I’m so glad they gave Roadhog a more serious comic about what he thinks of the world after he fought so hard to protect his home.
And then they did what I’d hope they’d do:
They showed us how they met.
And how Junkrat apparently just picks and chooses bodyguards out of random bars to take care of him… I guess it was fate.
Anyway, more importantly:
My favorite part, where he says Junkrat is a liar.
So Blizzard is interested in giving Junkrat more than just the comic relief role.
Roadhog says he’s a liar who lies to himself most of all.
Lies to himself about what?
I may be wrong and this may be open to interpretation, but maybe he means Junkrat’s hiding his true feelings about his circumstances, about being “happy” and energetic all the time.
He’s “not the quiet type” so he lies loudly, as opposed to Mako, who hides the truth by saying nothing at all.
Some people bluster and talk to hide their insecurities or their pain.
I really like this line. It adds a dimension to Junkrat that I hope we see.
He’s full of bluster, a yappy little mad max chihuahua with smoking hair, but Mako’s smart enough to see more in him.
He thinks very little of everyone, based on the previous dialogue:
“They deserve what they get” “World deserves them.”
Mako remembers the past, knows how this wasteland came to be and he’s disgusted by the people who’ve settled into it, who’ve made it their home, because they don’t care about what was lost, only what they can now gain.
He might be looking for treasure and spoils with Junkrat, but I don’t get the feeling that he cares that much about it.
Otherwise he wouldn’t claim the queen and the others were just fighting over scraps.
Again, personal opinion.
But I think he was just looking for a purpose.
And a way to strike back at a world that never cared about him, that left him and his people and his home in ruins.
So going all over the world, wrecking rich people’s shit, stealing gold and pachimaris with Junkrat… yeah, I think he’s doing it not because gold is all he cares about, or even Junkrat’s treasure, whatever it is.
I mean, he doesn’t even know what Junkrat’s treasure IS here. I doubt it’s just money, that would be lazy of Blizzard.
I think he’s doing it because he’s still aching over a failed rebellion and has nothing to lose.
And why did he choose Junkrat to stick with?
Out of all the people in the world he could’ve stuck with?
Because Junkrat is a liar, who lies to himself.
Because other people it would seem, are liars too, but they keep their lies to themselves, and Mako apparently trusts the “loud” type more than the quiet type.
And like I said before, because he’s on a quest for revenge, because he wants the civilized world that made his home a living nightmare have a taste of their own medicine. And Junkrat, explosions-extraordinaire, noisy but trustworthy, a real idiot, but an honest one?
What is this place?”
We all looked at him. “Home,” I said. “This is - my home.”
I could see the details now sinking in. The lack of darkness. The lack of screaming. The scent of the sea and citrus, not blood and decay. The laughter of children that indeed continued.
The greatest secret in Prythian’s history.
“This is Velaris,” I explained. “The City of Starlight.”
His throat bobbed. “And you are High Lady of the Night Court.”
“Indeed she is.”
My blood stopped at the voice that drawled from behind me.
At the scent that hit me, awoke me. My friends began smiling.
Rhysand leaned against the archway into the sitting room, arms crossed, wings nowhere to be seen, dressed in his usual immaculate black jacket and pants.
And as those violet eyes met mine, as that familiar half smile faded …
My face crumpled. A small, broken noise cracked from me.
Rhys was instantly moving, but my legs had already given out. The foyer carpet cushioned the impact as I sank to my knees.
I covered my face with my hands while the past month crashed into me.
Rhys knelt before me, knee to knee.
Gently, he pulled my hands away from my face. Gently, he took my cheeks in his hands and brushed away my tears.
I didn’t care that we had an audience as I lifted my head and beheld the joy and concern and love shining in those remarkable eyes.
Neither did Rhys as he murmured, “My love,” and kissed me.
