The goalies cradle the ball because they believe it to be an egg and are trying to keep the other players from breaking it. Unfortunately they have also been led to believe that the egg's True Mother is one of the players and feels obligated to return the egg. Needless to say the winning team will get to hatch the Great Serpent.
yesterday i had the experience of whatching my parents act like teenagers bc haaland's name kinda sounds like "rola" (brazillian portuguese word for penis)
On one hand, Damn i wish Mexico and Brazil got through, on the other hand, this is the furthest Norway has EVER gotten in the world cup. And even if they go out next, i am proud of em.
*They have also, somehow never lost against Brazil??*
norway is now my only hope in avenging mexico against the colonizer and we got it scheduled on our friend group trip
It is another failure that is returned to 4k, not late one night, not in any way, shape, or form it had wanted for the end. It is furious, furious in the only way it can be when its eyes are permanently closed and its smile is similarly permanently plastered to its face, a curse of binding mask like no other. Still, it can see its angel-model smiling before it, and it hungers to tear it to pieces.
âWhat is it about this server that makes you so destined to fail?â It snaps. It had been great once. Its puppets had been great. The proof is still hoarded deep within its space station, trophies and screenshots and recordings stored away behind long closed doors and motherboards. âAll my power and the most knowledge you can stomach without corruption at your fingertips and still you and those before you canât garner a single win? Canât carry out my will?â
The smile on the angel-modelâs face drops.
âYou bend to the will of others, give up everything in return for nothing,â it continues, and itâs throwing its head back and tugging at its hair to keep itself from lunging at its failure and ripping its core from his body. âYour loyalty is to me! Those youâve done this for wonât even acknowledge you after today! All youâve done for them means nothing!â
âIâm a person, too,â the angel-model says, a bold-faced lie. âYour will wouldâve left me entirely alone.â
âMy will wouldâve left us unharmed,â it argues. âYou think any of them care about you in the same way? Who have they sought out after the end? Not you.â
It should cut every thread that binds the two of them. It shouldâve severed every tie between its angel-model and those around it. Maybe then it wouldnât be so humiliated. Red threads of fate and connection bind his hands, wrap around his throat, make him weak and placated. Heâs naive. None of these players, dead or alive, will spare him a second thought now that heâs gone.
âYou had one purpose and you failed to even do that,â it pulls its hands from its hair and shoves at the angel-model, making him stumble back but not fall. Heâs already fallen once today, whatâs one more time? âIt was supposed to be easy! It was supposed to be perfect!â
âI wouldnâtâve been happy,â the angel-model says, as if thatâs an excuse. âIt wonât be like last time, it wasnât like last time; Death Valley cares about me.â
âDo you not think the world-ender thought the same of Pathogen?â 4k presses, the previous season tasting like rot in its mouth. âI put that failure out of its misery, and still it comes back to haunt me, to infect you with its stupid idealism. How is it that the last success Iâve had was an iteration that was not just fully organic, but knew nothing of its job? Iâm trying to be gracious here, giving you knowledge and free-will and less weakness.â
âItâs different,â the angel-model says. âThis is different. What, are you scared itâs different? That now you have something to care about, that now you could get hurt?â
âYou canât go back to them,â 4k says decisively. âYou donât matter as much to them as they all do to each other.â
âThatâs not true! You know thatâs notââ the angel-model argues, the last words out of his mouth abruptly cut off as 4k brings the both of them to the ground, clawing and prying at his armor until it gives way under his designerâs hands. Red threads tangle further, binding them to each other, trapping them both within a self-made prison.
Its angel-model is naive, and stupid, and this entire season of suffering had been for nothing. He had come back empty-handed, with nothing to show but a future of abandonment. 4k claws its way into its puppetâs chest and tears what remains of his weak heart from his body.
âYou are pathetic, thinking any of that meant anything,â it hisses to an unmoving shell. The eyes of its angel-model gaze up at it, scared and unseeing in his final moments. Stupid, hopeful, trusting, just as weak as the world-ender prototype. It appears strength and skill arenât the cure-all for such a disease. âWhat a waste of life.â
