speaktruly

[speaktruly]

Alidoro meant to go through the Osteria stealthily, especially at the sight of the bigger carcass dragging itself up and down the stairs. He almost did it, too, except that he... tripped. Right in the middle of the room. He didn't make much noise, but it was enough to catch everyone's attention in the place. And as he took his katana out, he could have justified himself with the lack of sleep, or the fact that he hadn't been eating in almost 24 hours and weariness was starting to really drag him down - but he needed to make himself smile, at least for a second, and so the thought that came to his mind had been a simple, yet evergreen, I'm getting too old for this.

He's not. The smaller carcasses are taken care of in a matter of seconds, not even a scratch adding on him despite the lack of his bow - he still can't believe that he fell on the bow when he escaped his... friend, he supposes -, but the bigger one is far more challenging than he anticipated. Not to mention, the lack of food might actually be making his life much more miserable: blows that at first he manages to dodge or parry start to scratch him first, hit him fully moments later. He's sent flying a few times, both with him landing on his feet, but the third time the carcass' claw catches him off guard: it closes on his katana and tears it from his hands so violently to make him stagger, and it takes advantage of it by hitting him full force with his other arm. Alidoro is sent flying through the room, landing painfully under the balcony, and before he could stand up again, the carcass is again on him.

He doesn't panic often, but now he briefly does as he tries to stand up and fails. He finds himself sliding on the floor in a desperate attempt to get away from it while it rises its arm, ready to slam it on his head... ... and then suddenly shrieking, as someone lands on it, their blade digging through its skull.

Alidoro is stunned only a second, then immediately pushes himself to his feet - what his saviour is doing will be useless, if he doesn't get away from the carcass right away. His weapon is too distant to get it immediately, but he will at the very least be out of the creature's range for the immediate future. Alidoro draws back, casting a worried glance at the point where his ally has impacted, about to ask him if he's alright—

— and stopping suddenly. Carlo?

Though not pointed at him, the Falcon Eye gets him back to his senses with a jolt. The carcass doesn't even attempt to dodge the hit as the bullet explodes from the arm, and the ticking of the timer inside its body gets Alidoro to look around himself, looking for a substitute of a weapon until he gets his own back, trying to concentrate. Because that's not Carlo, it can't be. But now it's not the right time to think about this. Survive first. Think later.

@speaktruly ► Alidoro

L'Osteria del Gambero Rosso. A fancy name, almost playful, one that one time was synonym with happy laughs, drunken songs and games of cards held in the night. Now, just like the rest of the Malum district, a building in ruins, one that smelled like blood, old booze and mud, as humid inside as it was outside, under the seemingly endless rain.

According to the Cat and the Fox, it was empty. Mostly empty, anyway - other than the Stalkers and the Rabbits lurking around, Geppetto's puppet met nothing but living deads. Nothing worth liberating, so far. A decrepit part of town, one he couldn't imagine flourishing even if he tried.

So, as he walked in, he found himself genuinely surprised in seeing a man. A living one, at least according to the red sprouting from the small wounds around his body, one that seemed to have taken out a few Carcasses on his own yet was struggling against a particularly big one. Gemini would've commented that said beast could've been the red lobster that gave the name to the tavern, if he could; the puppet would've pointed out that it didn't look like the lobster on the sign at all, save for the claws. Of course, neither of them had the time: the second he saw a human, P already leaped from the balcony above, landing... more or less gracefully on the creature, sword first, digging it through its skull. It shrieked, moving left and right until it suddenly twirled on itself, sending the boy flying against a miraclously (previously) intact table, crashing down in an explosion of rotten wood and dry blood - the moon shining through a small window above pointing at him not unlike a stage light as he still got on his knees, taking aim with the Falcon Eye.

Kill first. Think later.

[speaktruly]

It's hesitating. It's… hesitating.

The Mad Donkey's eyes mirror the puppet's, both widening as they stare at the source of their shock. Every puppet faces the unexpected sooner or later, and every puppet doesn't react, it just… doesn't. They aren't programmed for it, why waste time in coding something so useless? So why is this one reacting? Why is a killing machine staring at an empty shell that was covering the face of its opponent just a moment ago, instead of just attacking again? How is it appearing shocked, why does it seem like it doesn't know what to do, w-why is it hesitating, it's hesitating damn it, and puppets don't… th-they just…!

