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

[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.

[dustless]

The clap makes them jump. Why. Was that necessary.

"...I guess not. And I guess you're not theirs." Hopefully.

They relax their stance, flexing their fingers. They pause and glance down at them, only just realizing that they'd stopped signing.

They get back to it. "What kind of person are you, then? Where-when are you from?"

[returnvoid]

Absolutely. He needs to check to see how jumpy you are and your general reaction to surprises while he's actually prepared for it. The chord earlier could have been anything from a reaction to the quality of the sound, to having been caught watching, to fear of an unfamiliar monster, and so forth.

Or maybe he just has a taste for the dramatic. He'd eyed the pipe organ, earlier, when they pointed over to it.

Who is he, though? He makes as if to respond, before freezing, his hands making short, abortive motions as he struggles to consolidate himself.

He knows who he is. At least he thinks he knows. He is--

I am-- I am-- I am--

He is a father, a brother, a friend a creator a savior a source of pain and misery--

I am. Not, he forces himself to sign, from any timeframe you would be familiar with.

[dustless]

Frisk eyes him, arms crossing (and then uncrossing, because signing).

"That didn't look...good." Or reassuring, or made sense.

...Whatever. They flick their hands towards the door. "When did you get here?"

[returnvoid]

I. Sorry. I will attempt to refrain from... any repeat incidents. Said like it was under his control in the first place. A few traces of shakiness smooth out as he signs. Apparently attempting to narrow his self definition down to a point of singularity didn't end well.

(Inwardly he is a lot more troubled than he lets on, considering that he's attempting to maintain at least a veneer of being a functional being in front of the child. He knows who he is, hadn't lost himself that much, so why does it feel like his entire being plunges into static as soon as he attempts to grasp hold of something concrete?)

A. While ago? He thinks it over. He'd never been good at telling the passage of time, given how many times he'd had to be dragged away from his work at odd hours of the morning. Surely he could estimate, though?

... He gives it up as a bad job and answers instead, honestly, Some time ago. I couldn't say how long, since I stayed in a room for much of the time and nothing changed in it until... well, I hadn't realized the room led anywhere, or that I could leave it.

[dustless]

Something odd scratches in the back of their head. Something about the way he said that was...familiar. They don't think that Gaster they'd met signed like that--although that was nearly a year ago. They could've just forgotten.

Frisk gut insists that's wrong.

...They've got time to figure it out.

"Oh. Well--have you gone and looked at the castle much? Did you get anybody to tell you about it yet?"

[returnvoid]

No? His head tilts. I did not expect for there to be guided tours. I was capable of exploring on my own, so didn't think to... get someone, and impose on their time. The one person I did meet, I was more concerned with their state of being.

Neither did he really want to involve himself with too many people unnecessarily, in case... this, whatever this was, didn't last.

I confess I grew rather excited when I found this room. A distraction, perhaps, but a pleasant one. I just hadn't meant to disturb anyone, but that was my mistake.

[dustless]

Frisk tilts their head to match. "Who?" Is somebody hurt? Did Killer Croc get somebody else?

They can definitely understand getting distracted by this room. It's a great place, they frequent it often and try to figure out how to play the instruments on their own. It doesn't really work, but it's still fun!

"I can show you around, 'f you want. There's food and stuff. Don't think anyone cares about the music as long as you don't smash your hands on the giant thing and make it super loud." They point at the organ again.

[returnvoid]

The funny thing about organs is that they will be loud no matter how gently you try to play them. A soft touch and a hard smash both produce the same volume, unlike a pianoforte. A soft laugh, still focusing on compartmentalization and distraction; two short, static notes. And I suspect... from the size of that giant thing, whomever crafted it had grandness in mind, so. Super loud, indeed. But, ah, that will not be necessary? I don't need to eat.

Gaster sits back on the piano bench, the edges of his coat wisping around in a nonexistent breeze and trailing on the ground. Bits and pieces of it seem to detach and evaporate every so often, but it never loses any mass.

They were an automaton or android of some sort. He takes care to finger spell automaton and android, remaining sparse with details in case-- to allow for a degree of privacy. Toshi had much seemed to want to be alone, then. The circumstances may or may not have changed since then, but regardless it's not his business to speak about even if he knew.

He was not injured or malfunctioning as far as I could tell, but he'd seemed distressed.

[dustless]

"...organs?" Frisk has a vivid, gross mental image of the human sort before the truth dawns on them. "Oh, that's what that is? And, um, even if you do it soft, if you hit a bunch of them at once then it gets...echo-y."

Automaton, android. They'd never heard of that first word.

"...oh. Yeah." Toshi. They decide not to peruse the subject just yet.

