Hotaru
My head's a burial ground of your memory
Hotaru can’t help the way she laughs, brief but untethered, and a hand comes to clasp over her mouth to reign it back in. Cheeks pressing her eyes into slits with the force of her mirth. “N-No!” she chortles, flushed with the effort of trying (and failing) to swallow it down, already keen to the awareness she may wound his pride. “No, no, I mean - emasculating is usually a sensation of feeling made into something less masculine, or femin- that is, girlish. Unfit for manly men.” She pauses and rewords midway in hopes of not creating further confusion, hand falling back to the dog’s scruff and revealing her cheeky grin. She can appreciate his answer even if it’s rather short. “As far as I understand we are…replicas. Recreations of our selves in the moments before we were taken. And those circumstances and the timing itself can’t be recreated to open a portal back.” Of course she doesn’t say that the going theory for people like her whose worlds were ending involves the other self being dead. Or that going back would imply doppelgängers. “My world was being destroyed when I was taken. I doubt I’d have anywhere to go back to.” It’s spoken rather pleasantly. She is at peace with this reality after all this time.