His hand slides down his features as a thought hits him suddenly. Is it… even aware that I am not a puppet…? As soon as it forms in his head, he's tempted to discard it violently, to spit on it with the logic that has been keeping him going up to now. Because of course it knows, how couldn't it notice the obvious differences between a human and a puppet? It's hurting him, and it's aware what it's doing, because if it isn't then… th-then what is he fighting? Is he fighting against the wrong thing? Again? Is he… is he really that… stupid? No, it can't be, he doesn't want it to be - he doesn't want to justify a puppet! He doesn't want to justify HIS puppet, damn it!!

And yet, it hesitated. A puppet is like a particularly dull child. It doesn't know, if you don't explain to it. Does it? His eyes linger, for just a fraction of a second, on the carriage where Geppetto is hiding. He didn't explain. It is just obeying. It… doesn't know…

The puppet suddenly moves again, and time, so slow a moment before, starts moving too fast once more. The Mad Donkey sees his mask thrown to the ground, and the Legion arm lifting to point at him. « No, wait!! W-WAIT- » he screams, instinctually moving a step back, hands rising to gesture uselessly for a break. It doesn't know, but he can explain it! Maybe it'll stop, m-maybe it'll let him live-! His heart sinks, guilt a sudden backhand as he makes just in time to think that he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve a way out of this - and then the Puppet String is shot in his direction, and panic overtakes everything.

He's sloppy as survival instinct makes him try to dodge to the side, too slow and tired and broken to avoid the hit. The Mad Donkey yells in pain as the String pierces through his shoulder, and then again when it pulls him towards the other and the blade pointed at him. Despair takes hold of him, and his hands shot forward to move the weapon to the side - panic making him clench the cold blade despite it cutting his fingers, heavy red drops sliding on it and down to the ground. « Stop stop stop p-please stop—!! » he wheezes, through the pain and the sickness, and the sobs he’s losing control of. « I’m n-not a puppet! You think I’m a puppet, I-I know you think I’m a puppet, b-but I’m not! I’m not, I’m bleeding! C-can’t you see that I’m bleeding?! I’m h-human, I’m a human stop stop stop stop—!! »

-and now he has the donkey's face in his hands. The face above is real face, anyway. Tainted in red, limp in his grip, an odd enough twist to make the puppet hesistate, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

An… interesting move, no doubt. His mind went to the Parade Master, who also ripped off his own head to hit him with, but this one… stopped. This one stopped. That meant it was going to stop moving soon. Or attack even worse. Which means he has to put an end to this, quickly.

The mask is discarted without care, and the puppet once again lift the left arm, shooting his String towards the other. The plan is simple: pull him in and stab him, as quickly as possible. Take care of this situation and move on.

[speaktruly]

oh. boy. i'm going to add another muse aren't i.

[speaktruly]

Marlene Dietrich in BLONDE VENUS 1932 | Josef von Sternberg

[speaktruly]

The blade doesn't hit, and a groan of pain and frustration can be heard from behind the mask, both trembling hands tightening their grip on the handle in a desperate attempt to rise the weapon once again. He doesn't see weariness and pain holding him back, he doesn't see his own broken body against a perfectly functional one - the Mad Donkey can only see that he attempted to hit, and he failed. All his hate towards the puppet becomes a knife stabbing himself in the heart, making his steps even less secure as he slides his feet to get a better balance and attempts to rise the blade.

It's useless. It all goes to hell as soon as the puppet's hand grabs his mask again. He panics instantly. Whimpers and insults become terrified, muffled screams as he feels the fingers of the puppet closing on his face, pain shooting up his body as soon as he starts pushing against him, adrenaline making him fast enough to react by backing of a few steps. He lets go of the weapon instantly, hands frantically grasping the puppet's arm, then his own mask, then rush under the chin, instinctually looking for the strings around his neck. Fingers tremble too much for it to be a fast movement, desperately untying the knot as he slides back again, balance threatening to abandon him, the ground so hard and cold under his feet. Finally, he feels the knot giving in, and the mask getting loose.

