The text manifested abruptly, and there he was—Doctor Gaster, seated and now donning a particularly obnoxious pair of sunglasses since your last visit. He didn't seem to care about much else.
The partially melted skeleton remained slouched, an undignified position that was wholly unlike him. He should have been above this.
Gaster broke the silence. "I'm ignoring you," he declared flatly. Then, pointing at you, he added, "and you."
Despite his dismissal, the text persisted, materializing around him, its words laced with a thinly veiled hostility. It asked whether his mood had improved—whether pushing you all away was helping him feel better.
"Who knows?" Gaster flicked a hand dismissively. "Now shoo you withering wisp."
The text, undeterred, continued. It predicted that once he regained his senses, he'd regret this display—feel ashamed of his behavior. But Gaster merely adjusted his sunglasses, the lenses reflecting a faint, distorted image of the words he'd most recently visited, one in each. He pretended not to notice, leaning further back into his seat as if the text had said nothing at all.
With a final flicker, the text faded, leaving the Observer, ever-present, to quietly watch the exchange. Sensing the occasional interference in your awareness, witnessing their futile attempts to jar it's creator out of his slump. What followed didn't help matters.
One of you inquired. "How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? Why would a woodchuck chuck wood if it could chuck not wood instead? Would a woodchuck chuck not wood?"
The Observer, unable to process the full question, stuttered and glitched, its response cutting off in a distorted whirr of confusion.
Gaster gave a subtle motion with his hand, seeming to have been the one to cut it off. Laying back still, he lowered his sunglasses just enough to glance over them, considering for a beat.
"You know," he began, his tone thoughtful, "I think I can answer that. It's been a while, but if memory serves, a woodchuck could chuck about 700 pounds of wood. Assuming we're being generous." He snapped his fingers, and a cigarette appeared between them. "As for why—well, that's easy. They dig for shelter, so chucking wood would likely be some ridiculous evolutionary fluke." He lit the cigarette, taking a slow drag. "But no, they wouldn't bother with wood. They're dirt experts, after all. Wood's a hassle—cut down, invaded, all that nonsense."
He exhaled a plume of smoke, looking content. "Satisfied? Good. Now shoo. I'm on break."
The Observer processed the recent events quietly, then received another whisper—this time, a tiebreaker. A vote had been cast.
For the ambitious role, the final choice was... Mettaton.
With three votes over the others, the decision was made. The robot let out a relieved sound, gliding over to Gaster with the results displayed. It held the vote before him, waiting patiently for acknowledgment. Gaster, after what seemed like ages, finally glanced over.
"Oh. They voted. Mettaton in that role... keeps being like home." he muttered, voice distant.
The Observer hesitated, confusion rippling through its core as it analyzed part of what he'd said. It ran a quick scan through its database, searching for something. Moments later, a sheet of data appeared.
Gaster - Fell Reality. Non-Canon Variant. Timeline 32F84 = NC32F84 . The Ambitious role in this timeline was filled by: Papyrus.
Gaster gave a half-hearted shrug. "Don't believe everything you see on TV," he murmured, dismissing the information without much thought. Then, with a pointed reminder, he added, "Also, I'm still on break."
Without looking up, he continued, "Actually, why don't you go... find the ghost. Robot, ghostbot... whatever it's called. There are so many universes out there. Think of one. Go explore."
The Observer hesitated, making a concerned sound as it lowered the vote, unsure how to respond.
Gaster waved his hand lazily. "You'll be fine." He suddenly vanished, reappearing just as quickly, now without his sunglasses. "Checked with the future—you show back up, so relax."
He produced a small bundle of code, which he tossed toward the Observer. "Here, I made a few stops. Cobbled together your rock. May it be everything you ever dreamed of."
The Observer, cautious but curious, hovered closer, opening its compartment and carefully integrating the new code. It worked slowly, weaving the code into place as Gaster leaned back once more.
Then, slipping from the Observers speakers, one of you spoke up. "Hey Gaster, how's life?"
"A cycle of agony," he replied, not even looking up. "I'm on break. Leave me alone."
"Heh, but really are you... fine?" You pressed softly.
Gaster's eye twitched. In an instant, a massive Gaster Blaster materialized—a frothing skull radiating with dark energy, oozing black liquid from its maw. It hovered menacingly over both the Observer and subsequently you.
"Just a question!" you quickly added.
"Union. Mandated. Break," Gaster growled, lowering the blaster slightly. "And I'm fine." He declared eye twitching, melting. "I just keep being reminded of my failures, and broken promises. Made to be a joke as I march to..." He got quieter for a moment, drooping more. "I'm fine. I must be fine. There is no time to waste in not being fine."
The void responded with more text, noting that his reaction seemed out of proportion. His increasing hostility, especially over a simple question, wasn't exactly a sign of being "fine."
The Blaster slowly dissolved into nothing. Gaster paused, tapping at his melting face, as he considered the words. He straightened up in his seat. And seemed to become 'less melty.'
"I'm not...attempting to shut down. I'm fine," he insisted, though the tension in his voice betrayed him. He sighed, almost as if the admission cost him something. "I've been dealing with... what I'd call...chrono-misalignment. A temporal hiccup, you could say. I lost myself for a time—stuck in past ideas, beliefs... desires. It's like...a daydream." He ran a hand across his face, the edges of his fingers melting slightly as they left trails of dark liquid. "Why it happened doesn't matter, but I imagine you can guess. I lost focus, forgot the nature of things—your eldritch nature, what it all entails. But now... I've found my focus again. I just need a break to stabilize."
He rubbed his eyes, more pieces of his form dripping away, his melting bones betraying him. "I will...return...once I've resolved this."
The void manifested more text, suggesting that maybe he should talk it out—ask for help? But Gaster didn't respond. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, this time with a bit more frustration, before vanishing altogether. He left behind a small sign:
ON BREAK.
The Observer floated back, distancing itself from the unfolding situation. It wasn't entirely sure how to handle whatever was happening with Gaster, so it shifted its focus back to the task at hand. Hopefully, things would resolve themselves without its intervention.
But its current mission felt daunting. Where exactly was it supposed to look? A version of Mettaton, sure—but there were so many of them. It started sifting through its database of worlds and possible variants, but the information it found was scattered, full of half-formed details that offered little substance.
The void whispered again, text manifesting softly around the Observer. Why not let them guide you? Perhaps check out some variants in the interim? That could be fun, wouldn't it?
The Observer couldn't quite look at you directly, but it pondered your presence, as though silently asking for your opinion. Was this a good idea? Then again, there was nothing else to do but wait. And technically, Gaster had given it orders...
With a reluctant hum, it agreed. The Observer began envisioning a hallway—a passage, a path—allowing the process to unfold. Each time it did this, the task became a little easier, requiring less effort from your end to construct the space.
This time, the hallway appeared, though it was rather drab. Pale, undecorated, and eerily empty. The Observer moved into the barren halls, shutting the door behind it. It drifted slowly through the corridor, its movements methodical, as it headed toward one of the destinations on its list.
Well, that went about as well as it could. Don't worry. He'll be fine... eventually.