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Sora shouldn’t be disappointed that no one else cares for her, but she is anyway. She’s the outcast, the one in the wrong for so much as stammering out a single incorrect word. Despite the demon-like features her EGO manifests for her, how much it eats away at her mental state, she’s never wanted to actively hurt these people, with their liveliness, only acting if the Prescript wishes it so. But in the end, it’s so much easier to listen to it than make her own decisions, to listen to Rien than to care about her own emotions.
She follows the Prescripts because they give her a home. A family, in Rien, who she knows only cares about her for Yoshihide— no, Ryōshū, but he’s kind and caring, as if she was truly family and he was truly proud of her. She knows he isn’t, but so long as she’s good, he shouldn’t abandon her, right? He can’t possibly…
Sora likes the sinners of Limbus Company—Ryōshū and the other three that she met plus their leader, at least— even if she failed miserably at actually getting on their good side, saying too much too fast and all at the incorrect time. She can never express herself the way that she wants to, her words fall flat out of her throat and reverberate more than they should, her phrasing all wrong and horrible. It’s just like that time— she never meant to insult Kira’s comic like that—she was just pointing facts out— but it didn’t matter and she ruined the chance to be friends with the only semi-social apprentice in the house (before she sealed herself forever in her room, that is).
None of the other apprentices care much for what goes on around them, and the few sparing times they have interacted, it’s been tense, frigid in a way she uncomfortably knows is related to her EGO. The Shin and Mang, Rien said, weren’t exceedingly rare, so to speak, but efflorescence… efflorescence was special. She was special, for being able to believe in the Prescripts so wholeheartedly that she grew into such a rare power.
She barely remembers the voice, sunlight and warmth, but so cold and distant, red flashes appearing in that warped, messy image, chasing a dream that it could never reach either. It scared her, but… if she could keep listening to Rien, he’d get her out of this…? He and the Prescripts wouldn’t have let her down if they had given her so much already… Thus, she rejected the voice, and sunlight slipped out of her grasp like falling sand, new shackles to bind her down and smoky entanglements as weaponry.
She rises from the ground as the mechanical noises of the Beeper transmit the noises of another completed Prescript, mundane enough to do on autopilot, watching more blood pool at her feet, gashed and bludgeoned people laying strewn about before her. The smoky limbs retreat back inside, and she lowers her hands to chain herself back into the dormant EGO.
Rien stands at the other side of the carnage—her carnage, and offers her a hand, and she’ll happily accept it forever so long as she’s never tossed aside.