But you certainly look different! What was it, then? Another gene mod? I thought those were dangerous!
[Another giggle, a high-pitched shrilling that rasps in their throat like nails across stone, the same sort of noise they'd claw out from their vocal cords if they could. Why are you laughing, Chara? It's not even funny!
It's not even, remotely, funny!]
[Another giggle, a high-pitched shrilling that rasps in their throat like nails across stone, the same sort of noise they'd claw out from their vocal cords if they could. Why are you laughing, Chara? It's not even funny!
It's not even, remotely, funny!]
No, I didn't do this to myself. I don't think the asteroid could have done this to me, anyway.
[This is something beyond the body, beyond the bounds of the physical--that much they know. This is something fundamental in their SOUL, in their very existence that has been twisted around and made into a strange reflection of themself.]
Kaworu said they called him an angel at home, so I guess that's what I am now.
[Chara doesn't sound like they're taking this well. They laughed like this in the Lab, in the End...never in good times. There's something they should be able to say here, they're sure of it, but memory alone can't help them here.]
Chara, you don't have to be upset. I don't know what did this, but I'll be safe until it goes back.
[This is something beyond the body, beyond the bounds of the physical--that much they know. This is something fundamental in their SOUL, in their very existence that has been twisted around and made into a strange reflection of themself.]
Kaworu said they called him an angel at home, so I guess that's what I am now.
[Chara doesn't sound like they're taking this well. They laughed like this in the Lab, in the End...never in good times. There's something they should be able to say here, they're sure of it, but memory alone can't help them here.]
Chara, you don't have to be upset. I don't know what did this, but I'll be safe until it goes back.
[The words smear past in an indistinct slurry, a handful of unknown variables molded into the very picture of calm. And they are, indeed, at the moment, completely and utterly calm. No need for concern. No need to worry. It's just you, Chara, who can't seem to understand, who can't seem to handle this. It's just you, Chara, overreacting, because you don't know what it is to love someone for them, and not for their utility. It's all fine, because Frisk says it's fine, and Frisk would know better than you would, Chara, what's best for Frisk! Hasn't Frisk earned the right to define their own path from here on out, free from you, free from anyone? Why can't you be happy for them? Why can't you handle this? Why can't you just be normal, and calm? Because the only one who has a problem with this is you, Chara!
Still just you, right? But don't you dare say it. Don't you dare steal those words, appropriate them for yourself. You've stolen enough from Frisk, and imposed enough on their territory, and why are you still laughing?
They haven't stopped laughing.
They couldn't stop laughing.
Because they're an angel.]
Still just you, right? But don't you dare say it. Don't you dare steal those words, appropriate them for yourself. You've stolen enough from Frisk, and imposed enough on their territory, and why are you still laughing?
They haven't stopped laughing.
They couldn't stop laughing.
Because they're an angel.]
[A choking burst of hysterics, and they ended up - under the bed, where they belong, like the little abomination they are, ha ha! Huddled there like a dust bunny, like the monsters under the bed, like a piece of garbage, like some food they used to be desperate to hide where no one could see it!
Because they're the angel. The one who has seen the Surface. Was there ever any doubt, really? Was there ever any doubt at all? It's always been you, always been you you you, and that's what they've earned, so it's all right! Be happy for them, Chara! Be happy for them, because anything other than that is just you being your selfish self. Unable to accept it. Unable to appreciate it. Unable to let go.
Laugh like it doesn't sear something hot and inescapable down the back of your throat. Like there isn't something - slipping - down the corner of one -
Big kids don't.
They don't.]
Guess the prophecy was true after all!
Because they're the angel. The one who has seen the Surface. Was there ever any doubt, really? Was there ever any doubt at all? It's always been you, always been you you you, and that's what they've earned, so it's all right! Be happy for them, Chara! Be happy for them, because anything other than that is just you being your selfish self. Unable to accept it. Unable to appreciate it. Unable to let go.
Laugh like it doesn't sear something hot and inescapable down the back of your throat. Like there isn't something - slipping - down the corner of one -
Big kids don't.
They don't.]
Guess the prophecy was true after all!
The prophecy...?
[What does Chara--]
[Oh. Oh, no.]
No, no, I don't mean that one! It's just the word they used, I'm not...it's not like that.
[The disconnect is almost worse than the distress they should be feeling; this long and aching void between themself and the mass of emotion and feeling that Chara flings at them with every breath. It slides past with almost no effect at all, except...it doesn't. Part of them still hurts, distantly, wants to cocoon that pain away from Chara. Because if Chara is hurting, then...they've failed, failed at the one thing they care about, now and always.]
I'm coming home right now. I'll be there soon. I...I don't know what I need to say right now. I'm not Lilim anymore, I can't help you how you need right now. But I know you need me. I won't leave you.
[What does Chara--]
[Oh. Oh, no.]
No, no, I don't mean that one! It's just the word they used, I'm not...it's not like that.
[The disconnect is almost worse than the distress they should be feeling; this long and aching void between themself and the mass of emotion and feeling that Chara flings at them with every breath. It slides past with almost no effect at all, except...it doesn't. Part of them still hurts, distantly, wants to cocoon that pain away from Chara. Because if Chara is hurting, then...they've failed, failed at the one thing they care about, now and always.]
I'm coming home right now. I'll be there soon. I...I don't know what I need to say right now. I'm not Lilim anymore, I can't help you how you need right now. But I know you need me. I won't leave you.
[They catch maybe one word in ten. None of it makes sense, and none of it - matters, really. Frisk is fine, and perfect, and untouchable. And if they're huddled here in a daze, dizzy with complete incomprehension, lying there like it isn't impossible to breathe, to breathe.
What's it matter? What's it matter? It's what Frisk wants! Frisk is fine with it, just like Asriel was fine with it! Why can't you just stop - doing this? Stop acting like it's about you!
Their laughter trails into a high, thin sound, like a wire being drawn taut.
And then the feed cuts.]
What's it matter? What's it matter? It's what Frisk wants! Frisk is fine with it, just like Asriel was fine with it! Why can't you just stop - doing this? Stop acting like it's about you!
Their laughter trails into a high, thin sound, like a wire being drawn taut.
And then the feed cuts.]
[Not good.]
[It's a while later before Frisk touches down in the backyard. They don't need to search for Chara--they can feel their SOUL, a strange and delicate thing that still beats with as much power as any human holds. (As any Lilim holds.) Quietly they make their way through the house, pausing outside the door and knocking twice before opening it.]
Chara. May I come in?
[It's a while later before Frisk touches down in the backyard. They don't need to search for Chara--they can feel their SOUL, a strange and delicate thing that still beats with as much power as any human holds. (As any Lilim holds.) Quietly they make their way through the house, pausing outside the door and knocking twice before opening it.]
Chara. May I come in?
Edited 2017-05-15 07:25 (UTC)
[Time passes in an uncertain drag. Their breath may as well be swollen in their lungs, rasping in the back of their throat. Can't even be the slightest bit happy for Frisk, or Asriel, or anyone! Just have to be the same selfish fixture you always are, incapable of acknowledging when someone else gets a nice thing! So you have a fit. You have a stupid fit and you hide under the bed like the horrible little rotten thing you are and everyone has to drop everything to race to your side, because you can't help but make everything, everything, everything all about you!