"Don't need to or can't?" The castle's probably not going to run out of food.

[returnvoid]

Yes, pipe organs can be very... Echo-y. Part of what their designers meant for them, I think. Grand, loud, big, dramatic.

But with the next question, he's about to respond before he realizes: they have a point. Hmm. Ask me again when I know the answer to that question for sure.

I have not needed to eat in my entire time here and for some time before that, he clarifies, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I can't, now that you bring up the subject.

[dustless]

That sounds useful, not having to eat. Not being able to, though--that's a bit of a pity.

"There's lots of good food here...well, it starts good. It's stuff like cakes and fruits and berries, and there's more stuff in the kitchens, if you can find them. I'm usually stuck with the cake and fruits. They taste really good, but they get sort of gross after you eat just them for a long time." Frisk nods matter-of-factly.

[returnvoid]

... I think I could do with some tomato pie. His sign for tomato, rather than just being one sign, is a combination of cut, red, and round. The nonexistent wind playing at the bottom hem of his coat seems just that little bit more active now.

If there are ingredients in the kitchens and the appropriate equipment rather than just the already-prepared foods... I might be able to put something together. Gaster inclines his head a little. That is, if you would care for it. It would be a shame to go to the effort of baking only to find out in the end that I cannot actually eat after all.

[dustless]

"Never had...that kind, I think." His not-hem reminds them of Asgore's cape, for some reason.

"There's equipment. It's old stuff, not really electric or anything, but you can probably make that. definitely some kinds of pie. There's--oh!" 'There's lots of ingredients in the garden', they were going to say, but it occurs to them finally that he's a monster--he's lived underground, probably his whole life, and so they shift from mostly-calm to quite literally bouncing and pointing. "Did--did--did you go outside yet?"

[returnvoid]

I have something of a fondness for it. Papyrus, Gaster starts, the namesign coming out freely and unconsciously before he realizes the child in front of him would likely not be familiar with the sign. P-A-P-Y-R-U-S has his spaghetti. S-A-N-S his catsup. This is mine.

Electricity will not be a problem. We had little of it before the CORE. It will be... just like old times. There is something wry in the set of his grin before he blinks, eyelights flickering alight at the sudden change in temperament.

No. Outside?

[dustless]

Right, so this guy is probably-definitely related to their favorite brothers. They file that away for later.

"Yeah! Outside! There's an outside and it's super pretty! Let's go let's go let's go!"

Frisk jumps forward and make a sort of grabby motion at his hand. They'd like to physically pull him along behind them, but they won't force it-although they will insist he goes outside.

[returnvoid]

He offers it freely to them when they grab at it- bone, although something about it feels strangely hard to keep hold of- though with one hand occupied his surprise ends up verbal.

"☝︎⚐︎⚐︎👎︎☠︎☜︎💧︎💧︎📪︎ ✋︎📬︎ ⌖✌︎✋︎❄︎📪︎ 🚩☹︎☜︎✌︎💧︎☜︎📪︎ ☟︎⚐︎☹︎👎︎ ⚐︎☠︎ ☺︎✞💧︎❄︎ ✌︎ 💣︎⚐︎💣︎☜︎☠︎❄︎," for him to pull the fallboard back over the keys with his other hand, anyway, "✋︎ ✌︎💣︎ 👍︎⚐︎💣︎✋︎☠︎☝︎📪︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎ ✋︎💧︎ ☠︎⚐︎ ☠︎☜︎☜︎👎︎ ❄︎⚐︎ ☼︎✞💧︎☟︎ 💧︎⚐︎ 💣︎✞👍︎☟︎📪︎ ✋︎💧︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎✍︎"

[dustless]

Hard, but not hard enough to resist their DETERMINATION.

"Dunno what you're saying, sorry," they say, holding on and sort of vibrating in place. He doesn't seem to be refusing--and who cares about fixing the piano up, it'll be fine!

They just so love it when monsters get to see the sky. They tug a little more, beckoning with their free hand. Come onnn.

[returnvoid]

He lets out a sound that might be a laugh-- it's breathless and static threads through it, but he attempts to smile reassuringly down anyway. "❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✋︎💧︎ ✌︎☹︎☹︎ ☼︎✋︎☝︎☟︎❄︎📬︎ 💣︎⚐︎💧︎❄︎ 🚩☜︎⚐︎🚩☹︎☜︎ 👎︎⚐︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎📬︎" he says.

But it's so nice, an instrument like that should be properly taken care of... Gaster gets to his feet and more glides away from the piano than properly steps away from it when they tug. They are certainly eager, and far be it for him to quash that, especially when the situation feels so terribly nostalgic.