He bends suddenly and gets off his mask, leaving it hanging between the puppet's fingers, and draws back quickly of many steps before finally finding the strength to stop. He wheezes, air so fresh to burn in his lungs, not used anymore to breathe without his mask on. Hands pressed on his chest tremble so evidently. He feels unprotected without his mask on, with his face clearly visible in the dim light of the bridge. His instinct screams to rush for his weapon and attack the puppet again, fight to get his mask back - but guilt, and fear, and shame, and unspeakable sadness, all push himself to stay still instead, one hand pressed on the chest, the other covering his face, eyes wide between trembling fingers.

The Donkey is thrown out of the way with ease, falling on the hard floor with a rather... unsatisfying thud, to be quite honest. The puppet expected the other to break apart, for Ergo and pieces of metal alike to fly around and put an end to this battle right away, and yet this one starts leaking. Stumbles, groans, his mechanisms sounding so different from any other frenzied monster he had to destroy on the way.

Reason tells Geppetto's puppet to keep on fighting, to strike him while he's down, and yet a part of him just... stands there, staring at the other as he moves uncertain, weird, the red staining his mask giving him an odd, uncomfortable twist where his stomach should've been. Is that curiosity? Is that why he doesn't put an end to the other's life already?

The opponent's movements are slow now, sluggish, enough to give him enough time to avoid the incoming attack with no problems, stepping on the side and once again grabbing onto the other's mask, letting what he doesn't know is blood stain his fingers and palm, too, as he pushes himself closer, unemotional blue eyes staring at the Donkey's as he again tries to pin him down with nothing but his weight.

[speaktruly]

i just realized i never posted my version of gemini, so here it is. <3 small robotic cricket that loves you so very very much! i should write a lil post about all the differences and functions he has. 🤔 bonus height difference with p:

[speaktruly]

... i should add simon manus leader of the alchemists as a muse here, actually. MMHH.

[speaktruly]

P leans on the counter, and Gemini can't stop himself from leaning on his arm. He blinks without the need to do it, small elbows resting on the boy's skin and tiny hands holding the robotic head, his antennae twitching with extremely evident interest at that very direct, very much false ' nobody '. Careful, boy. Your nose is getting longer.

« ' Nobody ' ... ». Well, then. If there is one thing that Gemini has learnt by staying with P, it's that the best weapon to use against him is his own ones. Time to be the annoying one in the couple. « Curious name! Never heard of it. Must be Spanish. And are they preeeeetty~? »

He tilts his head, rising an index finger as if demanding attention in class. « Untrue! Liar, pal! I did answer - I said that if you're asking me, it means you do have a crush! So, you have a crush! And, by the hue of your cheeks... » - red, very much red! - « ... I'd say you're completely in love with this Nobody~ »

Well that was a disappointing answer. Crossing his arms and leaning on the counter himself, P showed half a pout as he felt his ears getting dangerously warm, especially when Gemini answered to his question with a question of his own.

Two questions in fact, one rethoric, one a little too gossipy for his tastes.

"Nobody", he answers without really thinking, his gaze lifted to a very interesting corner on the ceiling. Oh, look at that. A spider. They should think about cleaning that instead of focusing too much on.

That.

The thing he directly asked about.

Drat.

"You didn't answer me, so how can I say it's one, anyway?"

The fact that your cheeks are red, P. How did Romeo call it? Embarassment? Yeah, well, he's pretty darn embarassed alright, right now!

[speaktruly]

« Oh, wonderful! ». Gemini claps his little hands a few times, his antennae twitching happily as he tilts his head. « Don't worry! It's not about a sword again! May you follow me, please? »

He turns and agilely jumps down the table, his movement a gracious dance of miniscule gears making him land perfectly safe on the ground, so greatly distant for his small size. He looks back as he waits for her to follow, before guiding her to the main hall. « Well, I've been thinking about that sword, actually. » he says in the meantime, honestly more in the attempt to fill the silence than anything else. « But I'm aware it's a complicated project! And, sincerely, I'm not particularly sure I'd be able to use it to begin with. Not much in the sense of holding it, but I think I haven't been programmed to be violent. Or perhaps I'm just too small to do anything harmful. It was... probably the point. Mh. »

He stops beside the counter, letting his mind follow the thought just for another moment - wondering why it's making him feel so weird to think such a thought - before letting it go, and jumping on the furniture. On it, his lantern rests patiently, a little battered after the latest incursion outside but still perfectly able to protect him from danger. Gemini trots to it, hands lifting to point at it.

