* Despite everything, it's still you. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
determinedest) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2016-09-01 02:43 pm
determinedest) wrote in entrancelogs2016-09-01 02:43 pm
Entry tags:
so lock the kids up safe tonight [closed]
Who: Frisk, Chara, and a very i͘n̺̰̻̞͝t́ḛ̴r͎̠̼̜̭es͈̱̰͝ț̖͍̰̱i͖̜̕n͈̺̯͕͢g version of Sans
Where: Second floor hallway
When: September 2nd
Rating: PG-13 probably
Summary: In the midst of two kids having existential crises, they bump into what can only be called a computational error.
It's chaos, pure and simple.
The mirrors are everywhere, people they know and people they don't know flooding in and out of Wonderland, and there are two mansions now, and they wonder if maybe this is what their memories were predicting when they'd rained from the sky.
They only know one thing without question: they need to find Chara. They need to find their partner, reassure themselves that they're there and they're all right and not cracking at the seams in the same way Frisk is - of course they're not, they've always held themselves together far, far better than Frisk ever did, at least on the outside. At least in all the ways everyone can see them.
They're not sure when the shift happens, but when it does, it's like - it's like the world...tilts, subtly. Something bends. Like the way the world cracks beneath the strain of gray doors and questions and the pressure of queries and subroutines and fluxing permutations of the same variables and - and -
They start to run.
Their vision streaks through with smears of a vibrant blue, quivering strings of code.
Something is -
Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly w̟̐͗ͭ̓̉̈̚̕r̤͍̖̜̝̠ͮͪ̇̄ͤ͋͢ͅo̙̬̮͍ͨ̇̒̎̅͞ͅnͤ̏ͮ̉ͪ̑g̢͗̾ͯ̎̿̉̚.ͭͥͤ̑҉̻
Where: Second floor hallway
When: September 2nd
Rating: PG-13 probably
Summary: In the midst of two kids having existential crises, they bump into what can only be called a computational error.
It's chaos, pure and simple.
The mirrors are everywhere, people they know and people they don't know flooding in and out of Wonderland, and there are two mansions now, and they wonder if maybe this is what their memories were predicting when they'd rained from the sky.
They only know one thing without question: they need to find Chara. They need to find their partner, reassure themselves that they're there and they're all right and not cracking at the seams in the same way Frisk is - of course they're not, they've always held themselves together far, far better than Frisk ever did, at least on the outside. At least in all the ways everyone can see them.
They're not sure when the shift happens, but when it does, it's like - it's like the world...tilts, subtly. Something bends. Like the way the world cracks beneath the strain of gray doors and questions and the pressure of queries and subroutines and fluxing permutations of the same variables and - and -
They start to run.
Their vision streaks through with smears of a vibrant blue, quivering strings of code.
Something is -
Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly w̟̐͗ͭ̓̉̈̚̕r̤͍̖̜̝̠ͮͪ̇̄ͤ͋͢ͅo̙̬̮͍ͨ̇̒̎̅͞ͅnͤ̏ͮ̉ͪ̑g̢͗̾ͯ̎̿̉̚.ͭͥͤ̑҉̻
no subject
In the͢ir way.
No running this way, human child. But to turn around, oh, there's more slithering across the floor like bright blue rivers seen from a terrific height, coils of string crowding around the knuckles of a dark, if somewhat familiar silhouette. There's a shivery element to parts of his outline that flicker in ways that rob the figure of a sense of solidity, of reality. But that's okay.
He's got enough crazed malevolence to fill up all the wrong spaces in between, and he's been following them.
"H-̹̜̼H̦͓̙͓͍̘-̧̣̝͇ͅH̦eya," rumbles the corrupted glitch, his grin a bright and golden crescent that splits his face. "What's the rṙ̊̀rͪ̓̓̇͆̈́̀rͧ̿R͢R̓ͮ̄̓Rͦ̆rush, kiddo?"
no subject
* In...your way?
God, now is not the time for this kind of personal crisis. Frisk turns and turns and turns, and it -
* It seems to appear everywhere you look.
That running commentary is absent in their head and it's unnerving, it's so, so, so wrong and they want it back, they want to call for help but they know what happens if they even think of it. If they dare try it.
Staring at him is even worse. Like a VHS tape run on reverse, torn through with static and blocky white letters and jerks of uneasy motion, but there's that wide slash of a grin separating his features, there's the vibrant blue to his eyes, the unmistakable shape of the jacket. The same jacket that they're - they're wearing, ridiculously overlarge and rolled up at the sleeves, the one Sans gave them, but he's not Sans, he's not their Sans, but whatever he is, he's a Sans of - of some sort. Isn't he?
"You're - " They stretch out a hand briefly, as if they could brush against that thing that seems so distended and distorted and warped and unreal. They think better of it. They snatch their hand back. "Are you...okay? You don't - you look - "
Whatever could be done to Sans to turn him into - into this, it must be horrible. Their mind flashes to spr_mysteryman and unseeable gray doors and the searing whiteness of a CORE engulfing a man and it's horrifying, because is this - is this what happens? Is this what Sans was saying, when he talked about all the different things that happen when you come into contact with something like that?
For the moment, there's no room for fear in Frisk's heart. There's only a quiet surge of sympathy, even pity.
no subject
Chara comes to them regardless.
They'd been looking for their partner too - not just Frisk, because apparently there's more than one running wild, and Chara doesn't want any of them, only their Frisk. They home in on their room because it's safe, the door locks, no other Frisk (other Frisks! They hate having to tack the word "other" onto their partner's name, they hate it!) knows about it, Frisk will have the same idea.
They don't make it to room 12. Something's in the way.
Something seems like the best word for it. It jitters and shudders like the haze that obscures a Lost Soul's face. Looks sort of Sans-shaped, but the palette has bent itself into a mash of garish primary colours. Can't see its face, because they're behind it, but Frisk looks... pitying. Like they're staring at an amalgamate and seeing only an incomprehensible tragedy, not a person or persons. Like there's a "you look horrible" or a "why are you even alive?" hovering in their consciousness.
Some kind of... Muffet amalgamate, maybe? Sans and Muffet together? There are strings in the hall, looking like spiderwebs, and nothing about Sans that they know of suggests a fondness for... thread?
Weird. This is just... it's weird.
But it is a Sans, so that means they mistrust and dislike it on principle.
Slowly, not uttering a sound, they slide a hand behind their back. Drop it down to their back pocket, draw the Real Knife. Look over its flickering, distorted shoulder at Frisk, searching for a cue to proceed or to cease.