#aside from its seething hatred and violent resentment

[infinitethree]

[the faint sound of many small bells heralds a new message] Heya Daz! It's been a little while since we last spoke! I got wrapped up in this and that and it led me away from observing for a little while, sorry about that. Or welcome for it, since I'm aware you aren't a terribly big fan of us seeing your every move. You're just too fun! I /gotta/ keep coming back. Though it does feel, perhaps, a little exploitative... but all the best entertainment is! I wonder, do you remember me? I hope so.

Daz just barely manages to stop himself from screaming.

Prime fucking damnit; the last thing he needs is to have another of his fanclub poking at him when he feels so volatile.

Before he speaks, he takes a moment to exhale and gather on his years of acting under pressure. "Chime. I see you have a new calling card."

Rich that they know how much he hates being watched and how exploitative watching him for entertainment is…and yet don't seem to actually care about his feelings on the matter.

You're a hypocrite, comes the sneering voice in his own head. You manipulate your so-called friends all the time– to say nothing of everyone else! You fuck with other people just because you can.

He doesn't need a fucking lecture from someone who wanted to commit a genocide, thanks. The peanut gallery can go back to shutting up.

Awfully rude way to talk to someone whose help you need. What help could he possibly need from–

There's a shadow that lingers in and around places where strange things happen. It seems to like the T3 quite a bit.

He scoffs. There’s no way it noticed something like that. What, did it learn that from a friend?

It laughs, but there’s a bitter, angry edge to the sound. You're a clever guy. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually.

…Whatever. He’s not going to waste more of his time and energy on Innit. The damn thing has made it perfectly clear it hates him and wants to see him suffer.

He sighs, flipping onto his back on the couch on the upper part of his San-proof rooms.

Under a hidden trapdoor is a ladder down to the more spacious area, set up for times when he or Raine need to feel just a little bit safer.

Or when they and other members of the Council need to speak in absolute privacy.

"Hard to forget part of my…fan club," he says to Chime. The term is paired with a slightly sour tone. He can feel the power and control that served as the platform for his already dubious mental health crumbling underneath him.

The Observers, as well as the Scribe, are entities he can’t do jack and shit about. He’s had to grit his teeth and make deals that rip open long-festering wounds in his psyche. If he doesn’t know what’s going on, then he has failed at his core purpose.

Information is his armor, weapon, and tool. He wields and weaves it so that he can stomp out problems before they grow large enough that the Swords and Shields are truly needed. If he can’t do that, then what is he good for? Why is he here, if he can’t protect the people he has devoted himself to?

What is he, without the power of information?

Nothing, the monster in his head tells him. You’re nothing, and that’s why you're scared.