« Alright! It's about my lantern, miss Eugenie! You see, it's very comfortable and resistant, the outside is not the problem, but... I think it wasn't thought to be worn while fighting. ». His voice colours with what seems a small spark of embarrassment. « I try to stay sat on the chair in the middle, but P keeps jumping around and roll on the ground, and I keep slamming everywhere in it! So... uhm. The little project is just... well, do you think you can install something similar to a security belt on the chair? So that I will stop bouncing around it. »

@speaktruly -> Gemini

« Uhm, miss Eugénie? ». Gemini waves a small hand in the air, making sure she knows about his presence before making a jump to get on her workbench. He doesn't want her to get scared! Or to instinctually hit him with a hammer, it... wouldn't be very pleasing. « Hello! I was wondering if, uh, I might... ask your help, for a little project? »

Oh, thank heavens he spoke! She wouldn't have risked making a hole on her workbench by using a hammer, maybe, but the sight of such a huge bug would've certainly made her take out a shoe and try to do the same… especially since she was deep into her own work, a little too distracted to notice him until the last minute.

"Oh hi, Gemini!" she smiles, putting away what remained of the umpteenth sword broken by P "What is it? I have some time."

Hopefully he didn't want to ask her for a comically small sword again. She would love to try and make it, of course, but the idea of him jumping around and try and fight Carcasses and frenzied puppets on his own, as adorable as it could be, was... Troublesome.

[speaktruly]

@miratenebrarum / p and gemini ( almost two months ago shh ) "How do you know if you have a crush?" WELL THAT WAS OUT OF THE BLUE

« ... ah? » WELL YES P. THAT WAS OUT OF THE BLUE. Gemini was left at the hotel without even sharing a word before departure, and now his protected young man comes back and asks about a crush?!

The cricket puppet stares at him from atop the hall's counter, missing Polendina at the moment as he works upstairs. An arm's joints hiss just slightly as he lifts a hand, a finger pointing up, begging for a moment as he furiously thinks to an answer. Are there not a database or two in his programming that aid him in what to tell a kid about these kind of things...?! Who programmed him?!

« ... uhm. Well. ». Alright. Improvise, then. He's been improvising all the time he's been with the boy, after all. What's new? « I'd say... uhm, if you're asking me about it, it's probably because you do have a crush. Or you wouldn't be thinking about it, right? »

A moment of silence. Then, his hands join on his belly and he leans forward - if he could smile, he would have the biggest and dumbest smile possible painted on the face. Gossip mode activated. « Sssooo, pal... who do you have a crush on?~ »

[speaktruly]

Thoughts clash in his mind, opposite opinions on what should be done making his head gears work so fast to threaten an error. He should attack the other one - that's what he's been programmed for, and what father asked him to do. What makes him a good boy to his eyes, though the meaning of those words are still a blur to him. Nevermind the other looking like him: after all, he's not him. They might be similar models, but they are obviously different. ... right? The hair are obviously different. And... a-and...

... the other side of him can't bring himself to move. Tighten the grip on the sword, for certain, stay ready to block and counterattack, absolutely, but to attack? It feels like throwing himself to a mirror. And it would be. Stupid. Wouldn't it?

A part of him hopes the other will simply attack, giving him a strong reason to return seeing him as just an adversary and strike back; but he doesn't move as well, putting them both in a stalemate. The puppet makes a few seconds pass, his gears seemingly turning with difficulty as he slowly makes a choice that goes against the commands given to him. Though keeping a careful tension, he relaxes just enough his body, sword still tight in his hand but dropping to his side, ready to be raised at the slightest hint of aggression from the other. He straightens his back, mechanical movements bringing him rigidly up right in the best imitation he can muster of a relaxed pose.

He takes a moment, then. Tilting his head, he observes the other with a mixture of confusion and the curiosity that moves him when he looks at a painting. « Who are you? » he asks in the process, not meeting his gaze, as he doesn't see the point of doing that. Instead, he slowly moves to the side, starting to trace a circle around the other, to observe him from more point of views.

Weird. Before now, he never thought of observing the other puppets. He just deactivated them.

