An excerpt from Sillvia’s VOD: Content SMP #12- Guilt [1:10:17]
And to always care is a mistake. And to always promise is a mistake. And to always choose wrong is a mistake.
And Sillvia always makes mistakes.
And so, when a raven soars aloft Bon’s and Moriya’s heads, when it perches with an audible ‘clack’ atop her shoulder-piece as its claws slide on it, when it folds its wings and playfully pecks her cheek, she knows — she is about to make a mistake. Like times and times again, for whatever reason, for whatever twisted, fucked-up reason, she, against her incorrigible state of mind, follows through. It should be obvious by now. It never is. The choice — if she ever has one — is so incomprehensibly fuzzy, yet clear-cut, simple; the choice should be right, sometimes. Even one time, she should choose right. She doesn’t. Even if it is something as stupid as reaching for the note on the raven’s feet and untying it and unravelling it and reading it. Is it her fault? Is she just not getting something? Is she overlooking some crucial, basic knowledge that everyone seems to know, except her, that just… keeps them from fucking hurting the ones they love over and over again?
Her fingers crumple the paper.
It is a simple ‘Hey’, scribbled with jagged, messy, uneven lines. She reads it again. And again. And again. Her right eye is straining, sight blurry, yet she reads it again, that one word, that one sick, god-awful word that, as uneasy and violated she then feels over its hold of her, makes the world around her falter. Falters the conversation into static — it locks her into place. She feels foul. She feels weak. She feels like she could tear that man apart. She will tear that man apart. She feels fear. She feels guilty. She feels regret. She feels rage. She feels rage. She feels rage. She feels tired. She feels she needs to do something, anything. She has to do something. (Does she ever? A mistake.)
Unable to tear her eyes off that damn note, Sillvia reads further, slipping over the lines, ground unstable, tidal wave upon a tidal wave as she abruptly feels his stare bore through her nape, blood freezing when her sight half-heartedly seizes the single-word, an otherwise empty line, ‘Alone.’ She should come alone. A threat. Alone. To spawn. Alone. The handwriting blurs, text a tangled mess she skims over… the sentences do not make sense. She cannot concentrate — she has just read the same thing for the fifth time and does not know what it said, she has to concentrate, Sillvia, goddammit, concentrate — it says something, there is something on there, ink on paper, just. She has to go. The two are not safe, not here, not with her, he knows—
Sillvia is going to kill Winsweep.
The realisation slams into her. She blinks at the words — the words promising death, should anyone come with her, blink back. Sillvia is going to kill Winsweep. The paper crumples harder. Sillvia is going to kill Winsweep. She’d fulfill her promise, she’d finally fight back, she’d be there and she’d make a change. Even if it’s late, so undoubtedly, unforgivingly late, she would choose right, for once. She hates him, no— this is more than hate, this is more than she has ever felt towards RAT or… anyone. She truly, absolutely and irrevocably hates him, that mask, that shit-eating grin, all he has ever stood for and all he will ever stand for. She hates. With every fibre of her being, with every inch and with every cell. She is burning with it. This raw hate, unadulterated and smouldered, has flared and kindled and ignited so hungrily she has become a flame, a fire, a blaze. Her form lacks meaning, her flesh a tool and a tool only — she crazes, seething and crackling and devouring and razing all that bears any resemblance to him, and with it, his soul, choking it dead with frenetic chains of pulsing, living hate. She is hate. She hates and hates and hates and hates and hates, hates him. And the world burns, and she is the world, and she is the fire, and she stares him dead in the eyes to see the reflection of the last thing he has ever loved be leveled by her.
Sillvia briskly turns on her heel, voice rattling like rugged metal, “I-I-I— I gotta go.”
“...oh.” Others are talking to her. “You good?”
It leaves her mouth with a snap, a whip sent behind her back, “I gotta go.” Urging forward, her steps ring resolute. Yes, she is going to kill Winsweep. Permanently. Fists ball up; she speeds up. “Sillvia!” Dead, dead, dead, he will be dead. Whoever’s yell it was, it only fueled that ire, that burbling, crackling thing, that energy, those exploding insides, so much for her to sharply slit her arm through the air, winging back with a bark, “don’t follow—”
'𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠?'
An empty face watches her. It stands between Moriya and Bon, unmoving, as they are shuffling back and forth. Bright, tangerine skin, smooth where her eyes should have been, vividly violet locks, which never paled, goggles that have never been forsaken. All three of them are staring at her. The empty face stares the most. She blinks — the two of them have made it to her. They are speaking. The empty face is still there. Bon takes her hands — Sillvia looks at them — Sillvia looks back at the face. There is no face. She blinks.
She understands what it meant.
And Sillvia always makes mistakes.
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