Frisk receives no answer; not of the verbal variety. There's simply the rattling staccato of laughter winding out from under the bed, and Chara buries their face in their hands, back to the slice of light blazing through the open doorway.]
Frisk receives no answer; not of the verbal variety. There's simply the rattling staccato of laughter winding out from under the bed, and Chara buries their face in their hands, back to the slice of light blazing through the open doorway.]
[Frisk pauses for several long moments before walking in quietly. They come over to the bed, kneel, then lay down on their side so that they can see Chara. They remember this much at least--it's easier when you're able to see the person talking to you.]
[Even if it seems to be the last thing Chara wants right now.]
I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry.
[Their expression remains calm and far too even, even with the crease between their eyebrows and the frown tugging at their lips. It's all performance, and act, and...they don't think they're doing a very good job.]
...I hope I'm back to normal, soon. You need that me.
[That much, at least, isn't a lie.]
[Even if it seems to be the last thing Chara wants right now.]
I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry.
[Their expression remains calm and far too even, even with the crease between their eyebrows and the frown tugging at their lips. It's all performance, and act, and...they don't think they're doing a very good job.]
...I hope I'm back to normal, soon. You need that me.
[That much, at least, isn't a lie.]
[What's any of that meant to mean, exactly? There's someone laid down here now, but they're not -
That's not Frisk.
Skin paler, their demeanor false, hair alit with invisible fingers of some sort of holy backlight. A front, a mere mimicry of Frisk's desperate mumbling, their reaching fingers, their fumbling hands, their tripping over themself to be heard and registered and acknowledged.
It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk.
They receive nothing in turn. Nothing but a strangled huff of sound, and Chara buries their face in the crook of their elbow with a shrill giggle.]
That's not Frisk.
Skin paler, their demeanor false, hair alit with invisible fingers of some sort of holy backlight. A front, a mere mimicry of Frisk's desperate mumbling, their reaching fingers, their fumbling hands, their tripping over themself to be heard and registered and acknowledged.
It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk. It's not Frisk.
They receive nothing in turn. Nothing but a strangled huff of sound, and Chara buries their face in the crook of their elbow with a shrill giggle.]
PRIVATE RECORD; detailing the events of may 15th, following misuse of the Ingress
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inconsequence
2017-05-20 05:25 pm (UTC)(link)
It ends. Inevitably, it...ends. The Ingress is not a personal plaything, and the signatures they'd pilfered were not for their use, to wage a war on an establishment long since left behind the Moira's invisible trail. Eventually, the world stops burning, and the chaos starts to die. Asriel's owner lies in pieces, decorating the floor, sprayed across the ground in reddened streaks, a throat parted open wide enough for the head to sag at an angle askew.
But the Savrii are the cavalry, and the cavalry arrives, inevitably.
A round shine of purple swells one cheekbone, a ripe plum of a bruise blazing beneath their ribs, scores of thickening red and rusted brown thinning through the tears in their clothes en masse. They'd not expected to return unscathed, and unscathed they never have been. They are, as the turn of events would have it, the last to come through the Ingress before it closes with a bright snap of disengaging energy, immediately surrounded.
A circle of armed guards. From one frying pan to another. Not unlike those whom they'd just gotten done dispensing of with varying success.
One of them speaks; the etiology of the voice is unclear, but the words are inarguable:
"Rescind your weapons and stand down."
Their grip tightens, knuckles blanching across the Knife, scuffed and scratched and bleeding. Their LOVE flickers, swollen with red. It's enough. It's more than enough. They could drive through every one of them, cleave through them, cut them apart. They could - could try, couldn't they, and they'd fail but they'd fail with bullets slammed through the meat of their lungs, their over-adrenalized muscle. In the wake of everything, Asriel would be happier, infinitely so, without the invisible specter of his former owner hanging like a cruel shadow over his head. He has the friend he wished he always had. He has a hypocritical bag of bolts to pat his ass, to cling to him, to burden him with every problem he cannot possibly fix.
Muscles tightening around the bristling circle of weapons, fingers closing over triggers in preparation to fire.
The air is silent, thick with anticipation.
And in the midst of them, a spot of a face in the thicket of shoulders, close-knit. Both familiar and startling in its familiarity, outlined with -
Concern?
They'd not requested any assistance. Not from their employer. Not from Shepard - Shepard, the unanticipated variable. Anomalous in both her appearance and her support, her will to redirect what had to be redirected.
Their breath hisses between their teeth in a ragged, hungry intake. They could. They - could. They could bring that crashing down over their own shoulders, an even vaster, cleaner, harsher demonstration of what they deserve, claw the full force of Thisavrou's laws thunderclapping into their moth-eaten remnants of a SOUL, let it all burn and fade like a comet's flare-and-spiraling trail. Get what they deserve! Get what's coming to them! Just to prove, how well and truly and deeply and completely they should.
It gutters in the pit of their chest, pooling in their stomach. And in the thick of them them, inexplicably, they can see her, Shepard, tensing on the spot, as though ready to take that cue. As though ready to FIGHT on their behalf - on theirs! When they've already done -
"Rescind your weapons," repeats the spokesperson, taut and abrupt, "and stand down."
A whistling drag of breath between their teeth. The burn of every bruise and sore rimming muscles and skin. The roughness of the Knife's hilt against the pads of their fingers.
The Savrii are well armed. Who could blame them? They're dealing with dangerous, disruptive criminals here! They're dealing with the worst, are they not, they very worst, those who crudely and ruthlessly abused the Ingress technology, upended the careful order established on the worlds on which they count as little more than glorified house guests, upended the tables, broke all the dishes, whittled the chair legs into stakes, burned every inch of the rental car and poured gasoline over the ashes!
She wouldn't.
Would she?
If you comply, you make that choice. You choose what it is they know, how much you relinquish, how much you give up. You orchestrate what they take.
So the child straightens.
And they smile.
A neat roll of one wrist, and they offer the Knife out, hilt first. It's deftly drawn from their grasp, and the moment it's slid from between their fingertips, it shifts, fluidly, from red-patterned metal to a piece of worn steel, unextraordinary. 15 ATK. Unremarkable. Untouched by whatever special qualities in their wisp of a SOUL that infuses it with its own aura, blazing scarlet. Something tugs in their chest as it's torn from them, and then there are hands. Hands reaching, searching, traveling up and down along their arms and legs and across their sides and the breath stops in their throat. Clawing, swarming, reaching, patting them down to ensure they've nothing else on their person. A blade fished out from their sleeve, another tucked in their boot. One kept pinned to their belt. Small blades removed and discarded, and their heart thunders in sickening staccato, roaring in their ears, burning behind their lids. Waiting, waiting for the strike that follows, the pinch that bruises their skin dark yellow. Bracing for the invisible slap. Hands turning them open and over with an adroit dispassion, simply and easy, as though it does not blaze beneath their skin with a cold itch. It's what you deserve, Chara. It's what you have coming. You've been bad, and now this is how you're going to be. You're going to be punished. You're going to be free!
A giggle bubbling in the back of their throat, deranged. It attracts a host of odd looks, but most everyone seems to be - distracted, at the moment. Closing the Ingress away, sealing it into silence.
