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entrancelogs2016-09-07 07:55 am
vitaelamorte) wrote in entrancelogs2016-09-07 07:55 am
+ FOURTH WALL EVENT: FOREST PARTY +
Who: E V E R Y O N E
Where: The Forest!
When: Sept 7th to Sept 10th
Rating: G to PG-13 (please label higher ratings, thank you!)
Summary: Could it be that you (GASP!) don't want to be here? Do you maybe want to make like a tree and... leaf? Then how about you do the next best thing, and come to the woods to party! And don't forget to have a look at the Fourth Wall Master Post for event rules, puzzle clues, and more places to mingle!
The Story:
Beginning on September 7th, colourful ribbons will hang from several trees by the forest. Whoever follows their path will be guided deeper, right to the scene of a forest party.
Wooden benches, swings in all shapes and sizes, tree trunks, and other arrangements give plenty of opportunities to sit together. Tree houses and tents provide shelter, and come nightfall the festivities will light up for you.
Campfires provide additional light and warmth and a great place for ghost stories. Camping coolers store more than smores, and all around you nature twists and turns to give you room to dance to the music, to wander in the quiet, and to simply have a good time!
(...Are you the curiously perceptive, or the perceptively curious sort? If so, then you might also notice the small bird sitting on a branch nearby.)
Where: The Forest!
When: Sept 7th to Sept 10th
Rating: G to PG-13 (please label higher ratings, thank you!)
Summary: Could it be that you (GASP!) don't want to be here? Do you maybe want to make like a tree and... leaf? Then how about you do the next best thing, and come to the woods to party! And don't forget to have a look at the Fourth Wall Master Post for event rules, puzzle clues, and more places to mingle!
The Story:
Beginning on September 7th, colourful ribbons will hang from several trees by the forest. Whoever follows their path will be guided deeper, right to the scene of a forest party.
Wooden benches, swings in all shapes and sizes, tree trunks, and other arrangements give plenty of opportunities to sit together. Tree houses and tents provide shelter, and come nightfall the festivities will light up for you.
Campfires provide additional light and warmth and a great place for ghost stories. Camping coolers store more than smores, and all around you nature twists and turns to give you room to dance to the music, to wander in the quiet, and to simply have a good time!
(...Are you the curiously perceptive, or the perceptively curious sort? If so, then you might also notice the small bird sitting on a branch nearby.)
no subject
yeah. regular tiny army, at this point.
[He hears the disdain, and he hears the unspoken, unsigned command. Stop them. Yeah. He's always trying and failing to stop anomalies.]
[Kids playing with matches. You'd think after burning themselves so many times already they'd know when to Quit. But he wouldn't be surprised if the existential atom bomb that heralded Gaster's arrival here didn't summon Chara immediately. Frisk might have the good sense to stay away, at least. They said they were done digging. Of course, they say a lot of things.]
[And Asriel's here somewhere, and any number of other Frisks and Charas, and people totally unrelated to their world who will want to come solve the neat mystery of the missing man.]
[Yeah. This needs to stop. He just needs to figure out how to take their shovels away.]
[He looks up again.]
yeah, i know. no point in getting into all that with you. not fair to either of us.
[Gaster pauses, and he did that, maybe took some kind of pleasure in it. His halting, calculated manner of communication that made it so easy to pause and hold a bombshell over someone's head and contemplate the destruction he was about to wreak.]
[Sans was an only child.]
[Something kind of snaps. Sans goes away for a bit.]
[His mind scrambles, tries to piece together the variables, the constants, assigning numbers and values to each individual event in his life, trying to find which direction this equation runs, how it all matches up. What variables, what course of events would be required for such a thing.]
[His parents wanted kids. Papyrus was just their second try at having one that was normal.]
[Hypothesis--they never bothered to try again. Settled themselves with the meagerness of Sans's existence. Maybe they couldn't. They disappeared not many years later, afterward. Additional hypothesis: they were different people altogether, maybe better people.]
[Maybe they loved him.]
[Irrelevant to the hypothesis. Discard.]
[He grows up. He's sick. Stuck in bed all the time, reading books because it was all he had energy for.]
[Pursues science and has nothing to lose. Is more willing to compromise. Is more willing to ignore the growing problems.]
[Backtrack. Gaster's negation altered the timeline enough to allow for Papyrus to exist. How? Gaster must have affected some kind of variable that Sans isn't aware of. Of course he never could have been aware of all the variables. There was no way to track every single individual change from G=yes to G=no.]
[Simple if/then statement. If G=yes, then P=no. And vice versa.]
[He blinks slowly, settles, and his eyelights come on for the first time in this entire conversation.]
well that's real weird.
no subject
He is grateful that he exists outside of time enough for whatever moment that elapses to be utterly meaningless to him. It could be a day. It could be six hours. It could be a matter of mere minutes. Such quantities are illusory measures imposed upon a stream of information so varied and manifold that such things are simply a widely agreed-upon standard rather than any meaningful means of labeling a thing such as time.
