[he doesn't doubt it. he just hopes she's better than he might be, were their positions reversed.]
You see, it's emotional responses like that that make the case for your personhood. If you genuinely believed you were just an object, you wouldn't be terrified of dying. You wouldn't be angry that the ship may cease to exist one day. And you certainly wouldn't have fallen in love.
there is no ship, but there is. there is nothing, but there is everything. there is no self, but there is, a sense gripping with slipping fingers. there is no Friday, but there is a mass of mud and gore shaped vaguely into humanoid form, and it is on that form that reality patches itself back together again.
there is a ship. there is Skulduggery. and there is Friday, her fingers digging into the top of her desk so hard that they have left dents.]
[unlike Icarus, Skulduggery is well aware of how fragile his wax wings are. and despite being the kind of man who likes to have the last word, he only nods his head once in a militaristic affirmative, sticks his hands in his pockets, and about-faces for the elevator.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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... Sometimes, I think I ought to just tell him to break this glamour! It's clearly giving everyone some very, very silly ideas!
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[there's literally a guy who's just ants.]
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Is this desire to be viewed as nothing more than an object genuine? Or are you afraid of what will happen when you stop being one?
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You know, I'm pretty sure I could obliterate you from reality just quick enough that he wouldn't be able to stop me!
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You see, it's emotional responses like that that make the case for your personhood. If you genuinely believed you were just an object, you wouldn't be terrified of dying. You wouldn't be angry that the ship may cease to exist one day. And you certainly wouldn't have fallen in love.
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there is no ship, but there is. there is nothing, but there is everything. there is no self, but there is, a sense gripping with slipping fingers. there is no Friday, but there is a mass of mud and gore shaped vaguely into humanoid form, and it is on that form that reality patches itself back together again.
there is a ship. there is Skulduggery. and there is Friday, her fingers digging into the top of her desk so hard that they have left dents.]
Leave. Now.
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