(important) Note from Wordsock:
"EY EY ATTENTION. ...Ahem. All right, thanks to everyone who's read and followed this, but big changed are going to happen. I'm restarting.
Q. BUT WHYYY
A. The writing's crap. I've been caring more about the story than making it interesting to read. I can do better than this, and I've PROVEN that. I'm 1.5k words in on the new prologue and I can already see all the detail that's missing from this shit. Plus my headcanons have evolved somewhat and this story doesn't reflect my real thoughts. It's cheesy.
Q. WHEN WILL IT BE UPLOADED
A. When I'm done writing the prologue I'll upload it as a new story and delete this one. It will take longer because I want to focus on QUALITY not QUANTITY. Thanks :D"
Prologue
Perhaps, if he wanted to, he could run.
He could turn his back and abandon everything, walk away from all those years of fascination and discovery and let it all crumble into the nothingness from which it had come. He could let it fall into the crimson abyss of the flashing lights and those sirens that screeched their ugly song of death.
If he wanted to, he could just leave the others to clean up his mess of fire and dust, or die trying to finish what he had started.
No. Gaster shook that foul idea from his mind, his face twisting with a grimace of disgust. His actions had already cost enough lives this day. What kind of murderer would it turn him into to leave another person for dead? His friend and co-worker, Smoy. His best teacher and assistant, Rythe. Him, the little one that rested in Gaster's thin, bony arms; they all deserved better than the chances that Gaster had given them.
Something buzzed inside his lab coat. Gaster adjusted his hold on him and reached into the pocket to draw out the phone. Rythe. Thank goodness.
"Doctor!" called the tinny voice from the other end of the line. There was no picture, but Gaster could hear the distress in her words. "Oh my God – was that an explosion?"
"Nine explosions, actually," Gaster corrected her, his voice trembling almost as much as his knees were. His ghostly white skin was cold and clammy, the cell kept slipping out of his palm, and for some reason he didn't see the flashing red light when he opened his right eye.
"Oh, jeez. Are you hurt? Hold on, I'm coming." The call ended after cutting to some loud static noise, and Gaster was left once more in the darkened and half-destroyed laboratory with the flashing warning lights and sirens, the weight of the thing of his arms dragging him down to his knees.
My son.
My doom.
Whenever he brought himself to look at the thing in his arms, those were the two phrases that entered his mind. They swam around and around, fighting each other in a bloody battle for a place in Gaster's perception of 'correct'.
He knew what this thing was; more than a failed experiment, it was the most dangerous thing that he had ever held. Its soul, that string of life within, didn't quite fit in the vessel that had been made for it – there was just too much energy for the body to contain, and at any moment the tissue could collapse and unleash that raw life force on everything nearby. Just like the others did.
That's what it was; a grenade. But it was also alive. When it stretched open its eye sockets, curled those chubby finger bones around Gaster's spindly thumb, stared up at him with that big cheesy grin, it was easy to forget the danger. It was more than a test subject – it was a child.
My son.
My doom.
A shrill calling of his own name cut through Gaster's thoughts. "Doctor! Oh hell, the floor –"
"Yes, watch your feet." He had been so engrossed with his own thoughts that he forgot what a safety hazard the lab had become – the explosions had littered the ground with sharp-edged shards of thick glass, and the suspension liquid had since seeped through the cracks in the tiles, leaving a slippery, clear residue. It came as no surprise to him that Rythe had difficulty keeping her balance; the smooth, yellow skin on the soles of her bare feet weren't helpful in the way of giving her a grip on the floor. But still she came to Gaster and knelt by his side. He felt those immense brown eyes examining him as they always had done whenever he messed up – only this time, they were checking rather than judging him.
"Rythe –"
"What?" she chirped a little too quickly. Gaster swallowed and locked eyes with her as she removed the phone from his feeble hold.
"S-Smoy. Smoy. Is he all right?" he finally managed to cough up. His voice didn't seem to be working properly – it was a little too high-pitched and hoarse-sounding.
"He went home early, Doc."
He couldn't stop the weak smile that spread across his face. Smoy was safe. Rythe was unhurt. Gaster hadn't killed his assistants yet.
"Rythe," he began after a while, "It's fine. I'm fine. You can go come, I'll tell Asgore we're… I'll tell him what happened. Go home."
"But Doc, your eye."
"Nevermind that," Gaster sighed, "I'll be fine. You can go home."
"What about the subject?"
Oh. The child. Gaster hadn't thought about him.
My son.
My doom.
Weighing the odds seemed a near-impossible task at this moment. How could he decide what to do with the little skeleton resting in the crook of his arm? He had no right to choose whether something should be allowed to live or not, but at the moment there were no shoulders for the decision to rest on but his. He couldn't burden Rythe with his own mistake.
But what do I do? Should he sever that cord of life and protect what little he had left? That would give Gaster both a sense of security and the label of 'killer'. No. He couldn't do that. The realisation rose in him, faster than a flash-flood; he had a duty to this child. If Gaster had cursed him with a soul that shouldn't have ever existed, wasn't it his responsibility to see that its life wasn't as miserable as its creation?
My son. My son. My son. The words attacked his every thought, pecking at his mind whenever he contemplated his second option. With every passing second he became yet more aware of what his own soul knew it wanted. And between being a murderer and a father, Gaster knew what he preferred, too. That settles it.
"I'll… Take him home," Gaster croaked, tearing his gaze away from the child and turning instead to face his assistant. "He's my son, so I might as well treat him like it."