2B feels an ugly void begin to gape its mouth within her. Her empty fingers yearn for the grasp that snaps free, and what returns in it is the prudently clutching hand of Amity's that she barely pays mind to really call her to sidestep a rejection. She does not see the girl when her eyes are upfront and do not move from Woe's back.
It burls inside of her, a falling coldness and blaring heat that stings her eyes. She refuses to blink them, whether or not she even had the eyelids to. She does not understand. She rewinds in her fused anger, the face that Woe had held before her, seconds from her decision. Was it memory? Regret? In the flurry of her own emotions, 2B hadn't realized. Not at first. There was much to talk about. There was much to understand. There was so much and she is being— referred to a specialist?
I forbid it, rings in her ears well before an uncomfortable silence takes the fortress' interior. Her hands are tight by her sides. Her jaws set and her teeth bare effortlessly, but not violently. Where were the lips to put them away, anyway? They are stained with white blood.
2B dips her head, in muted anguish, and shows nothing. There is nothing to show. There is nothing to say. For the others to see not the wetness that dribbles from her sockets, she storms down the closest opposite hall. No running, but an urgent, still poised clack, clack, clack of her heels, as if she had something important to see to.
Leave me, she barks, hotly at that, to any soul who thinks it safe to follow after her.
The Commander has done this, once. Why, then? Why must she run through these cycles only to be torn from them, again and again? Why must she feel only for it to be pulled from her? She doesn't know the answer.
no subject
It burls inside of her, a falling coldness and blaring heat that stings her eyes. She refuses to blink them, whether or not she even had the eyelids to. She does not understand. She rewinds in her fused anger, the face that Woe had held before her, seconds from her decision. Was it memory? Regret? In the flurry of her own emotions, 2B hadn't realized. Not at first. There was much to talk about. There was much to understand. There was so much and she is being— referred to a specialist?
I forbid it, rings in her ears well before an uncomfortable silence takes the fortress' interior. Her hands are tight by her sides. Her jaws set and her teeth bare effortlessly, but not violently. Where were the lips to put them away, anyway? They are stained with white blood.
2B dips her head, in muted anguish, and shows nothing. There is nothing to show. There is nothing to say. For the others to see not the wetness that dribbles from her sockets, she storms down the closest opposite hall. No running, but an urgent, still poised clack, clack, clack of her heels, as if she had something important to see to.
Leave me, she barks, hotly at that, to any soul who thinks it safe to follow after her.
The Commander has done this, once. Why, then? Why must she run through these cycles only to be torn from them, again and again? Why must she feel only for it to be pulled from her? She doesn't know the answer.