"We live in a world with prophecies, Frisk. Some of us surely do exist on purpose." Hard to argue fate doesn't exist when your power is built entirely on the resolve to defy it. Hard to claim there's no such thing as preordained roles when there are only a finite number of outcomes you can have. Only two choices at this junction: FIGHT or MERCY? Yes or no? Befriend or don't?
"Asriel did." The angel who has seen the surface. The one destined to make the Underground go empty. The true prince of this world's future. Even in a world where Frisk falls first, the role he plays in the universe's machinations doesn't change. He can certainly say that nobody ever told him he was an accident, ha ha!
Well, except maybe Alphys.
"I just... want something that I can believe in," they admit. "I want just one thing that can be... secure. Absolute. Real. I'm so sick of the rug always being yanked out from under our feet. Maybe it's unreasonable, but I don't want to be a series of blanks strung together by hints. I don't want to be pieces."
Is it unreasonable? They've gotten this far without stability or security or anchors. They endured a surface life that was senseless and chaotic, fraught with shifting goalposts and fluctuating rules and tempers that exploded with terrifying randomness. They got through the underground as a faceless, unwelcome whisper, as a self-proclaimed avatar of progression. They cracked open the bones of the world and saw for themselves just how constrained and finite their choices truly were, but they kept going regardless.
"I know we're both terribly desperate to have one thing, at least - just one! - that we can hold onto. It's not fair to keep asking you who Chara is, who I am, because I know the only answer you can give is 'I don't know." Even so, despite that..."
They still... don't want to be an unknowable nothing, ha ha. Don't want for none of it to mean anything at all. They aren't bandaged fingers or a talent for the ukulele or a room that's halfway plastered with notes and drawings. They aren't a tendency to go for the hands first, or eyes that have lost their precious brown warmth. They're... what? Magic that still, after more than a year, is nothing but absence? A tiny white scar on the shell of one ear? A third of a room that still, two years later, looks as blank and uninhabited as it always did. A template that has not deviated from that blank slate at all. No wonder this is the conclusion the world provides. No wonder the answer to "what am I" is "nothing, so don't think about it too much." The monkey paw curls one of its fingers in, and you get what you've been wishing for!
"Well... so be it. It's childish petulance to try and argue the fundamental reality, is it not? We just have to find strength in our hollowness. Surely there can be comfort in chaos, if you try hard enough. We can shape just about anything to appeal to us."
no subject
"Asriel did." The angel who has seen the surface. The one destined to make the Underground go empty. The true prince of this world's future. Even in a world where Frisk falls first, the role he plays in the universe's machinations doesn't change. He can certainly say that nobody ever told him he was an accident, ha ha!
Well, except maybe Alphys.
"I just... want something that I can believe in," they admit. "I want just one thing that can be... secure. Absolute. Real. I'm so sick of the rug always being yanked out from under our feet. Maybe it's unreasonable, but I don't want to be a series of blanks strung together by hints. I don't want to be pieces."
Is it unreasonable? They've gotten this far without stability or security or anchors. They endured a surface life that was senseless and chaotic, fraught with shifting goalposts and fluctuating rules and tempers that exploded with terrifying randomness. They got through the underground as a faceless, unwelcome whisper, as a self-proclaimed avatar of progression. They cracked open the bones of the world and saw for themselves just how constrained and finite their choices truly were, but they kept going regardless.
"I know we're both terribly desperate to have one thing, at least - just one! - that we can hold onto. It's not fair to keep asking you who Chara is, who I am, because I know the only answer you can give is 'I don't know." Even so, despite that..."
They still... don't want to be an unknowable nothing, ha ha. Don't want for none of it to mean anything at all. They aren't bandaged fingers or a talent for the ukulele or a room that's halfway plastered with notes and drawings. They aren't a tendency to go for the hands first, or eyes that have lost their precious brown warmth. They're... what? Magic that still, after more than a year, is nothing but absence? A tiny white scar on the shell of one ear? A third of a room that still, two years later, looks as blank and uninhabited as it always did. A template that has not deviated from that blank slate at all. No wonder this is the conclusion the world provides. No wonder the answer to "what am I" is "nothing, so don't think about it too much." The monkey paw curls one of its fingers in, and you get what you've been wishing for!
"Well... so be it. It's childish petulance to try and argue the fundamental reality, is it not? We just have to find strength in our hollowness. Surely there can be comfort in chaos, if you try hard enough. We can shape just about anything to appeal to us."