entrancelogs | 'Tis rather inconvenient like this. +

Entry tags:

'Tis rather inconvenient like this. +

Who: You! !oot ,uoy dnA
Where: Wonderland, both Real and Mirror side
When: June 3 to June 10
Rating: PG-13, will vary by thread, warnings for higher ratings appreciated
Summary: A catch-all log for Mirrors and Reals during the reverse espionage event. Anything from Mirrors leading their daily lives, over Reals reacting to the show, to Reals and Mirrors exchanging messages goes here. Just label your locations and sides accordingly!
The Story:

Your own medicine is worth twice the sweetness in the bush, that is what they say! Here is my plan, now make sure you listen well, or you get it wrong, and then I would need to pair you all up, for only two even wrongs set my head back on right, and we've no time for such things, no time at all, do we?

As mighty as the sharpest blade, as stout as the hardest shield, a spool of thread woven from hearts of gold. It must exist, and I must have it! She'll do worse to my head if I search, but you'll help, won't you? I will let you see, and you will be my eyes! All good things come tomorrow - then I'll let you see, and you'll be my eyes, and when it's all done you'll use your own mouths to tell my personal ears all you know, won't you?

All of Wonderland's mirrors are suddenly working in reverse. The Real side can see everything, and the Mirror side is left with nothing but their own reflections. Details of the event can be found here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Are you calling me stupid?" says Frisk, syrup-sweet and far too bright. It disgusts them to be emulating Chara's Real like that, twisting things and smiling and pretending it's all okay. But it's to a sufficient endgame. There's a good reason behind what they do, and why they do it.

They open their hand, as if unbothered by the injury, then flex it closed again. Crimson running down their skin. Feels like it should be discolored, or watery, as pale an imitation of the original as they are.

They hate it, they hate Frisk talking to them in that sickening insincere tone their Real self uses. They're not stupid. They know they're being talked down to. They know they're being baited. They bite their lip, look away, wring their hands uneasily.

"No! Of course not! I'd never call you anything mean. I'm just... I'm worried. That looks like it stings. I... you don't even think your Real's interesting. I didn't think you'd get so upset that you can't see them, that's all."

"It doesn't matter." Frisk shrugs their shoulders, unconcerned, instead crouching swiftly in front of the nearest mirror - thus far untarnished. They wonder idly if they have an audience. They find themselves hoping ruefully that they do.

Instead, they look back to Chara, smile disarmingly. Beckon them closer.

"C'mere. I wanna show you something."

Maybe... it's actually okay now? They sort of think it's not very great that Frisk's still bleeding, because it does look like it hurts, and it's gonna make a mess all over the place, and someone's probably gonna get mad about bloodstains on the carpet. They sort of wonder for a moment if their blood is even real, if it maybe just goes away like a video game object being unloaded if you go far enough.

They regret that train of thought immediately. Do what they're told, instead. They always do what they're told. Awkward, nervous, they shuffle closer, hands still caught in an anxious, repetitive cycle of movement, grasping and ungrasping.

"Um. Okay. What is it?"

Frisk regards their own reflection with an intent that doesn't quite befit them, brow sharply furrowed. They seem to be waiting for something. Wait until Chara's visible in the mirror with them.

Look at them, side by side. Almost like someone could mistake them for being friends, or even siblings. Pathetic. Chara's just this ragged, hopeless thing, doesn't even look like they want to be here.

"You think they're watching?" they say without looking up. "Right now, everything we're saying, everything we're doing? You think they can see us?"

Chara... looks at the floor immediately in front of the mirror. Maybe sort of... spares quick, flickering glances at Frisk's reflection. It's you!

Don't want to look at anything else.

"Of course they are." Who wouldn't? "Who knows how they justify it. A perverted sentimentality, a chance to see what might have been if they had made different choices. A sense that they have to, because they may never have the opportunity to know otherwise. Just curiosity."

It's only human nature to want to know.

"They'll want to know for sure that we're real. See if we're as bad as everyone says we are."