And then
Then
Then they are bundled along, jostled, because they've lost the right to their own skin, to their own air, and Shepard's presence, even now, isn't wholly clear. She keeps looking their way with a significance to her glance, but whatever she intends to communicate is utterly lost to them, to the buzzing just behind their ears, the beat of their own blood vessels in their brain.
She has to call out to get the attention of the group that's intent on disarming. She has to call out, and she shifts forward a step, just for a moment.
Something glitters in the air in a golden parabolic arc, glinting coldly. Out of weary reflex, their hands snap out, awkwardly, fumbling the catch. It lands nestled in the cradle of their joined palms.
A gold coin with the shape of a plus sign emblazoned across the front.
Your LOVE -
Your LOVE -
A static cling in the back of their throat, stinging and sharp, tacky as blood. Something hoarse and wet pricking at the corners of their - at nothing, because they don't, it doesn't matter. None of it. The thickening of something swelling in their esophagus that makes it impossible to breathe, the unevenness of their breathing; it's nothing, nothing, nothing more than a small data error.
One of them has it taken away at once. There's another flurry of speech, an exchange beyond the scope of their perception or their insight or both. Claims that it's nothing dangerous. It's simply - a token, as it were.
It means nothing, in the end. Shepard's involvement remains starkly out of place. What reason has she to place herself in the realm of their poorly-advised plan, their endeavors, their justice too tainted to count as justice, their revenge?
The bureaucratic meanderings of whatever passes for a justice system here places them in separate rooms, in the disarmingly-titled Mediation Center. As though titling it as such would completely obfuscate its purpose.
The Locket nestled beneath their clothes is all they've left in the way of protection.
For all the sentiment it carries, a talisman like that is not, and never will be
Enough.
But the Savrii are the cavalry, and the cavalry arrives, inevitably.
A round shine of purple swells one cheekbone, a ripe plum of a bruise blazing beneath their ribs, scores of thickening red and rusted brown thinning through the tears in their clothes en masse. They'd not expected to return unscathed, and unscathed they never have been. They are, as the turn of events would have it, the last to come through the Ingress before it closes with a bright snap of disengaging energy, immediately surrounded.
A circle of armed guards. From one frying pan to another. Not unlike those whom they'd just gotten done dispensing of with varying success.
One of them speaks; the etiology of the voice is unclear, but the words are inarguable:
"Rescind your weapons and stand down."
Their grip tightens, knuckles blanching across the Knife, scuffed and scratched and bleeding. Their LOVE flickers, swollen with red. It's enough. It's more than enough. They could drive through every one of them, cleave through them, cut them apart. They could - could try, couldn't they, and they'd fail but they'd fail with bullets slammed through the meat of their lungs, their over-adrenalized muscle. In the wake of everything, Asriel would be happier, infinitely so, without the invisible specter of his former owner hanging like a cruel shadow over his head. He has the friend he wished he always had. He has a hypocritical bag of bolts to pat his ass, to cling to him, to burden him with every problem he cannot possibly fix.
Muscles tightening around the bristling circle of weapons, fingers closing over triggers in preparation to fire.
The air is silent, thick with anticipation.
And in the midst of them, a spot of a face in the thicket of shoulders, close-knit. Both familiar and startling in its familiarity, outlined with -
Concern?
They'd not requested any assistance. Not from their employer. Not from Shepard - Shepard, the unanticipated variable. Anomalous in both her appearance and her support, her will to redirect what had to be redirected.
Their breath hisses between their teeth in a ragged, hungry intake. They could. They - could. They could bring that crashing down over their own shoulders, an even vaster, cleaner, harsher demonstration of what they deserve, claw the full force of Thisavrou's laws thunderclapping into their moth-eaten remnants of a SOUL, let it all burn and fade like a comet's flare-and-spiraling trail. Get what they deserve! Get what's coming to them! Just to prove, how well and truly and deeply and completely they should.
It gutters in the pit of their chest, pooling in their stomach. And in the thick of them them, inexplicably, they can see her, Shepard, tensing on the spot, as though ready to take that cue. As though ready to FIGHT on their behalf - on theirs! When they've already done -
"Rescind your weapons," repeats the spokesperson, taut and abrupt, "and stand down."
A whistling drag of breath between their teeth. The burn of every bruise and sore rimming muscles and skin. The roughness of the Knife's hilt against the pads of their fingers.
The Savrii are well armed. Who could blame them? They're dealing with dangerous, disruptive criminals here! They're dealing with the worst, are they not, they very worst, those who crudely and ruthlessly abused the Ingress technology, upended the careful order established on the worlds on which they count as little more than glorified house guests, upended the tables, broke all the dishes, whittled the chair legs into stakes, burned every inch of the rental car and poured gasoline over the ashes!
She wouldn't.
Would she?
If you comply, you make that choice. You choose what it is they know, how much you relinquish, how much you give up. You orchestrate what they take.
So the child straightens.
And they smile.
A neat roll of one wrist, and they offer the Knife out, hilt first. It's deftly drawn from their grasp, and the moment it's slid from between their fingertips, it shifts, fluidly, from red-patterned metal to a piece of worn steel, unextraordinary. 15 ATK. Unremarkable. Untouched by whatever special qualities in their wisp of a SOUL that infuses it with its own aura, blazing scarlet. Something tugs in their chest as it's torn from them, and then there are hands. Hands reaching, searching, traveling up and down along their arms and legs and across their sides and the breath stops in their throat. Clawing, swarming, reaching, patting them down to ensure they've nothing else on their person. A blade fished out from their sleeve, another tucked in their boot. One kept pinned to their belt. Small blades removed and discarded, and their heart thunders in sickening staccato, roaring in their ears, burning behind their lids. Waiting, waiting for the strike that follows, the pinch that bruises their skin dark yellow. Bracing for the invisible slap. Hands turning them open and over with an adroit dispassion, simply and easy, as though it does not blaze beneath their skin with a cold itch. It's what you deserve, Chara. It's what you have coming. You've been bad, and now this is how you're going to be. You're going to be punished. You're going to be free!
A giggle bubbling in the back of their throat, deranged. It attracts a host of odd looks, but most everyone seems to be - distracted, at the moment. Closing the Ingress away, sealing it into silence.
And then
Then
Then they are bundled along, jostled, because they've lost the right to their own skin, to their own air, and Shepard's presence, even now, isn't wholly clear. She keeps looking their way with a significance to her glance, but whatever she intends to communicate is utterly lost to them, to the buzzing just behind their ears, the beat of their own blood vessels in their brain.
She has to call out to get the attention of the group that's intent on disarming. She has to call out, and she shifts forward a step, just for a moment.
Something glitters in the air in a golden parabolic arc, glinting coldly. Out of weary reflex, their hands snap out, awkwardly, fumbling the catch. It lands nestled in the cradle of their joined palms.
A gold coin with the shape of a plus sign emblazoned across the front.
Your LOVE -
Your LOVE -
A static cling in the back of their throat, stinging and sharp, tacky as blood. Something hoarse and wet pricking at the corners of their - at nothing, because they don't, it doesn't matter. None of it. The thickening of something swelling in their esophagus that makes it impossible to breathe, the unevenness of their breathing; it's nothing, nothing, nothing more than a small data error.
One of them has it taken away at once. There's another flurry of speech, an exchange beyond the scope of their perception or their insight or both. Claims that it's nothing dangerous. It's simply - a token, as it were.
