i've made up my mind over and over; keep pressing rewind [open]

[determinedest]

Who: Frisk and YOU
Where: All over the mansion
When: 2/04 - 2/08
Rating: PG-13 for Bad Thoughts and implied suicide attempt
Summary: * If you DO end up erasing everything...you have to erase my memories, too. I’m sorry.
The Story:

[* There is one last thing.]

                          [* One last threat.]

                                                      [* One being with the power to erase EVERYTHING…]

                                                                                                                       [* Everything everyone’s worked so hard for.]

[* You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?]

[* That’s right.]
[* Despite everything...]



[* It's still YOU.]

Comments

1.1; 000:00 MINUTES; ROOM 12

[determinedest]

[A soft sound hisses across their ears as they wake in Room 12, eyes slitting open at the soft intrusion. But no one entered, and no one came. Still, they slip out of their bed, padding softly across the length of the room to press their ear to the door.

Something...bubbles.

They try the knob, only to find the door apparently hermetically sealed. The resistance is immediate as they give the thing an insistent tug, again, and then - again.

It doesn't budge.

Maybe that's for the best.

Their mouth sets in a firm line, and they make for the window instead.]

1.2; 015:36 MINUTES; ROOM 12

[determinedest]

[They abandon the window at last, scowling, hand dragging through their hair, still rumpled and untidy from their restive slumber. The closet, they think. Time to try the closet.

Except the closet won't work. They know it won't work. Something of the action seems profoundly futile, for reasons utterly beyond them. They can't have tried it before now. They didn't try it before now.

So they should...try the closet. Because it could work.

They haven't tried the closet prior to now.

They'd remember if they had. Now isn't a good time to simply stand there, brow furrowed in indecision, and yet - they know they haven't tried the closet. They haven't tried the closet. So why is there an itch in their hands that claims that they have?]

[fulllifeconsequences]

[Sleep is a difficult thing for beings like them. Too restless to want to be alone with their thoughts, to be able to lie still in a bed and not think about how it's so comfortable, if you laid down, you might never get up. When they do close their eyes, nightmares lurk. The tiniest creak of the door or shift of movement sends them snapping awake, even after spending so much time sharing a room with someone.

The moments when they're just so exhausted that their body all but shuts down, forces itself to snatch a fistful of rest, are a blessing sometimes.

They feel groggy and disoriented, the subtle rattle of struggling with doors, windows, closets not sending them bolting upright with a gasp but instead dragging them excruciatingly out of the fog of slumber. They're not completely sure they're awake, not sure where the line between a noise filtering into their unconscious and finally opening their eyes exists.

Chara's voice is low and heavy with sleep, but they roll onto their side, force their bleary eyes open.]

The closet won't work.

[How do they know that? Did they just dream it? Are they still dreaming now? God, they're tired.]

[determinedest]

[The closet won't work. They say it with utter certainty, and something about the statement locks into place. Frisk nods for a moment, the motion almost dazed in its automated, automatic instinct.]

I know.

[And they need to

Stop.

Chara, asleep, rolling to their side, eyes slitting open. Is that familiarity tingling at the edges of their mind, or recognition of a scenario they've seen played out again and again?]

We know.

[fulllifeconsequences]

[Not really a spoken reply so much as a bleary grunt of acknowledgement. Have to wake up. Have to open their eyes, have to -

The thought skitters out of their mind before they can complete it. Can't remember what they were going to say. Oh well. Must still be tired.

Chara scrubs a balled-up fist against their eyes viciously, not really caring that it's going to exacerbate the redness under their eyes, make the bags look even more dark and bruiselike, not going to be cute or pretty in the least. Could really go for a cup of tea.]

...How do we know that?

[The thought occurs to them far too belately, as they're hauling themself out of bed, staggering to the drawer to get out of their pj's and into something proper. Or maybe just throw a sweater over their pyjamas. What a fun idea that would be - to be so inappropriate, so untidy, at an occasion that seems somehow important, and therefore must be one when they need to look their best.]

