[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

[trombones]

"I dunno. I think he can hear me just fine."

Gaster's reaction said plenty. Sans lets go of his shoulder and gives a one-handed shrug. There's blood on his palm.

"And this castle's doing things to us. All of us. You included," He says as he pushes out another long, slow breath. He exhales just in time to dodge again, this time a little better than before. The sting in both his cheek and shoulder are distracting sensations, but he manages to do it well enough with a quick sidestep.

When a moment's pause passes, he brings that bloody hand to his chest.

"But the thing is, doc... speaking of the other guy, I still got that piece of him in me. So I can't really let you have my soul. Whatever you are or aren't. Sorry."

[returnvoid]

"...'LET ME', YOU SAY."

Whatever his laughter had sounded like before, now the static that bursts from him is high and dense and harsh. It's funny. It's so funny, he laughs, and laughs, and doesn't stop laughing.

What? He didn't do that?

"I WAS NOT UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT I HAD BEEN ASKING NICELY, SANS."

His eyesockets shutter closed.

"BUT THAT IS ALL RIGHT. I WAS NOT EXPECTING THIS TO BE EASY. EVEN IF THIS IS THE RESULT OF WHAT THE CASTLE HAS DONE..."

He brings a hand to his own chest with a grimace, briefly, as if mirroring Sans, before lacing his hands together, folding them behind his back. Flanking him, two floating dragon skulls coalesce into being, carving their way into reality with the low hum of energy being charged.

They and more will fire directly down and along the violet lines of magic that Sans is bound to, sequentially and continually, and sometimes with erratic timing. Keep moving.

[trombones]

"You weren't. I just wanted you to know."

Usually, protecting himself wasn't a high priority. But whatever changed this Gaster... the combination of that and his father's soul couldn't be good. For once, Sans couldn't afford not to protect himself.

Whether or not he could was another story. He swore mentally as the blasters appeared. The casual act breaks just slightly as his eyes widen. Damn. Why does he have to be the one that can't summon them back now? Just barely avoiding the first few blasts, he takes a couple steps back. He keeps moving. Up and down and up and down. Of course, just because he's avoiding the line of fire doesn't mean he doesn't come dangerously close. Doesn't mean he's not getting tired. He was already hurt over one stupid mistake.

The edge of his hood catches, and he smells the singe.

"Dang, old man... hff. I liked this jacket."

He had to run. Too bad that was easier said than done. As he dodges, Sans tried his hand at *Struggling.

He pushes against the lines just a little more. Testing the boundaries, testing for weaknesses. He had an idea of how purple magic worked, but he never experienced it for himself until now. Maybe he could find a way out. Otherwise, his only other options were to break Gaster's concentrating... or fight.

[returnvoid]

There is slightly more give in the lines of binding magic than there was before. They can be made to bend and stretch, to an extent, though whether that is a result of his focus being split, or his magic being divided and used up, or him allowing the magic to slacken in order to manipulate the strings better, or... elsewise, is up for question.

"IT IS MERELY A JACKET. IT... CAN BE REPLACED."

(... It was a gift, was it not? No, not always. Unimportant.) Not that Sans would need it, if he. Well. ...

"WHY DO YOU STRUGGLE," he murmurs, jarring and discordant. The blasters give way to arcs of shattered bone, slower but rhythmic. A breather in comparison, regardless-- for the both of them. He has always had a large well of magic to draw upon, and still does. It is accessing it now that is difficult, the connection between self and SOUL and magic strained. "YOU SAY YOU WILL NOT GIVE YOURSELF UP, I UNDERSTAND THAT. BUT THERE IS LITTLE YOU CAN DO.

"IF YOU SIMPLY. HOLD STILL, THEN THIS WILL BE EASIER FOR THE BOTH OF US. YOU HAVE MY PROMISE THAT IT WILL BE AS PAINLESS AS POSSIBLE, IF I CAN HELP IT. OR, IF YOU WILL NOT. THEN SIMPLY FIGHT, AND BE DONE WITH IT."

[trombones]

"Probably. Like I told you, I'm probably pretty screwed."

He knew that much. But--

His leg gives at one spot in the magic more than the others. Whatever depressing monologue he was going to give himself snaps out of his attention. As obvious as it was that he was struggling, he tries not to make a scene out of the discovery. Just - keep looking at him, Sans. Keep dodging. Distract him.

"But I'm not fighting you."