It means nothing, in the end. Shepard's involvement remains starkly out of place. What reason has she to place herself in the realm of their poorly-advised plan, their endeavors, their justice too tainted to count as justice, their revenge?
The bureaucratic meanderings of whatever passes for a justice system here places them in separate rooms, in the disarmingly-titled Mediation Center. As though titling it as such would completely obfuscate its purpose.
The Locket nestled beneath their clothes is all they've left in the way of protection.
For all the sentiment it carries, a talisman like that is not, and never will be
Enough.
The rooms are bare, a monochrome, featureless white that may as well be a void, blazingly bright against their retinas. A table in the center, a chair upon which they're seated, but no further restraint or action, it seems, is required. They're free to stand, to pace, to dig fingertips into the fabric of their sweater. Twisting at the cloth there, unraveling the strands. Picking over the chitinous brown-red of their own scabs, peeling them away and back with a sickening inattentiveness, defaulting to that which occupies them out of habit. Smoothing the strands of their hair, flattening the tangled mess with the flat of their palm, combing through the worst of it with their fingers. Nothing to be done about the smears of ash and blood and dirt and worse streaking their cheeks, their shirt front, jammed beneath their fingernails in crescents of darkened grime.
No amount of slight, tiny adjustments will make them any more or less presentable. Fidgeting and fiddling implies they're not the picture of absolute control, of silent judgment and complete utility that they must be. School their expression into something still, smilingly complacent. Let nothing disarm them, waver them, distract them, unseat them. They came willingly. They control this. They control what comes of this. And whatever Shepard has agreed to - it will not matter, in the end. These are their consequences, and they are not above consequences.
The doors open with a faint, pneumatic hiss, sweeping open.
A faint intake of breath. Stand there, ramrod straight, unflinching, eyes forward. Nothing will touch them. Nothing will unseat them. They are in control, because they chose this. They are in control, because they chose this. They are in control, because they chose this. A high, thin breath whining in their throat, a painful contraction of their heart, and the fists balled at their side slacken. Shoulders no longer drawn tight and stiff, smile no longer locked over their features. Watching the figure that draws nearer, nearer, with chary uncertainty. The muscles clenched in their stomach, in their chest, in their arms, begin to slacken, slow and inevitable. Their lungs, no longer burning slabs of meat in their chest, expanding, taking in breath far easier than before.
It evades their focus. Remember. Remember what you did. Stand in place, at attention. They are in control, because they chose this. Never look away, never relinquish anything. Even if it's proving difficult to track, even if the thing in the shape of a man evades description, every descriptor slipping out from under their tongue, unable or unwilling to be pinioned by any sharp catch of memory.
"I hope you understand," it says gravely, "the gravity of what it is you've done."
Smile.
Smile and offer nothing.
Press back with everything, sharpen every inch of yourself into a point, drive it like a stake through the heart into every word. Take every trail of speech, twist it, use it. Control. Always, control. Do not let it slip from under you, do not let it dissipate like grains of sand between fingertips. Do not waver, even for a moment. The slightest gap, the smallest chink in the armor, will be suspect.
Always, control.
They are in control, because they chose this.
"Why, then?" says the intermediary, even and unhurried. "Do you understand why you did this?"
Say nothing. Offer nothing. And yet, a delicate pressure exerted around the corners of their mind, a building around the base of their lungs, and a humble servant is nothing if not complacent, are they not? Complacency really is the order of the day. Follow to the utmost, humble servant. Listen. Let the inquiries wash over you, because you understand full well, what it is you deserve.
No, no, they - they are in - they are in control, because they -
"You've endangered a great many lives, today," the intermediary continues solemnly.
They don't register that the smile is gone until it occurs to them that their cheeks no longer ache with its presence.
"We have records of the effects of your efforts." Breathe. Breathe. They are in control, because they chose this. "A great many were injured and recaptured before they were able to be freed. There were children among them. A monster, and a human child."
A small, quiet hitch in the syncopation of their breathing. A stillness, stealing across every fixed point.
The intermediary - pauses.
And continues.
"Your siblings. Yes?"
Nod.
"You understand that this hurt them." Something wells sickly in the pit of their chest, boiling with heat like bile, like molten lead, and they are meant to be the perfect portrait of utter control and yet something has crossed their features, a look of panic, or dismay, or quiet terror. Something rising, unbidden. The knowledge of what it's telling them, that this is a correct assessment, that they'd have been better off doing nothing, nothing, of course, because no plan Chara formulates is going to have any effect worth having. Had they not learned, the first time they masterminded a plan? Had they not come away taking something from that?
"You endangered their lives, Chara," says the intermediary. Something about its tone communicates a mournful regret, the knowledge that this was preventable, that nothing about this interrogation is what anyone wanted, but it proved necessary nonetheless. Necessary, because you did this, Chara. For all the weight of consequences on your shoulders, you never stopped to consider what would come of those who listened, those who would succumb to the very same. You are not the humble servant, the demon, the shadow. You're just a foolish, miserable stain on Thisavrou's system, and now you are going to watch the mess as it spills across the floor, acknowledge the candy you trampled underfoot, and look at what you've done.
Struggle to muster a retort, some verbal whip-crack of denial, anything, anything.
Come up empty.
"Asriel Dreemurr." There's no mistaking the clench of Chara's jaw, the blaze of denial swarming in their stare. No. No. Don't bring him into this, don't you dare bring him -
"And his sibling, and yours. Frisk."
They are in control. They are in control, because they -
"You employer. LCDR Shepard."
"S - " A breathy hiss of hair, heat gathering in the corners of their cheeks, their eyes. Don't surrender. Give them nothing. Give them nothing, not even the satisfaction of knowing they'd been successful.
"You realize, of course, that they would have all been far safer without your involvement." The intermediary's voice is smooth, almost atonal. An impartial acknowledgment of the facts they'd blithely ignored. "Of course, you never meant to hurt them. You never meant to endanger the lives of everyone you love. And yet - how much better off would they have been, do you think, if you had not done as you did? You would not be here now. Your employer would not have needed to intercede on your behalf. Your siblings would not be in agony over what you've done; the trauma they had just started to recover from."
You did this.
You did this.
A hard, painful thump in their chest, and they twist on the spot, as though they might escape the intolerable burn of that stare, the flat gaze that isn't accusatory, it would be easier if it were accusatory, but is simply dully, quietly transparent about its disappointment, about how deeply they've wounded those they call - called - family.
The need to be away from it, from all of this, is unbearable. Fingers clawing at the skin beneath their shirtsleeves, throat working soundlessly, trying to retreat, trying to press back, sunk flatly against the wall.
"Stop."
You IDIOT.
Don't you know pleading gets you nothing, even a polite, quiet request is nothing, nothing at all in the face of those you've wronged? You did this. You ruined all of this with you horrible touch, broke the delicate lives people were starting to build, free of your influence at last.
"But by reinvigorating everything they'd thought they could get past...how much better off would they be, do you think, if you had not attempted to seek some manner of revenge? Certainly they would not have to re-experience those horrors once more. Certainly they would not be caught in that waking nightmare." The intermediary pauses to shake its head in silent disapproval. "In attempting to mend what could not be fixed, it seems you have simply broken it more irrevocably than before."
Stop. Stop.
They know what they did. They know what they did. If this is to be their punishment -
All creatures such as them get what they deserve in the end.