Frisk almost laughs again, high and thin, but they bite it back. A perverted sentimentality. Look who's parroting phrases back, like they're the real thing! Can't help being what they are, can they? Of course not!

"You're absolutely positive about that?" Frisk sounds...dubious. And altogether not scathing enough, which might be the subtle indication that they're about to do something as a sort of demonstration for their "audience".

"C'mon," they call at their own reflection, almost cajolingly. "If anyone's watching, how about you give us a sign, hm?"

Not looking. Won't look. Don't want to look themselves in the eye. Stare pointed firmly at the floor, they sort of raise a hand in a vague almost-wave. Just in case. Just in case somebody's watching. They don't know, right? Maybe someone's there.

"...Is it working?" They ask. It's a pretty stupid question to ask, since all they'd have to do is look, it's right in front of them, what kind of idiot can't just answer that basic question for themselves, but they ask all the same. Far too busy looking at the carpet, their shoes, Frisk's shoes.

"Um, you'd, uh... you'd have to write, probably," They add, at the mirror this time. Maybe whoever's (hypothetically, don't get your hopes up) there just doesn't know how to reach them, right? "If you're there, we won't see or hear you."

Frisk stands, impatient, foot tapping along the ground. Chara's adding useless additional instructions that no one with half a brain will need, but whatever, if whoever's on the other side is especially slow, fine.

Then, at long last, a marking appears. Hesitantly drawn, in black marker, is the outline of a heart.

Ah. So it's them. The Real Frisk, or maybe Chara. It doesn't really matter.

In a sharp, fluid movement, Frisk hooks an arm around Chara's neck and drags them close in a parody of a headlock, the blade of the Worn Dagger poised near their throat.

"Are you watching?" they laugh, exhilarated. "Are you paying attention? Look close, now!"

Wowie! They're going to die.

They aren't the real Chara, so they know none of their memories are real. They know that. But touch - touch is difficult. Someone grabs them, and their arms are small and spindly. Not suffocating hands. Not smothering and crushing and large. But all the same, Chara freezes. Can't move their body. Can't even manage to force themselves to struggle. It just sits there, still and compliant and passive.

Inexplicably, they start to smile. Bright and sunny! They're just playing, right? Two friends, having fun! They like this. This is just fine!

Isn't it?

"I don't like this game anymore," they whimper quietly to Frisk. "You're - you're going to scare them. Please don't."

"Wow," says Frisk, lazy and drawling. "Look at you! You barely even put up a fight. Hey, Frisk!"

Abruptly, the cheery, false, arsenic-sweet friendliness drops away, and they're back to snarling at the mirror, fixing it with a cold glare.

"Look close, okay? You see them? This pitiful, stupid sack of garbage? This is what you're trying SAVE! This is what you're hauling around!"

And, because Chara asked so nicely, Frisk releases them with a hard shove meant to send them sprawling.

"They're dead weight. And they're just gonna leech everything from you until there's nothing left."

They take a fall. They stay down. It's easier if you don't get up. They'll leave you alone if you don't get up.

Chara curls up on the floor. They know they probably don't matter anymore, were probably just a prop the whole time, probably won't get anything more than maybe a few kicks if they're quiet and stay out of the way. Arms cover their head in anticipation.

They can't disagree. Leech. Tumour. Parasite. They take and they take and they leave nothing but emptiness. Frisk is right. But...

"What's the point? Why are you like this? They're determined. You can't... you can't hurt them from here. You won't change anything. This is meaningless."

Chara giggles. Frisk... doesn't know, right? Doesn't know that Chara's spoken to their Real? Is... is friends with the Real Frisk? That's their secret. Secrets are power. They still have that weapon, even if it's not leaving its sheath. "They know I'm not the Chara on their side. I'm not their Chara. They... they probably don't even care, right?"

"Of course they care." Frisk's lip curls as they stare down at the quivering lump on the ground. Doesn't even bother to get up. Their expression softens with a silky, indulgent scorn. "Don't you know anything? They care about everyone. From the tiniest Moldsmall to the most useless human."