Is this a dream?

[determinedest]

[Is this a dream? Frisk takes a moment to consider the question, turning carefully on the spot. Pick at the bandages on their hands (crack) and count their fingers. Count the lines of scars visible on their forearms, peeking out from beneath the sleeve of their shirt.

All the numbers align. In most dreams, those are the first things to go. Their lips purse, and they shake their head slightly.]

I don't think so. I...

[How do they know that? The closet won't work. There's an impression running in the back of their head like a current - water, creeping up to their nostrils and closing over them, their eyes stinging.

Was that a dream?]

I didn't LOAD.

[fulllifeconsequences]

'Course you didn't. I'd remember it if you did.

[The one force that refuses to forget. An entity who is literally, in every sense, nothing but memory. Ha, in every sense.

An uncomfortable bit of unreality to consider when things already feel so unreal. They push it aside. They gather up their clothes, go to retreat to the bathroom - even after so long sharing a room with people, still guarding their body with a fierce and wild terror, still clinging to their privacy like a starving animal clings to a shred of meat.

They freeze, their hand outstretched, inches from the knob. Step away, not really comprehending why.]

Neither of us has tried to LOAD. Neither of us has done a SAVE since the last event. A LOAD doesn't feel like this, anyway.

[Doesn't feel like... what? Nothing weird has happened, aside from the closets. The window. The door.

They don't remember Frisk trying the door. They were asleep, weren't they?]

RESET 1.0

[fulllifeconsequences]

[Sleep is a difficult thing for beings like them. Too restless to want to be alone with their thoughts, to be able to lie still in a bed and not think about how it's so comfortable, if you laid down, you might never get up. When they do close their eyes, nightmares lurk. The tiniest creak of the door or shift of movement sends them snapping awake, even after spending so much time sharing a room with someone.

The moments when they're just so exhausted that their body all but shuts down, forces itself to snatch a fistful of rest, are a blessing sometimes.

They feel groggy and disoriented, the subtle rattle of struggling with doors, windows, closets not sending them bolting upright with a gasp but instead dragging them excruciatingly out of the fog of slumber. They're not completely sure they're awake, not sure where the line between a noise filtering into their unconscious and finally opening their eyes exists.

Chara's voice is low and heavy with sleep, but they roll onto their side, force their bleary eyes open.]

The closets...

[Won't work.

But Frisk already knows that, don't they?]

[determinedest]

[The closet won't work. They say it with utter certainty, and something about the statement locks into place. Frisk nods for a moment, the motion almost dazed in its automated, automatic instinct. Because they've already done this before. They've seen this before, watching Chara, asleep, rolling to their side, eyes slitting open. Is that familiarity tingling at the edges of their mind, or recognition of a scenario they've seen played out again and again?

Someone asks if this is a dream. Or someone - someone once asked? Would have asked? Had the possibility to ask? One way or another, Frisk answers:]

This isn't a dream.

[And they didn't LOAD. So what else could it be?

RESET.]

[fulllifeconsequences]

[This isn't a dream, Frisk points out, even if Chara didn't say anything about that. In their sleep-hazy mind, it simply makes sense that they must have thought it, must be connected, tethered, must be doing their asterisk-whispers. The off-kilter, unreal feeling hanging over them must just be part of not really existing.

They're silent, gazing at Frisk with lidded, sleepy eyes, responding in the way they used to.

* You feel a strange sense of dread...
* Open something else?

♥ Yes        No

...

Nothing happened.

They sit up, ready to think increasingly impatient thoughts, but... oh. But they sat up. Right? They scrub their hand against their eyes. No resistance, no moment of lag, no loss of control. They feel it. They dig the heels of their palms against their eyes until they see stars.

Real. Solid.

This is real, right?]

...Try opening something else.

[determinedest]

[This is real. It's real, and it's not a dream. It can't be. Even if there's the acute sensation that they've done this before, that they've tried to open the closet and seen it yield nothing. That there's something wrong with the door, because they were bad enough to get locked in, or there's something wrong with the window -

Try opening something else.

