==> Be the father
It takes you a generous chunk of time to push the slate of bricks and crumbling plaster that used to be the wall of your studio off your face. Since when you woke up under the ruins of your house, with blood pouring out of your nose into your mouth and possibly a few broken ribs, you’ve been hearing this faint wailing outside of your fort of rubble. You followed it until you managed to crawl out, leaving pieces of your suit behind. You’re fairly pissed, and worried beyond reason. And you’re right.
==> Be the daughter
You can’t be Aradia, she’s dead.
It’s the first think sinking in when you see them. Turns out the wailing sound was coming from Deuce’s kid, Sollux. His stupid red and blue shades are abandoned amongst the debris, broken. He’s on his knees, cradling Aradia in his arms, crying like a five years old with tears and snot all over his face and dripping onto hers.
The pain in your ribcage doesn’t vanish, but suddenly becomes something more bearable as something else crushes it. You stand and carefully walk over to them, stepping over plaster and glass shards and coming to a halt right before the kid’s knees. Now you can hear more clearly what he’s saying through the sobs as he rocks on himself. “I’m thorry, I’m thorry, I’m thorry, I didn’t mean to, I thwear I didn’t.”
You tear the body of your little girl right out of his arms and tell him to scram.
==> Sit down
As he stumbles away still weeping, you sit down with Aradia in your arms now. Jagged edges dig into your backside, but you’re too busy observing her. She’s always looked a tad elfin to you for being a girl so full of life, and now even more. Maybe it’s the hair knotting unkemptly on her face, maybe it’s the blood and Sollux’s tears on it, maybe it’s her torn clothes. You always thought she didn’t have a great taste in clothes despite all your efforts of cramming it in her head. And she would always come home all covered in dirt and grass stains and any other sort of shit after going on her archaeological trips in the courtyard, much to your chagrin. And now look what a mess she is.
You pass a hand several time on her face, wiping away fluids and summarily combing the curly hair back in place. You keep doing it even when it’s not necessary anymore. Silence closes in and wraps you like a blanket.