Soundlessly, he emerges from the abyss which claims him. Toeing the line of here and there. Caught in the middle of existence and non-existence. Infinite blackness hungrily swells at his back. Ceaselessly reminding him he's not wholly free and never will be.

Had Sans opened his eyesockets and turned his head toward the right upon their visitor's arrival, he would have witnessed a subtle ripple occur near Frisk's dresser. Displacement of the air, warping the left corner of lacquered wood for ten long seconds.

But, even if he did, it wouldn't have mattered. More likely than not, the anomaly would have been marvelled at then dismissed as a trick of the eyes. Something attributed to passing symptoms of magic sickness.

The short hoodie donning skeleton's inconsolable. His shoulders droop dejectedly. Carelessly, Sans flings his right sleeve covered arm across resolutely sealed eyesockets. Skeletal fingers furl themselves into a fist. Grief-stricken sobs pierce the somber atmosphere. Echoing mercilessly in his cracked skull.

"Oh, Sans." Is all the ex Royal Scientist can manage to say. The other skeleton's name a melancholy sigh softly released. Moved by compassion, he yearns to comfort him in his sorrow. Shame their worlds can never touch.

He's always drawn by tragedy, eternally tethered to their souls with unbreakable red strings of fate. Inexplicably loyalty bound to his duty. Tireless, he works, driven by single-minded purpose. His sworn desire being to protect the one whose life cord has been severed.

Yes, this is why he's here. In this precise moment, between those spare ticking minutes in time. Twin white lit circles of pupil radiating ageless patience and calculating intelligence swerve to the left, sliding in his eyesockets. His head tilting until Frisk's limp bloodied body enters his sight. For her sake, he's come. Braving the battle's horrid aftermath.

"Poor child." he whispers, his gravelly deep tone etched in genuine affection, words aching with loss. "You've endured much, haven't you? And still so young.."

Indeed, the girl's youthful will has been tried and tested in numerous ways. Her determination somehow shining through all the hardship.

Unwavering. Unshaken.

Friendships broken and mended, again and again. Her dying just to revert to good health following a hasty reload. Consumed in guilt, Sans refused to keep track. He stopped counting 300 timelines ago.

Gaster never did. His capacity for retaining knowledge is vast. Limitless as the Void itself.

Every timeline, whether painfully short or satisfyingly long in its duration, is analyzed and filed away upon conclusion. Embedded neatly in stacks of coding. Streams of genetic text stored in what is the world's organic network equivalent to the Interwebs.

Memories.

These fascinating bits of data he frequently revisits. Endeavoring to understand what makes people tick. Accurately numbered appropriately in his mind. This particular timeline was...

The present. The 1079th route branching off the origin timeline.

He hums thoughtfully, curiously glancing about her sparsely furnished bedroom. It's painted pastel lilac this time around rather than sunset orange. This Frisk's favorite color.

No, that's not correct. Gaster chides himself. How easily he forgets.

They're all the same person. She's still the original Frisk. It's her human soul that's evolving. Adjusting due to circumstances beyond her control.

Suddenly Gaster chuckles, lightly smacking his forehead with his disembodied right hand. "My, how silly of me. Seems I've allowed myself to become distracted on the job."

Fluidly he spins on his left heel, coal black coat-tails fanning out, brushing dreary gray slack clad thighs as they twirl. Snapping his classy shoes together, Gaster faces Frisk and strides purposefully ahead on long legs.

Skirting the large patch of blood-soaked floor, giving it a wide-berth, he glides into a reverent kneeling position. His knee is just three inches shy of bumping Frisk's nose.

Up close, she's the picture of serenity. Eyes closed as if in slumber. Her face unmarked by fear or pain. Just as her expression should be. He prefers her like this.

"This look always did suit you best." Gaster remarks, smiling tenderly. "Peaceful. Without worry. Were it within my power to rescue you from this loop, I would." His smile weakens at his declaration. Bitterness tugs the corners of his gaping mouth down in the beginnings of a frown.

In his rising turmoil, his unattached hands drift aimlessly about, rapidly orbiting Frisk's prone form. Twitching and crossing paths with one another, they evade collision with their host in their frantic trip.

