CS-1 said his first word, finally.
He said it to Grillby on their tenth visit to the bar. Waved the flame-monster down, making all the noises he'd come to master over the last three weeks.
Three weeks since the bad fall in the lab. Three weeks of phone calls. Three weeks of taking the kid out every day, and bringing him back to the hotel room, and trying to piece together some sort of semblance of—
Gaster wasn't sure what he was trying to piece together.
CS-1, though?
CS-1 had his puzzle, and it was words, and he was solving it.
He waved Grillby down, jerked his thumb to the menu header, and pointed back at the flame. You. Grillby.
He pointed to himself next, jabbing his thumb into his chest, and said, "Sans."
000
…he must have been practicing.
Maybe while Gaster was asleep. Maybe while Gaster was working on the few electronics he'd brought along, trying to calm his nerves. Maybe CS-1 had muttered words under his breath as they walked through the streets to pick up food, or go to the library, or exercise.
Maybe Gaster'd been completely, hopelessly, utterly unobservant.
He knew he had, really. He knew he had, because as soon as CS-1 managed the word 'Sans,' it was like a shot had rung out, signaling the beginning of a footrace.
First came 'Sans,' then came, 'So,' then 'Sop,' which was his own version of 'stop,' which somehow had come before 'No.'
And Gaster had missed it. Missed when this… learning curve had begun. Missed CS-1 observing other monsters, apparently. Observing language. Practicing sounds individually. Now, he was stringing them together. Systematically. With intent, and drive, and—
And Gaster was still being so unobservant, that even when he knew he should've been paying closer attention to CS-1, despite how peaceful Snowdin appeared, he still failed the kid.
Week four in Snowdin, and Gaster shuffled up to the desk attendant, head down and apologetic in his stance, his shoulders slumped.
He barely managed to say, "Ah, sorry to interrupt," though there was nothing to interrupt, and thought it a minor miracle when he managed to continue saying, "but I was wondering if you had a wash basin I could borrow?"
Four weeks and, considering how skeletons didn't really seem to get themselves dirty without outside help, up until this point the occasional scrub-down from the well-pump upstairs was more than enough for their washing needs.
It had finally happened, though.
CS-1 had finally fallen again. Gotten fast and confident in his movement. Put his crutch down at too-sharp an angle on a patch of ice. And Gaster hadn't been paying attention. Failed to catch him.
The innkeeper's cheerful face was a bit of a jolt to him, honestly. She didn't seem to notice if he were any more grim than usual. She just smiled and nodded, said, "oh, of course! I thought you'd—never mind, you can borrow the one down here if you like. I've already got a fire going if you want help heating it up."
He considered saying no. There wasn't any need to bother her.
"That would be really helpful. I—we don't want to trouble you, though, so if you just put water on, that would be enough. I just need to go get Sans from our room, if you could show me where to bring him?"
The hotel entrance was the front of the innkeeper's house, it seemed. The family lived on the ground floor and slept in one of the un-rentable rooms upstairs, the children all piled in one bed together. He didn't see the room, but the bunny explained the house, gesturing around as she led behind the front entrance desk, where a fire was roaring loudly in the hearth.
"I'll get the water started," the bunny said, smiling again. "Go on."
They were entirely too nice in Snowdin. Entirely too nice.
Maybe it was because he was a paying customer. They couldn't have had too many of those, with how little the underground was and how few monsters desired to leave the area they'd been born in.
He wasn't sure what made him feel better or worse. Only that he wished the rabbit were somewhere far, far away when he came down the stairs carrying CS-1, instead of making that horrified face.
"Goodness me!" the rabbit said from behind the counter, apparently abandoning all thoughts of letting Gaster do the work himself and hurrying into the back room once again, keeping the door open for him and beginning to pour the half-heated water into the bin.
"Is that dust on him? Is he alright?" she said, sprinting away and back a moment later with two clean washcloths. "You didn't say he was hurt, should I call a doctor—?"
"He's fine!" Gaster said, trying to sound reassuring but probably only sounding desperate. Still, CS-1 waved cheerfully—tiredly—and gave a weak smile. It seemed to relax the innkeeper, though. Which was more than Gaster could do. "He just took a fall and scraped his shins up rather badly. He-it's part of his condition. He… he dusts easily. But he's fine, now. He's all healed up, just tired. Right, Sans?"
