I only mean to say that it would be difficult, wouldn't it, to summarize an entire life in just one story? [She laughs under her breath.] I do not intend for us to stay here for much longer, after all...
[But she also doesn't remember, which might become clear a moment later, when Flowey brings up the scars. Lusamine stiffens, her steps abruptly slowing.]
... Scars...? [What scars? Her skin has always been unblemished, perfect, without a single wrinkle or mark. Any wounds she received from the frightened Pokémon she worked with were quickly treated and covered up. Flowey must be confused, she thinks as she returns to her previous pace.] Oh, no—I'm quite all right, I assure you... I'm not in any pain at all. Truthfully, I'm not sure what you're even referring to...
[Memories slither in the dark. As they miss their intended destination and reach instead into Flowey's mind, a series of moments weave with his own memory in disjointed flashes, thrown in out of order: light spilling from a fissure in the sky; scattered papers and broken glass on a white floor; the scent of the ocean; unfurling, white tentacles.
A voice, then—or many voices, likes the overlapping, excitable whispers of children:
MotherMotherMother... We see you, Mother. Your pain, your loneliness... We can take it all away from you. We can give you him. We can give you love, power, Paradise... Won't you come and see?
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[But she also doesn't remember, which might become clear a moment later, when Flowey brings up the scars. Lusamine stiffens, her steps abruptly slowing.]
... Scars...? [What scars? Her skin has always been unblemished, perfect, without a single wrinkle or mark. Any wounds she received from the frightened Pokémon she worked with were quickly treated and covered up. Flowey must be confused, she thinks as she returns to her previous pace.] Oh, no—I'm quite all right, I assure you... I'm not in any pain at all. Truthfully, I'm not sure what you're even referring to...
[Memories slither in the dark. As they miss their intended destination and reach instead into Flowey's mind, a series of moments weave with his own memory in disjointed flashes, thrown in out of order: light spilling from a fissure in the sky; scattered papers and broken glass on a white floor; the scent of the ocean; unfurling, white tentacles.
A voice, then—or many voices, likes the overlapping, excitable whispers of children:
MotherMotherMother...
We see you, Mother. Your pain, your loneliness...
We can take it all away from you. We can give you him. We can give you love, power, Paradise...
Won't you come and see?
Lusamine seems not to hear it.]
What... sort of scars do you mean, sweet Flowey?