Too bad his stamina was catching up with him. As he tries to sidestep out of the way again, another bone shard hits him in the leg. It digs in. His breath catches. He stumbles to one knee. Shit. He exhales out, slow and shaky.

How's that for a breather? How's that for a human, with more strength than he'd ever have, but still can't fight someone who looks like his father? The broken voice and distorted body just make it worse.

'Pathetic' doesn't feel like the right word. Sans settles for calling himself really, really, REALLY bad at being human.

Heh.

"H... Hey. Do you... like leg jokes? Personally... I can't stand 'em."

[returnvoid]

"...I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU WOULD DO THIS TO YOURSELF."

A shoulder, a leg.

* ______ draws nearer.

A reprieve. No attacks forthcoming, for the time being. ...It isn't as if Sans is going anywhere.

It would have been better if it were quick. Taking the time to talk had been a mistake. Drawing things out only drains him. Doing it slowly, like this, bit by bit, where he is keenly aware of the process involved in chipping away at someone's HP frays at something he would really rather not examine at the moment.

Gaster stares blankly down at Sans. Why. Of all things, and of all times, why.

"EVEN IF YOU CANNOT STAND THEM. I HAVE NO DOUBT. THAT YOU WOULD TRY TO TOSS A FEMUR IN IF YOU HAD THE OPPORTUNITY."

you could say he's inSANSitive

[trombones]

"H... heheh."

Sans is panting. There might be a way out. Maybe. He can barely move. He can barely breathe. His breath still catches in gaps, resumed by abrupt, shaky gasps in between. It hurts.

He falls back on his behind. If he were a foot (hah) closer, maybe he could kick out the weak spot... and then what? Drag himself away? Bleed out somewhere else and hope Gaster doesn't feel like following him.

Another shaky breath. Sans brings his hand to his shoulder and closes his eyes. He thinks about home, on the surface, that one time he snapped out of himself to save Papyrus from a couple of human punks with a baseball bat. It was abrupt, confusing, terrifying, in a time where he wasn't sure whether or not time really would keep on ticking. But he did it anyway. For once in his life, he could protect his brother.

He knows he can't do it again.

It ached. Maybe it showed in his soul, for all he knew. The feeling he couldn't protect his father, despite all the cards he had in his hands now. He knew he couldn't get away.

His eyes stayed closed.

"Don't. Don't do this."

i was asking for that wasn't i

[returnvoid]

For a long moment, Gaster remains motionless, looking down at the former monster with a strange mix of emotions curling in his soul. Something like a foreign sense of familiarity nags at the back of his mind.

"...I'M SORRY," he says, settling down into something like a kneel. Meaningless, far-fetched platitudes arise briefly; I'LL FIX IT. I'LL GIVE IT BACK, AFTER, like a soul was something freely mutable and transferable, or even something they truly understood. He says neither.

"I DON'T WANT TO DISAPPEAR AGAIN."

Reach in, or draw it out. A steady pulse of warmth that, even for its dwindling resistance and hope, promises to chase away the hollowness in his being. Most of the active magic around them fades away as he lets go of it, his focus narrowing down to what's in front of him.

He reaches in, incorporeality allowing it. His touch is numbing, not in pins and needles, but in the momentary flicker of static before sensation dies to nothing at all.

It hurts, and quietly a part of him thinks, good, but he can spare Sans this much, at least. Like a bandage on a compound fracture; steal his pain before stealing something else, like a parasite pretending mutualism. Sans keeps expecting him to be someone he's probably not, and he's not sure whether it's that or the desperate faith in him that hurts more. But whoever he is, he won't go out of his way to be cruel. Whoever Sans sees when he looks at Gaster was similar enough that they could be confused, so he wasn't going-- to--

Painful resonance seizes him, Gaster jerking backwards and collapsing in on himself with a piercing, pained shriek.

No. No. No no no no. Sans was right. He can't do this. He would never do this. Never at such a cost to others. Always pleaded for them to forget him, even against his own wishes and desires (don't forget).

yeah

[trombones]

You're not sorry, he wants to say. But that's not fair. Sans didn't want Gaster to disappear either. But not like this. Instead, he opens his eyes.

"Don't," He shakes out as he tries to back away, as if it does any good even with the purple magic gone. "I don't... I don't want... to forget... he keeps telling me I should, but..."

The hand that goes through him doesn't feel like anything beyond numb, but he gasps at the new sensation all the same. He feels himself go into a long, breathless string of words without stopping, like he's not quite aware of himself.