In short, he allows Sans to digest the information as required.
He responds in a typical Sans-esque manner. That is to say, subdued, and without undue enthusiasm. Muted, and dull.
This is an expected output, and he does not question it.]
YES.
IT IS HIGHLY POSSIBLE THAT I MAY HAVE BEEN ABLE TO BEND THE RULES IN SOME MANNER. I ELECTED NOT TO, FOR REASONS I AM SURE YOU CAN DISCERN EASILY ENOUGH.
[It is objectivity, not sentiment, that drives his every action. That continues to drive him, even as he exists in a vacuum, in total, hermetically-sealed isolation.
Objectivity.
Not sentiment.
He does not endure sentiment.
He loathes sentiment.
Loathing is, in many ways, considered a sentiment.
He compresses that query down and down and down until it is nothing but a scrap of code, and he wipes it from his memory drives. It is of no consequence. He only deals in consequence.]
SOMEONE HAS TO ENSURE THOSE...THINGS DO NOT COMPLETELY TEAR OPEN THE QUANTUM FOAM, AFTER ALL.
no subject
[That makes no sense.]
[But, okay. Sure. If there's a world where Gaster, presumably, created life out of nothing and then screwed metal to that life and decided to torment it for god only knew how long and why, then sure. There's also a world (d-brane, Sans, use the correct terminology, it's cyan, not "light blue") where Sans was an only child, and Gaster's nonexistence shifted things just far enough to the side to allow for someone else to exist.]
[And he may have been able to bend the rules.]
[And he elected not to.]
[Sans wonders, with a very sudden and brief viciousness, if Gaster expects him to now be grateful.]
[But no, no. No. That's not how he works. Not how his own Gaster worked. His Gaster never spared a thought for Papyrus, except to insult him, which--really ended up being his downfall, in some ways. And Gasters, presumably all of them or at least most of them, know where they belong. Even if some of them want to claw their way out.]
[Gaster must remain nowhere for the world to continue.]
[He gives a quiet sigh.]
they're kids, gaster.
[Cyan, frozen in the snow. Orange, scared and angry and too willing to Fight. Blue, quiet and alone. Green, saying it was okay when it wasn't.]
kids love to dig holes.
...i'm looking after them. can't have them tearing up the whole garden.
no subject
[He is nothing if not blunt. Still, the alterations to Sans's source code are...intriguing. He has undergone impressive change since entering this brane. Many of them have. But he, he has always drawn the doctor's eye. He had from the very beginning. He was too brilliant, standing out too fiercely with his shiftless scribbling of equations and his lack of ambition.
Never could think big enough.
And the doctor in question, well, he thought too big. He always thought too big. He thought in quantities so vast that they charted the arc and slope of his inevitable slide into nothingness.]
THE FIRST ONE IS PRECOCIOUS AND FREQUENTLY PRIES WHERE THEY ARE NOT MEANT TO. THE EIGHTH SIMPLY FOLLOWS THE FORMER'S POOR EXAMPLE. AND THAT FLORAL ABOMINATION -
THE NUMBER OF WAYS IN WHICH HE OVERSTEPPED HIS BOUNDS IS SO VAST THAT I CAN NEITHER DELINEATE NOR MAP IT, NOR WILL I ATTEMPT TO, AS I SUSPECT THAT EVEN AN INFINITE STRETCH TIME WOULD NOT BE ENOUGH TO LIST HIS TRANSGRESSIONS.
system_information_963 DOES NOT EVEN OSTENSIBLY EXIST IN THE FIRST VARIABLE'S PARTICULAR BRANE, AND YET THEY KNOW OF IT. IT IS SLOPPY WORK. UNFORGIVABLY SLOPPY.
no subject
[It's a taste of his own medicine, but that's not quite true. The truth is that Sans learned everything he knew from Gaster.]
i do a poor job of most things. what do you want me to do? kill all three of them again? because that doesn't work.
[That does absolutely nothing whatsoever, and honestly, at this point in time, he can't think of much that would drive him to do such a thing. He loves Frisk. Likes Chara. Doesn't have much of an opinion on Asriel, and the flower isn't worth thinking about since it isn't here.]
[And then Gaster says something else, and...why do those three numbers seem familiar? Like he heard--]
[White noise. Static. Chara had said something before. Something he couldn't remember. Didn't want to remember. Something with underscores. They'd Reloaded it away, but the fuzz in his head had lingered.]
...don't do that.
[He idly rubs at the crack in his skull.]
my head's enough a mess as it is.
no subject
That does not approach his veradical set so he isolates and compresses it into nothing, little more than a disorganized string of numbers that soon run themselves into iterative bit-rate loops and then nothing.
