[Simon doesn't have a body anymore, but out of force of habit, he tries to lift his head anyway to look at Horace. But he doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't see a lot of point in talking about it.]
At least there's no fire and brimstone here. But I haven't seen any fluffy clouds or a choir of angels either, so who knows what sort of afterlife this is supposed to be.
My father? [ He pauses for a moment, uneasy (not because of this topic in particular, but because his friend flat-out said he hates him), turning the ring on his finger with his thumb. ]
I...I didn't think you'd be interested in hearing me talk about him. Not with your parents still being nowhere to be found.
You see, it's a little embarrassing now, but I had something of a misunderstanding on that topic. All I could remember about my dad was that he was a dessert maker, so when I heard one had been killed, I pretty much assumed the wrong thing. In other words, I was convinced for years that your father had been the one to murder mine.
No. I told you, that was just a hint. I hate you for something you did.
Look at it this way: Masters went to prison for murdering Hoquet. I'm sure you know that much, right? So why would I assume that the real culprit was your father?
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The hell, Simon?
[ You weren't supposed to die too. ]
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We never stood a chance to begin with.
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At least there's no fire and brimstone here. But I haven't seen any fluffy clouds or a choir of angels either, so who knows what sort of afterlife this is supposed to be.
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At least I can get rid of this thing. Guess ghosts don't have to worry about neck injuries.
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[Tugs at the clown frills around his neck, but doesn't actually bother to take them off.]
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...It doesn't matter anymore.
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...Simon. How much longer are you going to pretend you don't hate me?
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You acted as a middleman between me and Dogen, didn't you? That's why his game looked the same as ours.
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[ He bristles, hands tightening at his sides. ]
Why?
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You said it yourself — I hate you. I hate you for a lot of reasons. I even hate you for not knowing why I hate you.
Why, you ask? Well, we've been friends a long time, so I'll give you a hint: When were you going to tell me about your father?
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I...I didn't think you'd be interested in hearing me talk about him. Not with your parents still being nowhere to be found.
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Look at it this way: Masters went to prison for murdering Hoquet. I'm sure you know that much, right? So why would I assume that the real culprit was your father?
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[ ...sorry, did you say anything else, Simon.
must be selective hearing or something. ]
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