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
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!
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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
PRIVATE RECORD; detailing the events of may 15th, following misuse of the Ingress
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.
no subject
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 subject
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.