[There is some sort of ancient anger in him that stirs a little at the thought as he turns it over in his mind. His mother has done nothing but the best for her people, and as he strains against his lingering nausea, he feels as though she's beloved. She is, isn't she? He's seen her rally so well, with such fervent words and cheers. So who? Who? Why?
It's a flicker of anger that's quickly snuffed out, though. He hugs his mother back as tightly as he can with his small, weak arms, wishing he could do anything significant to help her.]
—What about you, Mother...? You don't look well, either... Will you rest...?
[He loves it when his mother spoils him (and she so very often does), but it's peppered with that unease and now a new, fresh concern for a threat that he's struggling to comprehend. He gives her another hug, though, and nods even if it still makes him feel a little dizzy.]
Mm...! Yes, please! I won't leave your side until we both feel all better, Mother... Even after, I'll stay right beside you! So please don't let go of my hand, okay...?
[If his mother is going to protect him, then of course he'll do his best to protect her in return.]
Heh... Why, of course. Shall I hold your hand now while we get ready for bed?
[What time is it? Well, that's not important. It seems that it's time for bed, which is what matters. She'll get up, carrying him, before gently placing him back on his bed, still holding his hand.]
[The sun doesn't work properly outside of this funhouse of fuckin weird mirrors (he didn't even look in the mirror) maybe so...
But outside of a brief flicker of bafflement, he just accepts this in the same way that a dreaming person accepts rapid scenery shifts. He holds tight as he's carried back to bed, and holds her hand just as tightly after.]
Will you keep holding my hand, even after I fall asleep...?
[NO HE DOESN'T WANT TO NIGHTYNIGHT PEANUT AGAIN!!!!
Except it's far too easy. His mother's presence is so warm and reassuring just as it's always been, and it's right by his side just as it's always been. There's the strangest feeling of weighted nostalgia in his chest, but he can set it aside, can't he? He can instead focus on the warm hand in his, without thinking too hard on why it feels like such a long-gone thing.
He is 15 years old, working with a fellow scientist at the Institute. Does he recognize this man? Does he want to? I did not mean for that to sound as mean as it came out. As he continues to dream, he goes through various flashes of his deaths, the ways he's died as a Reliver back home, or as a crew member on the Eudora. All the ways he's been hurt, and endured pain.
What were the circumstances that led to this "Dahut" existing? Surely, they cannot be worth living in, compared to the time spent with his mother.
Weren't things better when he had someone always willing to hold his hand?]
This dream is posing a very awful existential question. Dahut hates being alone, but he has been for so, so long, and every day he craves what's left in the past. That warm hand that's no longer warm, that he can no longer hold.
Naturally, the time spent with his mother is better. Why would he ever choose this life for himself? No, if he had the choice at all, he would leave the Institute and Scien Brofiise and his entire maddening life behind in exchange for the comfort of those far-away days. Good thing it's just a dream, huh?]
[THIS IS WHERE I'D LINK THE TAILS IMAGE IF IMGUR WASN'T BEING SO WEIRD RIGHT NOW
That's Dahut as he wakes up in this fuckin flower field. The second he opens his eyes and realizes he's not in his soft and comfortable bed holding his mother's warm hand, he sits bolt upright, clutching his hands over his chest - for some reason? Why? Well, he doesn't question it.]
[Yay! He hates this. He's immediately clamoring to his feet, that sense of unease that's been with him for so long surging into something closer to dread. The smell of blood out here in this field of flowers...
He sets off immediately, moving to and fro until he finds where the scent is strongest and following it that way.]
Seeing his mother like this nearly makes his heart stop. The people here-- he does know them, and it makes no sense, either. There's so much bewilderment in him, but the fear for her outweighs everything else.]
Mother?! Mother—!!
[There are multiple people surrounding her and yet his ass is still charging right for her.]
[NOOO NOT HIS TINY USELESS FIVE YEAR OLD BODY. He goes crashing to the side, and it probably hurts, or will maybe hurt later once the adrenaline wears off.
For now, he pushes himself back up right away - just in time to watch the blade go through his beloved mother's hand. Immediately, he's on his feet again and running back toward her.]
