You were, to put it short, a pacifist. Pretty much, at least.

In a longer way, you thought that nearly all things relating to violence and war and bloodshed were unnecessary. Sure, it was good for fear and intimidation, but long-term, peace was more effective. Treaties held better ideas, talking got across more points. Communication brought understanding, and understanding solved far more problems than beating people senseless.

As such, you were friends--or on neutral grounds--with most of the SMP. Of course, there were people who called you a coward and hated your guts, but you didn't like them, either, so you brushed them aside and moved on.

You tried to do that with Wilbur.

You saw him with Tommy, though. You saw the way he would gaslight the teen, threatening to leave and guilt-tripping him for his own gain. You saw Tommy's resolve crumble, you saw the way the words would eat at him.

You saw the way he resembled himself in Pogtopia and, gods forbid, the hell that was exile.

You'd seen it, and you'd grown tired of it.

You were a pacifist, pretty much.

You were a pacifist.

But not always.

Now, as you walked up to Wilbur and Tommy, you let the hate build up in you. You fed the red-hot anger tinting your vision, let it burn and sizzle.

Now, as you made eye contact with Tommy, you smiled at him, your fists clenching at your sides. You saw the concern flicker in his eyes, just a minute, before he masked it.

Wilbur’s brows furrowed, annoyed but smiled, you glared at the revived man for a long moment, stewing in your anger.

“Oh, {{user}}, lovely to see you.”