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Because he is an NPC long before he is human. Bird ate the cat and the cat kills the man or the other way around.

[...oops, spoilers. Not like it matters.]

Now then, little puppet. What are you looking for?

[The nickname makes their skin crawl. Puppet. But it's true, isn't it? They are a puppet, and maybe Chara was too, in their own way. Just of a less...physical nature.

Bird ate the cat. Cat kills the man. Other way around. It all feels like a reference to a story they've never read, something they don't understand. Another way for adults to talk around them, they suppose. Lucky them.

Frisk folds their arms.]

Answers. [The almost tack on the hesitant I guess at the end of it, but they don't. They have to be strong here. Strong and dependable and unreadable. They can be unreadable, can't they?] Are you willing to give them to me?

[Can you really call him an adult when he's just been born? Can you really outwit a guy who always wears a mask? Even a fun, metaphorical one?]

I'll try my best but my best might not be sense. You will have to take what I can give as giving is all I've got. It is not in my programming to be malicious, just help solve those answers. I am not here to harm you, little puppet. Ask.

[And hopefully Frisk is careful. They may notice the mirror didn't ask for any sort of payment...]

[It is not in his programming, is it.

The thought feels wrong and vicious, curling sickeningly in their gut, and Frisk takes a moment to breathe in, slowly, before continuing. It doesn't occur to them to ask for payment. No one ever asks for that kind of thing here - Zacharie has, in their experience, largely been the exception to the rule.]

What do you know, [says Frisk, low and intent,] about the thing called the "Puppeteer"?

[Ask and ye shall receive.

Wiping away some of his words and picking up that orange marker, the mirror continues the drawing of the X he started. Messy lines extend from the corners and it ends up looking like a marionette's strings.

The 'diagram' helpfully includes a sloppy figure with a stripped shirt tied up in said strings. Just for you.]

They are the ones who control The Batter. They are the ones who choose the endings. They are the ones who play this game, over and over.

[And he's not bitter at all.]

[Suddenly, that big orange X makes a lot more sense. It's not just an X. It's like...like a marionette. And the strings go down and...yes. Well. That would make sense.

The ones who play this game.

He calls them puppet. Does that make them not...part of it? No, no...they're certain that some of their desires, at least, must have influenced how things went, just as Chara's must have as well. And then there's like a third, higher tier of thing, of anomaly.

The Puppeteer.

Frisk leans closer to inspect the drawing closely.]

He said that you don't ever see or talk to them. So...how do you know that it's even there?

Because it's known. The Batter and The Judge speak of them often. But he knows. Do you think everyone knows?

[He doesn't care about his Real's privacy. Doesn't care, which allows him to draw what looks like a gaming system.

Zacharie knows the world of OFF is just a video game. But did everyone else in turn?]

I don't know. I don't think everyone back where I come from knows. But I think that I might've, maybe...I think we've got a Puppeteer. Even if it's not someone anyone ever talks to, not directly.

[Not directly. But then...then there had been Sans.

There had been Sans, who spread his arms wide and winked at some unknown point in space as he delivered his jokes to the accompanying crash-bang of a rimshot, as if looking at a...

...at a ᴄ̶̷̲̅ᴀ̶̷̲̅ᴍ̶̷̲̅ ᴇ̶̷̲̅ʀ̶̷̲̅ ᴀ̶̷̲̅ ...

* Since when were you the one in control?

Frisk wrenches themself sharply back to the present, a hard, lateral jerk, the sharp mental snap of aligning edges.]

How do they know? The Batter, and the Judge?

Edited 2016-09-21 01:50 (UTC)

Don't look so hard, little puppet.

[He has the stupidest grin on his face right now. Maybe he could find this kid's mirror and share a drink over this.]

The game is programmed that way. All of them are.

[Programmed. Programmed. It's an intensely unsatisfying answer, and they can feel more and more of that additional edge working its way into their thoughts, red-tinted and soaked with a blackish ichor that leaks from two eyes.

The muscles around their eyes and mouth tighten, even as they try not to betray their frustration.]

So...what if your...your home, your "game," [they form air quotes with both hands, even if they're no longer sure such a thing applies,] didn't program things that way? And you can still...see it? Or figure it out? Who's the puppet, and who's the puppeteer?

[They can't see him but he's got one hand pressed up against the mirror, smearing his own writing. He needs something to brace himself because he's laughing too hard.]

We are the puppets. If the game is programmed so the Puppeteer is not noticed, they won't be noticed. After all, they are here. I can see the strings around your limbs. Why don't you look at them?

