The smile falls and he stops. Everything goes still, lines of magic pulled taut, again.

"YOU ARE... SO TERRIBLY INSISTENT OF THAT."

There's an odd, unreadable mix of emotions on his face. He doesn't quite manage to school them away.

"OF ALL THE THINGS FOR YOU TO BELIEVE IN."

Guilt, again. The feeling is filtered, but it's another ache to add to the one permeating through his being. ...How absolutely tiresome.

"REGARDLESS OF WHO I AM. OR AM NOT," he says with a shake of his head, raising his other arm and spreading both wide as the bones arrange themselves appropriately. His speech is a bit more subdued than it was a moment earlier, and he can't make himself look at Sans.

"I AM DOING THIS NOW." Entirely flat. Whether helplessly so or resolved to it? "YOU SAY THIS IS NOT ME. IF THAT GASTER YOU MET WAS NOT ME. THEN WHAT DO YOU EXPECT TO ACCOMPLISH IN SAYING THAT? HE IS NOT HERE TO HEAR YOU. YOU CALL TO SOMEONE WHO CANNOT RESPOND."

Now he smiles again, but it's humourless. The bones rearrange, reshuffle, twisting into spiralling patterns around the two of them in preparation of another attack.

"AND IF I AM THAT GASTER, THEN. I DO NOT SEE WHY THIS WOULD NOT COLOUR YOUR PERCEPTION OF ME."

Once more. This time, the threads of purple magic twist along with the pattern of the bullets.