#2binch

she speaks, and her temperature rises, imitating blood that would’ve coursed through her veins should she have been born(e) in another life. she’d said it before,  ‘ we’re the same, ‘  but the disdain held within her chest sparks the beginnings of the riot her tongue wished to release;  a war begun when her voice split the air. her will is  iron - clad,  the makings of her argument inscribed on her palms the day she raised her sword to kill one of her own. it’s an act of mercy―  at least that’s what she’d always called it. it isn’t long before unit a2 realizes it isn’t so much mercy as it is leading lambs to slaughter. there’s never a day she doesn’t think about her fallen comrades;  their screams, accompanied by the looks she imagined in their eyes always seemed most vibrant when she settles somewhere to rest, eyes only shuttering softly.

❝ we’re not, ❞  said with a tone matching the desire of her limbs to spring and dismember the very illusion of her imagined within her headspace. there’s a moment where she wonders if she could, would she? staring at the image of her as she was before her dying days;  could she truly be so cold? nay―  it’s merely the sting of a life lived without knowing the truth. all she knows is that she and her squadron  ( her  FRIENDS )  fought and died for a mission that their command knew would end in tragedy. disposable dolls, they all were;  filled to the brim with hope for the future and a fighting chance at saving the humanity that they never had.

fists ball at her side, but she does not lunge like she wants to. instead, she relaxes enough to keep her head on straight―  enough to tell her that she had not the slightest idea of the truth behind her words.