Darling, if only I could I would tell you that life was easy. I would tell you that it is just about the good times and the colorful smiles. That it is just about always waking up in the morning and feeling that everything is all right. If only I could I would tell you that bad things don’t happen and they were just false nightmares hunting you in your sleep. That there was no such things as lonely souls and broken heart’s wings. That there was no worries and stressful days. If only I could I would tell you that depression was just a myth. That you shouldn’t be scared for you can never have it. If only I could I would tell you that everyone will still treat you kind even if you had done bad things in your life. That there was no such things as insecurities and jealousy. That there is a lot and billions of people who will still love you even if you haven’t met each one of them. If only I could, I would tell you that there are no such things as thunderstorms and wild earthquakes that tried to ruin our homes. That a hurricane only wanted to drown us with its love—not with its overflowing hate at us. You see, if only I could I would only tell you about the beautiful things but I would be lying for the rest of my life. If I only tell you about these things, you would surely ask for proof and I would end up with empty hands. Because darling, I have nothing to give you when life had already showed the truth to you.
ma.c.a // I wanted to say a lot of things, but you wouldn’t believe me for sure
Above them, Cabal ships drag thick black smoke across the flickering twilight, and flames rise from the Tower. Legionnaires scour the streets, seeking out the cries of the wounded and afraid.
“Hush,” he says again, as the child starts to sniffle, and he pulls her into the shadows cast by an apartment block as a patrol makes its laborious way past. He was made to protect, made to serve, but he feels clumsy now; the hand on her shoulder is almost larger than her head and she has no armor to protect her bruised and burned skin from his rough gauntlets. When he tries to wipe the tears from her face he worries that he will be the one to break her.
He followed her screams, just as the Cabal did. He had no rifle to kill the Legionnaires that would have silenced her; dispatched the first one with his boot-knife but was not quick enough to catch the second unaware. It is dead, but his chest-plate is cracked and burned and the thing that eats the Traveler has also eaten his Light.
She is wearing yellow. A summer dress, for a celebration. When he offered her his gore-spattered hand she took it at once, and did not look back at the splayed and broken limbs visible beneath the rubble around her as though she knew there was no one left to wait for. He brushed dust and chips of concrete from the tight black curls on her head, and when she tried to smile her gap-toothed smile at him despite it all he knew that he would die the second death to save her.
They pick their way through dust-covered streets and alleys, one grimy hand holding his armored fingers, the other wrapped around the silent shell of his Ghost. He told her to keep it safe, and she clutches it to her chest with an intensity that would do any Titan proud.
To those behind the Wall, love and service. To those outside it, fury and fire. He is young: the Order’s maxim has never meant much to him, but here at the end of an Age he feels each word burning in his chest and he wraps his Mark around her shoulders like a cloak, like a little Hunter, to keep the nearness of the night from her as best he can.
When they hear the distant bursts of gunfire he waits until the chatter fades, then leads them in a different direction even though it gives him hope to know the City is still fighting. Perhaps if he ran to the violence he would find weapons or more Guardians, but he will not risk it. And so hours pass as they slink across the city, and as slowly as his wounds force him to move she still takes ten strides for every one of his. She has only one sandal, silver leather wrapped around a tiny leg, but he thinks that a single piece of armor is better than no armor at all.
He finds a battered pulse rifle in a street that leads to a square, tries not to wonder where its owner went. The magazine is full, but it is all he has and there is no Ghost at his shoulder to synthesize ammo. He bends to pick it up, never letting go of the hand that holds his own, just as a troop of Legionnaires turn the corner in front of them.
He pulls the child behind a crumbled wall. Waits one heartbeat, two; no slug throwers roar in response. Even so, they are between him and the direction he has lead, and he doubts he has the strength to cross the City again.
Love and service to those within. Fire and fury to those without.
The Legionnaires do not notice, but neither do they move on. More join them, and they begin to spiral out in all directions, continuing their search. It will not be long before they find him and the child. A narrow street, once hung with banners but now collapsing from the rooftops down, will lead her west, to the walls, away from Cabal patrols - as long as there is a distraction.
He lifts her chin as gently as he can.
“You have to run,” he whispers. He is bad at whispering. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“That way,” he says when she stares at him in silence, pointing with his outsized hand down the shadowed street.
