Don't Mind Us, We're Just Spilling Our Guts

[achievementhunter]

[Feeds start the same, no matter which way you look at it. They just start, an instance between nothing before sound, pitch and color, giving view to whatever the owner of said feed wishes their viewers to partake in.

Chara looks like they’ve seen better days.]

We have had e҉̜̻no͚̤̣u̡̯g҉̟̰h̼̺̳̳ͅ.

[Enough. We. A distortion in their voice, a crack of pain; an edge of something else, sharply contrasting with Chara’s waxen pallor. The hollows under their eyes are practically sunken; outright (ha HA) skeletal in comparison to their usual countenance; Chara is not at their best, and they lack the care to worry about it.

They lack it.

He lacks it.

There is lack. And unfortunately they lack the tools with which to burn it all down.

There are beliefs of humans being born with sin, with a grayness muddying their souls, and he (they) has to wonder if, possibly, such is the case with him (them), with them (him), them both (both?), if there is just a wrongness and he (they) wonders, if so, how that happens and how it is communicated across varying circuits. Is there a lottery? Do you simply get born unlucky? Or is there some kind of component to a soul that makes it fundamentally wrong?

There must be. There must be.

Chara laughs. In their usual, muddled manner; a laugh of a child with an edge that hasn’t slept for days and hasn’t eaten for longer, who’s not quite human anymore, who’s a friend and friend never sounded so dangerous until one was incapable of ruining everything they’d ever come into contact with.]

To whichever god decided that Playing with my SOUL was perfectly fine to do.

You have made a dire mistake.

[But they deserve it. He - they - he deserves it. This is the nature of things like them. Of broken, warped, viruses like them. They are, technically, living, and they are, technically, created and formed to inflict pain and suffering on others and they are, technically, infused with the desire to continue, deep-rooted and pathological and fundamental, even if it obvious to everyone, even them-him, that things like them are better off dead.

Would it be that simple. That would be - well! Wouldn’t it be nice! Wouldn’t it be a goddamn break for once in his stupid, wretched, meaningless life!

They have been- ever so careful with their phone, since June. It was a gift.

Gifts really shouldn’t wind up being thrown at the wall like this one does. Clattering down with a burst of crackling noise, only sit awkwardly on it’s side, showing the long winding end of a corridor, and half of a child sliding down the wall, hands clutching at their head.

The feed rests on that for a long time.]

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[postictal]

[He is having -

He thinks he is having -

He is having a problem, and that problem is not necessarily double-edged or double-pronged but it feels intensely like it is, like it divided at some point and began to diverge wildly, and there are similarities but too many for him to track remotely, variations of a theme that sounds far too similarly and far too irregularly and it is like an echo, a rebound and ricochet of pressure off the contours of someone’s mind.

There is a doctor, and simultaneously, there is no doctor.

There are shouts, there is blood running wetly down hands that may or may not be his and there is the sound of angry, hot, desperate words being spoken inside someone else, someone who is someone they know he knows we know, someone very dear and close to us me you them him and he -

And he -

And he -

He must torque this into something manageable, because this is not tenable and it is not sustainable because his eyes did not ever glow an inhuman red (didn’t they?) and he does not have a brother, if he did he would not have forgotten him and would not have burned out every memory of him, seared it cleanly from his mind and cauterized the hole it made, cut it away and away and away and away and away and away he would not have done it if he had a brother he would have done it slowly like peeling away a strip of skin not maddened and uncontrolled like hacking into the soil with the flat of a blade but he -

He killed. He killed and it must have been a kind of death, whiteness and redness spreading out unevenly beneath his hands and a steady increase of numbers, of numbers of numbers leading to an ark or a symbol or a person or a source. He was the source. They were - the source. Born with a fundamental wrongness coiled in their heart, and he read somewhere, not that he was predisposed to be religious, because what god could create a thing like him, what god would make him and set him loose upon the world, but he remembers reading that - that there are beliefs of humans being born with sin.

That's a thought he's had before. Isn't it? Or is that a thought that was displaced, in someone else's head - could it have been? Or was that an error, a fundamental error in reasoning. He knows well enough, easily enough, the pain of the dual consciousness, but that is in and of itself unique because it never happens contemporaneously like this, he does not have to deal with them both being awake at the same time but that wouldn’t be right, he would be disagreeing with himself a lot more vehemently than he thinks he is currently, he would be fighting every inch of every thought and not that he’s ever encountered that other thing in his head at any length, but its thoughts are always - uninterpretable to him, he should think. Tainted, unreadable.