CS-1 nodded, smiling, and gave a thumbs-up.
He had figured out the 'acting' thing. The lying thing. The longer they stayed in Snowdin, the better he got at it, figuring out what his cues were and how to keep people assured things were all normal.
He was still watching and mimicking Gaster. That meant more than opening books and copying fidgeting habits and sitting pensively until becoming bored.
That also meant learning to become nervous when others appeared upset.
Meant hiding that nervousness with appeasement.
Meant not letting anyone see all your tricks, and to never make anyone afraid of you. Never be threatening. Only congenial.
…they were skills he might need one day, Gaster accepted that. Appease any other researchers he stayed under. Any superiors.
He still wished he had something braver to teach him.
Gaster set CS-1 down by the tub as the rabbit finished filling it with warm water. Helped CS-1 shed his clothing. And put him in.
The little skeleton relaxed into the temperature happily, curling up on his side, content to let Gaster do the work.
Not that CS-1 really knew how to wash himself. Even if every monster they met assumed otherwise, he was still only a handful of months old, so.
Well. Now, with a witness, was not the time to teach him cleanliness, even if his movement had improved to the point where he might've been able to. Even if the bunny assumed CS-1 could've washed on his own.
Gaster could be the concerned parent after an accident hurt his child.
He could be that.
He sighed and picked up one of the washcloths the bunny had supplied, lathering it with soap and beginning to rub over the spot on his leg that was still covered in a dust that almost looked like flakes of rust.
Dust clung, he knew. It clung, and it was hard to get out of clothes, and… it was all just a really terrible irony, in a way. That the dust that clung so strongly to anything it touched was still not strong enough to keep on clinging to life.
"I'm sorry about your rags," he said, continuing to try and wash the dust away as CS-1 waited passively in the tub, watching the two adults. "They… you may not want to use them anymore."
"It's fine," the bunny assured him, looking sympathetically at them both. "I remember when my little Pip hurt her arm and flaked dust for a week. Nothing nearly quite like this, dear me, but I remember it."
"How many children do you have?" Gaster asked, taking the first chance he could to move the conversation away from his own supposed child.
"Three at the moment," the bunny said, her face brightening up, and not at all shy to imply that there might be more little rabbits coming along some day. "They're all still such little things, but Pip started school just the other year, and—"
There was nothing a parent could talk about quite like their children.
Gaster sat in silence and listened, cleaning CS-1's wound and checking to make sure it wasn't any worse than he'd already determined it to be. Made sure the leg had healed at a proper angle. He nodded a few times to the rabbit's talk, asking a general question about how her children liked school and their favorite classes, when appropriate.
He'd never been to school, himself. Not like the rabbit was talking about. When she started explaining about homeroom teachers and designated lunchtimes, he kept nodding and listening to her depiction of normal family life.
"When do you start school, sweetie?" she asked, smiling down at Sans, who looked over to Gaster.
"He's still a little too young for that," Gaster said, "We age slowly. He's still got a few years, don't you?"
Sans nodded, and smiled.
The portrait of two people who knew exactly what normal was, and certainly not because they'd observed it from a distance.
He dried the young skeleton off. Wrapped the injured leg to give some extra cushioning, just in case it was more fragile after the fall.
He thanked the innkeeper for her assistance when she offered to clean up the bin and let Gaster get upstairs and make sure his little one had some rest.
He knew the names of all three of her children, now. He knew her eldest, Pip, had been in school for two years, and loved science, because she'd been given lots of assignments to try and make a plant grow underground and seemed to have a knack for it. Her favorite food was carrot stew, and her bedtime was apparently too late for her, because she always dozed off early.
He knew all sorts of things about the innkeeper's children, but didn't even know her name.
…best to keep it that way.
Cleaned and bandaged in a new change of clothes, Gaster set CS-1 down on the bed once more, pulling out a cinnamon bunny for him to eat, in case the health boost might be helpful.
He was tired himself and ready to lay down a while, or take an hour or two to himself, just messing around with his electronics and not thinking about much of anything. Hopefully, he'd be able to convince CS-1 to take a nap of some sort; surely he was also tired after the ordeal of hurting his leg, and the bath ought to have relaxed him some, so—
He was brought back to the present by the insistent snap of fingers.
CS-1 looked up at him from the bed, cinnamon bunny still in one hand, and his bandaged leg tucked up under him.