They point at Chara with their copy of the Dagger, staring emptily at their own hollow eyes. They'd be making eye contact with their Real, assuming they're there and watching. It's fitting. They should be scared.

"Do everyone a favor," Frisk hisses, "and give up. Give up on trying to SAVE them. They're just weighing you down. Like this one."

Just because they can, they deliver a vicious kick aiming for Chara's ribs.

Chara knew it was coming. Cover your head, they'll aim for the ribs. Cover your ribs, they'll aim for the head. There's no way to really be safe, other than to just take your lumps and hope it's over soon. The sound they make is nothing less than pitiful, equal parts wheeze and whimper, a sad, high-pitched little noise like air escaping a balloon.

They bite their lip. They stay down, because their hair covers them, because it's harder to see the way their face screws up and their eyes go bright and watery. It's just one hit. Not even as bad of a hit as it could have been, if Frisk had really been mad at them. They have nothing to be upset about. Don't be upset. Don't cry.

This is so stupid, too, because they agree with Frisk! The Chara on the other side, the Real one... they're not worth being SAVED. Not capable of being SAVED. Don't even want to be SAVED.

"Do you think that worked?" They ask, and they're not sure if they're trying to sound encouraging or if there's buttercup-poison seeping into their watery, trembling voice. "Think... think they've given up?"

"Shut up." They're too busy staring at the mirror fixedly, hungrily. Waiting for some sign that someone's listening. Chara seems to be laboring under the assumption that they're still relevant here. They're anything but.

But nobody came.

Isn't that always how it goes?

"If you're still listening," they growl, hard and cold, "remember this for me: they're never gonna change. Not for you, not for anyone."

The expression stretching the corners of their mouth couldn't be called a grin by even the most optimistic assessment.

"What's the saying about tigers changing their stripes?"

They shut up.

Of course they do. Always do what they're told, right? They're only here to be the prop. The literary device. The background noise. Not really a person themselves, just a bit of color commentary.

It doesn't even matter if they cry. There was no point in telling themselves not to. Frisk's not looking at them. Frisk's not talking to them. Frisk's too busy posturing in front of a blank pane of glass.

Chara sniffles, lets their shoulders jerk with a suppressed sob. Does their best to keep their tears silent. Just have to wait. Frisk will get bored and leave. They can talk to Real Frisk once this one is gone. That'll make this all worth it. That'll make it okay.

"This is all they are. And that's all they'll ever be."

Frisk smirks, confident that they've made their point. They jab their daggerpoint once more at the shape on the ground for emphasis, then step back, turning away. They've outlined things quite clearly, they like to think. Hopefully now their Real knows. Might even strike back at Chara in anger, one of these days. Aren't they already torn up at how the Real Chara is hogging up all that stupid goat-mother creature's attention? Jealousy. Disgusting.

Honestly, they already should know. Kill or be killed. Not their mantra, but isn't it the way things really are? No blithe, carefree do-gooding will change a killer into something less.

They don't even bother saying goodbye. Not to the mirror. Not to Chara. Not to anyone.

It's a long while until Chara's brave enough to look up. They heard Frisk's receding footsteps, felt the subtle vibrations in the floor, but they... they don't know. They thought if they dared relax, they'd glance up and find Frisk right there looming over them. That maybe they'd be hunched just outside the door, listening, waiting for the moment to spring a trap on them.

...Ha, ha.

* But nobody came.

They sit up. Scour their sleeve over their watering eyes, eradicate the tear-tracks with scratchy wool. Look around. Just in case. Always checking over their shoulder.

They don't need to write, but they... they sort of want to. Want to be redness. Want to be that silent, barely-there asterisk. Don't want to be a voice. Don't want to be seen. Don't want to exist.

But that'd be stupid, right? So they talk. Like a normal human being.

"...Still there?"