They brace themself, knowing, inexplicably, that the door won't open easily. And it doesn't. They have to strain, until at last it lurches beneath their grasp.]

Haven't we...

[The door swings open, yielding a wall of water that shouldn't be familiar - they've never seen something like this before, no in their life - and yet is. Just like how they knew to put their back into opening the door.

It's like seeing an old friend again, after a very long time.

It's kind of like they knew what was coming, before it happened.

Something about this being so familiar - ]

We've done this before.

[They've seen this before.]

[fulllifeconsequences]

[Right. Okay. Right.

Wake up.

They get out of bed. Consider changing out of their pyjamas, but... would it be wasted effort, if that action would keep undoing itself? The uneasy risk of baring skin, even if only in front of Frisk, still makes goosebumps prickle across their flesh. Maybe even Frisk would be trying to tell if their guess about Chara was right or wrong. Maybe even Frisk would know that if skin exists, it's an invitation to grab it. Maybe...

Not worth it, Chara decides.]

Okay. Let's pick up where we left off.

This... water, I guess? It's got to be there for a reason. Behaving like this for a reason. Are we just supposed to stay in our rooms the whole event?

1.3; 482;58 MINUTES; FLOODED HALLWAY

[determinedest]

[Their lungs feel ready to burst, the urge to take a breath almost overwhelming. Their hands scythe through the water in swift, cleaving motions, the water resistance dragging at every action and slowing it to an intolerable crawl. The pressure behind their eyes and in their head floods (that's clever, isn't it? It's clever and funny) their ears with a pounding roar.

The door ahead of them - it won't open.

How do they know that with utter certainty?

It could be the oxygen deprivation. It could be any number of things. It could be the strain in their chest as they yearn to take in a gulp of air, swallow the water that will choke and drown them. They've never died by drowning before. That would be new, wouldn't it? New and exciting.

The door ahead of them. It won't open.

It won't open.

Have they tried to open it before?

They propel themself forward with a desperate kick of their legs, rocketing through the flooded hall and colliding harshly with the door set beside it instead.

It bursts open and with a spluttering cough, they collapse inside in an ungainly, trembling sprawl.]

/slides in here

[boilover]

Shit.

[Mick's alone in this room, he got separated from Leonard a while back and he isn't about to risk his neck trying to find him, given they had a rule about that. Leonard'll be okay, probably with the girls or something, no need to freak out. Mick, however, wasn't a strong swimmer and risking himself just swimming around? Kind of dumb. He just keeps picking rooms that are empty and trying to stay as long as he can before he hits the deadline.

Hell, it's working for him.

He doesn't expect some kid to come flying into the room, sprawling out in a horrible, wet heap on the floor. Are they dead? He isn't sure. He comes in closer and rolls the kid over, trying to see if their eyes are open.]

Hey? Hey! Kid, you okay or what?

/reaches for also cw for abuse references annnnd emetophobia sorry lmao

[determinedest]

[Their lungs heave for a moment, convulsing as they strain to drag air into their throat. Something grabs them, just for a moment - rolls them onto their back. They jerk, paroxysmal and involuntary, straining in preparation for bruises for slaps for being seized and dragged and thrown somewhere terrible for being bad maybe a closet maybe down a staircase -



Their eyes flick open, stained dark maroon, and they suck in a rattling breath. Do they know him - ?

Open their mouth to reply.

They wrench themself over to their side as all that emerges is a stream of water. They spit to get the taste out, dropping limply back to their back with one sodden sleeve going to their mouth.]

'M fine.

[Very convincing.]

so many beautiful cws

[boilover]

Convincing.

[Mick huffs a little, unsure exactly what to do here. He debates lifting them up but it seems like a dumb idea. If they're fine where they are, they're fine. They ain't gonna choke as long as someone is watching. Mick sits himself next to them, not getting in their way and giving them a second.

Just to catch their breath.

