-HS- A Minor Character

Your name is Davesprite, and you are all alone.

Once again.

You can never, ever fit in anywhere. You are not Dave. You are not a hero.

Alpha may claim he doesn't know anything about being a hero, but he would be wrong.



You are not a hero.

Alpha is.



You are no longer useful to anyone. Your purpose ended the moment that sword reached Dave, the real Dave, the Dave who still matters, who still has some great destiny planned ahead of him, who still has things to do in life.



You thought that your life was over.


You thought, surely, with meteors raining down, waiting for the end on a broken, desolate chessboard, with the one other person that surely must understand how you feel-- not the real thing, just a copy, no longer useful in any way--

You thought that, well, maybe it was a little dramatic, but it was a good way to die.



You were dying anyway. You, with your one wing and your broken sword, your bandaged middle, creamsicle colored liquid seeping from various parts of you like a sponge full of orange juice.



Jadesprite.

Maybe, you thought, love was a bit overrated, but you have never felt the same way about her as anything else in your entire life. Your entire, tragic, Strider-esque life.

You were copies. Not the real thing. Not useful to anyone, anymore. About to die.


You were happy.





Now, you're not.

You are all alone again.

You will die here, with creamsicle colored liquid dripping from your wounds like a sponge full of orange juice, on this broken, desolate checkerboard, meteors no longer falling from the sky,



And you will die completely alone.



Jadesprite is not like you. She has a purpose now. She is the real thing, not a copy, useful to everyone.



You're complaining now, aren't you? Complaining about winding up with the shorter end of the stick, though everyone else is moderately safe and happy now, you are still all alone. The universe might have ended, but you, you are so fucking tragic, with nothing ever going your way, no one ever understanding your terrible, tragic life.

You are a selfish bastard. You hate yourself.


... Yet, you cannot help but feel this way.



But what could you do about it?

Whine, pout, cry, sulk about how life is so tragic and unfair, you are the king of heartbreak and woe, sitting on a throne made from all your broken hopes and ambitions, your loss surely outweighs everyone else's by tenfold, surely you hold this position unrivaled, because you're just that fucking tragic.

You selfish bastard.



But no, that would make you look even worse, even more immature than you already are, wouldn't it?

So you'll suck it up, put on an indifferent face, shrug, pretend like it's not such a big deal when it really is, and everyone knows it, and when you're finally dead people can applaud your nobility, all while smiling and laughing, together, in their perfect, safe utopia.



You would not want to join them in this safe, perfect haven.



No would want you, anyway.

A copy. Useful to no one.

Not even yourself.



This is probably what a lot of those self-sacrificing heroes are all about, you think. A lot of false pretenses and keeping up the image of chivalry, when actually they think their life really, really sucks.



Your name is Davesprite, and you will die a tragic hero in everyone else's eyes, never once complaining, now doesn't that deserve a a nice fucking pat on the head, let's applaud the nobility of a minor character dying off then go back to more important things.

Your name is Davesprite, and you are going to die alone, here, on this broken chessboard planet in miniature, meteors no longer falling around you, kind of like shooting stars, would you just look at the symbolism of all your fallen dreams, huh, you should have been a fucking poet, people would have loved you, whatever, maybe Alpha will, one day, after this is all over.




Your name is Davesprite, and you are ready to die.