Their efforts chip away at a barrier of sorts, but he reinforces that divide as best as he can, holds himself together in patchwork whole while he searches.
Retribution, retribution, retribution. For a moment, their eyes flare gold. The memories reach him too and briefly the scale of his own magic ebbs in their favor (because he is the one wronging them and so were they by the voice in their memory) until the delayed backlash of their own disproportionate retribution catches up, horror and realization dampened by the part of him that dispassionately slots the piece of the puzzle into place, not a perfect fit but close enough to work.
Ballet shoes and knives. LOVE, dust, an open bridge, a golden hallway. 99999999999999999999. No matter how much else changes, the same patterns time and time again reoccur.
He doesn't so much flinch back as they fight back as the blanket numbness of their senses momentarily recedes-- before reasserting itself even more heavily, if shakily, as if to swaddle them in (dis)comforting nothingness. No harm, no harm, no intent. They are unhurt. They will be okay. They are all right, and they have his deepest apologies for something he never should have done (it was necessary, look what they've done).
It is while he is attempting to reassure them of that that something gives. They manage to reach at what they are tearing so single-mindedly at, the information spilling freely but
none of it makes sense.
Flashes of memory contradicting themselves come unbidden to the space in between them. They are all disjointed and none tie together, and Gaster loses himself in the flood.
He cares for the whole of the Underground. He cares only for his family. He doesn't have family. He cares for nothing and no one. He cares only for his experiments, and damn the consequences.
(A scene of younger skeletons in the snow. Another of the same skeletons crumbling at his hand on an operating table. A field on the surface littered with bodies; a childhood scavenging the trash heaps of Waterfall. Friendship with the royal family. Unfamiliar awe when he is called to them. The king inquiring about his methods and the flash of irritation that results.)
He cares only for himself, for his place, for his existence, and he won't be forgotten. A bitter resentment for how after all he'd sacrificed, all his work was credited to others who hadn't even contributed a fraction of the same. Disbelieving anger that after everything, a human was the one who freed monsterkind in the end. Joy for their escape. Helplessness that he cannot join them. Acrimony for how no one even tried to do anything, ever questioned that anything was wrong when the CORE grew out of nothing. He cannot blame them. He would make them regret it. Forget me, he asks; don't forget, he demands.
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oh god chara what have you done
Date: 2016-10-25 04:20 am (UTC)Retribution, retribution, retribution. For a moment, their eyes flare gold. The memories reach him too and briefly the scale of his own magic ebbs in their favor (because he is the one wronging them and so were they by the voice in their memory) until the delayed backlash of their own disproportionate retribution catches up, horror and realization dampened by the part of him that dispassionately slots the piece of the puzzle into place, not a perfect fit but close enough to work.
Ballet shoes and knives. LOVE, dust, an open bridge, a golden hallway. 99999999999999999999. No matter how much else changes, the same patterns time and time again reoccur.
He doesn't so much flinch back as they fight back as the blanket numbness of their senses momentarily recedes-- before reasserting itself even more heavily, if shakily, as if to swaddle them in (dis)comforting nothingness. No harm, no harm, no intent. They are unhurt. They will be okay. They are all right, and they have his deepest apologies for something he never should have done (it was necessary, look what they've done).
It is while he is attempting to reassure them of that that something gives. They manage to reach at what they are tearing so single-mindedly at, the information spilling freely but
none of it makes sense.
Flashes of memory contradicting themselves come unbidden to the space in between them. They are all disjointed and none tie together, and Gaster loses himself in the flood.
He cares for the whole of the Underground. He cares only for his family. He doesn't have family. He cares for nothing and no one. He cares only for his experiments, and damn the consequences.
(A scene of younger skeletons in the snow. Another of the same skeletons crumbling at his hand on an operating table. A field on the surface littered with bodies; a childhood scavenging the trash heaps of Waterfall. Friendship with the royal family. Unfamiliar awe when he is called to them. The king inquiring about his methods and the flash of irritation that results.)
He cares only for himself, for his place, for his existence, and he won't be forgotten. A bitter resentment for how after all he'd sacrificed, all his work was credited to others who hadn't even contributed a fraction of the same. Disbelieving anger that after everything, a human was the one who freed monsterkind in the end. Joy for their escape. Helplessness that he cannot join them. Acrimony for how no one even tried to do anything, ever questioned that anything was wrong when the CORE grew out of nothing. He cannot blame them. He would make them regret it. Forget me, he asks; don't forget, he demands.
He won't let himself fade away.