He does not forget. He knows and sees everything. That is the nature of what he is now. His capabilities.]
FORGIVE ME, [he says with icy disdain, each stroke of his hands heavy with irony,] I HAD FORGOTTEN THAT NOT EVERYONE CRACKED OPEN THE MARROW OF OUR VERY EXISTENCE. IT JUST SEEMS TO BE SUCH A POPULAR PASTIME THESE DAYS, SO I ASSUMED YOU WOULD NOT COUNT YOURSELF EXEMPT.
[Sans does not count himself exempt from many things, after all.
If there is a bitterness to the murmur of his thoughts, it is temporary at best, and is soon gone.]
CONCESSION OF KNOWLEDGE ACCOMPLISHES NOTHING. YOU FEED THEM BREADCRUMBS AND FOOLISHLY THINK THAT WILL BE ENOUGH TO SATE THEIR THIRST.
no subject
then you also forgot, or maybe you never knew. but i actually know when to quit.
[You have to know when to Quit.]
[Another promise Sans broke.]
then...do you want me to just...tell them?
[His voice is resigned.]
...everything?
no subject
The proverbial end of it.
He has humiliated himself quite enough for one spontaneous manifestation, thank you, between the punning and the proposal of spackle for the alleviation of a magical malady.
He has lost his touch.
Thankfully, he does not require something so conventional as "touch" to make his point.]
GIVE THEM NOTHING. GIVE UP NOTHING. YOU HAVE GROWN SLOPPY IN YOUR ATTEMPTS AT DAMAGE CONTROL, AND IT SHOWS.
[He pauses.
He pauses for an exceptionally, atypically long time.
Beyond the span of time that is socially acceptable.]
THAT DOES NOT, HOWEVER, MEAN THAT YOU SHOULD NOT TRUST SOMEONE WITH THE SEQUELAE OF SUCH THINGS. AS MUCH AS YOU ACT AND FEEL OTHERWISE, YOU ARE NOT THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL OF EVERY UNKIND AND UNNATURAL THING IN EVERY UNIVERSE. YOU ARE NOT REQUIRED OR DESIGNED TO BE THE SOLE BEARER OF EVERY SUBOPTIMAL CIRCUMSTANCE THAT CROSSES YOUR PATH.
AND YOU CANNOT CARRY ALL THAT YOU CARRY ALONE.
no subject
heh, aw, doc. you're giving me way too much credit. i've never been anything but sloppy.
[Especially when it comes to damage control. Especially there.]
[He's quiet, waiting for whatever else Gaster has to say. He's nothing if not patient.]
[What Gaster does end up saying almost makes him laugh again. God, why, why is Gaster doing this. This is a waste of his precious existential time, and wasn't he just talking about not wasting his time? Where's the rest of that judgement and accusation and bitterness?]
not to be pedantic, but i'm not carrying it alone. i'm sharing it with every other sans out there, right? a sans, or whoever it is in the more mixed-up timelines who ends up...being this.
anyway, heh, i like to think i'm not that melodramatic. it's just better if the trash all ends up in one place, right? sure makes things smell better.
[He shrugs.]
but, uh. you're right. been telling people too much stuff about stuff lately. sans-es never tell anybody anything. that's how, uh, we're "designed," right? best for everyone if i just start acting like a sans again.
[They'll all be so disappointed, but what else is new?]
that's funny, though. real funny. you, telling me to trust someone. or maybe it's not so funny. maybe that's how you are. that's not how mine was. maybe, uh. maybe if i was the right sans and you were the right gaster, this would be... but, heh, we're not. this is just as close to any kind of...closure, i guess, that either of us are gonna get.
[But a few doors getting slammed closed is probably better than none of them.]
no subject
[He is alone. He has always been alone, he is a self-isolating, self-autolyzing, disproportionately stubborn, subversive mess of a skeleton who has always had a knack for doing what he should not do, seeing what he should not see, saying what he should not say.
He creates workarounds all fucking day, in other words. Because he can. Because he gets bored. Because it is, simply put, what he does.]
I SUSPECT THE ODDS OF YOU AND I MEETING AT ALL WERE SO LOW THAT THEY MAY AS WELL HAVE BEEN ZERO. WE ARE UNLIKELY TO FORCE ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY.
IT IS NOT IDEAL. I AM FULLY AWARE OF THIS.
[The "right" Sans. The "right" G̶̷̲̅ᴀ̶̷̲̅s̶̷̲̅ᴛ̶̷̲̅ᴇ̶̷̲̅ʀ̶̷̲̅. As if either thing were possible. As if either thing existed in the first place.]
