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There are many, many things Ranboo does not know about himself.
It really, really should be par for the course, because really, who does know everything about themselves? It's common to never have full understanding.
Ranboo just can't stop feeling like he's missing something fundamental.
He's walking down the Prime Path, always moving, always working, he can never really take a second to rest. There's so much motion contained within his body, and sometimes it feels like if he doesn't expend that energy he'll die.
(He's being overdramatic. It's a skill.)
"So then you- mhm, yep, yep- what if- yeah, yeah, just- no, what about-" The words flowing from his mouth are only minorly paid attention to. He talks to himself a lot, especially when alone, misshapen sentences forming as a way of getting his thoughts from one place to another. He's even done it in front of people, most notably in front of Puffy. That has been a mistake. She'd asked, and then pushed and prodded until he walked away with her calling half-apologies after him. He's been better about keeping his mouth shut after that.
He's scarily good at keeping his mouth shut, actually. It would be weird if he wasn't used to it.
Where was he going again...? Oh, right, he was making the well-worn journey between his house in the arctic and Snowchester. If he's being honest with himself, which he doesn't like to be, the two pieces of his life always feel hazy and disconnected. When he's in Snowchester, the memories of the Syndicate and his vault and the signs on the wall feel far away, while everything he's ever done in Snowchester feels bright and vibrant and real. Conversely, back in the arctic, his thoughts of Michael and Tubbo and overseeing the mansion don't quite feel real, and every arctic memory is as clear as a cloudless sky.
So yeah, Ranboo's concerned that he doesn't know things about himself. Really concerned.
It's fine.
It's fine.
It has to be fine.
The walk between both places always ends up hazy. As Ranboo steps into the hyperloop, he knows half-consciously that this memory, this thought process, will too fall back into his static-filled mind.
Since he's one to repeat himself, if Ranboo's being honest, a lot of the time he feels like he's many different people. Not while he Enderwalks, because that feels like an innate part of himself, but while he goes about his day to day life. So many of his memories don't feel like they belong to him, and which ones do shift depending on seemingly anything.
He wants to feel like he knows Tubbo when he's with the Syndicate. He wants to feel like he knows Techno while he's in Snowchester.
Such arbitrary things, memories. Ranboo's not entirely sure he's a fan.
Oh fuck, he must've just zoned out hard, because he's stepping through the door of his home. "Tubbo?"
No response. He must be out, or asleep, or just not responding for whatever reason. Cool.
Ranboo climbs the ladder and pushes open the trapdoor. "Hey Michael!"
Michael grunts happily and runs over as Ranboo ascends the rest of the way and closes the trapdoor. He holds out his arms and Ranboo lifts him up easily.
"How ya doin, buddy?"
Michael grunts again and wiggles.
"It's almost your bedtime, isnt it?"
Michael looks up at Ranboo and drools a little.
Wrangling a toddler is not easy. Ranboo coos gentle, encouraging words and lets himself slip into familiar half-presentness as he gets Michael into his pajamas and tucked into bed.
There's a part of him that will remember this with the same sharpness that gives you a papercut. There are other parts that won't. That just his life, uncleanly segmented, filled with partially-owned memories.
And as he dims the lights in the room, he reflects on his experiences, on things he's learned about, and thinks to himself:
Do I have-?
Am I-?
Is this-?
...Am I a system?
A lot happens all at once in his head.
The first is the intense sense of correctness at the thought, like a surge of voices telling him something he should've known all his life. The next is the intense haze that makes him stumble, catching the wall for support. The last is that finally, for once, he feels whole.
Gently, he reaches back into his own mind.
'Hello?'
A chorus of happiness and love greets him.
Ranboo sits down on the floor.
"Okay. Okay. Great. Um." His head is spinning. "This is a lot."
The entities that coexist within his head sing in agreement.
"Can I... Can I talk to just one of you? I'm... I'm a little overwhelmed."
There's a quick conversation that's not words, just concepts and thoughts passed and overlapped until a singular presence steps forwards. He can feel their existence on the right side of his head. 'Hey there!'
"Hello." Ranboo clasps his hands together. He's shaking. "Um. What's your name? Mine's Ranboo."
Laughter chimes within his consciousness. 'Mine's also Ranboo!'
"Well, that's awkward."
'Not really, to be honest. I think we all go by Ranboo.'
"How... How many of you are there?"
There's a shifting he can feel at the back of his head. 'Um. More than ten? Keeping count is hard.'
"Mhm. Mhm. Mhm." Ranboo is definitely not panicking.
A soft feeling suddenly surrounds him, and when he pays attention internally, he's being enveloped by the senses of self he shares a body with. It's okay. We're here for you.
Ranboo does not like crying. He presses his sleeve into his face and lets the fabric absorb his tears.
'Please don't cry.'
"Thank you." Ranboo hiccups a little, takes a deep breath in, lets it out in a rush. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." He doesn't have to specify, doesn't have to clarify. The entities that exist alongside him hum in understanding, their very being mixing with his own and giving him a sense of comfort no physical touch could provide.
He knows a little more about himself know, and this new knowledge loves him back.