You are now OTHER SOLLUX. You decide to go for the good old time-tried tradition of BAITING HIM and therefore HOPEFULLY THROWING HIM OFF HIS GAME. Hopefully.
well? come on, a22hole. hiit me one.
Yes, you are the other Sollux, and you are watching the other-other Sollux clench his fists at his sides, looking at you like your very existence is a challenge to him, an affront: one more failure to hide away with shame. You suppose it was not the smartest thing to insult him but you are not a smart person. There have been times where people have seemed to believe you are and you have never understood why. You are staring down yourself wanting to see some difference, in him, some minor giveaway that you can see and know he is not you.
There is nothing. He raises a hand to you, fist unravelling, and he sparks off energy in the base of your throat; in the air you are breathing. It fills you with a sort of electric discomfort, a tense, sharp sensation like the precursor to burning. You didn't really suppose he would do anything -- always the coward, always eaten up with fear -- but his eyes are full of something like loathing and you suppose, again, there is nothing. There is no difference between you both save the sun and the moon. 2hut up, he says, oh my god for once iin your 2iickeniingly mii2erable liife just shut UP, and there is no real way this is aimed at you, really you.
You blink, momentarily taken aback, before you are shaken by an abrupt and careless anger. You wonder if he wishes to kill you; only a death either heroic or just, they say, and by the game's eyes (by yours?) there is every chance you may be but an abomination born of a defect. So maybe it will work. So maybe you are purely an obstacle. You hate this game but more than that you hate yourself, and here is another self in front of you to tell that to, openly, sincerely. His offence will not be yours.
go two hell, you say, and you swallow down the sudden inexplicable urge to laugh. Your god-tier garb is surprisingly light on you but you have never felt quite so strangled by fate -- not helped by the fact that the pain is still there, in your throat, from where he shocked you. All this getting-sick-of-your-own-shit from over the sweeps has come to something of a head, now. You feel a little like the edge of a knife, the brittle air before thunder. So what will you do?
[==> other sollux: think fast] (FILL: TEAM ARADIA<3JADE)
well? come on, a22hole. hiit me one.
Yes, you are the other Sollux, and you are watching the other-other Sollux clench his fists at his sides, looking at you like your very existence is a challenge to him, an affront: one more failure to hide away with shame. You suppose it was not the smartest thing to insult him but you are not a smart person. There have been times where people have seemed to believe you are and you have never understood why. You are staring down yourself wanting to see some difference, in him, some minor giveaway that you can see and know he is not you.
There is nothing. He raises a hand to you, fist unravelling, and he sparks off energy in the base of your throat; in the air you are breathing. It fills you with a sort of electric discomfort, a tense, sharp sensation like the precursor to burning. You didn't really suppose he would do anything -- always the coward, always eaten up with fear -- but his eyes are full of something like loathing and you suppose, again, there is nothing. There is no difference between you both save the sun and the moon. 2hut up, he says, oh my god for once iin your 2iickeniingly mii2erable liife just shut UP, and there is no real way this is aimed at you, really you.
You blink, momentarily taken aback, before you are shaken by an abrupt and careless anger. You wonder if he wishes to kill you; only a death either heroic or just, they say, and by the game's eyes (by yours?) there is every chance you may be but an abomination born of a defect. So maybe it will work. So maybe you are purely an obstacle. You hate this game but more than that you hate yourself, and here is another self in front of you to tell that to, openly, sincerely. His offence will not be yours.
go two hell, you say, and you swallow down the sudden inexplicable urge to laugh. Your god-tier garb is surprisingly light on you but you have never felt quite so strangled by fate -- not helped by the fact that the pain is still there, in your throat, from where he shocked you. All this getting-sick-of-your-own-shit from over the sweeps has come to something of a head, now. You feel a little like the edge of a knife, the brittle air before thunder. So what will you do?
==> Other Sollux: attack.