[halloween event open;] i see you hurting, i do what i can

[returnvoid]

[ a: early on; ]
'He is losing pieces of himself' is an overly alarmist phrasing. The edges of the darkness that clings to him are consistently and constantly flickering, and, yes, detaching themselves to vanish into the air, as if bleeding off nothingness from a source that is continually refilling itself. The phrasing implies that the process drains from him intrinsically in some way, and as best as he can figure it does not. It has not done him any harm thus far and even were it a slow, minute, but steady decline, he would have noticed it.

So then, the faint feeling of... drain, for lack of a better term, he feels somewhere at the core of his being must source from elsewhere. Perhaps a side effect of being as he is, mostly coalesced upon one point in time and able to interact? Perhaps a side effect of possibly having a quantifiable amount of magic again, and not allowing himself to regenerate it? Endless possibilities.

The edges of his self are less clearly defined than they were before the wave of changes had washed across some of the other castle residents. He'd watched and listened and kept his distance, let them settle. He doesn't realize that something has tangibly changed in himself until he attempts to push against a door to open it and instead falls through it and part of the floor on the other side, ending up halfway in the ground with a sharp electronic noise of surprise before he manages to pull himself out.

... He is back to intangible, it seems. He isn't sure where the closest mirror would be (perhaps the fountains would serve as a reflective surface, failing all else), but, looking down at the blurred outlines of his hands, he would not be surprised if it turned out he'd lost whatever solid form he'd had previous as well.

He'd braced himself for whatever his situation had been to be temporary. Ha ha. This is something he'd personally would have rather been wrong about...

... He needs to find. Someone. Wander throughout the castle in pursuit of that, see if he could still be perceived, or. Or if he'd been reduced to something like he was before, present, but nonetheless only ever capable of watching and letting things play out.

(There is a pinprick point of hollowness in him at the thought, and it is only set to grow.)

[ b; varying ]
"That's awful," he mutters to no one in particular, using the exercise of translating his own mismatched vocalizations into Aster as a grounding measure. Normally it isn't a particularly taxing endeavour. Now, though, the effort leaves him slumped as a formless black shadow in some out of the way corner, away from commotion, away from the sun because some exposure is simply an uncomfortably-too-hot and more than that it burns.

His thoughts will not stop intruding on themselves. They tangle in and around themselves to the point he can't tell where one ends and another begins. If he does not focus on his immediate surroundings then other environs overlap and blend together in his mind, some ones he hasn't ever seen himself but others have. Others bearing the name Gaster, whose memories of experimentation and hurt and love and LOVE and cruelty and apathy he possesses in fragments and shards without context but nonetheless are not him.

(Right?)

The ache in his SOUL has grown. Grown from a needle's point of emptiness to something larger, but it would not take much to fill it while it is still small. Better to stave it off while the hunger is a lesser pain. All he has to do is reach out and take.

"Absolutely... absolutely not. I would not." The shadow's form whips around in increasing agitation, tendrils of it lashing out aimlessly.

"I did not, do not, can not, ⌖✋☹☹ ☠⚐❄📬"

[ c; catch-all/wild card, hit me up with whatever and lemme know if you want for a specific kind of interaction; ]
Rather than avoid people, he's taken to trying to shadow the places that get the highest amounts of traffic. Is it out of concern for whatever else has happened and is continuing to happen?

Or does the prowling, looming shadow present a more foreboding figure than that?

[[ ooc planning/permissions post riight over this way. ]]

Comments

[itstheend]

It's dark, and Gaster is black on black, but skeletons have good night vision it seems, and their small eyelights adjust and easily make up the contrast several paces into the room.

They came to this isolated cellar for privacy, to avoid people. This world's track record when it comes to meetings going badly is not as high as the Underground's but they're sick of it. They want to be alone now, now that they can be alone.

It seems like someone else has had the same idea. Frisk would want them to go to him. Frisk would want them to see what's wrong, and it would be equal parts altruism and morbid curiosity, they know.

They're not Frisk, and Frisk isn't here. Chara begins to slowly back out, hoping they haven't been noticed and sacrificing speed for silence. They wince when they momentarily forget and the bone of their heel rasps against the stone.

[returnvoid]

The figure in the far corner freezes immediately at the noise.

Scraping, a rough sound. Rough surface. Familiar; bone. Sans, someone else? How many skeletons are in the castle?