He has begun to laugh.

It is an unusual sound.

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard it before.

Things like him do not laugh, they do not experience that kind of sick thrill, that is not for them, there was a word for it scripted in careful, orderly writing, anhedonia and that is why he thinks he’s never heard it, never felt his lips crack upwards in that edged, bladed, weaponized grin, that smile that cuts through dark and light and is sticky with a sort of red that is difficult to look at, even more difficult to conceptualize and put a name to. The corners of his mouth pull back like rubber bands, straining against the tug of muscles that edge it up and up and up, because this is not him and it must not be them but they are - they were alone, were they not, and no one would miss something like them, if they climbed a window and escaped into a forest or up a mountain, only they took his window and they took his room with the window and sealed him in a windowless one instead because he was a risk to himself.

They have - he has - there is - a name. He cannot think it or parse it because it’s lost in a spray of bright shielding static and bleeds wetly over his vision, the letters do not stay in any kind of permanent shape because to lend permanence to a thing like them, to create a thing like them, a thing that feels and conceptualizes suffering and has an understanding of what it is is a cruelty, it is an unbelievable cruelty that no one, no one should deserve.

He drags in a breath, shuddering and slow. Once, twice. Breathe, the doctors say, like they’re dispensing some kind of magical advice he’s never heard before or considered before or dared to contemplate at any length. Why of course, just breathe!

He tamps down that vicious commentary that doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, and he breathes.

He needs to smoke.

And then, he doesn’t know why he thinks that. He’s too young to smoke.

And that is how he finds them, cigarette held loosely between two fingers in a manner that suggests he intended to light it but somehow lost the drive before he could complete the motion. He doesn't know how he reaches this point but, inevitably, he does. And there's a fundamental feeling of wrongness and rightness when his gaze locks onto them, and the curious double sensation of simultaneously sitting and standing stops him dead in his tracks.]

Hey. [He says the word hoarsely, almost soundlessly, and has to try again.] Chara.

[achievementhunter]

[They feel like their head is caving in.

But the problem isn't really within their mind, is it? The cheap explanation, a way out for people who can't be bothered to dig past the surface; they're just disturbed, an invalid. Or are they? Is he?

They have a brother and they don't have one, at the same time. As far as a beginning goes, it's effective enough- to reinforce with a thought and a name (Asriel) that they do- did have a brother, have felt the cold steel of his words lodging into the space where there heart would be, a final push into what they've truly become.

Anomaly, aberration, disease, broken circuit. Too many loose terms and definitions that make it hard to get to the core; they are a demon that comes when it calls a future of monsters and something a murder- a

Death does not work here. An aspect they have to remind themself of as they curl in on themself, reflexively coiled into a fetal position as their eyes stare blankly into nothing. One, two- three? Numbers have meaning, and it could be another start if they could find it in themself to function on such a level, but they really need a smoke.

Of course they don't, they hate smoking. They've never smoked but he used to and they know that if they looked in a mirror at the right angle they'd see the mark of it burned into the middle of their back with hissing clarity.

And then they're looking down at themself, and they've never hated themself more than they do now- but they don't. Do they? They do.

But they don't. Why would they- he?]

...You. [Lifting their head from where it's been cradled against their knees, eyes burning with a vicious accusation that feels- hollow. He wouldn't (doesn't) know. He'd never be capable of something like this.

They can't even die right.]

What have you done.

[postictal]

[His back burns with the phantom tingle of a memory of when they'd had the bright end of a lit cigarette sunk in and that - did not happen.

He does not have a brother. He'd remember if he had a brother. He'd remember, he knows he would, even if he tried to carve that name from his memory, score it away, cut out any trace of humanity left in the demon that they are -

Tim has one hand braced to the side of his head, heel of his palm driving into his temple, as if that might alleviate the incredible pressure being exerted there, the sheer weight doubled thoughts spreading out and out and out in fractalized, incomprehensible swirls of a sickly red, cherry-bright and slashing through his thoughts like a gore-soaked knife.

He needs to sit down. He needs to sit down, right now, because the sensation of standing and sitting is unbearable, and so he sits and sinks to the ground slowly, trying to look them in the eyes.

Trying.

He finds them - incredibly difficult to look at.