(A different hand on his, but still.)

He nods along. All right, all right.

[dustless]

(As much as Frisk enjoys music, they don't know much about the proper upkeep of many instruments yet.)

"Let's go!" they say again, and drag him along.

They think the castle might be trying to help them, 'cause it takes a lot less time than it usually does for the clouds to part within and without, sunlight streaming in through glassless windows.

They're enthusiastic enough that they kick open the door to the gardens, and some of it splinters, but that's fine, the doors don't really do anything anyway. And then they let go, waving at the trees and grass and flowers grandly. "Look!" Frisk is looking at his face more than at everything they're trying to show.

[returnvoid]

He's very light, it turns out. Very easy to drag along, which is exactly what happens, one awkwardly tall skeleton being led around by a child half his height, if that.

The light streaming through the windows reminds him of another hallway in the Underground, one of the few places to get natural light. Gold flowers and windows and walkways, the associations come to mind unbidden and he has to blink back some of the worse ones, focusing elsewhere. Asgore's Judgment Hall has seen hope, too.

(Light, though...)

He doesn't react to their kicking open the door, outside of the line of his mouth going thin in bemusement, but as soon as he's pulled through and let go-

"📬📬📬⚐︎☟📬"

he stumbles a little, ungracefully, before catching himself in a flutter of wisp and shadow. That's. That's right. Not-the-Underground and light implies... How silly of him. Just because he'd been limited to watching the Underground—and only the Underground—for so long doesn't imply that he should forget something so basic.

It's warm, is the first thing he notices while staring up at the sun. Warm in a different way from the oppressive heat of what he remembers of Hotland.

...This was what he'd wanted. For everyone in the Underground, for his...— for Sans and Papyrus, because even after the CORE a more comfortable cage was still a cage. Driven himself into the ground for this, and...

Gaster blinks his eyesockets shut, reopening them once he's turned his head to look back down at the child, hands folded tightly behind him and expression somewhere between wistful and awed. It takes him a moment to cast for the right pattern of nonsense sounds to would make his speech intelligible to others, but.

"'...Look?' I am looking," he begins, slowly. The corner of his mouth curves up in a lopsided smile. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

[dustless]

They almost tell him to cover his eyes instead of looking up, but--he's a skeleton. Skeletons don't have eyes that'll water (from that, anyway) or burn out.

Frisk watches him, and they listen to the gentle breeze rustling some of the treetops. It's a lot to take in, isn't it? Not at all like Asgore's garden, or the wilds of Snowdin, or the fields of wild(?) Echo Flowers in Waterfall.

...He can speak the way they can, and that's a surprise. Frisk blinks at him a few times before jumping and throwing their arms out again, though a little more upward this time. They look like they've been plucked from the middle of a jumping-jack.

"Everything! 'Cause it's pretty! And it's cool! And it's different! And there's probably stuff you want to look at, right? And-and-and food--and ingredients to look for."

[returnvoid]

"Whah- One thing at... a time, child." He can, but doesn't often employ it. Speaking this way isn't really taxing or difficult, but it does take some amount of effort, especially when it all sounds like gibberish to him. Whatever the nature of the magical interference surrounding his communication—font skeleton morphological quirk, where magic affected the perception of their words by others—it could be, well, cheated. Akin to a cipher, but that only means there's a certain pattern of sound that translates back through the filter understandable to those who weren't accustomed to his speech. Not all monsters he worked with ever learned hands, and it wasn't as if he'd always have an interpreter on hand.

It still was painstaking work, figuring out what mapped to what by trial and error. He's fairly sure he'd insulted Sans more than once by accident during that period.

...Ah, he'd gotten distracted.

"If you left me... to look at everything I wanted to, I fear we would never leave here," he says, leaning over to not quite tower so much over them. "Better to stay focused. Ingredients?"

[dustless]

Frisk would think that was cool if he explained it. They sort of realize it's an effort, but he can go back to signing whenever he wants, so they don't call him out on it.

"I don't have anything else to do," they counter, standing on their tip-toes. "But...'kay. There's tomatoes! Somewhere. We can start walking and probably find them by accident."

[returnvoid]

It makes for practice and readjustment with an audience who probably isn't going to laugh too much at him for messing anything up (namely: Sans, among others). Isolation makes one's communication skills rusty, it turns out, but he can't expect everyone to understand signing, so he'll make the effort now when it isn't so critical.

"We do have an agenda, do we not? But of course this place would be that way. I suppose there's nothing to do for it." He sighs a little, wispy and stuttering, but it's half hearted. "The scenic route it is, then. I take it you like this area?"