Stop—!! Let her go!! Mother—!!
[He has so much fear and fury in his tiny heart, but what the hell is he GOING TO DO.]
[What is tiny Dahut going to do? He can't do anything, much like how his mother can do nothing but scream in pain. Even then, she still looks at Dahut with a plea in her eyes.]
[Good question!! Tiny Dahut has no idea what he's going to do, either! And his one working braincell is truly overheating as he listens to his mother scream and watches the blade go down again. Despite his mother's pleas, he just can't listen.
He tries to throw himself bodily between her and her attackers, even though he probably weighs as much as a grocery basket full of flour tortillas.]
[Why, Dahut asks. The figures don't respond, but perhaps somewhere in the mind, he knows the answer—or is he still pursuing it? A flicker of a memory, on the tip of his tongue.
These figures decide they don't want flour tortillas after all as they easily pick Dahut up and toss him to the side again. They stab his mother, again and again, until they appear to finish and fade away.
Now, it is only Dahut and his mother, the latter of whom bleeds out among the flowers. Even so, she reaches for Dahut again, with barely any strength left.]
[HE'S THE SADDEST BAG OF FLOUR TORTILLAS IN THE WORLD...
No matter how many times he's picked up and thrown aside, no matter how many times he fails, he does keep trying - he keeps trying because what else can he do? He's desperate, screaming for them to stop, and the flicker of memory grows into a feeling of deja vu that has his freneticism rising even further.
There's a second when the attackers fade where he's completely still and silent, looking at his mother's body. Only a second, though - in the next, he's on his feet and running toward her again, collapsing at her side and reaching for her bloody hand. He clutches it tightly, like that will somehow keep the life in her body.]
Mother—!! Mother!! Please hold on, I'll-- I'll go find help!!
[Well now how is he supposed to be happy like this huh. HOW!!!!!
He moves his tiny free hand, trying to cover the worst looking wound, but so many look so horrible that it wouldn't take more than a glance to know they're fatal. Still, he tries.]
I... Mother, don't talk anymore, please! Just keep breathing! That's what would make me happy...!
[All his mother manages is a faint smile at him, a plea on her face—and then, nothing. Her life ends like that, with nothing but a wish for her beloved child.
And now, Dahut is alone, sitting here in the flower field.]
[Time to continue being completely useless for a bit because if her body doesn't magically fade away he just tucks himself up into her deadass arms and holds onto her and wails and sobs!!!! And if it does he just curls into a little ball in this bloody patch of flowers and does the same thing!!! Wow i really dont have any real crying icons margaret save me]
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It's a flicker of anger that's quickly snuffed out, though. He hugs his mother back as tightly as he can with his small, weak arms, wishing he could do anything significant to help her.]
—What about you, Mother...? You don't look well, either... Will you rest...?
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[Perhaps he can feel his mother smile softly.]
Would you like to sleep together tonight? I shouldn't spoil you so, but perhaps you can think of this as spoiling your mother instead.
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Mm...! Yes, please! I won't leave your side until we both feel all better, Mother... Even after, I'll stay right beside you! So please don't let go of my hand, okay...?
[If his mother is going to protect him, then of course he'll do his best to protect her in return.]
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[What time is it? Well, that's not important. It seems that it's time for bed, which is what matters. She'll get up, carrying him, before gently placing him back on his bed, still holding his hand.]
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But outside of a brief flicker of bafflement, he just accepts this in the same way that a dreaming person accepts rapid scenery shifts. He holds tight as he's carried back to bed, and holds her hand just as tightly after.]
Will you keep holding my hand, even after I fall asleep...?
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[Eventually, Dahut will fall asleep. At some point, in his hazy mind, he will feel a warm presence beside him in bed, there to watch over him.
(How long has it been, since he's had this? It's only been recently, right? And yet, it feels as though it's been so much longer.)
Then, he drifts further and further into unconsciousness...]
