Your name is DIRK STRIDER and the past is still eating you alive.
With all of your brains and technological might at your disposal, it was always your heart that held you back. When you scraped the web to the bottom of the proverbial barrel to seek for the answers to where your friends were, it took you over a week to decide you were going to look at what you found.
You stared at the files on your computer, and you couldn’t see your own look of shame through your shades. You had to take them off to even admit that despite all that you grew, you still feel it in you. Guilt, eroding at your very soul, flaying piece by piece as they burn. And like cinders on the breeze, you can feel it almost as fleeting.
Were you in the mood to be poetic, you’d carry on this sentiment.
You open the files.
Nostus, alive and well. Part of you wonders, is she different? Truly, deep down different, in the core of what she was? Such intense transformations to the physical must have also changed a little of who she is. It’s improbable for such experiences to escape. If the body changes, the mind changes too. An organ like any other, more dependent on precise chemistry; flexible enough to bounce back, but hard to truly decipher without diligence and due process.
Rose, ascended. All seems well, though the same question lies; how much has she changed? It’s coming up to three years since you showed up. Normal people change in three years, what can apotheosis conjure into the mental spectrum? You’re glad she’s around, but around much she is not. You pray and hope you can at least just see her once more, and remember what it was like to be considered her good friend.
Jade, deceased. From all you could tell, she passed away. She died. You don’t take yourself as the sole reason for her death because you know you’re not arrogant enough to consider that you simply being alive can prevent tragedy like this. It reminds you that you’ve grown, that your broken psyche has fixed enough cracks to see that this universe doesn’t revolve around you and you can’t be the sole determining factor in if your friends are safe or not. As humans, they all have that risk built into their life.
You will take time to mourn her. Slowly, but surely. You need to allow the grief to pass. You’ll wait.
Chuffy is the most unusual case where you’re not quite sure. Her last communications were long ago and whatever happened to her wasn’t broadcasted online. With her being inside a pocket of her own space, it’s hard to really gauge what happened, with her only way of getting in touch with the outside world were her posts. She’s out there somewhere. You know she is, and you’ll wait as long as you need to. You owe it to her. You need to fucking tell her that you’re sorry for leaving and that sole spark of hatred for what you did is pushing you forward. You’ll meet again, not out of some determination or raw belief in fate, but because you know if you don’t, not even you could tear such a huge chunk out of your soul on purpose.
You wonder if she thought about you, or if before she vanished, she thought about you.
You push those thoughts aside. You promised not to let them get the better of you. You’ve improved. You’re better. You’re more healed than ever, and even healed people feel guilt so bad that it feels like a fucking knife being rammed into your ribs.
Aranea, she vanished without much of a trace. You can only wonder if she found her final peace or simply drifted away. She may return but you hold little hope for it.
Something strikes you, that you have many females you considered close friends. You can take a few hours to mull over that later.
The others you knew came and went like people do, but these stood out for you the most.
You close your laptop and rest your head on it. You raise it when you feel you’re being watched; Brobot has been watching you the entire time. He knows what this is like; he’s you with the ability to turn raw emotion, off. He nods at you, you wonder how much is encouraging and how much is necessary to keep you going. In return, you nod back, and open up your laptop again.
You save the files into a ZIP folder and delete the rest, and type up a name for the folder. Something to remind you about what matters, but nothing that you know will give you a reason to gripe further. You know now, you need everything you can so you can make amends.
After you name the file, you shut down the computer. You named the file “YOU’VE GOT THIS” because you know that beating yourself up won’t help. And above all, you need to keep telling yourself that.
You’ve got this, DIRK STRIDER. You’ve got this.