"Stop stop stop stop stop stop I already know I'm never going to see my brother again why do you want to take my dad away from me too don't take him please just STOP--"

Then the painful resonance. The Gaster in Sans soul suddenly glows harsh and bright through his chest, through all the skin and muscle and blood still leaking out of him. He gasps again at the sudden sensation of Gaster's hand leaving him, and the rest of him collapses on the floor, breathing hard. He grabs at his chest.

"Stop... stop."

Gaster already did, but Sans was still reeling.

[returnvoid]

Gaster is keening, having lost any semblance of recognisable form. The sounds aren't recognisable as any sort of speech at first, and even after they become words they remain little more than an anguished, frenetic babbling.

"✋︎💣︎ 💧︎⚐︎☼︎☼︎✡︎ ✋︎💣︎ 💧︎⚐︎☼︎☼︎✡︎ ✋︎ 👎︎✋︎👎︎☠︎❄︎ ✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎❄︎ ✋︎ ⌖⚐︎☠︎❄︎📫︎"

The writhing shadows flinch and shrink away when Sans collapses back and clutches at his chest. He did that it's his fault someone's hurt because of him—

"✋︎ ⌖⚐︎☠︎❄︎📬︎ ✋︎ ⌖⚐︎☠︎❄︎📬︎ ✋︎ ⌖⚐︎☠︎❄︎📬︎"

A shudder; a weak, feeble pulse of flickering green, malformed and incohesive. No, again. Green isn't his magic. He'd never had a talent for it. But it was some Gaster's, once, he has to be able to use it. Observation and replication is all it has to take when they are all no one. His next attempt only forms bullets and he lets them fall apart instantly despite the waste of magic.

Gaster coils in on himself despite the drain, making a frustrated, desperate noise. Once more.

Green pulses out in the shape of stars and music notes and score symbols.

[trombones]

Sans hands clench and unclench the chest of his shirt. Gaster's hand was gone now, but he could swear he still felt it there. The lingering feeling makes him cough and mixes in with the pain in his cheek, leg, and shoulder. Another unpleasant feeling. Great. The former monster wonders if he should be grateful he could even withstand all of this.

... Nah.

Not really.

For a moment, he doesn't even realize what Gaster is saying, much less doing. Then a green light catches behind his eyes. He opens them. It's...

Oh.

Sans goes quiet for a long time. Then his head lulls back to look at Gaster. He coughs again.

"Told ya."

[returnvoid]

Rather than respond, the mass of shadows that was Gaster's body just shrinks back further at the address. It whirls aimlessly for a long moment, but seems to stop short of actually reconstituting a form.

Eventually he speaks up again. It's tired and defeated.

"⧫︎□︎●︎♎︎ ❍︎♏︎ ⬥︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎📬︎"

[trombones]

Sans opts to stay still as he lets the stars and symbols drift into him. He lets out a sigh as the healing magic courses through him. Somehow, it's a different sensation as a human. Maybe it's because he's used to the lack of HP. Eventually, the pain leaves, and he slowly sits up and looks himself over.

Man. Green magic never failed. He couldn't even find any blood stains anymore.. He exhales again, and looks back up at Gaster,

"That you weren't the type to do this."

[returnvoid]

A head resolves out of the darkness. The rest of the body follows, coalescing into being with little fanfare further away from where Sans is.

Gaster's mouth is as thin and as flat a line as features will allow, and his left hand hovers closely over where his soul would be.

"✋︎ ⌖✌︎💧︎ 💧︎❄︎✋︎☹︎☹︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎ ⚐︎☠︎☜︎ ⌖☟︎⚐︎ 👎︎✋︎👎︎ ✋︎❄︎📪︎ ❄︎☟︎⚐︎✞☝︎☟︎📬︎"

He doesn't manage to look quite at Sans, instead at some point just above or behind him to at least pretend at eye contact.

"📬︎📬︎📬︎✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ ☠︎☜︎☜︎👎︎ ❄︎⚐︎ ☝︎⚐︎📬︎"

[trombones]

"Point still stands."

For a second, being healed is sort of strange. Can he stand up? Should he? Oop. Yes. He can. Cool. He tugs his jacket more squarely over his shoulder, and he watches the head, studies the body.

"... And what are you gonna do?"

As much as those words put together can sound like it, it's not a challenge. He knows better than that. He wants to know. After all that, what did it mean?

"You're thinking straight again, aren't you?"