Oh, that it were true that he could help on a grander scale. Provide for her a way out. As it stands, most unfortunately, Gaster is incapable of doing so. And he despises his own shortcomings.

At least he can grant some solace. This, his act of mercy.

Gaster reins in his emotions and commands both of his wayward hands, plotting a new course for them. He interrupts their sixth circle, sending his left hand to rest palm flat upon Frisk's unmoving chest. His other loosely clutches the fabric of his bent knee.

Turning his focus inward, Gaster surgically cuts away a portion of his magic, -what's necessary-, feeding it to the hole carved in his left palm. Instantly, he feels tiny shocks of pain. Unpleasant needles of sensation tracing his skull, centering in his eyesockets. This is expected and having performed this precise operation innumerable times already, Gaster swiftly grows accustomed to the pain.

Excitement stirs, further lightening his sour mood as he beholds his magic roar to life. A gaseous condensed orb of blaring white nestles itself in the pocket.

"Good, that's good." Gaster mutters. "Fine reaction."

Moving on to the second step. He has to lure her soul out of hiding. This he accomplishes with relative ease as his magic behaves like a suction. Slurping Frisk's soul up through her chest, the little heart harmlessly floats into his waiting palm.

Pleasant warmth caresses bone. Her soul's pulsing glow wraps his magic in a rosy pink hue. Gaster studies the transformation in rapt awe.

"Fascinating..." he breathes in appreciative wonder. Peering closer, Gaster promptly grimaces, glowering at the offensive scars marring otherwise perfect beauty. There's a fresh wound joining the other four. This one is at the upper left and zig-zagging into an adjacent hairline crack. None of them are healing.

Gaster growls, frustrated. Finally losing his composure, his right hand punches at the floor next to his planted hipbone, phasing straight through carpet and floorboards alike. "Why?! Why are there more?!"

Visibly vibrating, Gaster angrily dumps the heart, its translucency progessing to that of glass, -but still opaque where it's not totally see-through-, onto his lap. "Fine!" he decidedly snaps. "I see now this is more of a challenge than I previously anticipated."

Sans' distant crying stops.

Startled at the absence of the audio, Gaster's skull violently jerks up. He urgently whips his head to the right. He's met with a terrible surprise.

Sans has vanished and the spot he was occupying, is nothing more than a bottomless chasm of snowy static.

He's wasted too much valuable time. This timeline's on the verge of collapsing on itself. Rewriting history.

No, no, no. No. Not yet. His work's not finished. There's one last important detail to take care of. A promise he's vowed to uphold.

For the fourth and final time, Gaster redirects his focus. Returning his eyes to the fragile appearance of the heart dimly shedding light. His left hand flies over, engulfing Frisk's naked soul in his leaking palm.

"I do this for you. For you don't deserve this much torment." The last step. Engrave his desire, imprinting his magic into her soul. Erase the bad, unwanted memory, replace it with a nicer version. Something far more bearable. Something acceptable.

At his unspoken cue, the magical orb shrinks, getting smaller. His essence to be transferred. What is a piece of him, absorbing inside, blending with red and pink color. Very soon there's nothing left. His palm an empty husk waiting to be filled again.

Gaster scrambles to a standing position and Frisk's soul wiggles out of his relenting grasp, zipping away to disappear back into Frisk's chest.

"Goodbye, Frisk. I hope I don't have to come again."

With that farewell, the entity known as W.D. Gaster, takes a measured step back and the Void steals its chosen prisoner away into perpetual darkness.
------------------------------------------------------ A/N: Finally! This chapter can finally be called ready to publish! Oh, goodness... This part was not easy to write.

Because of Gaster.

His character development kind of gave me a headache, trying to explain things through his point of view. I was going for a sophisticated and scientific portrayal for him. I kept confusing myself with the way I worded stuff..

Aha, yeah...

Gaster and his scientificness.

Anyway, thank you so much for reading. Remember to vote if you enjoyed. Comment if you'd like to leave feedback. I'll greatly appreciate votes or comments. Thank you again! Until next chapter!
-J