somehow nostalgic, and they're definitely nice to listen to.

[returnvoid]

It's a satisfying feeling, finishing and getting to relish in the sensation that he did that. So long drifting apparently hadn't deteriorated his ability, and for that he's glad.

As he sits back and glances over the room while he regathers himself, a few of the hands idly get to tapping out a simple, meaningless four note sequence repeatedly. They stop abruptly with a sharp, dissonant chord of a keyboardsmash when his gaze swings over to the human and every part of him goes rigid, including the still-manifested hands.

... Well.

There's a skeletal smile on the masklike face as a set of hands floats over to sign. His own stay folded within his lap.

Greetings, child.

[dustless]

Discordant, unexpected, they flinch back. A part of them expects attack, to need to dodge.

When the hands do nothing of the sort, Frisk straightens up and lifts their own.

Hello.

....He played music, so presumably he can hear, right? They say "Your music sounds nice," as well as trying to sign it still, just in case. Their hands are slow and stumbling, but it matches their words.

[returnvoid]

Does it? I was worried I had grown rusty. Pianos do not fall very often, and neither do craftsmonsters manage to acquire the materials for them much, so it is something of a difficult hobby to pursue.

Small talk. Their reaction is favorable, and had they any untoward intention they wouls have had all the opportunity to earlier, while he was distracted.

A break, as the hands stop, then mime for Frisk to come in further. He keeps his distance, though. Since the hands started signing, Gaster has been completely still other than to watch them.

I suppose all that simply means that it is even more of an endeavor worth pursuing. Ah, and I can hear you perfectly well. Feel free to speak however you are most comfortable.

[dustless]

Frisk gets closer. (But not too close.) They poke at a set of something that looks like chimes on the way, too. They like this room, it's one of their favorites.

"You can play stuff as much as you want here, but you'll prob'ly have a lot of listeners. An audience." They're still signing, and they add 'practice' in slow letters. "You new?"

[returnvoid]

Another break, though the sense of it this time seems somewhat more embarrassed. Disembodied as they are, there's still something exasperated (or defeated) in the way that the hands sign out: Of course it would be entirely too much to have asked for adequate soundproofing. What was I thinking.

Gaster raises his hands-- his actual ones, this time. The pair signing stills, then fades away into the magic that comprised it.

'New.' Implies there was an old.

Something about the smile alters, though besides his signing (which is sharp and economical, with hardly a wasted motion) he may as well have been a statue.

I suppose you mean to say that you have met another of myself before, or something similar?

[dustless]

Tilting their head, Frisk copies the sign for 'adequate soundproofing'. They've got no idea what it means. They truly do need practice.

They take a step closer, then to the side, eyeing a guitar for a heartbeat. They need to grab one of those to practice, too. Still not too close, he doesn't seem to want that.

"...Sort of. There's--was one once, a Gaster months and months ago. And I might've heard of...a you. And you just--you were surprised to see me, so you're probably a new person to the castle, too, right?" So many newcomers lately.

[returnvoid]

That, finally, seems to draw a reaction out of him, his figure drawing itself up straighter at the confirmation of a previous Gaster. New? If that is your criteria, then it seems I am, he signs, slowly. His own head tilts a little. Interesting.

Absently, while he mulls this over, he waves and a set of hands starts finger spelling out A-D-E-Q-U-A-T-E S-O-U-N-D-P-R-O-O-F-I-N-G at the same time that he points at where ears would be on his head if he had them, then brings both arms up in an x cross before finishing with two quick brushes of his hand over his left, loosely balled up into a fist. Sound. Block. Enough.

When the second set of hands finishes their spelling, Gaster repeats the last sign, springboarding off of it into another thought. Enough of my mistake, then. I will set aside the fact that there apparently was another iteration of myself... here, however long ago, for now.

I am rather more curious about how you would have heard about me at all.

[dustless]

Frisk studies his movements intently, copying them again, as well as saying "Adeket soundproofing" softly to themselves. "It's a castle, it's just made of rock and stuff I think. I dunno. I scared people when I hit the...that." They point to the shadowy back of the music room, where an organ so massive that it makes itself seem like part of the wall there. "Maybe somebody can make something that can block noises."

They never did get the story of why they hadn't really heard of Gaster underground.

"Well...there's some Sanses here. One told me 'bout you a little bit, you were his big brother." Unconsciously, Frisk draws up to be taller--not very helpful, they're tiny--and stops signing, balling their hands into fists in front of their chest. Their voice and expression are as calm as ever. "Then there's a Sans and Papyrus that're really young, and they came from a Gaster's lab."

[returnvoid]

Yes, it is all rather quaint. There are things that can be done, but they are complicated slightly by both that lovely specimen of an instrument and the malleable layout of this place, he starts with his own hands.

The rest of Would rather not impact the resonance of the room too much, but now do the rooms move within the walls, or do the walls move with the rooms? The walls could be taken apart, something installed into them, then reconstructed, but depending on how the rooms shift one could simply wind up having soundproofed one corner of the castle where the room it was intended for was no longer there... is passed off to the others in the room, not necessarily all matching sets either; his equivalent of distracted musing when it is nonverbal.

Most of his attention instead is fixed on the human child-- puffing up to be bigger, like some variants of avian monster-- in front of him.

Now why would-- he begins, before cutting himself off with something like an annoyed twist in his expression. Never mind, stupid question. 'Young' gives him a relative timeframe of sorts to sift through, though vaguely he already has an inclination of what sort of memories he'd find, based on the stance that the human has taken.

... Well, is what the sentiment is; Ah, I see, with an expression as neutral as Frisk's, is what the sign is. Well well well well.

His posture is unchanged, but something flickers briefly in his sockets and his smile sharpens as it widens.

That does alleviate a concern I had about you, then.

[dustless]

Eyes jump from set-of-hands to set-of-hands (handsets?), missing some but gleaning most of the meaning anyway.

They shrug. "Well. 'Pends on 'f you're shy. You could always close the door and put a sign up saying not to come in. Some people'll listen."

I see. Does he really?

They've got their own concerns, but might as well clear his up first. "What was it? That I was the kinda human that did killing?"

[returnvoid]

His signing is languid, the motions easy and spreading and almost lazy as he returns: That perhaps is one, but you do not have to kill to be cruel.

The other hands have stopped signing, instead hanging dead where they are as if in anticipation. Gaster continues, his manner nonchalant.

But that you would think, even if you were not aware of it, to challenge me for their sake, had it been necessary...

He claps, sharply, the sound ringing out. All the other hand disappear in the same motion.

I do not know what sort of person you may be, but it reflects well on you that you care for them, and that is all that I need to know, for the time being.