2018-07-30: The Little Unit That Could
- Cutscene: The Little Unit That Could
- Cast: Riesenlied (Nasrin, Dragon Unit No. 1 Type R)
- Where: Riesenlied's head
- Date: 30th July 2018
- Summary: Nasrin awakens after the disastrous outcome at Uzda il-Jam...
Darkness.
A shard of frosted wood shifts--
--a rotted hand emerges out of it. Fingers stiff, feeling around, curling. Grasps the board. Pushes it aside.
A low groan. The corpse girl pulls her head up; splinters of wood cascade down her disheveled hair. She rises, tumbling wooden shavings, brass bearings and polished effects that once belonged on a chair down around her robes.
"That... was surprising."
Nasrin was honestly not expecting that to happen, in Uzda il-Jam. In an instant, the roar of the beast had overwhelmed them. Whatever chaotic order had been established in her head had been dashed... in an instant.
It was as if she had ceased to exist. Bereft of sight and thought, bereft of sensation and feeling...
It is easy for such a moment to feel the length of an eternity.
She pulls out of her broken heap of unconsciousness. The chair is broken, but someone still dwells here. She blinks, and gazes... gazes towards Riesenlied, seated upon the floor where there would be a chair once--
--no, that isn't Riesenlied.
But it is, unmistakably, a Hyadean. A blonde Hyadean with an unhealthy outgrowth of scales covering her body, dressed in a damaged Photosphere neonate suit. The horns are unmistakable, the way they protrude from either side of her head. The chair is crumbled from where it'd fallen on Nasrin, but still she sits.
Still, she wears a mask and pretends.
Nasrin sighs. She steps forward, her slippers stumbling against a nearby mask. She blinks, and picking up the masks scattered around her. Each of them heavy, scraping gently by her blood-tinged fingertips as she collects them into her arm.
"The /least/ you could do is clean up after yourself."
The delusory Hyadean's head droops to one side. Her horns wiggle gently.
"... you did good, I'll admit," Nasrin whispers. She shakes her head and moves to a faint mural on the wall. She places each of the masks, one by one, where they should belong. A tapestry of identity, each of them blessed and granted by circumstance.
"You're still wearing the masks, but..."
The corpse girl tilts her head, looking back towards the pretending Hyadean, so ensconced in the identity of her mask.
"You listened to everyone's voices to guide you, didn't you?"
There's a little gurgle beneath the lip of the Hyadean's mask. Her head droops forward.
"Keep going, little Unit. You'll get there someday..."
Nasrin steps towards the Dragon Unit and pulls her up, towards a new chair that she coalesces with her power as the custodian of their mind. Once more, a glint flashes in the back, from a Fereshte ankh slicked and torn with frost.
The corpse girl adopts her position once more. Slowly, she drapes her palms across the Hyadean's eyes.
"Until the day you don't need me anymore..."