No one should have to bear the weight of that too-intense, too-vicious, intolerable gaze that, if he concentrates hard enough, allows him to see himself crouching there with his skin too pale and his shivering too harshly apparent.]

I didn't - what's happening to you? [No, that's not right. It can't be right.] ...to...me?

[achievementhunter]

[They have a theory.

And Chara has to laugh at that- they have a theory, and wouldn't it be fantastic if they'd still had the connections with which to confirm that? They might, but they break everything they touch, and calling for help is a waste of time. They should have died when they were told to. Done the right thing, let the flames claim them that second time like it should have the-

No.

Wrong.

Do not pass GO. Do not collect 200. Try again. RESET.

They look at themself, with their own too-intense, too-vicious, intolerable gaze, and they wonder when they ever gained the right to look at anyone else like that.

That's the joke. They didn't.]

If I knew for certain, then I'd- [Be incapable of doing anything about this. They shiver, or rather, he shivers, and the altogether unpleasant ache that accompanies it is almost feverish.]

It's our SOULs.

[postictal]

[It's our SOULs, they say, and some part of him knows, intuitively, that that's a word that deserves all-caps for reasons utterly beyond him. His hand drops from his head, creeps over his chest, under which the panicked, fluttery thud of a heart pounds. He can hear -

- there's two hearts beating in an asychrony that is so unwanted and so strange and foreign that it makes his teeth ache.]

Huh. [The word is little more than a too-high-pitched exhalation, the same way one might acknowledge the fact that rainclouds have begun to gather on a cloudless horizon. Acknowledging something unexpected, but not beyond all comprehension.

Except this is beyond all comprehension.

His expression cracks. He is smiling.

He never smiles. He never smiles because this is medically difficult for him to do but the instinct, the impulse, it rides across the muscles of his facial features easily, that viciousness, that hard, untameable edge that they possessed, that one thing they could hold over the world. The foundation upon which they constructed everything. The instrument through which they wove their armor, dense and psychological and pathological and complex because it had to be. The last. The sustained, continuous, physical, metaphysical fuck you projected in the form of an unreasonable, rosy-cheeked, bladed grin. Projected hard enough to hurt. For everyone.]

I guess I really do have one after all, [Tim hears himself saying faintly, like it's a joke, it has to be a joke, even if he's not entirely sure, as he sags against a wall. A wall running parallel to the one they're leaning against. A wall. Not the same wall.

He has to hold those differences clear and stark in his mind.]

[achievementhunter]

Everyone has a SOUL. [They mean it to come out as a snap; it just comes out tired. Exhausted as once again they're pushed to their utter limits. One time wishing for the sweet embrace of death- times that by two, and they're vaguely surprised-

Not even remotely surprised at the ember of Determination still burning away in their chest. Keeping them alive when they don't want to be. Keeping them both alive when- they don't want to be.

It's not all beyond comprehension. It is, but it's not all beyond comprehension. It isn't to them.

He's smiling. It doesn't fit his face somehow. Shouldn't be there at all. They- he never smiles.

He never smiles. They smile. They smile and no one sees a thing. Their arms itch viciously, and they wish-

They aren't going to let him see that.]

Whether or not we have an explanation for- why- [Why is never important. Why is for the scientists and psychologists, the people who poke and prod without ever seeing that something's inside their test subject that can feel.] This is happening, mister Wright. Best we spend our time adjusting now.

[With no one around to see it.

Haha. They hate this. They hate him. But of course, if there's ever anything that Chara could ever truly want, someone would always find a way to twist it round on them. There is no such thing as a happy ending when you break everything you touch.]

[postictal]

God -

[He's abruptly not sure whether he's still smiling, whether he's laughing or crying or both, because there's something burning and hot slipping down his cheeks but his face feels nearly split in two with the magnitude of that smile, that smile that he hates, that shouldn't be there.

He's always been an easy crier. Never grew out of it. There were always two kinds, for him. The kind where he grew quiet and controlled and his jaw locked too tight and his arms curled around his chest as if that might hold himself together - and the kind where everything spilled out in a seamless, uncontained burst, messy sobs and breaking cries that would leave him drained and exhausted for hours after.

He's not sure which one this is. Maybe the former.

He hates it. He hates this, and they hate him.

Well, shit, looks like they've got something in common.]

God damn. I'm -

[The words emerge a cracked whisper. His hands grip the flagstones, nails scraping over the stone until grit bites beneath them, bites into the pads of his fingers, and his fingers are not his fingers until they are.]