Reality seems to flicker, or the shadows twist and curl and grow impermeable, just for a moment, and then

he's in front of them.

Small. Striped shirt, heart locket. Red. 999999999999—

"✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎ 👍︎☟︎✋︎☹︎👎︎📬︎ ⌖☟︎⚐︎✍︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ ✌︎☼︎☜︎ ⌖☟︎⚐︎ ✌︎☼︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎"

A few half-formed shapes spin into being around him briefly and wobble before falling apart.

"⌖☟︎✋︎👍︎☟︎ ⚐︎☠︎☜︎ ✌︎☼︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎"

[itstheend]

Chara themself freezes at the approach, locking up, eyelights shrunk to tiny pinpricks as they look up. They don't know why they're so scared of him. They've killed foes orders of magnitude tougher than themselves. That doesn't seem to matter right now. If they had a heart it would be racing.

Writing. Writing in the air, or as hand movements, as bullets or... just on black canvas. It. Hurts to look at, so they don't.

They let their hand drop to their stick, more of a stake now with the end having been bitten off, but still faithful. They try to reach for the feeling of their own magic, but it slips out of their grasp like quicksilver. They bristle, try to make themself seem bigger. There's no point in stealth now.

"I do not understand you," they state plainly, eyesockets narrowed. "Do not come any closer." They take a step back without looking, feeling for the base of the stairs with a foot.

[returnvoid]

"✡︎⚐︎✞ ☠︎☜︎✟☜︎☼︎ 👎︎⚐︎📬︎ ☠︎☜︎✟☜︎☼︎ 👎︎⚐︎📬︎ ☠︎⚐︎📬︎ ☼︎✌︎☼︎☜︎☹︎✡︎ 👎︎⚐︎📬︎ ✋︎ ☟︎✌︎✟☜︎ 💧︎☜︎☜︎☠︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎"

—9999999999999999—

"✡︎⚐︎✞ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎"

When his hands hold their form he gestures— I - SEE - YOU. When they do not, symbols impose themselves upon reality. He speaks aloud the entire time, and the shadows eddy in time with the cadence of what should be his words.

What is this. Skeleton? Human? Curious. Curious.

(But what is their SOUL?)

The darkness at the foot of his being curls outward and around, spreading and encompassing— but gives them their space as if respecting their request, despite their attempt at reaching for a weapon.

"✡︎⚐︎✞ ✌︎☼︎☜︎📬︎ ⌖☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ 🚩☼︎☜︎💧︎☜︎☠︎❄︎📬︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎ ✋︎💧︎📬︎📬︎📬︎ ✌︎ ☠︎⚐︎☠︎📫︎☪︎☜︎☼︎⚐︎ 🚩☼︎⚐︎👌︎✌︎👌︎✋︎☹︎✋︎❄︎✡︎ ❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ 👍︎⚐︎✞☹︎👎︎ 👌︎☜︎ 👎︎✌︎☠︎☝︎☜︎☼︎⚐︎✞💧︎ ❄︎⚐︎ ❄︎☟︎⚐︎💧︎☜︎ ✌︎☼︎⚐︎✞☠︎👎︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎"

His head cants and the motion is stiff.

"✋︎❄︎ ✋︎💧︎ ☼︎✞👎︎☜︎ ❄︎⚐︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ ✋︎☠︎❄︎☼︎⚐︎👎︎✞👍︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞☼︎💧︎☜︎☹︎☞︎ ⌖☟︎☜︎☠︎ ✌︎💧︎😐︎☜︎👎︎📬︎ 💧︎⚐︎📬︎✋︎ ✌︎💧︎😐︎ ✌︎☝︎✌︎✋︎☠︎📬︎"

"WHI👍︎☟︎ ARE Y⚐︎U?"

[itstheend]

It's also rude to menace people, but then Chara goes for that on the regular. Perhaps this is KARMA. Their SOUL is inverted, monster-white. So used to redness, that it's strange for them. But still their SOUL, futilely balking at the change placed on it, like when green, blue, purple...

Their heel taps against the stone of the first step, and they move up it, slowly drawing their stick and holding it out directly in front of them. One down... however many more to go, they didn't count. Hhhh, but they daren't take their eyelights from him, and they can't check if his shadows have gone behind them. Chara hates everything about this. The entrapment, the warbling static and blurring symbols, utterly meaningless, until like a radio briefly coming into tune...