He gives her a delicate push, points again. She blinks, once, then toddles into the dark, Ghost held close as though it will protect her. Perhaps, if there is a way to undo this disaster, it someday will.
He props the rifle atop the ledge, lifts his visor and sights with naked eye. There are so many, he thinks, and then bites back a laugh - there are only eight.
Love within. Fury without.
The rifle barks. One Legionnaire dies and the others spin in confusion, firing in the direction of his cover. He ignores them, squeezes the trigger again. And again. And again.
Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within -
Something tugs his arm. He looks down into the eyes of the little girl, and pure terror finds him.
“I said run,” he growls, but she does not, her face set in a scowl. He shakes his arm and she does not let go.
A micro-rocket bursts against the barricade and he ducks, throws his body over her, sprays the rest of his bullets in response. The child buries her head in his cracked armor, her frail body shaking.
Never has he been so afraid to die.
He feels a fool. He tosses the rifle down, wraps one arm around the child and pulls her close. With the other he slams his visor shut. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and when at last there is a break in the constant fire he lurches to his feet, lifts the child to his chest, and runs.
It is hard, so hard, to move full Titan-plate without his Light to drive it. His body aches. Something inside is probably broken, and he does not know how long it takes a body to heal without a Ghost.
A slug hits him in the back and he stumbles but his armor holds, and he sprints down the street where he tried to send the child, the sound of jump-packs following behind. He ducks his head and cups himself around his charge, makes himself as big as he can, plows across the debris-choked pavement. The girl begins to cry again, though to his ears it is not the sound of fear but of fury, and before long he is roaring with it, and the two of them roar together down the long, narrow street as explosions scatter bits of ruins that once were homes. He does not know where he is going, knows only that he must go somewhere, that he will not stop until the child is safe or his legs no longer work; that when he has nothing left he will throw her from him and tear the Cabal apart with fists alone, Light or no.
He has stopped counting the impacts. Every step is a knife in his chest. The Legionnaires must be close but he does not turn, lest the shield that is his body fail. He can feel himself slowing, a sensation that fills him both with wonder and despair, but he cannot force himself to let her go despite his promise. Something cracks against the back of his leg, and he is too tired and too hurt to correct. He lands heavily on one shoulder, slides ten grinding yards, arms still wrapped around the child. At the very least, they will have to rip him apart to get to her. Maybe, if he dies quickly, they will not notice her at all.
Gunfire interrupts his thoughts, along with the sound of footsteps and the roar of Cabal. Hands grab him, drag him out of the street, but still he does not uncurl. He sees Hunter cloaks, Warlock robes, a Titan mark.
“Hush,” he tells the child, head still tucked close, while they cower in a doorway and around them Guardians fight.
“Hush,” he tells her, over their surprised cries of pain.
“Hush,” he tells her, over and over, until at last all is silent and he dares to lift his head and stand.
He helps the child to her feet, and though he leans against the doorway it is her tiny hand in his that keeps him upright. He looks around at their saviors: most are near as bruised as he is. They nod their heads, pat him on the back, and he opens his mouth to ask for forgiveness, for leading the Legionnaires here, but a Hunter shakes her head as though she knows what he will say.
Two Guardians lie dead. Truly dead. One Hunter, one Titan wearing the Mark of the Gatewatch. He waits the half-second for their Ghosts to revive them, feels sick when they do not rise. He swears that he will learn their names and add them to the Order of the Pilgrim Guard.
Someone makes cooing sounds and tries to take the child, tries to give her water, but she refuses to let go of his hand, refuses to surrender his Ghost. For a moment they stand there, all seven of them in a circle around her, and it is as though a different light has risen to bond them all.
They need ships. Weapons. Food, maybe. The child, at least, must eat. The Hunter offers water again, and he wonders how many new scraps of fabric she has taken for her cloak. A different Titan, this one wearing the Mark of the Six Fronts, hands him the dead Hunter’s rifle - then looks down at the child, still clinging to his hand, and passes him a sidearm instead.
