"Why?" Descartes repeated, "That's a silly question. It's because you're special, Ren."
It sounded so ridiculous, like an awful, mistimed joke meeting his ears as he sat there, tearful and bloody.
"Special…?" He repeated.
Decartes leaned down, meeting him face-to-face with a smile before nodding, "That's right. You're loved, Ren. It's a special thing to be one loved by the Mistress. Such pure, absolute, unmatched love--it is the greatest passion in which one could receive. Everything we do is out of that love. All of the pain I must inflict on you; it is for the betterment of tomorrow. That's the truth, and nothing but it. Yes, yes. So...endure."
--Before he could process the words, he was unable to react to the Marquis extending the hand that held the wicked, spiral eye towards his empty socket, jamming the ocular organ into his empty socket without a single warning.