Sorry, kid, [he whispers (don't call them that) and now his hands are gripping the sides of his head again,] I'm real - real sorry. You don't -

[The words are difficult to get out.]

You don't deserve this. No one deserves this.

[But don't we all get what we deserve in the end?]

[justribbing]

[ Sometimes...

There are things even Sans realizes he might need to do something, say something about.

...Except he doesn't. Just like--like always, like every time he's screwed up, taken it easy, watched it all come apart.

This time, it's less 'what's it matter' and more 'what can he even do about it', too much static white noise where his outrage should be.

So, instead of doing the things, saying the things he should, he--

He does nothing. He lets people down a little more.

Especially the ones who matter. ]

[ishotyouuu]

[It's not the first time Wade's seen Chara like this.

He remembers coming upon them and Sans on the bridge, Sans traumatized; Chara blood-soaked, with an unnerving gleam in their red eyes. He remembers the words they'd said, and how they'd seemed to hold an intense amount of weight despite the child never raising their voice. At the time he'd been quick to dismiss it. There'd been other things on his mind-- namely, getting the two of them back somewhere safe. He'd discarded it; forgotten it. It hadn't seemed to matter.

And yet here it is again, he realizes, as he watches Chara's strangely ghoulish face on the network feed-- that creeping crawling feeling on the back of his neck; that sensation of ice in his veins and a stone in his stomach. That sense of weight is back in their words again, a feeling that if they'd had the power they could move mountains, flood cities; cause people to fall down dead. A feeling that reminds him so strongly of a young boy of his past-- a young boy with the power to destroy the world. A young boy who referred to himself-- with the same despairing acceptance of one about to be executed-- as an apocalypse.

Wade hears the tone in Chara's words and feels a very real fear slithering down his spine. But not fear of Chara. Not fear of them.

He's hit the call button on his phone even before he's thought of anything to say.]

Ki-- [No. He stops himself. No time for colloquialisms now.] Chara.

[He doesn't ask them if they're all right, because the answer's obvious. Doesn't tell them to calm down, because that would be patronizing. He doesn't have the slightest clue what they're going through-- the little clues and cues he picks up here and there are the only things he has to go on, and it's not enough to claim to be an expert on the mindset of an obviously hurting and possibly abused child. He can't think of anything to say, so he falls back on doing what he does best.

He doesn't think.]

...tell me if there's anything I can do. Please.

[No filters now-- the raw helplessness in his voice is clear and genuine.]

[achievementhunter]

[It's no small feat, parsing through their SOUL and whatever it is infecting them, trying to put a filter into what's them, what's not. Too many grey areas. They're so uncertain, the matter complicated all the more by the seemingly fixated aspect of thinking as them and not him- they want a smoke.

Disgusting. Why would they want a smoke?

A wheeze of breath, followed by another wheeze, and another. There's so much conscious thought occurring that they're having difficulty with the unconscious, stuck back in time to February, when they had to consider the functionality of breathing itself. How muscles are supposed to tense when someone else isn't covering that for you- or perhaps someone is, and that's the problem.



Wade.

It takes them a long while- too long, to pull their way across the floor, claw their phone into their hand. They're leaking LOVE from their eyes again, but there's nothing for that, nothing for it at all.]

Kill- [Me. Wheeze.

Breathe. Try again.]

Talk about- anything. Just talk to me.

[Just to Chara.]

[ishotyouuu]

[Wade has always held the belief that there was nothing more tragic or infuriating than a child's tears. Not the kind of tears that come from a kid not getting their favorite toy or being grounded for drawing on the walls or when grandma and grandpa don't bring them anything when they come to visit. But tears like this-- tears that come from a scared child; a child at the end of their rope. Tears like the ones Chara is shedding right now.

For a moment, Wade finds he really has to struggle with the urge to ask why they're crying. No, not ask-- demand. He struggles with the urge to give them an ultimatum: Tell me who did this to you and I swear I will tear them to fucking pieces with my bare hands.

Instead he takes a deep breath, and calms himself, and listens intently to Chara's request. The kid wants him to talk, do they? Well then. At the very least, that's something he can do, and do well. He forces a reassuring smile on his face-- very hard to do when he's still seething with righteous overprotective rage-- and adopts the nonchalant tone of a storyteller.]

Heh. Did I ever tell you about the time when Tibia tried to make me dinner a few weeks ago?

[achievementhunter]

[They can do this.

