Your name is Vriska Serket.

That's it. That's all there really is to say on the matter... But that's not quite how you want this to end, now is it? You have a story. You're more than some pathetic dead chick while your live self steals your matesprit and your dignity. You're... You're upset.

In hindsight, you suppose that you should have seen this coming.

Through all the laughter you two had shared, it becomes increasingly apparent to you that laughter was the only thing that had been shared. You had given her your love. She had tossed it away.

Oh, fuck. Now look at you, you're crying.

Maybe Vriska... The real Vriska had been right. You're nothing more than a wimpy, pathetic shell of your former self. Maybe if you hadn't fallen flushed for a particular stupid bulgesniffer, then you'd be deemed worthy. If your idiot dancestor hadn't fucking left you alone with that same bulgesniffer, then you wouldn't have grown so dependent.

Yeah. Aranea. That idiot dancestor. You fume in anger, only to realize that you're getting upset for no reason. It was obvious in Meenah's tone; that she still cared for your dancestor. But you were too stupid to realize something as simple as that. You believed, in the depths of your dead heart, that Meenah saw you and only you. Even deeper then that, you knew that wasn't the case.

Now you're left alone. Your face stained with your shitty blue tears. Down on your knees, just like the pathetic wimp you are.

So you get up.

You force yourself to stand the fuck up.

Make yourself walk.

Explore your damn way through these shitty dream bubbles, Serket.

Who are you, to let yourself be talked down to by your own fucking self?

Yeah.

...

No.

This cocky facade, it's no longer for you.

You're not Vriska Serket, not the original. You're not brave. You're not a leader. You lost those qualities the moment you opened your heart up.

But your name...

Your name is Vriska Serket.

And that's all there really is to say on the matter.