IF WE WERE IN THE SAME PLACE WE ALWAYS ARE AND OUR VALUES WERE UNCHANGING, THEN TRUST WOULD BE A FOOLISH ENDEAVOR AT BEST, AS I KNOW YOU ARE WELL-AWARE. BUT OUR VALUES ARE CHANGING. YOUR VALUES ARE CHANGING.
YOUR TRAJECTORY IS UNSUSTAINABLE, AND I ADVISE THAT YOU CHECK ITS PREDEFINED PATH BEFORE IT DETERMINES YOUR END.
[The...less optimal part of being aware of infinite potentialities is knowing, without question, that certain events are unavoidable. Certain collisions of certain variables are unavoidable.
But to cast an awareness on this would be...
He does not interfere. He holds this as a policy. Even now, all he does is talk, and say that which he was never allowed to.]
no subject
careful, doc. any more of this and people might start calling you sentimental.
[Gaster has no reason whatsoever to be concerned about Sans's fate, of all things. And of course it's not sentimentality. It's painfully easy to think of this as Gaster wanting just one last chance to prove that the doctor knows best.]
[...He's probably being unfair. Gaster would, of course, remind him to be objective.]
[Your values are changing. Couching it in cold, scientific language, naturally.]
i don't...
[He doesn't know what to do. But it would be a terrifically stupid idea to admit weakness to the guy who never saw him as anything but weak. You don't admit weakness to your literal nightmares.]
well. one way or another, i'm not likely to forget this until i head back home. real bad at forgetting things.
[He gives a very tired shrug and stares in the vicinity of the ground.]
and while we're being sentimental time wasters, i...despite everything...
[He sags. Shouldn't say this. More weakness, and the doctor hates weakness, hates sentimentality, hates wasting time, hates...]
[His hands move slowly, shaping letters.]
i miss you.
no subject
[It is not sentiment.
It is not sentiment.
He came through to this world and he did so with the utmost caution and with the intent to speak to this version of someone he once knew, even if they are neither of them the "correct" ones, the ones whose pathways intersected in the most concrete and predictable of ways.
It is not sentiment, for in order for it to be sentiment, he would have to be sentimental. Which he is not. This he has made quite clear to all parties, himself included.
Sans...his best trait, he has always said, is his memory. The "only good thing about him," he has said multiple times.
Something tears through his body, the reality and unreality and interleaving constructs of his shape glitching, bright and cold and unbearable. He cannot - he cannot look at this, he cannot accept this, his goodbye had been brief and inevitable and hardly a goodbye at all, and even as he had watched the dissolution of everything he was and everything he had built there had been that shadow of p̛̗͔̙̘̯̳r̝͢i͏̺d̝̰͕̱̳͍͜è͖̻.͙̩͙.͓̳.͕̯̮͍̖͢
He pulls the fragments of himself together, the strokes of the words as slow as Sans's had been, the specter of regret pinned beneath, trembling, barely perceptible but for the faltering of the letters as they come together.]
ONE CANNOT MISS WHAT ONE HAS NEVER REALLY HAD.
no subject
[But of course it's not sentiment. Sans is the only sentimental one here.]
[Gaster shifts, glitches out for a few moments. Looks uncomfortable.]
yeah. heh. i know. i know. although...i think there's a word for that specific feeling. can't think of it right now, though.
no subject
He thinks that might be the term to which Sans is referring, but he does not mention it. Longing, wistfulness for something you know will never return.
He is back, briefly, and he will not be here for long. This he knows without question. Even a world such as this one cannot sustain him, a slew of negative energy, dark matter that is nowhere and everywhere.]
IN ANY CASE, I HOPE THIS IS SUFFICIENT.
[There is a softness to the words as they cut into the air, low and patient.]
GOODBYE, SANS.
no subject
[He tried so hard. Held on so damn tightly, when half the time he wished he could just forget the name and the monster who went with it. Forget the bad and forget the good in equal measure. Staring at the pieces of a world shattered and glued back together. Entropy in a closed system always increases. A glass falls off a table and breaks and no matter what you do, no matter what you do, it can never, ever be made unbroken.]
[He had given up. And it had killed him. It made it so much easier to give up on other things, one by one, until he had given up on almost everything.]
[Two words can't possibly sum all of that up. It's not enough.]
[It's never enough.]
[It's only...sufficient.]
[So he smiles, like always. Lifts his hands one more time.]
[Sans hadn't had time for words back then. Hadn't gotten to actually say goodbye.]
[Might as well do it right.]
[So he spells it out in his font, two words, like Gaster does now and like he did then.]
goodbye, gaster.
no subject
But it does not. It never did.
The world stays, and with the shuddering, silent roar of alternating currents and surfaces coming out of alignment, with the shriek of reality t e a r i n g at the seams and cutting itself apart as it did to bring him into nonexistence, the man who came from the other world...
...fell
back
into
his
creation.
Well, he was never really there in the first place, was he?