They turn their backs to the Tower, and continue their slow march to the western wall. Perhaps they will find supplies along the way. If not, so be it - they are still Guardians, and they will save what light they can.
Love within. Fury without.
The Cabal have no word for ‘retreat.’ Soon, they will learn that the Guardians have none for ‘mercy.’
Long ago, Chara fell into the Ruins, where Asriel found them. He took Chara back home, and his parents treated Chara as their own. It is logical to conclude that the Dreemurrs were living in Home at this time. However, there is no evidence of Chara ever living in Home.
Family of Three
Unlike Asgore’s home, Toriel’s home in the Ruins does not have furniture for two children. At the dining table, there are three chairs. Only one of these is a small chair for a child.
Asriel’s bedroom only has one bed.
While there is a room under renovations, nothing indicates that this was a room for Chara. It also wouldn’t make sense, considering Chara shared a bedroom with Asriel in New Home. There is a “box of kids’ shoes” in the bedroom, but these likely belong to the other fallen children that passed through.
In Toriel’s living room, Frisk finds what appears to be a fire poker set in a corner. (It is revealed in New Home that these are supposed to be gardening tools.) There is a popular headcanon that these tools were filed down because of Chara, but this isn’t enough evidence.
Sharp objects are hazardous to young children. Commonly, sharp objects are hidden or stored away somewhere out of children’s reach. In the case of these tools, however, “they have been filed down to make them safer.” This is likely another method of childproofing the house. Since Asriel grew up in this home for the early part of his childhood, the childproofing was very likely done for him. Notice that a similar set of tools in Asgore’s home has no mention of being filed down.
By the time the Dreemurs lived in New Home, Asriel was an older child, likely responsible enough to be around these tools. There is even a strong possibility that the worn dagger belonged to Asriel, who may have shared a love for gardening with Asgore.
To the Castle
When Chara fell, Asriel was there to help them.
MONSTER TALE: A long time ago, a human fell into the RUINS. Injured by its fall, the human called out for help. ASRIEL, the king’s son, heard the human’s call. He brought the human back to the castle.
After finding Chara, Asriel brought them “back to the castle.” While Home was the original city of monsters, there is no structure that is reminiscent of a castle. On the other hand, New Home has a castle.
While it is true that Frisk is unable to explore the entire city of Home in the Ruins, the monsters explicitly say “the castle,” as if there has only ever been one. The journey from the Ruins to Asgore’s castle may seem far, but it’s doable, especially if they used the Riverperson’s boat services. Furthermore, Chara’s injuries are never described. In the memory, Chara is seen walking, with a bit of support from Asriel to keep them upright.
It’s unknown what Asriel was doing in the Ruins, but he did grow up in Home for some time. He may have been visiting the Ruins at just the right time to find Chara. Such a coincidence may seem strange, but this is a loose parallel to Flowey and Frisk’s meeting.
FLOWEY’S TALE: …but, why then…? What made you wake up? Did you hear me calling you…?
It is very coincidental that Flowey, who is able to burrow under the locked Ruins door and explore the whole underground, would be in the deepest part of the Ruins when Frisk falls. He had been calling for Chara, and by chance, he meets Frisk. This is a parallel (and a twist) to when Asriel hears Chara calling for help. Be it fate or coincidence, Asriel is the first contact for both Chara and Frisk.
Genocide-Route Flavor Text
Lastly, there is no flavor text in the genocide route that supports the idea that Chara lived in Home, unlike New Home. The following are the only changes in narration in the genocide route.
Unlike New Home, which is filled with comments that strongly support that Chara has once lived there, there is no sense of familiarity in the house at Home. In fact, Chara expects knives in the kitchen, yet they are unable to find them. There is also an important item found in New Home.
This old calendar was in use when Chara fell down into the underground, around the end of 201X. Considering there is another calendar that is unmarked in Home from the start of 201X, these support the idea that Chara fell down after the Dreemurrs had moved out of Home.
While it is strange that Asriel would have been in the Ruins when he was living in New Home, the evidence in the game does not support the idea that Chara ever lived in Home. Chara only lived with the Dreemurrs in New Home.