[Their teeth clench hard, harder, hard enough so that it feels like their jaw should crack under the strain.

They lean forward, their brows curving downward in a dark, angry scowl.]

You're lying.

[They don't care if he is or isn't. He's just - he's just toying with them, isn't he? Just another one of those Mirrors they can add to the list of people they don't ever want to speak to again.]

Your call, little puppet. But remember. The big, frightening ducky always wins.

[Now or eventually. It always wins.]

Now. Before you choose to cheat, I feel obliged to mention this information wasn't free. I will be collecting what I need.

What, then? What's it you want, huh?

[Big, frightening ducky. What does that even mean? They can add that to the list of incomprehensible things this Mirror has said thus far, and they harden their tone accordingly.]

You can't just cross over. You missed your shot.

I don't need to cross. I have you. And I have others. But what I want is merely a message delivered to my Real. You can handle that, can't you? My dear, little protagonist.

I'm not your protagonist.

[They should have SAVED. But even if they had...would it matter? Maybe he's one of those who can remember. He seems to know so many other things he shouldn't, like Sans...

Like Sans, who sometimes scares them.]

You can't do a thing to me from there. And if you're talking about my Mirror, I - they already know I can't protect them.

[The politest possible way to put it, maybe. But they don't want to give him anymore ammunition, even if he could easily learn of that enmity from their Mirror.]

I wasn't talking about your Mirror, little puppet. But thank you for the idea.

[Little too late. One of the things that the two shared between them was that the mirror was always one step ahead.]

But you seem to have forgotten I am not capable of harming you. And my message in equal is just as harmless. Feel free to deliver it to him. I recommend it.

[And back to the orange pen again to write something simple:

"YOU MISSED ONE."]

[Frisk...hesitates. They're not sure what he means, either in his tacit threats or his message. They hate ceding this much instead of cutting the conversation off prematurely. It feels like giving him a hold over them.

But if he has any advantage over them, it's one they've already given freely, without asking for the "cost" or the "price" or whatever it is he wanted all this time.]

Is that your price, then? Me telling him that - that message, whatever it means?

That is all. I have just arrived so we are at a Beginner Level, much like he is. It is a very important message but you can take your time in delivering it to him.

[A...reminder of sorts. Zacharie didn't forget things. So anything he did was on purpose. And that way he'd know where the mirror was. So much fun! A very fun game. And they even had a cute child protagonist here.

It all comes back around in the end, doesn't it?]

And my warning to you in the beginning of this conversation still stands. But by this point you would be skipping the dialog of the NPC so you can resume killing monsters.

Edited 2016-09-21 03:25 (UTC)

I don't kill people. Monsters especially.

[The words come out sharper than intended, a challenging spike leveled at him like an icepick to the eye. It's all kinds of suspicious. Whatever interaction is going to happen between them when they inevitably end up telling him this stupid, cryptic message and...god, and they like Zacharie too. They like him, and then they turn around and do this to him.

They should never have let him get this far, the Mirror. The Mirrors are nothing but trouble.]

Fine, [Frisk snaps, short and to the point.] I'll deliver your message. And then we're done.

[You know what he could do?

From what he gained from the conversation that this child's world almost functioned the same way that his Real's did. But they didn't kill monsters. The reaction suggests there's a reason behind it. But they don't kill monsters! Ha! Oh this is really funny.

But do you know what he could do?]

Attack Competence Objects Defend Flee Thank you for your time.

[Frisk doesn't have to worry, the Mirror does leave. They're free to break it anyways.]

[Attack - FIGHT.
Competence - magic, SPELL, that something that they don't have.
Objects - ITEM.
Defend - ACT
Flee - MERCY.

It's almost exact. It's almost exact. And they could claw the glass away but they know the words will be scratched into their mind, the way they line up with a chilling finality. A menu. An interface. A cursor in the shape of their SOUL flipping through the options or, in some cases, blipping from place to place with a frantic, remembered instinct, to keep the bones that lurch out from the sides from catching them with their KR-soaked ivory.

The writing lingers. It lingers for a long while, they think, long enough to suspect that he's gone.

That's not good enough.

A few weeks ago, they might have used their fists. But after three times, three times their hands have been damaged and three times their hands have been bandaged to make up for it, they know better. Instead they pick up a chair and cave the mirror in with the high, bring, rending sound of breaking glass, watching the splintering fragments of it shower to the ground with a series of musical tinkles.

They put the chair down.

They retreat to their bed.

They hug their knees, they cover their face in their hands, left with nothing but their regret, and their frustration, and their...

Ah, yes.

That's a familiar one.

And their guilt.]

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