[returnvoid]

"📬︎📬︎📬︎✋︎ ✌︎💣︎📬︎ 👌︎✞❄︎ ✋︎ ✌︎💣︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ ☜︎☠︎❄︎✋︎☼︎☜︎☹︎✡︎ 💧︎✞☼︎☜︎📬︎📬︎📬︎" He pauses, deliberating. "✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎☠︎⚐︎❄︎ 🚩☼︎⚐︎💣︎✋︎💧︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ ❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ 💣︎✡︎ 👍︎✞☼︎☼︎☜︎☠︎❄︎ 💧︎❄︎✌︎❄︎☜︎ 💣︎✌︎✡︎ ☹︎✌︎💧︎❄︎📬︎"

It's subdued in tone. Apologetic, in a way. All that, and what?

"✋︎ ✌︎💣︎ ❄︎☟︎✋︎☠︎😐︎✋︎☠︎☝︎ 👍︎☹︎☜︎✌︎☼︎☹︎✡︎ ☼︎✋︎☝︎☟︎❄︎ ☠︎⚐︎⌖," Gaster reaffirms, expression tight. He might be thinking of worst case scenarios, but they aren't so far-fetched as to be discarded. "📬︎📬︎📬︎✋︎ ⌖⚐︎✞☹︎👎︎ ☼︎✌︎❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ 👌︎☜︎ 🚩☼︎☜︎💧︎☜︎☠︎❄︎ ⌖☟︎☜︎☠︎ ❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ 👍︎☟︎✌︎☠︎☝︎☜︎💧︎📬︎ ✋︎☞︎ ✋︎❄︎ 👍︎☟︎✌︎☠︎☝︎☜︎💧︎📬︎

"❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎☞︎⚐︎☼︎☜︎📬︎ 🚩☹︎☜︎✌︎💧︎☜︎📬︎

"☹︎☜︎✌︎✞︎☜︎ 💣︎☜︎📪︎ ✌︎☠︎👎︎ ✋︎ ⌖✋︎☹︎☹︎ 👎︎⚐︎ 💣︎✡︎ 👌︎☜︎💧︎❄︎ ❄︎⚐︎ 😐︎☜︎☜︎🚩 ⚐︎✞❄︎ ⚐︎☞︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎ ⌖✌︎✡︎📬︎"

His countenance gains a wry quality to it as he moves his left hand from its position. Though the gouges are less prominent now, the SOUL is still dim. Gaster is staunchly avoiding thinking of what happens if it darkens entirely, as he echoes himself from earlier:

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

[trombones]

"..."

Sans doesn't want to. If Gaster could was still his soul, he'd probably feel it ache again. Or maybe it just shows in his face, for all the still slight, subtle changes in his expressions.

He brings a hand to his shoulder where he can still feel the tear in his jacket, reminding him that Gaster was probably right. Sans just doesn't want him to be.

He looks down.

"... Okay."

Another pause.

"It usually does around here. Work itself out, I mean."

[returnvoid]

One way or another, it shows. Gaster simply sags and wrings his hands in response.

I'm sorry, he signs.

He keeps saying that. Not in as many words, but still useless apologies all the same.

Gaster breathes out, a long, shaky gesture.

Are you... are you unhurt? No permanent physical damage?

Will you be all right from here?

[trombones]

Sans glances back to Gaster when he sees him sign out of the corner of his eyes. You know what? That sounds better right now. He'll go with that.

Fine, he signs abruptly. It was an blunt language anyway. Fine on my own.

He hesitates for a second.

You?

[returnvoid]

Will be fine, he lies, or at least lies while hoping it is the truth. The motions are sharp.

Gaster looks off into nothing for a moment before tentatively flickering forward to briefly curl around Sans without any actual touch, as if in reassurance. He's signing again as soon as he pulls back, a weak amount of humor in his expression.

'Be good.' Stay out of trouble.

[trombones]

Oh.

Wow. Even though there's no touch involved, it feels as good as a hug should. Sans stills briefly, then suddenly smiles and bows his head.

"... Heh. I'll try. You too, old man."

[returnvoid]

No touch for the eerie sensation of intangibility, but the intent is still there. Sans isn't quite looking at him anymore, so as he allows the edges of his form to blur again:

"❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✋︎💧︎ ✌︎💧︎ 💣︎✞👍︎☟︎ ✌︎💧︎ ✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎ ☜︎✠︎🚩☜︎👍︎❄︎ ☞︎☼︎⚐︎💣︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📪︎ ✋︎💧︎ ✋︎❄︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎✍︎

"✋︎ ⌖✋︎☹︎☹︎ 👎︎⚐︎ ⌖☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎📬︎"