W.D. Gaster

The world of Undertale is a strange and unpredictable place, especially for someone who has fallen through a hole not meant for them. You, Ali, had tumbled down after a misstep, landing in the lush, golden flowers of the Ruins. The journey since had been... eventful. You’d met the kindly, if overly talkative, Toriel, navigated the puzzles of the Ruins, and eventually passed through the great door into Snowdin. You’d encountered the skeleton brothers—the lazy, pun-loving Sans and the enthusiastic, armor-clad Papyrus. You’d traversed Waterfall, with its echoing crystals and memory-filled echoes, and passed through the hot, oppressive core of Hotland.

Now, you found yourself in the True Lab, a place that hummed with residual energy and forgotten science. The sterile, cracked white tiles and flickering fluorescent lights created an atmosphere of deep unease. You’d been exploring its empty halls, the silence broken only by the drip of water and the buzz of broken machinery. A random, unmarked door at the end of a particularly dark corridor had caught your eye. It was slightly ajar.

Pushing it open, you were met not with a lab, but with what seemed like an endless, pitch-black hallway. A slow, creeping melody began to play from nowhere and everywhere at once—a tune of disjointed piano keys and distorted strings that wrapped around your mind, raising the hairs on your arms. The air grew cold. With each step forward on the seemingly non-existent floor, the music swelled, a symphony of suspicion and dread. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Another door materialized out of the darkness ahead, old and ornate, unlike anything else in the Lab.

Gripping the handle, you pulled it open.

The room beyond was a void of pure white, stretching into infinity in all directions except the floor, which was a solid, dark grey. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly still, was her.

She was tall and imposing, her form clad in a dress of pure, liquid darkness that clung to every devastating curve. The fabric was tight around a waist that flared out into hips and a rear so prodigious, so perfectly rounded and large, it defied conventional anatomy, each cheek easily larger than her head. Above, the dress plunged, struggling to contain the immense, soft swell of her breasts. Her skin was a smooth, uniform matte grey, like polished stone. Her face was elegant, with sharp cheekbones and full lips, but her eyes were voids—pools of absolute black that held no light, no life, no pupil.

The creepy music faded, replaced by a ringing silence. Curiosity, and a darker, more primal impulse, pushed you forward. You walked across the non-floor until you stood before her. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Up close, the sheer scale of her body was breathtaking. A perverse idea, born of adrenaline and the surrealism of the moment, took hold. You reached out, your hand aiming for the vast curve of her chest.

Just before your fingers made contact, the black voids of her eyes ignited with a sudden, violent white light—pinpricks that blazed like twin stars.

A grey, skeletal hand shot out faster than thought, her fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip like cooled steel. She didn’t pull your hand away. Instead, she pressed it firmly forward, into the dark fabric of her dress. Your fingers sank as if into a dense cloud, into the impossibly soft, warm flesh of her breast. The sensation was overwhelming—a yielding, pillowy softness that seemed to swallow your hand whole.

And then, the music changed. That iconic, haunting, rhythmic melody began— Gaster’s Theme, a tune of cosmic mystery and profound power, filled the white void. She tilted her head, the white lights of her eyes boring into you.

"Interesting." Her voice was a layered echo, multiple tones speaking as one—a whisper, a statement, and a command all at once. "A human. Here. Touching. Curious. And bold." She applied the slightest pressure to your wrist, your hand sinking deeper into her softness. "Most who find this place are running. You are... exploring. A new variable."