Yes? Gaster said, waiting for CS-1 to perhaps request a book be read to him, or a cloth to wipe his hands once the bunny was finished.
He did not expect CS-1 to look at him with wide, unwavering eyes, and ask, What am I?
000
Deep in the woods of Snowdin, a door opened.
000
What am I?
Gaster tried to laugh it off.
A skeleton, he said.
CS-1 frowned, as much as he was able, and clicked his finger again. He set the cinnamon bunny down on the bed—and a part of Gaster winced at that, wanting to hurry over and scoop it up before frosting got all over the quilt and fiber got stuck in the frosting.
What am I? CS-1 repeated, this time with both hands clicking at him, eyes darkening. Why am I like this?
…and Gaster did not take a breath. But. Reminded himself that there was no reason to lie to CS-1. That lies would only make things worse.
There was no point in apologizing for what you were, if you didn't even know what that was in the first place.
You're the prototype of project PERSEVERANCE, Gaster said, keeping his face calm and his hands steady. Once the King breaks the barrier keeping us underground, the creatures that are made from data gathered from you will act as the first line of defense against humans.
There was a lot of context CS-1 didn't have for this conversation, but he didn't ask for it.
He just looked down at his leg. His easily broken, quick-to-dust leg, and placed a hand over his ribs where one had broken off completely the month before.
Gaster was quick to snatch his attention back.
You're an imperfect first attempt, he said, for there was no shame in that. Your only duty is to help us gather new information for how to proceed in the future. That's all. You won't be fighting.
CS-1's eyes shifted around, flicking from one area of the room to another.
I won't? he asked. Then? Why do I have to learn to fight?
Gaster's face twitched into a frown again.
We just want to figure out how to teach your future versions magic more easily. You won't have any combat training. You're too fragile for that, anyway.
(You're self-aware, a part of Gaster's mind whispered. It sounded like hissing in the back of his head, sounded like, child soldier.
But the king would never condone that. Not after watching his son crumble to dust in front of him.)
But why? CS-1 asked, and then. Signed something Gaster had…
…he should have addressed it long ago.
Four weeks was too long to wait, and despite all his phone calls to Ursama, assuring her he'd talk to CS-1 soon, he…
...he'd been happy to let it lie. Whatever happened back there in the lab that caused CS-1 to go missing. He'd taken action when inaction meant obvious neglect, but now that the immediate danger was gone, he'd been happy to let it slide.
CS-1 had to bring it up on his own.
How pathetic. How.
How pathetic could Gaster be, that he had to wait for a child to bring up their own trauma, rather than addressing it on his own?
He watched CS-1 sign and felt his soul plummet.
S, CS-1 said. S said I had to fight.
000
It was too cold.
Footsteps in snow.
A sentry perked up, dog ears twitching.
Footsteps in snow.
Dust in snow.
000
Gaster swallowed down his hate and nerves and took a seat in a wooden chair, angling it so he was across from CS-1's spot on the bed, facing him.
CS-1, he said, watching the child sit up a little straighter. What happened when S took you? Who is 'S'.
CS-1 fidgeted, squirming side to side a bit before answering. Told me not to tell.
His eyelights darted from side to side, and he had trouble looking Gaster in the face. Gaster frowned.
…I'm in charge of you, Gaster said. Nothing's supposed to happen without my knowing. You can tell me.
CS-1 fidgeted again and deferred.
Don't know how to say name, he said, still not looking Gaster in the eye. S? Was closest? Wanted me to use magic. Couldn't use magic until you showed me. Made me use magic.
Something cold and jittery settled in the base of Gaster's spine like nervousness.
He'd been able to ignore this for four weeks. And now. Here it was. Coming, whether he was ready or not. Whether he knew what to say or not. Whether he knew what to do.
…some mysteries he wished he never had to be involved in. Wished had never occurred, so they would never have to be solved.
You used magic? Gaster asked, and at CS-1's shallow nod, asked, What did he make you do?
CS-1 shifted again, bringing his fingers to his teeth and fidgeting like that, leaving only one hand to say, Did bad. Not safe. Shouldn't do it until I can do better.
Gaster tried to make his smile feel real. I'll be safe. Show me.
Not supposed to, CS-1 shook his head, closing his eyes tightly. He wouldn't be able to see the wingdings in response. He knew what was coming. Not supposed to or talk about it o until says so.
"Sans," Gaster said, voice creaking with strain. "Show me."
