He stares at the mirror, studying the features reflected back at him. Silvery-white hair. Red eyes. Pale skin.
None of them are his.
They are his, yet they are not. He has them, but they are not his own.
Truthfully, he does not have features that are his own. His features are simply a copy, a replication of someone else.
Clenching a fist, he rests it against the glass. He glares intensely at the surface, as if it can yield to him the mysteries of the universe. Or, at the very least, an explanation for his existence in life.
"Who am I?" He whispers, unclenching his fist so that now his palm rests against the surface, fingers splayed out. "Who am I?"
He'd thought he was Prussia. He'd thought he was the real one. But as the Boss had reminded him earlier, that was not the case. He was merely a clone. A carbon copy. A fake.
Clenching his fist again, he grits his teeth, hot tears welling up in his eyes.
"You… You said I was the real one…"
He couldn't just be a fake. He couldn't. He couldn't just be some "fake puppet" designed by the Boss to fulfill his goals.
"It's such a bother when a fake puppet has feelings…"
A strangled sob escaped from his throat. Not able to contain them, he rests his head against the glass, allowing them to escape and the salty tears to drip down his cheeks.
"I can't… I can't just be some fake!" He cries, thumping his fist against the glass. "I have thoughts! Emotions! I'm alive, dang it! I can't… I can't just be some false puppet who only exists for your master plan! I can't!"
Slowly, he slides down to the ground, still sobbing. His punches become weaker and more futile, stopping altogether once he reaches the floor. Body shuddering with his tears, he stares off into the distance, not even noticing the cloned Gilbird that flies over and lands on his shoulder, nuzzling against his neck in an attempt to comfort him.
"I'm not a fake… I'm not a fake… I'm me… I'm Prussia… I… I'm real…"
He can't accept what his Boss said. He can't. If he was just a puppet, he could he have all these complex thoughts? He wasn't like the mirror he'd just been punching against; he wasn't just a reflection of an ex-nation.
He is not a fake. He can't be.
Still, that doesn't stop him from lying on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around himself, his mind filled with the treacherous thoughts that his whole existence and reason for being is a lie.
