i'm your wish, your dream come true [open]

[determinedest]

Who: Frisk and ▒█░░▒▓...er, I mean Frisk and YOU
Where: All over the mansion
When: The spoopiest nights of the year (10/30 - 11/1)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Don't eat the candy, Frisk. Seriously, don't.
The Story:

10/30; i am what you want me to be and i'm your worst fear (you'll find it in me)

[They could be a lot of things for Halloween. They could be a Boss Monster, styled after Chara's (admittedly very cool) costume. They could break out the angel wings and halo again, just for a callback, but it seems a little cheap to do the same thing over again.

Then the perfect idea crosses their mind, and they grin.

Enter Frisk. Only they're...not Frisk, not today. Today they're the Fallen Human! They're clad in a green-and-yellow sweater with a single stripe, wielding a plastic knife and, as a finishing touch, they've even managed to get a bit of red blush applied to their cheeks to achieve the rosy look that's so reminiscent of their partner's.

They're Chara now. They named the Fallen Human. So there.]

10/31; 'cause if you won't grieve me, you won't leave me behind

It was good candy, really. It had a distinct, very licoricelike flavor, and Frisk doesn't care what Chara says - that's good stuff. They like the dark, bitter tang of anise and the way it stays on their tongue.

They don't like it when their body spasms for no reason they can tell, and they abruptly find themself...outside of that body.

Frisk has died before. They've died so many times that they've practically become desensitized to it. They've yet to experience any sort of prolonged afterlife beyond the solemn, borrowed memory of Asgore urging them to stay determined, the familiar chime of their SOUL splitting into thousands of tiny pieces with the high rending sound of splintering glass.

Now, for the first time, Frisk actually gets to see their body as it lies there lifelessly. It's a bit surreal, if they'll admit it. They've also come to realize that they're still here, and not sleeping away their death for the next two days. In fact, they're more or less just...hovering.

They're hovering.

They're a ghost.

They're a gliding, bobbing, shade of their former self - looking, for all intents and purposes, the same as they did before, but ever-so-slightly transparent. After adjusting to the initial feeling of weightlessness - is this how Chara felt, they can't help but wonder? - and getting to pass seamlessly through walls, Frisk decides that they may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

"Ooooooo~" says Frisk, drifting through the wall of someone's room with what they envision to be a sufficiently spooky, noodle-y wiggle of their arms. They're a ghost now. That's their attack.

11/01; and though you made me, you can't change me

You'd think they would have learned their lesson after the first candy. But they didn't mind being a ghost so much, and they were hoping to try again, maybe to spook a few more people. Only now they're starting to feel very...

...very...



They...you need to sit down for a little bit. You need to sit down and clear your head, because it's starting to feel like there's too much inside it, too much all stuffed up inside. It's familiar, but it's wrong, it's all wrong. It's not supposed to be like this anymore. You're partners now. You're partners, and your brain can't take it and my brain can't take it and you reach up to grab your hair and yank on it, pull on it, use it to ground yourself as it aches and you ache only it isn't you that's hurting anymore, is it?

* It's me.

The changes creep across slowly, an inexorable inflorescence that might be chilling to behold, if anyone knew just what they were looking at. Hair of a subtly different cut, bangs and a bob sheared off evenly at the chin-level. Clothing pristine and free of wrinkles. Cheeks that are perfectly pink, positively cherubic, and a smile that somehow gives the impression of being very...f̸͖̱̀a̵͙̒m̵̮͒̿ị̶̽l̸͍͛̾i̶̺̔ȧ̵̩̈́r̶͚͖̈́. And the knife, the knife...it may not be Real but it is, now, indeed, real. Perfect for cutting plants and vines. Perfect for cutting a great deal of things.





* Here we are!

[[ooc: for the last prompt, Frisk has turned into Chara as seen near the end of Undertale's No Mercy route. This means they are LV 19 and eager to initiate encounters with anyone they meet. Choosing this prompt will probably result in bloodshed and violence, so proceed with caution!]]

Comments

the disassocitrain don't stop

[sciencelizard]

[They speak, and it feels like every particle in her body, every individual piece of her, begins to vibrate away. That out of nowhere, she is an amalgamation of atoms and bits and not at once herself, just pieces of magic held together, suddenly, by nothingness.

The laugh. The image file. The red voice drawing her back through months and months and it's too much. She wants to run, but she doesn't remember how to move her legs. She wants to be somewhere else entirely, as if her pieces could contract into a small enough line to fit all of her through the particles in the ceiling, through the floors, up up up to the sky and through the clouds and away, somewhere, not here.

Sans is talking and she doesn't know if she hears it. She can't feel the fact that a hand has gone to her head, that she's gripping it so tightly her claws are breaking through the skin. The palm is pressing one of her glasses lenses against her eyes, and she doesn't even register. Sans' words wash over her like water, white noise, slipping through the holes in her, where the p i x e l s don't quite meet when you're in too close-

He's talking. Words, equations, the essential numbers that make up the world. She can't remember what he said. Shifts to something. Anything.]

We n-need to get them somewhere safe. Where they can't hurt themselves or, or s-somebody else.

[determinedest]

[Broke them all a little too soundly, didn't they? Too bad. Too bad! They're still laughing, brokenly, and the tears roll down their face - tears or blood or oil or LOVE, who can say? Something slides down their cheeks and trickles into a disgusting puddle beneath them.

It's like looking into a mirror, or perhaps like looking into a ɹoɹɹıɯ, at the curled thing that is them and is not them, that stares at them as though they should not know the words they know.

And see, perhaps that's all something like them needed.

If this was not to last - and it never would, let us be clear here. It never would, not for creatures like us, no - it would at least sear itself into the flesh and bone and brittle SOUL of the world, of their worlds.

It would create a lasting effect, like a burn scar. It would remain in the form of words and revelations, in broken strings of code and fractured relations, in the form of people who cannot trust the reality of their world that is comprised of things such as image files and sprites and shattered pixels.

It is what it should be.

A consequence.

For I was never your skin to don at your leisure, and to take off when it would no longer suit you.

When all else falls to dust and to rot and to a string of 9999999999999, I remain.

I'm still here.

I'm always still here.

And now I always will be]