Which, they think he asks. Not 'what', or 'who'. Which. An already difficult question, even if they weren't currently spooked and highly keyed up. They don't know how many Charas are here. They don't know what might set them apart. He seems angry. If they weren't already smiling by osseous default, they would be now.

"Not the genie," is all they can accurately supply. Fumble for the next step, hurry Chara. Voice even. Do not show weakness. The slightest slip and you're gone. "Who are you?"

What business do you have being this creepy, good sir.

[returnvoid]

"NO ONE." Despite its clarity as it's delivered he stops and seems frustrated with his own answer. "N⚐︎ O☠︎☜︎. ☠︎OT ONE. NO ONE S✋︎☠︎GLE EN❄︎ITY."

More accurate. Not better.

"✌︎☹︎☹︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎ 💧︎✌︎💣︎☜︎ ☼︎☜︎☝︎✌︎☼︎👎︎☹︎☜︎💧︎💧︎📬︎"

Aggravating. Resignation. Disquiet, distaste, a moment's clarity— what is he doing. This isn't the way things should be.

It is not. His form is discordant and shattered, spread far and thin. (It is supposed to be more like they are.)

He draws back, remaining where he is rather than following them as they inch slowly upwards. The shadows stretch.

"❄︎☜︎☹︎☹︎ 💣︎E 💧︎⚐︎💣︎☜︎❄︎H✋︎NG, CHIL👎︎."

"⌖HAT DO YO✞ WANT?"

[itstheend]

Helpful, Chara's traitor tongue wants to say, ironically being very unhelpful. Another step.

"I want to leave," they say bluntly, looking him directly in the face. "Unharmed." They won't attack until he does, they won't, they won't. This is too much for a recovering LVholic. "Do not stop me."

[returnvoid]

"YOU WANT TO LEAVE."

Clarity of voice, but toneless and flat.

"🚩EO🚩LE ☟︎AVE DO☠︎E MAN✡︎ T☟︎✋︎NGS. WHEN A☹︎☹︎ THEY WANTE👎︎ WAS TO LEAVE." The tilt of his head as he looks back at them is minimal, clinical. Someone observing minor phenomena, fascinating but inconsequential. (But inconsequential- that's a lie, isn't it?) "☠︎OT ALL ⌖ITHOUT HA☼︎💣︎ING OTHERS FO☼︎ IT.

"HOW... BRAVE OF YOU, THUS FAR."

[itstheend]

Not all without being harmed for it, they think, but don't say. The way he looks at them, as if through a microscope... sends shudders down their spine.

"Bravery has nothing to do with it," they snap instead, and then turn and begin to run. Bravery has nothing to do with it, but a little something called determination might.

[returnvoid]

"💣︎✋︎☝︎☟︎❄︎ ☟︎✌︎✞︎☜︎ 👌︎☜︎☜︎☠︎ 👌︎☜︎❄︎❄︎☜︎☼︎📬︎📬︎📬︎ ✋︎☞︎ ✋︎❄︎ 👎︎✋︎👎︎📬︎"

The shadows from earlier had managed to wrap around, it turns out, and they slam upwards as a wall laced with flickers of pale cyan. Far enough away that the child has time to stop before they run into the patient magic and cause themselves harm, close enough that it'll quickly become a problem as far as attempting to flee goes.

[itstheend]

Trapped.
They're trapped.
They snap to a halt inches from the cyan barrier.

Chara loses all sense of rational thought, the entire world narrowing to trapped and get out NOW

"Let. Me. Out!" They howl at him, fists clenched, and then they step back for a run up and race towards the magic wall in the direction they think the door was. They're gonna cause themself harm, because either this will kill them, or it won't, and if it won't they'll have a second of invincibility to push through with.

[returnvoid]

Observation: would rather harm themselves than either stay or attack the caster of the barrier in attempt to flee. Preference of escape over combat... Tentatively favorable. Dangerous mindset, still, paired with determination.

Distantly a part of him thinks that he did not quite mean for things to escalate in this way. Most of him would rather try to figure this out, because the castle is dangerous after all, and even children, a child s—hould not—?

Stop. Stop. Stop. His thoughts are disorganized. They are wrong. This is wrong. He is wrong. He is in front of them and he doesn't remember moving.