@speaktruly -> P

In the heat of battle, the realization comes late. Blades clash, smaller one perfect against the bigger one, a kick to get the opponent away from him; the sword waves at his side, and he gives it a rapid sharpening. And there, in the midst of sparks and metal grinding against metal, he suddenly truly sees his opponent. His mind almost rejects the image as the blade swings away from his arm, and he finds himself just... staring at the other. Is he looking at a mirror...?

Swords clash suddenly and violently, the puppet barely having the time to raise the sawblade to interject the attack coming from the side. He has but a second to try and hold his position, not enough to actually keep it before being literally kicked away, stumbling back but still remaining on his feet, and-

--and blink, surprised, at the sight of his aggressor. Recognizing himself -- well, himself before he let his hair grow longer, anyway. A ghost from his past, attacking him out of the blue.

…scary?

A bit. Yeah. Positively disturbing.

The other puppet stays still, anyway, and so does P, not without obvious tension; the grip on his blade tightens as he lifts it on his side, ready to attack if the other does the same.

[speaktruly]

Send “Examine!” and an item or person and I’ll write an RPG description of it/them.

For example, a stormtrooper mask: “A white mask with a black visor on the front. Putting it on, you realize that the visor isn’t even transparent. How are you expected to do anything competently like this?”

[speaktruly]

𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬 : a little assortment of action prompts for muses who may or may not hate each other. remember to tag your blood and violence. add +reverse to swap the roles.

[ 𝐧𝐨 𝐚𝐢𝐫 ] : sender is holding the receiver by the throat. [ 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥 ] : receiver is on their knees in front of the victorious sender. [ 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ] : exhausted from a battle, the receiver gives up resistance. [ 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 ] : sender attempts to stab the receiver. [ 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 ] : sender grabs the receiver by the hair. [ 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬 ] : receiver is being held as captive by the sender. [ 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 ] : receiver finds the sender trapped and unable to escape from them. [ 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧 ] : sender is lifting captured receiver's chin up. [ 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 ] : sender breaks one of receiver's bones. [ 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 ] : sender has made the receiver bleed. [ 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 ] : sender forces the receiver to watch their loved one die. [ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 ] : sender pins the receiver against a wall out of sheer rage. [ 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲 ] : sender spares receiver's life. [ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ] : sender warns the receiver to not antagonize them. [ 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 ] : sender and receiver are sharing a kiss that draws blood. [ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 ] : receiver is trying to win sender's trust in order to escape later. [ 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ] : facing a greater threat, sender and receiver must work together.

[speaktruly]

His legs can't wait for him to take a decision. Geppetto feels himself on the verge of falling. Instinct kicks in, a shaky hand reaching tentatively the closest chair and pushing it nearer. It stays on it as he slowly lowers his poor weight on its seat, and then elbows rest on his knees, keeping up a torso that seems to be heavier and heavier now that his heart is turning into a painful boulder.

Are you hearing yourself? Antonia asks. You barely believe those words, too.

No, that's not the problem. A small, barely lucid part of himself starts whispering, desperately trying to making itself heard while Geppetto is himself again. It knows it has just a few moments, before grief will push it back in the darkness. The problem is that I believe them way too much. I can't go on like this. I can't keep living in a lie.

That's why I'm doing this, though... isn't it? There it goes. Denial. Suffering. Grief. Pushing his own being underwater, and trying once again to drown him for good. To make this stop being a lie.

If Antonia's eyes are lucid just for a moment, Geppetto's mirror the opposite. They fill with tears that he doesn't even feel as they begin scratching copiously his cheeks, without a single sound from him. Not even a sob, or a sigh. Tears way too used to fall, coming out while he can't notice them, or else he wouldn't let them.

« Why are you saying this? ». His voice comes out almost unheard from Geppetto himself, as if he was hearing someone else talking. It's heavy, and desperate, and trembling, yet is sounds almost detached. The creator glances ahead, stares into everything and nothing at the same time. « I-I'm... not pretending. ». Hands squeeze one another feverishly. His palms feel cold against one another even to himself. « He's being a-a good son to me. ». He swallows. « He's my good son. »

And Antonia is wrong. Of course she's wrong. Carlo has freckles, he always had. He's... he's his father. Of course he would know if his son has freckles or not. Wouldn't he?

