You know, in the better class of play, this would be the moment where the heroine tells the villain [i]exactly[/i] what they think of their monologue, and in which hole they can stick it.

I mean, you know it won't work, right? Hero doesn't know it, but it's only been twenty minutes since the play started. Nobody [i]actually[/i] believes that the Comtesse de la Rue is going to give up on her web of manipulation and deceit--she's been, in her own mind, helping people find love and happiness for twenty years, and no jumped-up pipsqueak can give a speech that's gonna change her mind.

...Which does, now that she thinks of it, beg the question how much time has passed in her "play." A month, at least, since that day. 

Possibly two. Time a little fuzzy at the moment, like it always is after emerging.

Brightberry will know. Note to self, once she's out of the lab and cleaned up, ask Brightberry what day it is.

Subtly. There's gotta be a way to subtly ask what day it is in a way that does not communicate you've been on an unspecified number of all-nighters? Ask how long it is until. No, no, that doesn't work, the servitors will just change the schedule because she asked for something. 

Post script to note to self, with the neon glitter pen that stands out: do something nice for Brightberry. She puts up with a  lot and it's been while.

Right. Time and plays and such. Twenty minutes into the play, nobody actually [i]believes[/i] that the heroine can make a speech and convince the antagonist to turn over a new leaf. The plot couldn't happen that way. 

Two hours in, after the Comtess has had a chance to see her web crash around her ears, and to see the effects of her actions, then [i]maybe[/i] she'd accept an impassioned plea, have a plot-appropriate change of heart. But this early in the play, everyone knows that she's just going to scoff at Valerie's speech about how she [i]will[/i] love her Ceronian, and she [i]will[/i] help her become Shogun, and nothing will stand between her.

And damned if she actually knows what the monologue she needs to give right now is? Because he's not making any friggin' sense?

Fuck, please don't let this be one of those things where nothing makes sense until after a night's sleep. Or worse, one of those things that is perfect and absolutely makes sense [i]until[/i] you have a night's sleep.

The Azura cling. He hates us for it. Wants us to. To be happy and die? To let go of those emotions so we can be content with what we have? To let go of the emotions that keep us unhappy?

But the emotions behind this are also his gift? They keep us here instead of being happy?

His endgame. He wants her to. Too broken to be happy. Could be happy if she let go? Let go of the Pix? Too broken to let go. Too set on trying to help. Help the Pix who are, you know, arguably also her enemies?

Endgame is filtering that out? Getting rid of the people who meddle? People who want empire, who aren't content to just be happy until they.

If this were a comic, there'd be a steam cloud forming above her head. And already, she can feel the effort of thought smoking neurons.

... You know, smoked neurons are probably pretty tasty. Like barbecue. Delicious, crispy grey matter, with a crackly skin you can scrape with a fork, but with a smoky, fatty center.

"I would like my puppet back, please."

Fuck. Already, she can imagine a playwright pacing back and forth in front of the stage, swearing at her star actor for forgetting her lines at the emotional climax. 

Not prompting her what they are, though, the imaginary jerk. 

"You see, I need to go overdose on being a good person before I get filtered out of the gene pool. If I'm gonna get filtered out, might as well do what I can first."