He pulls his own goggles up and sets them on top of his head, looking at her properly with a small frown. Does he know this kid or not? There's so many kids in this place. It's unsettling.]

If you're not a strong swimmer, it ain't smart to just be floating around the halls, you know? You should stick close to someone else. They can help.

welcome to threading with me wheezes

[determinedest]

[Convincing.

They've heard his voice before, they think. Their thoughts are muzzy, difficult to get a bead on, so they let themself lose the thread of that one, let it wisp out into nothing. If it's important, it'll come back to them later. For now, they need to - breathe. And breathe.

Goggles. Rough voice. Admonishment. Their eyes drift shut for a moment before one of them opens, a thin slit of rusted maroon, and Frisk lifts a thin little arm for a moment in the parody of a flex.]

'M tougher than I look.

[They're unable to maintain it for very long. Their hand drops weakly back to the floor.]

[boilover]

Yeah, you're a tough a little bastard, I'll give you that.

[He huffs a laugh and watches, curious, unsure what to make of this. Of course, he's never seen her face on the network, not properly, he didn't have any reason to recognise her, given they always spoke in text but here he was anyway, squinting at her as if that would somehow make her make sense to him.

Just his luck, he parts ways with Leonard to avoid dealing with kids and look what happens. A kid turns up anyway.]

Come on, you gotta sit up. [He reaches out and offers a hand.] Sit up and prove you can stay up. You do that, I'll share my candy.

1.4; 505;13 MINUTES; ABANDONED ROOM

[determinedest]

[They've done this all before. They know they have.

This is what it feels like, doesn't it? This is what it feels like to be on the other side of it, time shrieking back without their input. This is the special power everyone was so rightfully afraid of, the power that Wonderland stole from under their fingertips.

RESET.

If they can spread the word, if they can tell the others - maybe there's a chance it'll stick. And maybe they can all do a little better next time.]

2.1; 000;00 MINUTES; ABANDONED ROOM

[determinedest]

[No deja vu. No recognition. No hitching of claws into the skin of the world and sending it spinning back to its origin point, its zero-point-zero-point-zero. None of this makes any sense, not like this. They know time, they know it back to front, and they know what it is to be the one in control.

They haven't done this before. It's not their fault this time. It's not their fault this time.

It can't be their fault this time.
Despite everything...
A ragged sound escapes them, breathless, and they clap a hand over their mouth.
You're still the one last threat to everyone's happiness, aren't you?
They have to fix it. They have to fix it and so they will.]

THIRD DAY; 080;44 MINUTES; CLOSED TO RIP

[determinedest]

[They strike out.

It won't take long. It'll take a few minutes, and then their body will start to scream for air. They'll start to kick, agonizingly, their back arching, their lungs aching, and their vision will blot over with dark colors, vibrant patches of rainbow. They know because they remember it - they remember it almost happening, some several...loops ago. They'd been too cowardly to let the water do its work.

They won't make that mistake now.

All they have to do is hold themself there, and not go searching for a door. The longer they wait, the less strength their body will have.



It will be enough.

They're the catalyst. If this works, then it'll be over. They can set things right again.

It will be enough.

It will have to be enough.]

[directed]

[Within his world, within his timeline, the Time Masters no longer exist. The Vanishing Point has been destroyed, the organization utterly obliterated. If they can ever manage to pull themselves back together, it would take years.

Yet their purpose hasn't died with them--nor has their philosophy. Rip Hunter may have come to despise the choices the Time Masters made, but he remains one of them regardless. The calling to protect history at any cost has been ingrained within him, and so too does the philosophy that calls upon him to make difficult choices; impossible ones.

To leave a town to burn, its people to die, because to save them would rewrite time. To abandon refugees, children, leave them to their doom because saving them could alter history in the worst way. To sacrifice a member of his own team for the sake of preventing the evils of the world to learn of his powers, and gain them for their own nefarious purposes.

To have the means to be a hero, to feel that calling, and turn his back on it: this is the choice Rip Hunter has made again, and again, and again.

