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castle_perrault[ 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. ]]
'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. ]]
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-21 09:16 pm (UTC)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.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-22 06:44 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2016-10-22 10:54 pm (UTC)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.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-24 12:37 am (UTC)Any active connections to the magic around them cut off, the wall and twisting shadows vanishing as if they were never there. There's a beckoning flicker of warmth at the center of their being but he bypasses it, forgoes it ignores it, he said he would not harm them and he won't, though an echo of the memory in the forefront of their mind sears itself into his awareness, and- ...ah.
Past. Cause. Reasoning. They have not seen much kindness. (A start. What else is there to find.)/(He should leave that be. This will be doing enough damage already.)
Settling into another form is strange. Part of him casts out for the knowledge he's seeking, who are they what have they done what do they want
how can he deal with it. It doesn't hurt but there's a distinct feeling of disconnect, of hollowness that isn't chased away by something concrete. Pieces are arranged how they should, but the way they come together is wrong. Limbs are too short and it feels like squeezing into a space too small. No room for someone else.It's stable and it's better than it was before. It's. It is. It's not his. What is he doing?
"...Please," he says, quietly, ignoring the foreign sensation of hearing another's voice coming from a mouth that isn't his and the creeping feeling of how even like this (because of this), everything is wrong, wrong, wrong. There's a brief flare of frustration at the thought, quashed as quickly as he can, but he's angry with himself, with the situation, with the hunger that just won't go away.
He brings their hands to their their chest, over where their sternum would be. "You are all right. You are unhurt. I will release you shortly. I need only a moment."
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-24 11:26 am (UTC)They feel violated. Sharp, disjointed memory shakes like earthquakes, horrified terror and impotent, hateful rage and the inescapable crush of trapped. No pain, not even from cuts and bruises inflicted on the other on the moments of surfacing.
But you'll just use it to hurt people!
I thought... I'll just do this, I'll just do that, and then, I'd give it back...
Chara is not thinking, per se. They're a ball of sound and fury, signifying nothing as they throw themselves mindlessly at his control over and over, apparently heedless of his words.
More memory. What they did to the last person who did this. A caking of dust on skin; powder, then sludge, then something hard like ceramic. A vicious ripping attempt to search his own mind in turn, laser-focused on one thing; who would he like to lose least. Because there will be consequences.
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.
cw child abuse continues
Date: 2016-10-25 05:42 am (UTC)His mind... his mind makes no sense. The broken, disjointed images... it hurts. They catch skeletons in the surge, over and over, the same but different, and they see him.
The thing he would like to lose least is himself? Good. The sting of KARMA fades.
And they seethe. What is meant to be soothing swaddling feels more like a straightjacket and they struggle madly in it. How can he say no harm, when he is harming them right now!? What kind of imbecile is he, that he thinks intent matters over actuality? This was never something that anyone should have done, but, hahahahaha, Chara can be the exception! Dangerous, feral, Chara. I don't know how you put up with a child like that. Chara, that should be locked up for their own good, but more importantly the good of others, because they're uncontrollable and lethal, because of course being good is impossible for a demon, it's so sad what has to be done.
...maybe it's right. A flicker; glowing blue puppet strings and shattering glass. Abruptly, active escape attempts or memory excavations cease, and Chara pulls back and curls in on themself, coating themself and their memories with thorns and sharp things and armored plating to the best of their ability but staying immoble.
Their human SOUL, inverted and bleached, can no longer produce Determination, after all.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-26 06:17 am (UTC)The wedge he'd shoved between himself and his other memories is gone. Compartmentalization was how he'd dealt with the effects of omnipresence, always observing never being, and granted sometimes the lines bled across themselves, especially recently, but never quite like this.
Gaster has to work at picking himself up out of the mess. Their memories bleed through but they are sorted. The most flagrantly out of line of his own are swept aside, discarded for later organization. The rest... is where it gets messy. He was, he was not, he was, was not...
Was W. D. Gaster as he'd thought himself to be ever real, or had he just vainly been scrabbling to hold on to the parts of him that made him feel less guilty for the things he had or hadn't done, shutting out and denying his worse aspects? Playing at being mild-mannered and well-intentioned and harmless when he is anything but. Perhaps it had been an accident, or perhaps W. D. Gaster martyred himself and no one dared remember him. Not even himself.
Ha, ha.
Perhaps the world had the right of it after all. 'W. D. Gaster' never existed. But he does, and he will cling to that, and that is all there is to it.
HP 6░6▒27/6▓█▓66
Intent isn't everything, they have that right. It can dull a blow but the blow still remains one regardless. Were he in a better state of mind he would have known from the start what KARMA would have done. But, in that same vein, were he in a better state of mind this would not have happened at all.
What was he thinking, really. It stands to reason he hadn't been at all.
They curl in on themselves and he extricates himself with the precision of an obsidian sharp scalpel. His form solidifies as he does so and he plaits his hands behind his back while he examines them.
LV 1, HP 18/20.
Their hands are stained with dust, but not in this iteration of the present. Whether temporary or not, the current clarion concord of his parts makes his thoughts and conclusions come more quickly and easily than they had for the past while.
They are a possible, probable danger, and he could end them.
They are a child, lashing out at those who have wronged them.
They are a fire raging impotently that should not be fed.
Then.
His eyes, lightless, shutter closed and he leans in over them, smile too fixed and too sharp.
Then let them burn themselves out.
... HP 20/20.
congrats gaster no other gasters are safe
Date: 2016-10-26 09:19 am (UTC)Mentally locked in their protective shell, they can't easily tell what's happening outside it by design. Reconstitution, and a withdrawal, but how far or in anticipation of what, they don't know.
A number goes up.
They don't know how long they stay like that, but 'forever' is, sadly, impossible. Eventually, fingertips twitch, curl and scrape on stone.
Lights flicker back on in their eyesockets. They are filled with h a t e.
he'll have to apologize after rediscovering the sympathy he broke putting himself together wrong oop
Date: 2016-10-26 12:49 pm (UTC)By the time they stir back to awareness, he is long gone, having dissolved into nothing as he vanishes through a wall to... something. Perhaps have another crisis of self, or find something to fill that starving ache. Who knows.
(On the ground in front of them, there's a piece of something.
1x Bad Memory.)