This is axiom.
Screaming is against the rules.
"Our rules are in place for a reason, of course." The words may as well be spoken through a fog, yet every one cuts through, cleanly and completely. "Did you believe you knew better? That our laws only apply when you wish them to? That they were optional? We set them there for the protection of our civilians. And now, due to your actions...it seems much of that work has been undone."
You should have listened, Chara.
But now - it's too late now, of course.
"You've upset a great many people, now. We cannot protect you from that."
They never asked for their - for anyone's protection. They don't need it, they -
"I just hope you understand that this could have all been prevented, had you only listened before."
They are -
They -
Straining against an invisible asymptote, a barrier they cannot cross. Something bubbling in the back of their throat, beading at the corner. Slipping down the side of one cheek. It's nothing. It's nothing they've not heard before, not told themself millions of times. They know what they are, what they've done, what they're capable of. They've done worse, have they not? They've done - these are their consequences!
It is just LOVE.
LOVE, pulsing and swelling and falling.
LOVE, searing down their throat.
LOVE, burning their eyes. Staining their cheeks.
It's just LOVE.
Nothing more.
No amount of slight, tiny adjustments will make them any more or less presentable. Fidgeting and fiddling implies they're not the picture of absolute control, of silent judgment and complete utility that they must be. School their expression into something still, smilingly complacent. Let nothing disarm them, waver them, distract them, unseat them. They came willingly. They control this. They control what comes of this. And whatever Shepard has agreed to - it will not matter, in the end. These are their consequences, and they are not above consequences.
The doors open with a faint, pneumatic hiss, sweeping open.
A faint intake of breath. Stand there, ramrod straight, unflinching, eyes forward. Nothing will touch them. Nothing will unseat them. They are in control, because they chose this. They are in control, because they chose this. They are in control, because they chose this. A high, thin breath whining in their throat, a painful contraction of their heart, and the fists balled at their side slacken. Shoulders no longer drawn tight and stiff, smile no longer locked over their features. Watching the figure that draws nearer, nearer, with chary uncertainty. The muscles clenched in their stomach, in their chest, in their arms, begin to slacken, slow and inevitable. Their lungs, no longer burning slabs of meat in their chest, expanding, taking in breath far easier than before.
It evades their focus. Remember. Remember what you did. Stand in place, at attention. They are in control, because they chose this. Never look away, never relinquish anything. Even if it's proving difficult to track, even if the thing in the shape of a man evades description, every descriptor slipping out from under their tongue, unable or unwilling to be pinioned by any sharp catch of memory.
"I hope you understand," it says gravely, "the gravity of what it is you've done."
Smile.
Smile and offer nothing.
Press back with everything, sharpen every inch of yourself into a point, drive it like a stake through the heart into every word. Take every trail of speech, twist it, use it. Control. Always, control. Do not let it slip from under you, do not let it dissipate like grains of sand between fingertips. Do not waver, even for a moment. The slightest gap, the smallest chink in the armor, will be suspect.
Always, control.
They are in control, because they chose this.
"Why, then?" says the intermediary, even and unhurried. "Do you understand why you did this?"
Say nothing. Offer nothing. And yet, a delicate pressure exerted around the corners of their mind, a building around the base of their lungs, and a humble servant is nothing if not complacent, are they not? Complacency really is the order of the day. Follow to the utmost, humble servant. Listen. Let the inquiries wash over you, because you understand full well, what it is you deserve.
No, no, they - they are in - they are in control, because they -
"You've endangered a great many lives, today," the intermediary continues solemnly.
They don't register that the smile is gone until it occurs to them that their cheeks no longer ache with its presence.
"We have records of the effects of your efforts." Breathe. Breathe. They are in control, because they chose this. "A great many were injured and recaptured before they were able to be freed. There were children among them. A monster, and a human child."
A small, quiet hitch in the syncopation of their breathing. A stillness, stealing across every fixed point.
The intermediary - pauses.
And continues.
"Your siblings. Yes?"
Nod.
"You understand that this hurt them." Something wells sickly in the pit of their chest, boiling with heat like bile, like molten lead, and they are meant to be the perfect portrait of utter control and yet something has crossed their features, a look of panic, or dismay, or quiet terror. Something rising, unbidden. The knowledge of what it's telling them, that this is a correct assessment, that they'd have been better off doing nothing, nothing, of course, because no plan Chara formulates is going to have any effect worth having. Had they not learned, the first time they masterminded a plan? Had they not come away taking something from that?
"You endangered their lives, Chara," says the intermediary. Something about its tone communicates a mournful regret, the knowledge that this was preventable, that nothing about this interrogation is what anyone wanted, but it proved necessary nonetheless. Necessary, because you did this, Chara. For all the weight of consequences on your shoulders, you never stopped to consider what would come of those who listened, those who would succumb to the very same. You are not the humble servant, the demon, the shadow. You're just a foolish, miserable stain on Thisavrou's system, and now you are going to watch the mess as it spills across the floor, acknowledge the candy you trampled underfoot, and look at what you've done.
Struggle to muster a retort, some verbal whip-crack of denial, anything, anything.
Come up empty.
"Asriel Dreemurr." There's no mistaking the clench of Chara's jaw, the blaze of denial swarming in their stare. No. No. Don't bring him into this, don't you dare bring him -
"And his sibling, and yours. Frisk."
They are in control. They are in control, because they -
"You employer. LCDR Shepard."
"S - " A breathy hiss of hair, heat gathering in the corners of their cheeks, their eyes. Don't surrender. Give them nothing. Give them nothing, not even the satisfaction of knowing they'd been successful.
"You realize, of course, that they would have all been far safer without your involvement." The intermediary's voice is smooth, almost atonal. An impartial acknowledgment of the facts they'd blithely ignored. "Of course, you never meant to hurt them. You never meant to endanger the lives of everyone you love. And yet - how much better off would they have been, do you think, if you had not done as you did? You would not be here now. Your employer would not have needed to intercede on your behalf. Your siblings would not be in agony over what you've done; the trauma they had just started to recover from."
You did this.
You did this.
A hard, painful thump in their chest, and they twist on the spot, as though they might escape the intolerable burn of that stare, the flat gaze that isn't accusatory, it would be easier if it were accusatory, but is simply dully, quietly transparent about its disappointment, about how deeply they've wounded those they call - called - family.
The need to be away from it, from all of this, is unbearable. Fingers clawing at the skin beneath their shirtsleeves, throat working soundlessly, trying to retreat, trying to press back, sunk flatly against the wall.
"Stop."
You IDIOT.
Don't you know pleading gets you nothing, even a polite, quiet request is nothing, nothing at all in the face of those you've wronged? You did this. You ruined all of this with you horrible touch, broke the delicate lives people were starting to build, free of your influence at last.
"But by reinvigorating everything they'd thought they could get past...how much better off would they be, do you think, if you had not attempted to seek some manner of revenge? Certainly they would not have to re-experience those horrors once more. Certainly they would not be caught in that waking nightmare." The intermediary pauses to shake its head in silent disapproval. "In attempting to mend what could not be fixed, it seems you have simply broken it more irrevocably than before."
Stop. Stop.
They know what they did. They know what they did. If this is to be their punishment -
All creatures such as them get what they deserve in the end.
This is axiom.
