An in-depth diss of Roxanne Wolf
I feel like what I've posted thus far in relation to this travesty of a character is only a hint of how I really feel about her. Obviously, I've made it apparent that I don't like her, but for all you can tell, I might as well just take her flimsy-as-cardboard insults at face value, or dislike her overt popularity (and thirsting) in the fandom.
However, it is neither of these things.
Initially, I just despised Roxanne Wolf because I took one look at her and thought: "Oh. The very moment Scott Cawthon handed off his franchise to another party (I didn't know that Steel Wool worked on Help Wanted at this point), they instantly decided to try and make the generic template of an angsty deviantart OC into a character." You see, that doesn't work, at least, not with FNaF.
You can't be a blocky, uncanny, ventriloquist doll-looking children's entertainment android, possessed by the spirit of one of the children it was meant to entertain (and you can go off in the comments about how they're not really possessed, it doesn't really matter either way) and also a bona fide furry rock star, it doesn't work outside of weird, plot-incongruent fanfictions. You can't be a muppet and a Black Sabbath band member. You can't be a telly-tubby and Marilyn Manson--actually, scratch that, Marilyn Manson does kinda look like if you took the beanie off of a telly-tubby. But my point is, you can't have your Chuck e. Cheese pizza and eat it like a badass, too. Unless you're Dante from Devil May Cry. (This paragraph has enough tangents that I should say 'Perchance' as a non-sequitur.)
But then, as I suffered myself to get into the game through watching playthroughs, I started to see that this issue covered all of the main four, and it seemed more to be an in-universe issue, but regardless, it still seemed to be be Roxy especially.
But I also began to taste of that angst, that good old My Immortal-esque angst, and, like a former drug addict recidivating, I fell right for it, and I realized: Roxy is the perfect angst cow. Not only does she have on of the most generic reasons for angst ('I doubt my value both intrinsically and in terms of how others see me'), but she is also truly trapped. Trapped in a building she can't leave lest she run out of power; trapped by the fact that, legally, she is literal property of her company--"A mere object!", as Gabriel from ULTRAKILL would say; and, finally, trapped by the fact that, whether possessed by a ghost, or possessed of a spark of life like in the FNaF novels, she is still subject to the faulty code that will forever wire her to be the way she is.
Perfectly angsty. Perfectly one dimensional and stupid. Perfectly vulnerable. Perchance.
The single lick of passion and competitive aggression, and the base appeal that any anthro wolf girl has, plus something about part of her aesthetic, all amount to a few scraps of likeability. Likeability which can be stirred up and made something of when reading enough silly little fanfictions. Likeability which makes her pathos just poignant enough to stroke those dopamine receptors in my brain that respond to that sort of thing. Just enough to make me relish drinking the tears from her eyes and the blood from her torn-out heart.
The fact is that if I can gloss over the fact that she's a machine, for kids, probably possessed by a kid, and also extremely ugly in-game, I can just about find her shallowly crush-worthy. That's necessary. If she weren't 'beautiful', then her angst wouldn't be beautiful either. But if she weren't stupid, (both she herself, and the basic concept of her, including how generic and one-dimensional her inner turmoil is) then her angst wouldn't be funny, either. She has to be both, and she is, so I feel about her the way I do--the closest comparison I could think of being kismesis from Homestuck.
So, in conclusion, I actually kind of like Roxy. But not in the normal way. Not in the way you simply and honestly are fond of a character, and wish them the best. I like Roxy as a lamb to the slaughter, just detestable enough to feel mirth at her suffering, but just lovable enough to empathize with her angst enough to relish in it. A perfect object of my sadism. A sweet peach to be torn into with my teeth. Tender. Delectable. Served medium rare, cooked in tears--even if they are a waste of good suffering.
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