The blank gaze bound from the fabric sleek visor over her eyes still comes nothing short of perplexed at Woe's answer. It could be told by the ticking moments that pass even after the huff of honesty, much like the winds that brewed against the fastened, bolted window frames of the building they've seized for themselves. She has yet to pull her lips apart for an answer, but there is none even if she'd wanted to. 2B doesn't remember the last time she's experienced a lag, and neither does she seem to remember the last time the space beneath her eyes felt as warm as her chest when it happened to pool up.
She does remember. It came with the restrictions of a promise and of conspiracy. It pains her as much as it comforts her. It is an orb of light in the dark. The qualities picked are the qualities she would like to maintain. There is one, hidden, that she does not want. She has never wanted.
2B weaves her gloved fingers together and locks her thumbs so they have no place to worry and rub. It bubbles up here, too. A desire to say something, but what she gets is a rounded blockade that reads CLASSIFIED in her internal systems. It does not give her an error, but a limit. She cannot speak of it. She cannot change it. But if she was made in their image, made to feel even if she was meant to destroy— didn't that also mean she should have choice? She again questions what was once unquestionable.
"—Woe," she breaks the iced hesitation stretched too thin with an acute crack. "I'd like to be those things and more."
It feels as if her train of thought does not stop there. It lingers like uplifted dust in the air and waits for their settling descent.
no subject
She does remember. It came with the restrictions of a promise and of conspiracy. It pains her as much as it comforts her. It is an orb of light in the dark. The qualities picked are the qualities she would like to maintain. There is one, hidden, that she does not want. She has never wanted.
2B weaves her gloved fingers together and locks her thumbs so they have no place to worry and rub. It bubbles up here, too. A desire to say something, but what she gets is a rounded blockade that reads CLASSIFIED in her internal systems. It does not give her an error, but a limit. She cannot speak of it. She cannot change it. But if she was made in their image, made to feel even if she was meant to destroy— didn't that also mean she should have choice? She again questions what was once unquestionable.
"—Woe," she breaks the iced hesitation stretched too thin with an acute crack. "I'd like to be those things and more."
It feels as if her train of thought does not stop there. It lingers like uplifted dust in the air and waits for their settling descent.