Screaming is against the rules.
"Our rules are in place for a reason, of course." The words may as well be spoken through a fog, yet every one cuts through, cleanly and completely. "Did you believe you knew better? That our laws only apply when you wish them to? That they were optional? We set them there for the protection of our civilians. And now, due to your actions...it seems much of that work has been undone."
You should have listened, Chara.
But now - it's too late now, of course.
"You've upset a great many people, now. We cannot protect you from that."
They never asked for their - for anyone's protection. They don't need it, they -
"I just hope you understand that this could have all been prevented, had you only listened before."
They are -
They -
Straining against an invisible asymptote, a barrier they cannot cross. Something bubbling in the back of their throat, beading at the corner. Slipping down the side of one cheek. It's nothing. It's nothing they've not heard before, not told themself millions of times. They know what they are, what they've done, what they're capable of. They've done worse, have they not? They've done - these are their consequences!
It is just LOVE.
LOVE, pulsing and swelling and falling.
LOVE, searing down their throat.
LOVE, burning their eyes. Staining their cheeks.
It's just LOVE.
Nothing more.
Edited 2017-05-20 20:09 (UTC)
Time passes altogether too slowly, oozing past at a crawl. The room's corner becomes a sanctuary, arms domed over their head, fisted into their hair in a protective shell. As if that might shut the words out. As if that might make any of them less true. It drags on in a continuous drone of facts and words they already knew, that everything, everyone, would have been better off if they'd just - if they'd never done what they did. If they hadn't come here at all. If they'd just stayed in the ground, dead.
It never said the latter, of course. But they've always been good at reading between the lines.
When the doors hush open and shut again, the tension quivering in their lungs, clamped in iron around their fingers, their wrists, their legs, wavers and relaxes in a slow, painful release.
Why didn't they FIGHT? Why couldn't they have snarled, spit, fought back cruelly, tooth and nail, with every word, subluxated the intermediary and everything it represented by spitting back its own laws into its face? The heat in their cheeks, the unrelenting burn of its gaze had been - impossible to ignore, to speak out against, in the moment. But now...?
Too soon, it returns. Far too soon. Stand up, straighten up. Try and smile, but it falters. Fades. Knowing it is too cheap a tactic. Too overcome with shame, with how small and unnecessary they are, every inch of them, for what they've done, for the same mistake they've made, time and time again. Bereft of dignity, and everything else.
The intermediary smiles.
It smiles.
Something in the pit of them drops to their toes.
"My apologies," it says pleasantly. "There's been a horrible error. You see, LCDR Jane Shepard has already confessed to orchestrating the crime. How terrible of her to risk consigning someone else to such a fate."
Shepard -
Shepard.
Their mouth opens to profess an argument, to say something, anything. These are their consequences, theirs. She's not - this is nothing to do with her. She shouldn't be placing herself in their crosshairs like this, as if that might alleviate them of anything. It was true, every word of it, every ounce of it.
She's taking their fall.
She's taking their fall.
These are their consequences, and she's -
"It truly is for the best, that we'll be taking her in," the intermediary continues. "It's best that she not continue to be such a toxic influence on someone so young and impressionable. It's just terrible, really, how people like that can agitate others into harm's way for no reason at all."
A quintet of crescent-shaped marks burn into the skin of their own forearm as they grip it, tighter, tighter, straining to muster the words necessary to speak out, to refute this - this whatever it is, Shepard prostrating herself for their sake, taking responsibility for their crimes, their consequences! This is their burden to bear, theirs, theirs.
"It's not - "
"In any case," the intermediary says, smoothly overriding them as it steps aside, "you are free to go. Your clearance levels will be adjusted accordingly. No solo Ingress use will be permitted for the time being; we wouldn't want you to be influenced by anyone else of Jane Shepard's - persuasion."
Be quiet, Chara. Shut up, Chara. What do you really know anyway, Chara? Let the adults handle this. Let the adults do what they're best at, and take everything over.
To bail you out.
To clean up your mess.
To take the burden of your errors.
"Ah. I'd forgotten." The intermediary turns, still smiling, and deposits something upon the table with a quiet click. "We had this scanned and examined, of course, in case Jane Shepard was making any further attempts on your delicate ideology. She insisted it was quite harmless. As it has passed our routine inspections, we have returned it, as permitted. Your other belongings are being held in the nearest terminal outside."
It waits. Doubtless for them to make their exit.
But first, they have to retrieve it. The small, gold disc, gleaming on the table, emblazoned with a plus sign on one side, and a minus on the other.
The coin she offered them.
Wordless, head bowed, Chara retrieves it, the weight cold and heavy in the palm of their hand.
And they exit the room.
It never said the latter, of course. But they've always been good at reading between the lines.
When the doors hush open and shut again, the tension quivering in their lungs, clamped in iron around their fingers, their wrists, their legs, wavers and relaxes in a slow, painful release.
Why didn't they FIGHT? Why couldn't they have snarled, spit, fought back cruelly, tooth and nail, with every word, subluxated the intermediary and everything it represented by spitting back its own laws into its face? The heat in their cheeks, the unrelenting burn of its gaze had been - impossible to ignore, to speak out against, in the moment. But now...?
Too soon, it returns. Far too soon. Stand up, straighten up. Try and smile, but it falters. Fades. Knowing it is too cheap a tactic. Too overcome with shame, with how small and unnecessary they are, every inch of them, for what they've done, for the same mistake they've made, time and time again. Bereft of dignity, and everything else.
The intermediary smiles.
It smiles.
Something in the pit of them drops to their toes.
"My apologies," it says pleasantly. "There's been a horrible error. You see, LCDR Jane Shepard has already confessed to orchestrating the crime. How terrible of her to risk consigning someone else to such a fate."
Shepard -
Shepard.
Their mouth opens to profess an argument, to say something, anything. These are their consequences, theirs. She's not - this is nothing to do with her. She shouldn't be placing herself in their crosshairs like this, as if that might alleviate them of anything. It was true, every word of it, every ounce of it.
She's taking their fall.
She's taking their fall.
These are their consequences, and she's -
"It truly is for the best, that we'll be taking her in," the intermediary continues. "It's best that she not continue to be such a toxic influence on someone so young and impressionable. It's just terrible, really, how people like that can agitate others into harm's way for no reason at all."
A quintet of crescent-shaped marks burn into the skin of their own forearm as they grip it, tighter, tighter, straining to muster the words necessary to speak out, to refute this - this whatever it is, Shepard prostrating herself for their sake, taking responsibility for their crimes, their consequences! This is their burden to bear, theirs, theirs.
"It's not - "
"In any case," the intermediary says, smoothly overriding them as it steps aside, "you are free to go. Your clearance levels will be adjusted accordingly. No solo Ingress use will be permitted for the time being; we wouldn't want you to be influenced by anyone else of Jane Shepard's - persuasion."
Be quiet, Chara. Shut up, Chara. What do you really know anyway, Chara? Let the adults handle this. Let the adults do what they're best at, and take everything over.
To bail you out.
To clean up your mess.
To take the burden of your errors.
"Ah. I'd forgotten." The intermediary turns, still smiling, and deposits something upon the table with a quiet click. "We had this scanned and examined, of course, in case Jane Shepard was making any further attempts on your delicate ideology. She insisted it was quite harmless. As it has passed our routine inspections, we have returned it, as permitted. Your other belongings are being held in the nearest terminal outside."