The little skeleton let out a whine.
So did the blaster he summoned.
000
Hours in the trees. Lips turning blue. Needed something warmer.
Took it.
Dark blue.
000
Gaster remembered the first time he saw CS-1 conscious and watched the little skeleton begin to melt. How he'd wished he could throw up, then. How the nausea had rolled through him, and how he'd felt the overwhelming need to act, if only to make it all stop.
He felt it again, staring down the bastardized version of his own magic, twitching and dripping on the floor.
Gaster knew all the skulls he could summon. Knew each facet of them by heart; how they worked, how they looked from all angles, how they moved and broke and hovered. He'd had models for almost all of them. The skull of a mouse he'd found to make his first one. The pieced-together remains of a flattened toad. A drawstring bag of kittens, all dead, all repurposed. A dog skull.
He hadn't had a skull model for the dragon.
He'd. It had been a memorial, that skull design. When he'd carved it, it had been a memorial to his father. Dead three months at the time. Gaster had sat down late at night, unable to sleep, and carved until morning. All guesswork. All memory. A few angles based off the few photographs he'd salvaged from the ruins of the house, ones he could barely stand to look at. He'd wrought that skull over the course of two days, fashioned it in grief, coaxed it to breathe fire, and applied to college the next day with a fever dream of becoming a scientist.
Bright, liquid magic dripped from between its slowly-shifting teeth, dropping like hot magma onto the floor and sizzling there.
"Sans," Gaster said, voice gone shaky. "Get rid of that. Tell me what S looks like."
The blaster crumbled. Pulling apart at the seams, its mouth twisting in a silent, anguished scream as the magic stopped holding together at all, splattering into a hissing heap on the floor.
CS-1 hesitated again, once he stopped shaking from the amount of magic he'd just expelled. He shifted around on the bed, eyes darting back and forth like he was thinking hard on the question.
Long, he said, always in container—
Before Gaster's self control could shatter, something downstairs did.
"Miod!"
He froze.
It wasn't any of his business, but—but that was the innkeeper shouting, and he wanted out of this room, and he was signing Stay Here and walking out the door before he even knew he was doing it. He walked halfway down the stairs and leaned out, trying to see the source of the commotion.
A broken glass lay at the foot of the check in desk downstairs, water spreading slowly across the floor, but the innkeeper didn't seem to notice. She was too focused on the monster that had shoved her door in and was stumbling breathlessly onto the premises.
It was a bee monster. One Gaster recognized as a local vendor. He'd purchased sticks of honey from the same for tea in the first week. In the bee's arms was a young rabbit monster, dark-eyed and curled up in her yellow dress as if it would give her protection.
"Pip, Miod," the innkeeper said, helping the bee further inside, frowning in worry, patting her paws over the child in search of injury. "What in the world is going on?"
The bee released the baby rabbit, and Gaster watched the dark eyed thing scurry to her mother's side, clinging to her apron as the bee caught his breath.
"Miss Ann," he said, gasping, breathless, while his bag tumbled to the floor and a few sticks of honey rolled out. "Miss Ann, lock the doors, hide, oh, geez, can I stay—?"
The innkeeper gave the bee a firm shake on the shoulder, wrapping an arm around her dark-eyed child and asking again, "What is happening, Miod? You're not saying anything."
"There's a human heading towards Waterfall," the bee said finally, the words stumbling on the way out of his mouth. "There's a human in the Underground, it just, it just—it's killing people."
Not the longest, but it will do.
The worst part about the askblog is now there's a lot of spare information that I'm trying to figure out what the balance is between making it work for the subplots, and what's overwhelming and boring information/repeated information for people.
Was the identity of S a secret to anyone, or did we all kinda already know?
Special guests this time are Pip, from tumblr's pip-ann, who lured me to her deviantart just to trap me there among really cute pictures? Truly devious. The bee at the end is Miod, jumpyscardycat's honey-selling four-armed, high-flying… bee! I can't think of a joke. Except my communication abilities. Because I still haven't responded to jumpyscardycat's message. Clearly, you all will have to do that for me and go message them about something you like on their tumblr blog.
This chapter owes its life to ASkull4EveryOccasion, who risked his sanity to beta in my place.
You think I'm joking, but you are allowed to think that, because you didn't see the typos he worked through.
High fives, everyone.
Human number 3 has arrived.