Oh, seeing him stumble on his own words - try to believe in his own lies - breaks her heart. She doesn't like to play this part. The one that says the truth, knowing how much it hurts. She'd love to indulge, calm him down, believe those messy words of his, but she was never a good liar.

"Are you hearing yourself? You barely believe those words, too."

A little too harsh, perhaps, but if any bond has to be broken, so be it. Anything to hope her old friend doen't go completely mad.

"Carlo was brash. Chatty. So, so full of excitement and tricks. And I, too, loved him as if he was my son. And I miss him so." she continues, her eyes filling with tears for a moment just to carefully wipe them, leaving her own cup on the side table. It's too soon. Far too soon. Carlo's memory and the wound he left with his death are still too fresh. "His big, brown eyes. His face full of freckles when he was a kid, so clean and perfect as he grew up into the handsome man his father used to be."

Half a lighthearted jab, half a way to make him remember, too. Did he even notice Carlo lost his freckles as he grew up? The fact that the puppet's eyes were different could be because of Sophia, but those couldn't be a coincidence.

"I can't ask you to move on, but… this game of pretend will just end up hurting you." A beat. "Both of you."

[speaktruly]

His intention is to leave without another word, head held high as if nothing happened - barely a bump on the road, a bother without much importance. And instead, he finds his road suddenly cut again by the puppet; and as much as he attempts to pass as someone without fear and with the situation under control, the movement makes him stop with a jolt, briefly staggering back in the sudden terror of another punch coming his way.

It doesn't, though. Only words come in his direction, words full of frustration and anger - and yet sounding so hollow and wasted to him. He regains his posture quickly, an exasperated sigh escaping loudly through the lips. Once again he takes his time to fix the coat, moved slightly when he rose his arms in defence, while he lets the puppet finish wasting his breath. And when he does, it ends with such a weak remark he almost bursts out laughing.

« Ah, is that so? »

Suddenly letting go of his prudence, anger and irritation stronger than his fear for now, he draws closer to the puppet. One step, two steps. Mask hidden eyes lock with the artificial ones of the other, as if wanting to study him, as if still wanting to find that sarcasm that he's aware the other simply doesn't have. Why should you program sarcasm in a thing meant to obey, after all?

« I don't recall you ever complain about my products. Pretty sure you bought them, even. More than once. ». He saw him wield them, manage to get past enemies with what he sold him. He might twist the truth, say what he thinks is real - perhaps even that hit of before is just a false identification. He has been fighting a lot, even human beings. Perhaps the mask got his circuits all over the place. In any case, he can't deny the truth just to throw a few insults in his direction. « She might be good at tweaking those weapons. Good, good for her. I truly hope for her the brightest of futures as a weapon manufacturer, I really mean it. But, it appears to me, the starting material has come from me. Tweaks can do so much, if the weapon isn't good from the start. »

He leans closer, just a little bit.

« This is what I do, my friend. And I am not simply very good at it. ». He grits his teeth, a hidden smirk widening on bloodied lips. « I am the best at this. The best. »

...he'll be honest. P truly expected the other to just agree with him and actually make his way back to the Hotel to ask for Eugénie's forgiveness, after that punch. Clearly, he didn't hit hard enough, even if the occasional groans and the blood still dripping through the mask.

Instead, the words, the tone used, is as bitter as it could be. Of course, nobody likes to get hit - he sure doesn't! - but it really is the same disdain he used when he talked about the gloves, or the wanted poster, or really anything that doesn't have to do with praising him and his accomplishments. Frowning, the puppet doesn't hesitate a second before he jumps in front of the other, not even trying to hide his disdain.

"She's great at making and fixing weapons-" he starts, clearly not fully understanding Alidoro's sarcasm but still putting all his frustration in his own words, no matter if the other was actually looking for an actual explaination or not "--and her gloves were nice too. She's way better at doing what she does, than you are at what you do.

Whatever that might be."

We want some hard truths? Fine. Even he can opt for honesty, from time to time, no matter how much it hurts.

Maybe, he's deciding to not stay quiet or lie exactly because he wants to hurt him.

[speaktruly]

William Wordsworth

[speaktruly]

STAR TREK: VOYAGER | 6.23