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!
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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.