Emotive hated the weak.
She hated them with a clarity that she found almost restful, because it was the one thing about herself that never wavered. The weak had every tool they needed and they used none of them. They were beaten, and they took it. They were used, and they took it!
They were broken and discarded and replaced, and they took that too, every single time, with the dull patience of creatures that had decided suffering was simply...easier.
The thing that drove her absolutely up the wall was that they could stop it. Any time. They could band together, stand as one, and the sheer weavings of their numbers would solve more of their problems than they could even imagine. The weak had power. They had always had power. What they lacked was the conviction to do a single thing with it, and so they sat in their misery and called it fate, and it was, frankly, the most depressing fucking thing in all of existence.