No they can't. Nothing within their muddled sense of self actually wants to be capable of doing this; they want to give up. They want the option for the end to be the end, be it by eliminating everything or burning it all down, from the ceiling, to the walls, to the bed they sit upon, watching the flames lick at everything around them and did that actually happen to them at all-

No. They- just they, singular- have something ugly. Gritty and cemented under their skin, a rusted over, tired red that will never let them stop. It doesn't matter if they don't want to, or even can't do this. They will anyway.

...Wade helps.]

I- no. I'm sure you didn't. [They know- Tibia, however. They know...she made them cupcakes. I'M SORRY CHARA in green icing over white; they're particular to those colors.

They are particular to those colors. Singularity.] Tell me now.

[ishotyouuu]

[There's a waver in the kid's voice, so different from that carefully put-upon tone of unflappability that has since become a Chara trademark, and Wade feels like someone has reached their fingers in his chest and yanked hard on his heart. He does his best to maintain a cheery disposition nonetheless. It's another example of what he does best.

Don't reveal anything. This ain't about you, after all.]

Well. Like I said, it was about a few weeks ago, give or take. Tibs an' I were in the middle of takin' a nap-- had to conserve energy with the food shortage, y'know? I don't know how long I was asleep for, but suddenly I wake up and she's gone. Normally this wouldn't be such a big deal an' all, but with the influx of shadows recently I figured it was probably a good idea to make sure she's safe.

So I check with her little friend Happy-chan-- you know, Sanji's kid?-- She's hangin' out with Nami and they haven't seen Tibia. I check the garden, because sometimes she likes to hang out there and make mud castles. Nobody there. At this point I'm outside the mess hall, tryin' to figure out where the heck she might've gone, when I hear all kinds of noise comin' from inside the kitchen.

I head in there, hoping like hell the shadows haven't found the rest of our food stash, and there's Tibs sprawled out on the floor, just absolutely covered in flour and Cheez Whiz that hasn't gone bad yet.

[Wade chuckles at the memory.] You should've seen her, kid. She looked like she'd just gone on the crappiest bender ever. I asked her what she thought she was doing, and she told me that she was tryin' to make me a potluck supper with the ingredients we had left over. Apparently my stomach was growling like crazy while I was sleeping, and it kept her up. Anyway, we didn't have much in the way of food by that point, so she just made do with what was left-- Cheez Whiz, ketchup, peanut butter and some Poketreats.

I gotta tell you, it looked like the world's weirdest cereal.

[achievementhunter]

[Silence, on Chara's end. They're not staring into the camera; unfocused, though their eyes aren't closed. They hang off every word he says, trying to imagine it clear as day. Wade, probably stomping through the halls- trying to keep a smile off his face as he thinks over whatever mischief his kid's getting up to this time.

And she'd be- she'd be so proud of herself, too. Embarrassed at being caught out, but adamant. Little fingers flying as she half signs, half dances her way to understanding, covered in a plainly disgusting mixture of things that Chara doesn't even want to imagine eating and-

Wade has always had a gift when it comes to pulling laughter out of them. Seems like every time he does, it sounds different.

So what is it this time? Fear? Or something closer to relief, when they're grasping on imaginative straws, just to distract themself from the feeling of being damned times two.]

You ate it anyway. [Because he's the type of guy to do that. Eat poison for his kid.

Pick up kids he doesn't even know without thinking over the repercussions.
People like him make them wish they weren't so broken.
They regret meeting him almost as much as they struggle to find a reason why they deserved to.]

[ishotyouuu]

[Fortunately, Wade is completely blind to the turmoil going through the child's mind. He wasn't given the power to look through the various twists and turns of someone's psyche, nor would he have done anything if he had been. Chara's thoughts-- their feelings and fears-- are theirs alone, and they are entitled to their privacy.

But that doesn't mean that Wade won't leap into action when they call on him for help. That he won't pull out all the stops to try and make them feel better even without knowing what they're tormented by. That he won't try and make them laugh; try and make the world seem a little bit less frightening and oppressive.

No matter their background, kids deserve to be happy.

Wade tries and fails to suppress his grin at hearing Chara laugh. Regardless of the meaning behind it, he knows that it's essentially akin to drawing poison out of a wound.]

'Course I did! You think I was just gonna turn up my nose at something my little girl made for me? It was an... interesting blend of flavors, I gotta say. Spent the rest of the night sick as a dog, but hey-- at least I wasn't hungry anymore.