Frisk has been watching, with their hands clasped over their mouth like a horribly-timed parody of Toriel's expression of shock and regret. They even cried out when their Mirror seized the mirrored version of Chara like that, terrified that they might kill them, forgetting that the conduit is one-way, and flipped around. They're already so fragile and breakable, and this...this isn't fair for either of them!

Their mirrored self really is cruel. It's not like they're Chara, either, easy to shuffle the blame. They're Frisk, the way Frisk was on those darker, colder timelines where they cut down everything in their path without a shred of remorse.

Frisk pulls themselves together, sniffling pathetically, and retrieve their marker to scribble on the mirror's surface:

* I'm sorry. I wish I could've stopped them.
The asterisk is unnecessary. They never need it, not being who and what they are, but...maybe they need some distance here. Maybe they both do.

"It's okay. There's nothing you could have done. Not unless we were on the same side of the looking glass."

If only, right? It's sort of funny, the mirrors reversing like this hasn't seemed to make this side feel real at all. They're still miserable and alone. It's just... now the real Frisk is the one who's an invisible presence, the whispers set behind an asterisk. And Chara... ha, maybe they'll feel better about this if they mentally insert a "you won," act like they were just being the pacifist worming their way out of a confrontation without fighting back. Like they're the hero of a story.

...No. They don't feel better at all. Just... just more alone. Of course they could never be a hero. They hide their eyes behind their sleeve again, because they really think they should be smiling. Frisk can see them now, after all.

"They... they're right, aren't they? About me. About Chara."

* No. They're wrong.
* I'm not going to give up on you just because someone like that says I should.
Aren't they the one that persists despite themselves? Despite everything? They don't feel very determined right now, not after seeing that. Not after everything. But...but still. They can help this person, can't they? They can help someone.

They SAVE people. That's...what they are. What they're supposed to do. Right?

* I'm not giving up on either of you.

"Frisk... you really are strong." They can only guess what's going on over on the other side. Can't read Frisk's expression, can't pick up the cues in their voice. They wear a poker face so well, but... but it's Chara, right? Their best friend. Someone they don't have to wear that mask for. Someone they can be themselves with. "But... it's okay. You're hurting a lot right now. You... really don't need this."

They lower their arm, but still can't make their eyes meet the glass. Look downward. Toy with the ends of their sleeves. Scrunch and twist the fabric. "I... please don't be upset, okay?" Is this the time for this sort of thing? Frisk is hurting right now. They're... they're vulnerable.

Haha. Their most vulnerable moment.

"We... usually, we're the ones who can watch through the mirrors. We see what goes on even when people think they're alone, right?"

They hesitate, plucking at their shirtsleeves in an unconscious mimic of Chara's own anxious tics. Their mouth opens, closes, soundless but for the click of their teeth snapping together as they remember that there's no point in saying anything when things are like this.

It takes a long time for them to write it down. The words are shaky, poorly-scrawled.

* It's not your fault. Please remember that.

They shake their head, because they know Frisk can see that. They know this is the only time, probably, that Frisk will be able to. It's what makes them huddle so nervously, what makes them avert their eyes and fuss with their sleeves and bite their lip and try to make their eyes stop watering again.

"I - I know exactly how much pain you're really in. I know. And I... and I wish I could help. Could make some kind of difference. Make you hurt less." They reach a hand out, press their palm against the glass. It's just going to leave a greasy print, smudge the surface. They don't even know if Frisk answers in kind or ignores it.

"That's why I... um. I don't know if it's... if it's the right thing to do or not, but I think you deserve the truth."

Frisk's palm braces against the glass when Chara's does. Just like before. Like it's their own things, almost. Frisk almost finds themselves grateful that they don't need to say anything aloud, because the words are choked in their throat and they don't know what to say.

The words still shake as they write them, slowly, and their eyes are...gosh, they're such a crybaby, aren't they? Toriel, Mettaton...everything piling up, it's just all been so much. They can barely see the words they're writing for the misting of their stare, the thick unshed tears distorting their vision.

* You mean about the mirrors?

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