He's returning from the kitchen, satchel heavy at his side with the supplies he's gathered to distribute among those in his circle, and of course himself. Between his own efforts and Mr. Snart's they might indeed have enough to last. He's tired after too many trips, his plan to return to an unoccupied room, hold off sleep long enough to set every alarm his phone has available, and then nap until he has the strength to start again.

It's all quite simple, really. He's got it worked out nicely in his mind.

And then he sees the body of a child, suspended in the middle of the hall. It's no surprise that people would die under these circumstances. They've been left lacking everything they need, food and water and air itself. It stands to reason that this poor youth has simply succumbed.

He should pass them by; logic dictates as much. Rip can only hold his breath for so long, and he has precious supplies at that. If the child is dead, it can't be helped.

No matter how young they are. How innocent.

He should simply swim by.

Daddy, can you teach me to swim before you leave again?

He doesn't.]

[determinedest]

[Death is easy.

It feels like sleep, when it comes. It tides over easily with the snap of a SOUL and the fragmenting of the essence of your being into pieces, the dissolution of self into nothingness and the closing over of darkness. The rumbling intonation belonging to a memory that was never theirs, and the call that they stay determined. It is so very simple, and all they had to do - all they would ever have to do, after a time, is simply stand still.

They stand still. They remain where they are, adrift, eyes shuttering closed as the substernal ache begins to settle in along the contours of their lungs, invisible fingers closing around their esophagus and forcing bubbles of oxygen from their parted lips in a silvery stream.

They open their eyes, briefly. A mistake, or possibly worse - there's something there. Something in the same of a man.

And then, so soon off the wake of their first error, they make another; they lurch in alarm, and another eruption of bubbles escapes in a startled burst. Alive. Alive still, and now something in the shape of a man will see them.

There are so many good people in Wonderland. There are so many people who would hear a child crying for help and come to their aid accordingly.

Their head throbs, the pounding unbearable.

They have to get away, quickly, before anyone can register that they're alive.

...

There are so many good people in Wonderland.]

[directed]

[There are good people there--but Rip does not count himself among their number.

No one else would hesitate, he suspects. Not when they catch the first stream of bubbles leaking from parted lips, nor the way the body thrashes, just that once, shattering the stillness of the water around them. No one else would see that and pause, their hand resting on the bag still at their hip, holding the food needed to ensure others could live, could move from room to room.

Time continues to move; Rip's own lungs are starting to burn, because it's been too long for him too.

How many people suffer if he saves this one life, this one child?

How long will this image be burned into his mind, should he continue on regardless?

This is hardly the first time he's faced such choices throughout the years he's spent traveling aboard the Waverider. Once upon a time, it might have been a matter of course to weigh the impact in numbers and results, to consider that the child would no doubt revive as per Wonderland's rules and leave them to their unfortunate fate.

So much has changed since then. Rip would like to think he might have, too.

He doesn't realize they are attempting to swim away from him; he instead thinks they are simply trying to swim. Rip follows, his strides longer by nature of his size, and his turn his arms stronger.

He knows where the next room with air is. It's simply a matter of taking hold of the child, guiding them where they need to go to live.

He reaches out once he thinks he's close enough to do just that.]

[determinedest]

[Time continues to move. It continues to move until it - RESETs. Leaps back to its origin point. Ha ha...that's their fault, isn't it? It always has been. The special power, the power everyone was fighting to stop - no one's that cruel. Only the anomaly is that cruel.

The shape of a man draws closer. They've not been convincing enough, or perhaps he's simply the sort of person they can recognize best; the sort that holds sacrifice as the sole action one can take with the hope of meaning, and of success.

The only kind of love that isn't LOVE is sacrifice, and however well-meaning, there will always be someone who will take issue with it.

Like now.

Now, a larger hand brushes at them, and they react immediately, explosively, adrenaline-fueled and desperate, attempting to press away from him even as he reaches to steer them to safety.

"Safety" is relative, and creatures like them do not deserve it.]