[Text]

[heritrix]

[No video reply, and definitely no voice. She can talk, but it'll be another day or two before her Magic Crest completely heals the damage to her vocal cords. Rin shoots off a text reply instead.]

What's wrong?

[Text]

[achievementhunter]

I am not certina. There is soemthing in my soul. What haev they don to me

[Text]

[heritrix]

[Souls are a tricky business. There's not much human mages can do with them other than research, but that understanding isn't thorough.]

You said "WE" before.

[Text]

[achievementhunter]

There is someone else here to.

Itsnot frisk.

[A struggle, to tell her that much. What does she know, and what doesn't she? They can't recall.]

they wonts top thinking its to hard to tell who we are

[Text]

[heritrix]

[It's really strange to see Chara so alarmed, so much so they're not even trying to type right. Eloquently spoken if a bit too abrasive, she often thinks of them like a mini-adult instead of a kid. She could count on one hand the number of times they've gotten shaken (to her knowledge), but even then they'd put themselves together quickly.

They sounded angry in the video, but the way they type, now they just seem scared.]

Do what I tell you to, okay? It's an order.

You need to ground yourself in physical things. Whatever's wrong with your soul, your body is its container, and there's only one of those, right?

External stimuli is going to help you focus on what parts are you.

[The parts only the container can feel, and not the soul.]

Don't hurt yourself badly, that brings your awareness back inside you. Clapping works good. Snapping, dancing, yelling, that kind of stuff. Focus on the physical sensations.

[There's a lot more she wants to ask, but she can't guide Chara through it until she's sure they're not going to unbalance themselves more in the process of answering.]

[Text] CW: references to self-harm

[achievementhunter]

[There's only one of those, right?

Is there? Haha, there's two (three), but Chara doesn't correct her. There's an immediate answer to that, simpler than the whole explanation. The container she's talking about is the one sitting in the corridor; too small, too thin, filled to the brim with something ugly and distasteful. Arms itching beneath thick sleeves and bandages- don't hurt yourself badly, she advises.

How'd she know? Their fingers relax; off the hilt of a knife they don't remember grabbing in the first place, exhaling slowly as they pull their hand back out of their sleeve. No point on holding it; that knife was never meant for anyone else.

Chara starts humming, instead. Drawing their knees up to their chin, arms wrapping about them tightly. Hands tapping a nonsensical rhythm into their shoulders. You hear a soft melody echoing in the distance...

It fills you with-]

What do I do next?

[video]

[wildcardpotential]

[Minako's heart leaps into her throat as the video feed flickers on. Chara looks so fucked, so messed up... memories of her shadow's little display flash in her mind and she worries that Chara's shadow has gone especially aggressive... but no. Those shadows are gone. This is something else. Something else new and unknown.

Their... soul? Something wrong with their soul? Minako knows from talking to the other Underground-ers that souls have especial meaning to them, that the soul is something very real and almost physical. She remembers something Sans said to her, about the strength of the human soul.

She flicks her feed on in return. She's moving slowly, but she's clearly on the move. Stupid goddamn stitches she doesn't want to rip out.]

Chara-kun. Talk to me.

[video to audio]

[achievementhunter]

[Seeing her just makes it harder to breathe. It's not easy, with someone else innocently raking their being through Chara's entire sense of self, to disconnect from what is now and what was then, what never happened. They can see her smile twisted into something else; skin pitch black and eyes glowing red.

They gag, doubling over as their hands fumble to switch the feed off. They can't look at her.

Moments later, they call back through.]

I'm fine.

[audio]

[wildcardpotential]

[Minako almost hangs up when she sees the way Chara's face changes, how obvious it is she isn't helping just now. Almost. Something else in her is stronger, tells her that she shouldn't leave them alone.

Then they make the decision for her.

She stares at the phone in her hand, skin turned to ice with worry, unable to bring herself to call back.... but she answers before the phone can even ring.]

The fact that you're even trying to convince me otherwise right now is proof that you're not. What happened to you? What happened to your Soul?

[Did they...]

Did you get crossed with someone, too?

[audio]

[achievementhunter]

[Should they be even remotely surprised in considering that she has some understanding of SOULs?

Not particularly. And yet there it is, surprise amplified by two. They weren't the only one not expecting that. They are the one to regain composure first, however.]

I imagine so.

[A rushed of air picked up by the receiver. It could be that they're laughing- perhaps it's something else.]

You, as well?