originallutece | (no subject)

Oh, yes. He'd have to prove himself first, of course; I don't just allow any man near me, and I'd hardly want some braggart who couldn't follow up.

Edited 2017-08-22 16:01 (UTC)

You allow the ones with ears and tails near you, I've noticed.

They're not necessarily a turn-off, believe me. Though I think I prefer red hair to white.

And you'll notice I didn't let him play with my hair-- though I admit, the circumstances weren't ideal.

I keep catching myself wondering, you know, if it's still right to call that a "him", instead of a "me".

There's a lot I don't understand about what I'm becoming. But...we both feel that way, don't we? You with your memories of before, and me with the kitsune.

I should say I'm a bit more afraid of my other self than you are of yours right now, if you want the truth.

You were trying to tell me about it when we were interrupted, that afternoon.

Tell me? Please?

[There's a long pause.]

I have experience in suppressing my emotions. I can keep a straight face if I need to; nearly a decade working in the STEM field taught me that, never mind teaching. But I've never felt emotionless. I've always had those emotions, even if I didn't show them, even if I have a hard time allowing them to come to the surface.

She doesn't. She doesn't feel anything but derision-- except if it centers around her gentleman, in which case she turns selfless at the drop of a hat.

And those feelings, or lack thereof, are from a woman who isn't human-- who could treat being shot at as though it was an amusing thing, who taunted someone as a ghost, who knew of parallel universes and saw doorways between them and treated it all as though it was something she had no stake in. The only thing she ever seemed to care about was her gentleman.

[. . .]

I don't understand. I don't understand what circumstances would lead to my becoming her, but there surely are, which means in turn there's a chance I will become her. And I'm . . . that frightens me, I suppose. I'm frightened of losing the ability to feel anything but anger and derision. I'm frightened because I don't understand what happened to her, or why, and because the more time goes on, the more we seem to be becoming our other selves.

And the only reason I'm admitting all this so candidly to you is because I suppose I'm frightened that to suppress it will only hasten that process.

You won't become her.

I know there's an inherent flaw to that reasoning, because the theory of infinite universes says that yes, there must objectively be some sequence of choices that ultimately leads you to becoming her, and that's true. But...I think you're already beyond the branching choice that would determine that, as it is, because your reluctance to become what she is...

That's precisely the thing she lacks, isn't it? You still care what you are, who you become. She doesn't.

It's self-proving. The fact that you're afraid of it at all proves that you can't possibly become her.

[. . .]

I didn't care about killing those monsters.

I know it isn't the same. There's a large difference between a feral creature and a person. But I still can't find an ounce of regret or horror for the deaths I caused.

But I suppose in part that may be self-fulfilling-- I'm desperately looking for proof that I am becoming her, and I'm finding it in an admittedly flimsy way.

[And yet . . . surely she ought to feel something. If not for the animals, those horrid humans; they were mad, yes, but they were still human. And yet the moment they disappeared, she'd been far more focused on Fawkes. Weeks later, she's still more concerned about him.]

But I think you may be right.

[There's another part, too, and one she isn't quite certain how to articulate.

It still seems impossible that in a fortnight or so, she and Fawkes will be able to resume their relationship. Surely that's not right. Surely something will happen to prevent them from indulging themselves; some fight, some new twist from the app, some proclamation from on high . . . something will happen, Rosalind is certain. Happiness doesn't last.

Because she remembers the last time she felt so endeared to someone. So very fond, so adoring, so eager to be in their company and listen to them speak . . . and how had that ended? With their death. She can't get the memory out of her mind. She can't stop thinking about that brilliant burst of light, that steady hum growing louder and louder, and the looking of horror her gentleman had given her. And oh, she'd loved him so much, she'd agonized over him, and what if--

What if something like that happens here?

It's stupid. History doesn't repeat itself. And yet . . . what if it does? What if, by regaining memories and items and understanding, she's exposing Fawkes to some kind of danger she isn't yet aware of?]

Prompto thinks that the ends justify the means. I think his exact words were, "it's us or them".

I don't know if I agree with that, but by the same token, you're not the only one finding it easier than expected to sleep at night despite it.

It's not just you, Rosalind. And I think you're right that it's confirmation bias — you're looking for reasons to find yourself similar to her out of fear, the same way I've been seeing animal things in myself since I started unraveling the mysteries of what I may or may not be.

[Promise me, she wants to demand of him, promise me you'll tell me if you see me start to become her, but that's silly. The best way to get over anxiety is to simply shove past it and trust what evidence she has in front of her. Fawkes agrees it's confirmation bias, and while he won't always call her out, he'd surely tell her the truth on that.

So, instead:]

Animal things? Like what, precisely?

Something...predatory. More raw, more primal. Less emphasis on empathy and more on individuality; more of a tendency to bend in the direction of the "fight" side of a fight or flight response.

Sometimes it feels as though I understand how an apex predator must feel. It has nothing to fear, and everything around it belongs to it.

That's not typical of a fox. I wonder how typical it is of a kitsune, though. Surely not every one could feel so powerful, or no one would ever get anything done.

You are strong like that. You picked me up with ease-- more ease than you usually can, I mean. I wonder if you were someone particularly powerful.