Dyssia stares at Demeter like--

Well. Um.

It's a cliché, right? You don't think you ever get the chance for the cliché to also be [i]exactly[/i] the right phrase?--

Like she's grown a second head.

"You don't… Know. Me."

It's hard to maintain anger when horror is fighting to the front. Horror and…  

It's a cocktail of different emotions. Horror, a part of sadness, one part dawning realization, all haphazardly stirred and poured over the rocks of pity.

"You don't know me. Like, at all?"

(What, exactly, is the olive in this metaphor, she wonders?)

"You don't know… [i]anyone?[/i]" 

It's fascinating and horrifying and more than a little sad to think that--

"You never bothered to know anyone--you already knew who they were [i]supposed[/i] to be, and that was always more important.  Why bother learning about defects, flaws distracting from the ideal?"

The anger is still there, of course, but fleeing away, the same way you might be angry with a child.

"You're pitiful, do you know that? A pimple on the ass of the galaxy who never got popped properly, and who thinks that pus is the only thing possible because it's the only thing you know. Because if you'd bothered at any point…"

She stares at Demeter, and it's like she can feel them at her back--the faces of those on her journey, behind and warming her. A halo of friends of all sizes, of inside jokes, of laughter, of a home more real than any construct of synthsteel. Faces, hard and soft, warm and withdrawn, flesh and metal.

And like a halo, it rings her, and frames her, and through it she can see just how alone Demeter is, here in the heart of her power, here in the midst of kennel after kennel of children.

"If you'd bothered, at any point, to love [i]anything[/i] that didn't come from inside your own head, you'd know that making me barren could never take my family in any way that matters."