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You don't know where it goes, when it's not being a bag of fucking laughs a centimeter from your shoulder. It's not like you've asked. And it's not like it would answer, outside of wailing the vocal equivalent of filtering a car crash through a subwoofer right into your damn ear canals. You don't make a habit of asking it all that many questions in the first place.
Which is some bullshit, because that's why it's here, isn't it? To answer questions, or at least coast in the general direction of being helpful?
Well. No, the reason it's here is because you're a fantastically shortsighted clowncar veering into oncoming traffic with a track record of bad decisions gripping the wheel. No wonder all it does is goddamn laugh.
God you wish it'd stop laughing.
What's worse is that you know it can talk.
On whim once, you'd called it to your side like the dumb piece of garbage you are and nudged its pillowy side with an elbow. It hadn't said anything, but it hadn't laughed, so small victories all around. And then you'd opened your mouth, because evidently silence was just as bad as anything this plush douchebag had to chuckle about.
"Here's a question." You stared straight ahead, and Christ did your ass make a fist when you felt its eyes on you. "You've never, like. Considered giving a bro a shove off one of these ledges, right? That'd be pretty shitty."
"NO," it'd told you, and it wasn't until later that your shidiot brain registered Calsprite had gone and said a word.
A good portion of the next few months you'd wind up spending with the thing hanging over you was dedicated to trying to get it to talk. Just say words, you know it can. Speak, sing, holler, anything that'd indicate higher functions not being manned by a sadistic cymbal-banging monkey automaton.
But calling it to you has an estimated ninety-percent chance of being an abject fucking mistake, so. You let it do its thing, whatever that is. And if it wants to pester you, it will.
"HEE HEE."
"Not right now."
"HOO HOO."
You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the sound of the magma rushing leagues below you, and Calsprite. You super don't need to be having this non-conversation right now, but like it gives a shit about that. You're not convinced it gives a single solitary damn about anything, aside from occasionally dropping nests of puppet ass and whatever the hell else around LOHAC.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see it drifting. Sometimes it moves with purpose, other times it just looks like a plastic bag being blown around an empty parking lot.
As it brushes past you, you swear you can almost feel a barely-corporeal tail flick your elbow, feathers falling from the sprite with its every movement. That poor fucking crow must not be doing too hot, latched onto Lil' Cal of all things. Calsprite's almost always molting, and its feathers come off in clumps. Does it notice? You can't tell.
You decide you might as well make an attempt.
"Cal," you mutter, and its glass eyes swivel right on back towards you, its middle a scrunch of fabric that transitions seamlessly into feathers as it twists to look at you. You don't have the time to regret saying its name, because it's back at your side in an instant, staring down at you with its wings beating lazily at its back. You can feel it disturb the air around you with every movement. " - Uh. Did you want something?"
It's silent, watching you watching it, its arms dangling uselessly in front of it.
"NO," it eventually tells you, and you think your heart might skip a beat.
"No? Then what's up, lil' dude? You've been acting kinda antsy as of late." The epitome of casual, you grab one of the feathers that'd fallen next to you and flick it off the ledge, dooming it to a slow drift to death by magma.
"DAVE..."
You're going to vomit up your lungs.
Against all better judgement, you turn your head towards it and acknowledge its feathery, plush ass, trying hard and failing not to grimace at having to behold this utter mistake.
"LET'S PLAY A GAME."
No. Not this again.
You're fucking done with games, and especially Cal's.
"Already playing one." You grit the words out. Calsprite, for all it can emote (it can't) seems disappointed, and you wonder if it's fear or satisfaction you feel settling into the pit of your stomach like a brick. God, you don't know.
Doesn't matter.
It never talks again.