(no subject)
[There was a difference between being droned for a few says or weeks and being droned without any hope of returning. The loss of regained possessions was the easiest way to tell.
Roshia had gone to Meriken's house to talk, to discuss things, to maybe find some way of working things out and calming the gathering storm-clouds of almost-war. Decide things, work out allegances, calm everything down (because really, Meriken needed to calm down).
And then this.
This blank-faced, civil, smiling thing that was not Meriken. It was not anyone.
And she couldn't let this happen, couldn't stand this anymore (first Pakis-tan, then Bri-tan, now Meriken). The drone still had Meriken's injured arm (just tell me the truth prove I can trust you prove you won't turn on me we need this we need each other please let me know I can trust you). That was annoying. It wouldn't mean anything to the drone.
She had slammed the drone to the floor, hands fumbling numbly over the younger woman's chest, searching for a heartbeat (bleed for me, red white and blue). When she found it she pressed forward, slamming her full weight through her hands onto the spot where she could feel the things' fake heart beating in its fake chest. Pressed until she felt something (fake not Meriken) splinter and give under her hands.
(not enough not fast enough make her bleed give her back she's mine)
So her knife found its way into her hands, blade into the body of the thing (not-Meriken, and there was no one to stop her here no one to pull her back to say "that's enough Roshia, that's enough" and without that someone she had no idea when to stop when to back down give her back)]
Not you. Not you too. Come back, Meriken. [Suffer with me
And the drone makes no sound, stares blankly quizzically up at Roshia (Roshia with her knife buried deep into its heart, Roshia who you never trust ever).
She fumbles back (that look is so wrong) and jerks the knife out, blood splattering over everything (who are you?) and presses shaking hands to the wound (you're not Meriken where is she?). Her gloves are red for a reason ("the maneuvers suggest that the cannon-fodder model remains Russia’s preferred method of fighting wars"), and she can feel the blood pulsing through her fingers (wake up Meriken wake up).
She doesn't pull back until the thing stops twitching.]
[Eventually she calls from Meriken's house (blood makes handprints on the clinical white plastic of the phone), voice entirely calm, slightly annoyed. Almost amused.]
Meriken is gone. Fransu, Afghanis-tan, Hinomoto? You are still here, да?
Roshia had gone to Meriken's house to talk, to discuss things, to maybe find some way of working things out and calming the gathering storm-clouds of almost-war. Decide things, work out allegances, calm everything down (because really, Meriken needed to calm down).
And then this.
This blank-faced, civil, smiling thing that was not Meriken. It was not anyone.
And she couldn't let this happen, couldn't stand this anymore (first Pakis-tan, then Bri-tan, now Meriken). The drone still had Meriken's injured arm (just tell me the truth prove I can trust you prove you won't turn on me we need this we need each other please let me know I can trust you). That was annoying. It wouldn't mean anything to the drone.
She had slammed the drone to the floor, hands fumbling numbly over the younger woman's chest, searching for a heartbeat (bleed for me, red white and blue). When she found it she pressed forward, slamming her full weight through her hands onto the spot where she could feel the things' fake heart beating in its fake chest. Pressed until she felt something (fake not Meriken) splinter and give under her hands.
(not enough not fast enough make her bleed give her back she's mine)
So her knife found its way into her hands, blade into the body of the thing (not-Meriken, and there was no one to stop her here no one to pull her back to say "that's enough Roshia, that's enough" and without that someone she had no idea when to stop when to back down give her back)]
Not you. Not you too. Come back, Meriken. [Suffer with me
And the drone makes no sound, stares blankly quizzically up at Roshia (Roshia with her knife buried deep into its heart, Roshia who you never trust ever).
She fumbles back (that look is so wrong) and jerks the knife out, blood splattering over everything (who are you?) and presses shaking hands to the wound (you're not Meriken where is she?). Her gloves are red for a reason ("the maneuvers suggest that the cannon-fodder model remains Russia’s preferred method of fighting wars"), and she can feel the blood pulsing through her fingers (wake up Meriken wake up).
She doesn't pull back until the thing stops twitching.]
[Eventually she calls from Meriken's house (blood makes handprints on the clinical white plastic of the phone), voice entirely calm, slightly annoyed. Almost amused.]
Meriken is gone. Fransu, Afghanis-tan, Hinomoto? You are still here, да?