[video]
[So. Days later, guess who decides to appear?
Russia's hair is wet and skin pink from being rubbed raw, especially on his forehead, and his violet eyes are clear once again. Obviously he's been showering a lot. As in, non-stop since the event. Not much can disturb him, but really? Being turned into a zombie is some scary shit, even for the Soviet Union. His voice is steady and upbeat, his face is fixed into his normal placid expression, but look closely. You'll see that his eyes are wide, his gesturing a little more quick and erratic than usual. Behold Russia barely disguising a madness brought on by paranoia and panic.]
Ah... excuse my absence. My mind's been occupied lately. I always knew that their were fates worse than death, but never did I consider... that. I would consider that worse than awaking in a mass grave.
[Unconsciously, he rubs his forehead. Russia catches himself and quickly lowers his arm back to his side.]
...I wasn't in control of my actions. You do realize that, right Germany? I did not purposefully make your brother disappear. Simply because I am capable of killing you two does not mean I would. Your brother is in my Pact. I am not so fond of his boss, but he is invaluable to me.
[Suddenly he stops and dives for something on the floor. He knocks the camera to the side, and you can see him clutching a sock. It looks clean enough, except for the hell being covered in blood. Russia laughs, nervous and utterly cracked.]
I've forgotten this! I'd thought I'd cleaned it all off but it looks like the blood stubbornly refuses to leave me be. It keeps coming back, here and there. I've burned that coat and scrubbed my washroom with bleach and cut every speck from the carpets and it still finds its way to me.
[Russia's not even paying any attention the camera anymore. He grabs the sock, muttering to himself in incoherent Russian as he paces around the room. He moves to the window, maybe to throw the sock out. But no. He rummages in a drawer for matches, maybe to burn it. There's none to be found. He starts muttering more loudly; if you speak Russian, you might hear the words "East", "West", and "it wasn't murder". Eventually he stops and stuffs the sock in his pocket.]
Maybe I will return it to them. They will know that it's not my fault. I am not destroying evidence of a crime. It was the world. It killed me and that is why I killed them. I had no control, and they should not have fought. I'll return their blood to them and all will be right. Maybe...
[He stops pacing. After a pause, he turns toward the bathroom again. He's still muttering to himself when the door slams.
Oh, and this is all in America's oval office-y room. Best roomie EVER.]
Russia's hair is wet and skin pink from being rubbed raw, especially on his forehead, and his violet eyes are clear once again. Obviously he's been showering a lot. As in, non-stop since the event. Not much can disturb him, but really? Being turned into a zombie is some scary shit, even for the Soviet Union. His voice is steady and upbeat, his face is fixed into his normal placid expression, but look closely. You'll see that his eyes are wide, his gesturing a little more quick and erratic than usual. Behold Russia barely disguising a madness brought on by paranoia and panic.]
Ah... excuse my absence. My mind's been occupied lately. I always knew that their were fates worse than death, but never did I consider... that. I would consider that worse than awaking in a mass grave.
[Unconsciously, he rubs his forehead. Russia catches himself and quickly lowers his arm back to his side.]
...I wasn't in control of my actions. You do realize that, right Germany? I did not purposefully make your brother disappear. Simply because I am capable of killing you two does not mean I would. Your brother is in my Pact. I am not so fond of his boss, but he is invaluable to me.
[Suddenly he stops and dives for something on the floor. He knocks the camera to the side, and you can see him clutching a sock. It looks clean enough, except for the hell being covered in blood. Russia laughs, nervous and utterly cracked.]
I've forgotten this! I'd thought I'd cleaned it all off but it looks like the blood stubbornly refuses to leave me be. It keeps coming back, here and there. I've burned that coat and scrubbed my washroom with bleach and cut every speck from the carpets and it still finds its way to me.
[Russia's not even paying any attention the camera anymore. He grabs the sock, muttering to himself in incoherent Russian as he paces around the room. He moves to the window, maybe to throw the sock out. But no. He rummages in a drawer for matches, maybe to burn it. There's none to be found. He starts muttering more loudly; if you speak Russian, you might hear the words "East", "West", and "it wasn't murder". Eventually he stops and stuffs the sock in his pocket.]
Maybe I will return it to them. They will know that it's not my fault. I am not destroying evidence of a crime. It was the world. It killed me and that is why I killed them. I had no control, and they should not have fought. I'll return their blood to them and all will be right. Maybe...
[He stops pacing. After a pause, he turns toward the bathroom again. He's still muttering to himself when the door slams.
Oh, and this is all in America's oval office-y room. Best roomie EVER.]