[His breath catches in his throat, and he lifts his gaze from the scrap of cloth to Rapunzel's face; when he catches it, his eyes go from hazed over with tears and agony to—focused. Sharper.
This is a dream.
That's the only explanation, right? He's had these nightmares dozens of times since coming here. Maybe he'd been hit in the head by a bit of rubble after all; maybe he's passed out somewhere in one of the less stable buildings, dreaming this dream all over again. As the images of his own past fade away into images of—that girl, the cutie from the network, Ra, it has a zuh, foreign names are so hard—
And all of those swirls of light, enough to turn his stomach all over again if he looks right at them, but he doesn't. He's staring at her and how wrong she is with that look on her face, even if the words coming out of her mouth are right. None of this is real. Don't be afraid.
His gut clenches with anxiety at the sight of her, which is a step up from how it felt a moment ago. Why is she—
He glances down again at the cloth in his hand, then takes a few unsteady steps towards her.]
. . . Hey, your face.
[Is this part real? When does he wake up? When does the real part begin? Was even the falling down into this fucked up landscape real? (And it goes back, and back, and back, the same things he's wondered since he got here months ago: if Cerealia is virtual reality, was Hope's Peak real? Was his own death real? Was Maizono's death real? How long has he been plugged in, or asleep?)
He lifts the cloth in his hand, demonstratively. Let me wipe that off for you.]
no subject
This is a dream.
That's the only explanation, right? He's had these nightmares dozens of times since coming here. Maybe he'd been hit in the head by a bit of rubble after all; maybe he's passed out somewhere in one of the less stable buildings, dreaming this dream all over again. As the images of his own past fade away into images of—that girl, the cutie from the network, Ra, it has a zuh, foreign names are so hard—
And all of those swirls of light, enough to turn his stomach all over again if he looks right at them, but he doesn't. He's staring at her and how wrong she is with that look on her face, even if the words coming out of her mouth are right. None of this is real. Don't be afraid.
His gut clenches with anxiety at the sight of her, which is a step up from how it felt a moment ago. Why is she—
He glances down again at the cloth in his hand, then takes a few unsteady steps towards her.]
. . . Hey, your face.
[Is this part real? When does he wake up? When does the real part begin? Was even the falling down into this fucked up landscape real? (And it goes back, and back, and back, the same things he's wondered since he got here months ago: if Cerealia is virtual reality, was Hope's Peak real? Was his own death real? Was Maizono's death real? How long has he been plugged in, or asleep?)
He lifts the cloth in his hand, demonstratively. Let me wipe that off for you.]