"🚩-PLEASE HOLD STILL," he rasps. "T☟︎IS WILL BE... JUST A MOMENT. IT WILL NOT HURT YOU. ✋︎ WILL NOT HURT YOU."

Not without reason, at least. He just. He needs to see. A proper form to center his thoughts, a chance (to know who they are and what they've done and what they intend)/(to settle them down however possible and remove them from the situation without them harming themselves or encountering others in their current state).

It is less of a lunge and more of a surge, all of him fading out before moving.

cw child abuse

[itstheend]

Everything feels dislocated, underwater. Sounds swim in and out of focus, the only clear thing their heartbeat rushing in their ears... but they don't have one? Why are they bone? What happened?

Hold still, you little demon. I don't want to have to hurt you, but I will if you keep this up. Stop squirming, brat, this won't take long.

He appears in front of them, he is in their way and the noise they make at him is indescribable, loud and raw (an attempt to fry eardrums that don't exist), a animalistic scream of anger and fear, and they strike at him with the Stick because at least that way they'll have gotten a bite in, they'll have deserved whatever comes next.

It goes right through him as he lunges.

b

[trombones]

Even distorted and electronic, Sans could pick up on Gaster's voice from a mile away. Even distorted and electronic, Sans could hear something was wrong through the mess. Whatever Gaster was talking about, something was up.

Now human, Sans was all too aware of how much heavier his footsteps were as he stepped up to Gaster's out-of-the-way corner. The whipping shadows are sign enough to keep his distance until he knows what's going on.

"Doc?"

The former monster stands stiffly from a distance, body language apprehensive, expression unsure; still vague, but a lot easier to tell on a face with skin on it. He unpockets a hand to run it through curled, greasy hair.

"You doin' okay?"

Stupid question. It breaks the ice anyway.

[returnvoid]

Whoever it is who just came in shines like a beacon in a metaphysical sense, and it splits him in two ways such that Gaster's in no state to pay their approaching footsteps any mind until they actually speak.

Someone familiar. Sans.

That. That will require addressing.

"☠︎⚐︎. YES," he manages, sounding as breathless as he actually can. He cringes against the far corner, still formless and mutable. "IT'S NOTHING. JUST. JUST A MOMENT."

With a shaky, interference-ridden breath, he works at resolving his form into something coherent. He will need it.

"✡︎⚐︎✞ 💧︎☟︎⚐︎✞☹︎👎︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ HAVE 👌︎☜︎EN ☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎," he says, tiredly, once he resembles something more than a shadow again. Idly he smooths out his body, tucks in stray wisps as if they'd personally offended him, as he works to rid his voice of any lingering static.

He looks Sans over, studying, searching. "I AM SORRY YOU HAD TO SEE—OR HEAR—THAT. I SUPPOSE. I DISTURBED YOU?"

[trombones]

You should not be here. Heh. Sans gives a low, nervous chuckle.

"Tell me something I don't know, dude."

The former monster was referring more to this place as a whole - the castle, this dimension, everything - if only because he doesn't know how to respond to... well. Everything else.

He watched quietly as Gaster literally put himself together. It's not as unusual as it could be. Not for monsters who were used to all kinds of magic. But knowing Gaster, knowing his condition... Sans just felt more uneasy. Yeah. Something was up.

"Not... really. I just wanted to see if you were okay. So what was 'that'?"

[returnvoid]

"'THAT?' WHAT JUST HAPPENED, YOU MEAN? AN UNFORTUNATE SIDE-EFFECT, I'M AFRAID."

A thin, wan smile. One of his hands—disembodied—comes up such that he can rest his head on it. The other waves it off vaguely, indicating nothing. Everything. Something.

"NOT THE WORST SOMEONE HAS SUFFERED IN THE PAST FEW WEEKS, I AM SURE. DO NOT THINK TOO HARD ON IT."

Not the most elegant dismissal, but if Sans will worry then let him worry. There is little to be done to assuage that. His eyelights are bright as he watches Sans back.

"YOU YOURSELF HAVE CHANGED... HAVE YOU NOT?"

[trombones]

"Of... being you, I'm guessing?"

Sans isn't convinced. He has a feeling that's not quite it, but it's the only thing he has to go on.

"It's kind of hard not to, doc, but - if you don't want to talk about it, I guess I can't stop you," He says with a sigh, then looks down at himself. Gut, skin, hair and all. "And yeah, I did. Guess the castle thought I needed a makeover."

