* Despite everything, it's still you. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
determinedest) wrote2016-02-01 10:14 pm
determinedest) wrote2016-02-01 10:14 pm
Entry tags:
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You've reached Frisk. If I'm not answering my phone, please leave a message or find me on the second floor, Room 12.
( text | audio | video | or literally anything )
no subject
[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.
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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.]
no subject
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.]