[There's a face on a mirror - Pokey's face - set to the backdrop of Dave's house. Pokey is saying something, word after word after word all running together. Vitriolic threats pour endlessly from his mouth. "I have never, ever sincerely wanted someone to die as bad as the jerkoff running the website. I mean, I want them to have every internal organ, I mean just all of them, torn out of their body then shoved back down their stupid fat mouths." "You only have a finite amount of space to hide too." "I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna kill you, you piece of shit."
Then the screen of the mirror goes dark, and Dave's voice rings out.
"I didn't haul your ass back to a safe place just to watch you slap a big fat red target on your back the moment you stopped being stone cold cadaver-dead."
When anything is visible again, it's clear that the point of view is now of Dave, standing in the interior of his house.
Words are exchanged; statements escalate into shouts, and suddenly, it's like something snaps inside of Dave Strider. Whatever emotions the memory had been giving off before - frustration, concern - suddenly dissipate, leaving a complete void of any feeling in their wake.
A voice rings out, cold to the point it almost doesn't sound like Dave's; it definitely isn't the voice that Dave uses when he speaks to Gary.
"So basically what this all boils down to is I wasted my time trying to save a guy who didn't actually want to live. That's what you're telling me, right? Should've said something earlier; would've saved us both some time and effort."
The sudden shift in demeanor appears to take Pokey aback. "What? That's not what I meant. That's not what I meant." The expression on his face is one of shock. "I don't want to die. I don't want to. I. I'm being a dumbass. I go out that door, I'm going to get myself killed. I need to stay. For a while at least. Or I'm just going to get myself and a ton of others hurt."
It's a plea, but the only reaction it inspires is a surge of utter loathing that seems to almost drown everything else in the memory out.
When Dave answers Pokey, there isn't an ounce of understanding or sympathy in his voice. "You're so full of shit it's basically a miracle it's not leaking out of your ears. You never once cared about anybody in this place for even an instant. I mean, you've always been too stuck on Mayfield, haven't you. So what's it to you whether anybody here gets hurt or not."
Pokey says something here, but it's inaudible; inaccessible in this memory, as if to evidence just how little the one recalling this memory cared to hear what was being said.
Dave's house bursts into raucous laughter, and the couch Pokey had been sitting on disappears from under him. Then the front door swings open.
no subject
Then the screen of the mirror goes dark, and Dave's voice rings out.
"I didn't haul your ass back to a safe place just to watch you slap a big fat red target on your back the moment you stopped being stone cold cadaver-dead."
When anything is visible again, it's clear that the point of view is now of Dave, standing in the interior of his house.
Words are exchanged; statements escalate into shouts, and suddenly, it's like something snaps inside of Dave Strider. Whatever emotions the memory had been giving off before - frustration, concern - suddenly dissipate, leaving a complete void of any feeling in their wake.
A voice rings out, cold to the point it almost doesn't sound like Dave's; it definitely isn't the voice that Dave uses when he speaks to Gary.
"So basically what this all boils down to is I wasted my time trying to save a guy who didn't actually want to live. That's what you're telling me, right? Should've said something earlier; would've saved us both some time and effort."
The sudden shift in demeanor appears to take Pokey aback. "What? That's not what I meant. That's not what I meant." The expression on his face is one of shock. "I don't want to die. I don't want to. I. I'm being a dumbass. I go out that door, I'm going to get myself killed. I need to stay. For a while at least. Or I'm just going to get myself and a ton of others hurt."
It's a plea, but the only reaction it inspires is a surge of utter loathing that seems to almost drown everything else in the memory out.
When Dave answers Pokey, there isn't an ounce of understanding or sympathy in his voice. "You're so full of shit it's basically a miracle it's not leaking out of your ears. You never once cared about anybody in this place for even an instant. I mean, you've always been too stuck on Mayfield, haven't you. So what's it to you whether anybody here gets hurt or not."
Pokey says something here, but it's inaudible; inaccessible in this memory, as if to evidence just how little the one recalling this memory cared to hear what was being said.
Dave's house bursts into raucous laughter, and the couch Pokey had been sitting on disappears from under him. Then the front door swings open.
"Get out."]