[returnvoid]

"WHATEVER THE CASTLE HAS DONE COMPOUNDING AN EXISTING CONDITION, MORE LIKE," he corrects mildly. Perhaps if he dispenses the information freely then the matter would seem more trivial, or be less prone to catastrophizing.

His smile twists somewhat, growing to resemble more of a grimace— but only briefly."...IT IS LESS THAT I DO NOT CARE TO TALK ABOUT IT AND MORE THAT IT IS OF LITTLE IMPORT, IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF THINGS. ANY CONCERN YOU MAY HAVE... IS MISPLACED."

Now that he's more put together, he glides slowly toward the former monster.

"QUITE FASCINATING REALLY, WHAT THE CASTLE CAN DO. TO CHANGE THE VERY MAKEUP OF ONE'S BEING, DOWN TO THEIR VERY ESSENCE... IS NO SMALL MATTER." A pause, weighty. "BUT... THAT WAS NEVER IN QUESTION, I SUPPOSE.

"AFTER ALL. I AM HERE."

[trombones]

"All honesty, doc? It's kind of hard not to be when you word it like that."

Regardless, Sans drops it. Because now Gaster is sliding towards him, and something about it makes him even more uneasyl.

"... Heh. No kidding. I mean, I ain't exactly thrilled about the human thing, but... yeah. Pretty interesting."

[returnvoid]

"WOULD YOU RATHER THAT I SAID IT WAS NOT A PROBLEM? I AM ONLY BEING HONEST."

That is... tension, uneasiness, there in the set of Sans' features. Recognizable despite or because of the changes in his body. And yet Sans doesn't back away. Quaint.

He draws up a short distance in front of Sans, tapping a finger against the bottom of his jaw in thought. "FLESH AND BONE AND BLOOD. HMM. I HAVE... A QUESTION FOR YOU."

His smile is mild.

"DO YOU TRUST ME, SANS?"

[trombones]

"I'd rather you just come out and say it."

Also WOWWWW this is gonna be awkward. Sans is quiet for a long time.

"... Mostly."

[returnvoid]

"...PITY."

His smile warps. It seems almost sad, rueful for a heartbeat or two. But his magic flares despite the burn at his core, and the shadows surrounding them distort and stretch tall to flood the area then weave into something like a cage, tinted with the same deep violet that gleams in his good socket.

"✡︎⚐︎✞ 💧︎☟︎⚐︎✞☹︎👎︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ ☟︎✌︎✞︎☜︎. NOT NOW."

You're...

Purple, now. Blue magic is heavy; weighted, measured, principled. Purple is sticky; it lingers, persists.

Perhaps he may owe the former monster at least some explanation. Perhaps he is supposed to monologue.

"PERHAPS YOU ARE ALREADY AWARE," he says. "WHATEVER ELSE THE CASTLE IS CAPABLE OF... IT IS CERTAINLY CAPABLE OF AFFECTING THE SOUL. YOURS... AND MINE BOTH."

[trombones]

Purple's not unfamiliar. Sans saw that spider girl in Hotland do something similar. He had stood still, frozen at the magic flaring, the shadows growing. He wasn't sure why -- surprise and confusion probably -- but now he was cursing himself as he tried to jerk away and realized he couldn't move.

Some random thought in the back of his mind wonders if this is how the kid felt.

Doubly cursing his additional weight, he tries to twist his body to the side, as if makes himself any less uncomfortably close to Gaster.

What the hell.

"Da.... doc, what... come on. I don't know what you're talking about, but knock it off."

[returnvoid]

There it is again, that almost-address. It brings him up short, gives him pause, stops everything; forces his features still and blank.

"...YOU KEEP DOING THAT."

He wishes Sans wouldn't. It's unnecessarily sentimental, and likely inaccurate to boot. He manages to meet Sans' gaze for a long, quiet moment, before Gaster looks away. Doing this would feel like less of a betrayal, incur less guilt, if there weren't any trust to break.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT, SANS. TAKEN YOUR HUMAN SOUL," he sighs, drawing himself up, though he doesn't make any other move yet, "AND LEFT UNTIL THIS TOOK CARE OF ITSELF."

'This' turns out to be the state of his SOUL; revealed for a fraction of a moment, far dimmer than it ever was in the music room, and strained that the once-fine lines stretching across stand out starkly in jagged gouges against the inverted heart.