=18= [broadcast mind]
Helen doesn’t like it. Or at least she acts like she doesn’t. She’s bored by the snow and ice, the endless expanses of white all year long. But she doesn’t say anything about going back toward the south where there are summers and fields and grasses and trees and people. And booze. She thinks it, you know, but she never says it. Not yet. There is still too much loaded into that direction for even Helen to joke about.
You, on the other hand. You don’t mind it. There is something almost peaceful about an endless winter. The snow is quiet, falling soundless and soft and it muffles the sound of footfalls like piles of down and pillow stuffing. But the snow only softens the edge of the bitter cold that kills most creatures with too much exposure. Freezes them down to their bones and crushes their lungs with icy air, almost as if the winter itself had a fist that closed down around them and squeezed the life out. Most creatures… except for the ones like you.
You understand it in its way. It is not like other seasons. It is not flamboyant with flowers and sunshine, the leaves do not turn bright colors. Everything is grey and white. Even when the sun is out, the sky remains grey, a reflection of the monochromatic landscape. You and your comrades do very little to mar that color scheme, all white and black and silver you are. But there is a crushing fist inside you, too, and like the winter you wish to kill those things that have miss-stepped upon your unremarkable ground. Quietly and without comment you would squeeze the life from them and exact revenge for the blood they spread on the snow. And for yourself, it wouldn’t matter if you froze to death so long as you could say you were strong enough to crush that which has done wrong. That might let all those sacrificed who have allowed you to live this long lie quiet in their graves at least. Nothing you do can bring them back now, so all that is left is to destroy that which destroyed them and succumb to destruction yourself. Melt away with the winter snows and flow into the earth like thaw water, not to be remembered.
You, on the other hand. You don’t mind it. There is something almost peaceful about an endless winter. The snow is quiet, falling soundless and soft and it muffles the sound of footfalls like piles of down and pillow stuffing. But the snow only softens the edge of the bitter cold that kills most creatures with too much exposure. Freezes them down to their bones and crushes their lungs with icy air, almost as if the winter itself had a fist that closed down around them and squeezed the life out. Most creatures… except for the ones like you.
You understand it in its way. It is not like other seasons. It is not flamboyant with flowers and sunshine, the leaves do not turn bright colors. Everything is grey and white. Even when the sun is out, the sky remains grey, a reflection of the monochromatic landscape. You and your comrades do very little to mar that color scheme, all white and black and silver you are. But there is a crushing fist inside you, too, and like the winter you wish to kill those things that have miss-stepped upon your unremarkable ground. Quietly and without comment you would squeeze the life from them and exact revenge for the blood they spread on the snow. And for yourself, it wouldn’t matter if you froze to death so long as you could say you were strong enough to crush that which has done wrong. That might let all those sacrificed who have allowed you to live this long lie quiet in their graves at least. Nothing you do can bring them back now, so all that is left is to destroy that which destroyed them and succumb to destruction yourself. Melt away with the winter snows and flow into the earth like thaw water, not to be remembered.