It waits. Doubtless for them to make their exit.
But first, they have to retrieve it. The small, gold disc, gleaming on the table, emblazoned with a plus sign on one side, and a minus on the other.
The coin she offered them.
Wordless, head bowed, Chara retrieves it, the weight cold and heavy in the palm of their hand.
And they exit the room.
Edited 2017-05-20 19:14 (UTC)
BCC'D NORMANDY SECURITIES MASS MAIL; BACKDATED TO MORNING OF MAY 16TH (DAY 36)
squadgoals
2017-05-21 12:43 am (UTC)(link)
All,
Effective immediately, I will be on a leave of extended absence from Normandy Securities offices. Length estimate at this time is a minimum of 45 consecutive days (during the current 100-day cycle). Additionally, subsequent to receipt of this message, I will be unavailable for contact in any form, digital or otherwise.
During this time, the offices of Normandy Securities will be officially CLOSED, as I will be unavailable for collection and assignment of missions for the next remuneration period (Day 52 - 81). Therefor, all employees (defined as "full-time", "part-time", or "freelance") are subsequently placed on paid leave.
As there will be no bonuses available during the Day 52 - 81 paid leave remuneration cycle, please take note of the amount you should receive on Day 82, adjusted to account for this:
FULL-TIME: 550 SENCS
PART-TIME/FREELANCE: 250 SENCS
All employees should automatically receive their standard bonus-included amounts on the morning of Day 51.
As employees, you will still be able to enter and access the Normandy Securities offices and facilities, should you require anything. NOTE: Armory will be on lockdown during this time.
As always, thank you all for your persistent assistance and hard work in helping to form and continue Normandy Securities. Please use this unplanned vacation time to relax and spend some time with those you love.
Yours in service,
LCDR. Jane Shepard
Normandy Securities
Effective immediately, I will be on a leave of extended absence from Normandy Securities offices. Length estimate at this time is a minimum of 45 consecutive days (during the current 100-day cycle). Additionally, subsequent to receipt of this message, I will be unavailable for contact in any form, digital or otherwise.
During this time, the offices of Normandy Securities will be officially CLOSED, as I will be unavailable for collection and assignment of missions for the next remuneration period (Day 52 - 81). Therefor, all employees (defined as "full-time", "part-time", or "freelance") are subsequently placed on paid leave.
As there will be no bonuses available during the Day 52 - 81 paid leave remuneration cycle, please take note of the amount you should receive on Day 82, adjusted to account for this:
FULL-TIME: 550 SENCS
PART-TIME/FREELANCE: 250 SENCS
All employees should automatically receive their standard bonus-included amounts on the morning of Day 51.
As employees, you will still be able to enter and access the Normandy Securities offices and facilities, should you require anything. NOTE: Armory will be on lockdown during this time.
As always, thank you all for your persistent assistance and hard work in helping to form and continue Normandy Securities. Please use this unplanned vacation time to relax and spend some time with those you love.
Yours in service,
LCDR. Jane Shepard
Normandy Securities
[ * Your LOVE increased
ＩＮＣＲＥＡＳＥＤ
* Look at what you've done.
Ğ̣͇͔͏͏̱A̙̻ͨ̑̈̒᷃M̽͒ͣͧ͐̿̕Ĕ̗͎͊̐͋͘ O͚̼̭̞͓ͨ͜V̸̨͚̱̽̈́ͬE͎̫̺᷄̾͏ͦR͎̜̟̝᷆̾ͨ.]
* Look at what you've done.
Ğ̣͇͔͏͏̱A̙̻ͨ̑̈̒᷃M̽͒ͣͧ͐̿̕Ĕ̗͎͊̐͋͘ O͚̼̭̞͓ͨ͜V̸̨͚̱̽̈́ͬE͎̫̺᷄̾͏ͦR͎̜̟̝᷆̾ͨ.]
[They blink, slowly, red eyes to mirror Chara's own watching in silence for too long, waiting for a visible sign of acknowledgement or rejection. They more expect the latter, but they need to know.]
...did you hear me?
[Maybe they need to approach to provoke anything. Frisk rolls onto their belly and crawls under the bed, and reaches out to touch one of Chara's hands. Not to grab, only lightly, an indication of their presence.]
...did you hear me?
[Maybe they need to approach to provoke anything. Frisk rolls onto their belly and crawls under the bed, and reaches out to touch one of Chara's hands. Not to grab, only lightly, an indication of their presence.]
[A ragged bark of a laugh, and they jerk back, away. Curling up where they are like the horrid little thing they are.]
Don't touch me.
[The words emerge a low hiss. A threat. A warning.
Don't touch me. Not like this. Not now. Not without warning, not as though they're entitled, because we love you, Chara, we want to make sure you don't go running off again, and we want you to stay right where you are, so don't you move, don't you leave Mommy's sight, don't you try to wriggle out of your consequences.]
Don't touch me.
[The words emerge a low hiss. A threat. A warning.
Don't touch me. Not like this. Not now. Not without warning, not as though they're entitled, because we love you, Chara, we want to make sure you don't go running off again, and we want you to stay right where you are, so don't you move, don't you leave Mommy's sight, don't you try to wriggle out of your consequences.]
[Frisk blinks in surprise, pulling their hand away. They stare at Chara in confusion for a moment before folding both arms in front of them and resting their chin atop.]
Okay.
[A simple enough request. A memory drifts to the fore of their mind and they frown, looking down for a moment. A time when Frisk had been new to one of the houses, and scared. Some of the older kids were looking for them, and Frisk had been hiding under the bed until one thought to look...]
[...is that...?]
...are you afraid of me?
Okay.
[A simple enough request. A memory drifts to the fore of their mind and they frown, looking down for a moment. A time when Frisk had been new to one of the houses, and scared. Some of the older kids were looking for them, and Frisk had been hiding under the bed until one thought to look...]
[...is that...?]
...are you afraid of me?
[They should stop laughing. Stop - doing what they're doing, hands roving up and down their arms. And then the scratch, the dig of nails into skin. Dry, graying motes of dead skin the outer carapace, ha ha, before they get to the juicy center. The burn, the widening streaks of red.
Deeper, deeper. Maybe if they keep going, they'll carve everything apart and fall to ribbons. Wouldn't that be nice, for everyone?
The words are rough, hoarse with the lump swollen in the bit of their throat, jarring everything, blocking everyone.]
You're not Frisk.
Deeper, deeper. Maybe if they keep going, they'll carve everything apart and fall to ribbons. Wouldn't that be nice, for everyone?
The words are rough, hoarse with the lump swollen in the bit of their throat, jarring everything, blocking everyone.]
You're not Frisk.
[The blooming red catches Frisk's eye and they stiffen slightly, eyes fixed upon it. They promised not to touch, but they can't let Chara just...do that!]
Stop that. You're hurting yourself!
[Their control isn't fine enough to slip their AT field in under Chara's hand, but Chara's told them not to touch them. They have to obey that. But they have to stop this as well, it's...important?]
I'm still me, Chara. I'm just...I'm not Lilim.
