black then white are all i see in my infancy [closed + open]

[determinedest]

Who: Frisk and a few closed prompts + a few open ones!
Where: Alphys's lab, by the vendors, maybe more?
When: 11/01 - 11/08-ish (may be subject to change)
Rating: PG-13 for children in peril, suicide ideation, depressive mindset, and bad decisions
Summary: Shit happened. Someone give this cast an intervention.
The Story:

[A hot oil-slick of numbers running through their mind in a burning cacophony does not lend itself to anything but pain, bright and blazing. It cuts into their teeth and their tongue and the inside of their cheeks - or maybe that is simply them biting deep into the flesh in their mouth to taste the warm tang of it to remind themself that they are not simply numbers they are not simply numbers they are not simply numbers they are real.

It crests in a burgeoning wave. There is no tide there is no pattern there is no regularity there is no respite it simply is and it tears through them, every jerk and wrench of their body shuddering in its place like hot marks shearing them open.

They can taste blood.

Is it yours?

Or mine?

It does not matter.]

Comments

[catinthemask]

Do you fa...no, 'fancy' is the incorrect word, isn't it? Do you feel you are a tyrant with your powers? Another monarch? Ah ah ah, I don't believe so. I believe you are just a child who accepted the consequences and continues to accept them even if in the end they are out of your control.

[It's not to say there aren't any at all. Those bad endings Frisk had gone through still weighted upon their shoulders and whatever they had done should, if they were going by other people's standards. But they picked up more and more, things they had no control over. As he said, Frisk needed to learn that there were only so many swords that they could impale themselves with.

But. In this case...Frisk was like Japhet. And Zacharie was still Zacharie. Just slot in a new bit of dialog beginning with "Greetings." yet again.

He reaches up and feels the grooves in the mask he made in honor of a dead cat. A smile that was fixed in place but it wasn't to hide his own. Oh no, Zacharie was always smiling.]

<>Change Face Graphics: le bateur, 16, Left.
<>Play Sound: ZachMaw
<>Message: This is undeniably cruel, isn't it dear friend?

[Drops his hand and laughs again because spilling out more code wouldn't help. But they all had a path to go down and if it was to be that Frisk will sink here, then it is. One way or another...it'll play out as it's meant to.

Doesn't mean he can't say anything about it.]

'Tarde venientibus ossa.'

["For those who come late, only the bones."

And, once again, Zacharie is abruptly gone. Good luck, dear Frisk.]

[determinedest]

[Can't hear those words, garbled as they are. They can't translate on the fly. Nothing about other languages is compressed between the lines of code, interleaved with asterisks and bizarre punctuation.

Are they? Are they just a child? Sans called them a "finite god" - and isn't that what they are? A danger to everyone, as long as they exist. This - this just proved it. Look at what they've done. What they're continuing to do! Shredding the world apart, carving great swathes out of it.

He vanishes in the same way Sans does. No flaring of static or magic dust. No fanfare. He simply is one moment, and is not the next.

He doesn't give them what they want. What they truly want.

But then, no one can.

They start to laugh, and they keep laughing, laughing and laughing at the empty air. Nobody comes, because nobody ever comes. And when they're certain nobody ever will come, the laughing becomes something else.

They curl over and around themself, on their knees, bent over with their forehead pressed to the dirt where they belong. Full of messy things, blood and mucus and thick black putrescence.

* Disgusting.]