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Except it's far too easy. His mother's presence is so warm and reassuring just as it's always been, and it's right by his side just as it's always been. There's the strangest feeling of weighted nostalgia in his chest, but he can set it aside, can't he? He can instead focus on the warm hand in his, without thinking too hard on why it feels like such a long-gone thing.
Nightynight peanut 2 but better this time...]
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He is 15 years old, working with a fellow scientist at the Institute. Does he recognize this man? Does he want to? I did not mean for that to sound as mean as it came out. As he continues to dream, he goes through various flashes of his deaths, the ways he's died as a Reliver back home, or as a crew member on the Eudora. All the ways he's been hurt, and endured pain.
What were the circumstances that led to this "Dahut" existing? Surely, they cannot be worth living in, compared to the time spent with his mother.
Weren't things better when he had someone always willing to hold his hand?]
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This dream is posing a very awful existential question. Dahut hates being alone, but he has been for so, so long, and every day he craves what's left in the past. That warm hand that's no longer warm, that he can no longer hold.
Naturally, the time spent with his mother is better. Why would he ever choose this life for himself? No, if he had the choice at all, he would leave the Institute and Scien Brofiise and his entire maddening life behind in exchange for the comfort of those far-away days. Good thing it's just a dream, huh?]
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When Dahut awakens from the dream, he is alone, in a field of flowers.]
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That's Dahut as he wakes up in this fuckin flower field. The second he opens his eyes and realizes he's not in his soft and comfortable bed holding his mother's warm hand, he sits bolt upright, clutching his hands over his chest - for some reason? Why? Well, he doesn't question it.]
—Mother...?
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He sets off immediately, moving to and fro until he finds where the scent is strongest and following it that way.]
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She kneels among the flowers, covered in blood. Surrounding her are figures—perhaps Dahut recognizes them, perhaps he doesn't.
Weakly, his mother looks up.]
D-Dahut...!?
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Seeing his mother like this nearly makes his heart stop. The people here-- he does know them, and it makes no sense, either. There's so much bewilderment in him, but the fear for her outweighs everything else.]
Mother?! Mother—!!
[There are multiple people surrounding her and yet his ass is still charging right for her.]
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We can deal with him later.
[Meanwhile, his mother reaches for him, struggling.]
Dahut—!
[—and then one of the figures drives a sword right through her hand.]
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For now, he pushes himself back up right away - just in time to watch the blade go through his beloved mother's hand. Immediately, he's on his feet again and running back toward her.]
Stop—!! Let her go!! Mother—!!
[He has so much fear and fury in his tiny heart, but what the hell is he GOING TO DO.]
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D... Dahut, please, run away...!
[Another stab, this time through her leg.]
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He tries to throw himself bodily between her and her attackers, even though he probably weighs as much as a grocery basket full of flour tortillas.]
Please, stop—!! Why are you doing this?!
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These figures decide they don't want flour tortillas after all as they easily pick Dahut up and toss him to the side again. They stab his mother, again and again, until they appear to finish and fade away.
Now, it is only Dahut and his mother, the latter of whom bleeds out among the flowers. Even so, she reaches for Dahut again, with barely any strength left.]
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No matter how many times he's picked up and thrown aside, no matter how many times he fails, he does keep trying - he keeps trying because what else can he do? He's desperate, screaming for them to stop, and the flicker of memory grows into a feeling of deja vu that has his freneticism rising even further.
There's a second when the attackers fade where he's completely still and silent, looking at his mother's body. Only a second, though - in the next, he's on his feet and running toward her again, collapsing at her side and reaching for her bloody hand. He clutches it tightly, like that will somehow keep the life in her body.]
Mother—!! Mother!! Please hold on, I'll-- I'll go find help!!
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D-Dahut... are you all right? All I want—is for you to be happy...
[Her breathing grows weaker, her blood spilling further and further from her body, dyeing the flowers red. The light begins to fade from her eyes.]
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He moves his tiny free hand, trying to cover the worst looking wound, but so many look so horrible that it wouldn't take more than a glance to know they're fatal. Still, he tries.]
I... Mother, don't talk anymore, please! Just keep breathing! That's what would make me happy...!
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And now, Dahut is alone, sitting here in the flower field.]
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