[It's not an explanation. They know it's not an explanation, but there's not enough time to figure one out. They don't have that kind of mind anymore, that can take an idea and mold it with such speed and precision, to take something and turn it to an entirely new purpose. They remember what it was like, but searching through those moments to find the right clues is...it's hard. They don't even know what they should be looking for.]
Please, tell me what I should do. I still want to hep you.
Stop that. You're hurting yourself!
[Their control isn't fine enough to slip their AT field in under Chara's hand, but Chara's told them not to touch them. They have to obey that. But they have to stop this as well, it's...important?]
I'm still me, Chara. I'm just...I'm not Lilim.
[It's not an explanation. They know it's not an explanation, but there's not enough time to figure one out. They don't have that kind of mind anymore, that can take an idea and mold it with such speed and precision, to take something and turn it to an entirely new purpose. They remember what it was like, but searching through those moments to find the right clues is...it's hard. They don't even know what they should be looking for.]
Please, tell me what I should do. I still want to hep you.
[They've got no clue what the heck a "Lilim" is or why they should care, but their only response is to snort, dismissive, like a horse shooing away flies. What does it matter, what they do? It's their stupid borrowed meat-sack, is it not? Can't they do what they like with the body the Ingress thoughtfully supplied them with? It's better than being stuck as a ghost in someone else's head for life, right?
It's supposed to be you, always you. It's always to be still just you. And yet - whoever they're looking at now, whoever they're talking to now, what part of that is Frisk? What part of that is they of the fumbled speech, of the uncertainty in encroaching upon anyone's space, the steely determination underlying, the fear of the same callous, dismissive words they've launched at them now? Where are they? Where are they now?
Layered beneath? Gone? Gone?
...gone?
A soft thrill of something in their stomach and a noise akin to a moan, desperate and pained. Like the weight of something that can never be removed.]
Just - get out. Go.
It's supposed to be you, always you. It's always to be still just you. And yet - whoever they're looking at now, whoever they're talking to now, what part of that is Frisk? What part of that is they of the fumbled speech, of the uncertainty in encroaching upon anyone's space, the steely determination underlying, the fear of the same callous, dismissive words they've launched at them now? Where are they? Where are they now?
Layered beneath? Gone? Gone?
...gone?
A soft thrill of something in their stomach and a noise akin to a moan, desperate and pained. Like the weight of something that can never be removed.]
Just - get out. Go.
[...]
[They probably should have expected this.]
Okay.
[They crawl back out, and pause for a moment to watch Chara before they stand again, brushing off their clothes and turning to walk out without another word. They're probably going to regret this later, but it's simply too frustrating, too difficult to maneuver their way through these social quandries, all the emotions and complexities. Easier to let things be, distance themself so Chara might not be so distressed.]
[They do leave the first aid kit by Chara's bedroom before they leave however.]
[They probably should have expected this.]
Okay.
[They crawl back out, and pause for a moment to watch Chara before they stand again, brushing off their clothes and turning to walk out without another word. They're probably going to regret this later, but it's simply too frustrating, too difficult to maneuver their way through these social quandries, all the emotions and complexities. Easier to let things be, distance themself so Chara might not be so distressed.]
[They do leave the first aid kit by Chara's bedroom before they leave however.]
[Immediately, the irrational urge to call them back wells in their throat like a weeping wound. Why can't they make up their mind? Why do this, subject everyone to this, this pushing around and being unable to decide? How are you supposed to communicate what it is you want, Chara, if you can't even decide what it is you want for yourself?
The scratch of fingernails across skin doesn't dwindle into silence. It intensifies, faster, sharper, until their forearms are raw. But the sores cover up evidence of the scars, ha. Can always call it a Tanglesnake attack, or any number of things.
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.
They're alone now, like what they wanted in the first place, right?
What does it matter, what happens to Frisk? They're not supposed to care at all. And Frisk will come back, anyway, because they always do, and when that happens -
When that happens, there will be nothing to say.]
The scratch of fingernails across skin doesn't dwindle into silence. It intensifies, faster, sharper, until their forearms are raw. But the sores cover up evidence of the scars, ha. Can always call it a Tanglesnake attack, or any number of things.
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.
They're alone now, like what they wanted in the first place, right?
What does it matter, what happens to Frisk? They're not supposed to care at all. And Frisk will come back, anyway, because they always do, and when that happens -
When that happens, there will be nothing to say.]
[Over the last five days, Frisk had remained aloof and distant to their siblings. But dismissive, but not interceding where they would not be wanted, simply coming home to reassure the two children of their safety through Frisk's presence. If anything of the incident that first day still bothered Frisk, they never showed it--they didn't show much of anything.]
[When they first wake on the sixth day, however, it hits them like a hammer to the chest. Memories of the last few days are very abruptly for more difficult to deal with, and for a moment they can't--breathe, they need to breathe. Shallow gasps for breath are all they can manage, even whimpers strangled off by the pressure constricting their throat, the light-headed feeling pushing them away from the world.]
[How...how could they have...?]
[They fall out of bed, stumble and scramble out in a frantic rush. Their vision is blurry, and they could swear that the air itself pushes them back--some part of their mind screams that Chara is gone, must be, they deserve to be abandoned just the way they left Chara behind afraid and in pain and--]
[Frisk's shoulder hits the wall adjacent to Chara's room as they collapse to the ground, wheezing quietly and curling in upon themself. Head bowed and trembling, they can't even bring themself to knock on the door.]
[When they first wake on the sixth day, however, it hits them like a hammer to the chest. Memories of the last few days are very abruptly for more difficult to deal with, and for a moment they can't--breathe, they need to breathe. Shallow gasps for breath are all they can manage, even whimpers strangled off by the pressure constricting their throat, the light-headed feeling pushing them away from the world.]
[How...how could they have...?]
[They fall out of bed, stumble and scramble out in a frantic rush. Their vision is blurry, and they could swear that the air itself pushes them back--some part of their mind screams that Chara is gone, must be, they deserve to be abandoned just the way they left Chara behind afraid and in pain and--]
[Frisk's shoulder hits the wall adjacent to Chara's room as they collapse to the ground, wheezing quietly and curling in upon themself. Head bowed and trembling, they can't even bring themself to knock on the door.]
[They cannot afford to be waylaid by a flaw in someone else's source code, so to speak. People received powers and capabilities they did not ordinarily possess, and that was - natural, and fine, and normal, here. They've a law to break, a breach to plan.
Scratches. A first aid kit gone ignored, scabbed skin clinging to to forearms and the backs of wrists.
A thump and drag of flailing limbs just outside, and the temptation to leave it is inescapable. They've done enough, have they not, have they not? They've a plan to focus upon. Tomorrow. It will be adequate, tomorrow.
The noises continue.
The scratches continue.
Head bent over. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Asriel is around, surely. The pair of them can be desperate for the perfect hugs and perfect fixes and perfect attention they crave.
They have a plan to formulate. This is axiom.]
Scratches. A first aid kit gone ignored, scabbed skin clinging to to forearms and the backs of wrists.
A thump and drag of flailing limbs just outside, and the temptation to leave it is inescapable. They've done enough, have they not, have they not? They've a plan to focus upon. Tomorrow. It will be adequate, tomorrow.
The noises continue.
The scratches continue.
Head bent over. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Asriel is around, surely. The pair of them can be desperate for the perfect hugs and perfect fixes and perfect attention they crave.
They have a plan to formulate. This is axiom.]
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