Today, I got something that has been bothering me off my chest.
Pyrrha says I'm a lot like a robot, like my head was filled with wires and circuits instead of drippy brains and on some days I have to concur. Response time is a product of muscle contractions, but emotional response is a product of empathy. I lack empathy.
I'm not always like this. Sometimes I'm very kind, very sweet. Pyrrha says I should be like that more. She used to think I was always like that.
Quick with the reassurance, that one, that Pyrrha.
But she isn't saying that now, Pyrrha is oddly quiet, her usually flappy mouth is pressed into a thin, white line and the side of her face looks like ground hamburger meat. I once read that head wounds bleed a lot, but I don't know if that applies to the sides of faces. There isn't much blood.
I wonder if I should comment, wonder if I should make some quick-witted statement like, "oh my, Pyrrha, did you do something new with your face? It looks divine."
I decide not to, she probably isn't conscious. That and I'm a good person.
Somewhere in the building people are yelling at each other and I know one of them is Cinder. If she finds me in this situation, I doubt she would be happy. My one mission objective has remained woefully uncompleted and the only fruits of my effort are a living headmaster and Pyrrha's meaty face.
People are rarely forgiving when they are disobeyed or ignored. Especially in cases where commands are 'specifically said.' Strangely enough, things are rarely 'vaguely said.'
Cinder is not a vague person; she is blunt, direct, commanding. She doesn't ask for a rough estimation, he asks for what he wants.
I didn't give her what she wanted.
The voices are getting closer and I know something bad will happen soon. Either I will be killed or reprimanded or something in-between.
Pyrrha doesn't offer her input on the matter.
The door at the end of the hall is shaking and I can hear Lark yelling. Someone else is doing a number on the lock, probably Mercury. Part of my mission, the part I didn't screw up, was to lock the door. I wonder if Cinder remembers that.
I feel like I should be scared but I'm not. The plan has been stuck to, stuck to like glue. In a few seconds Cinder will come bursting through that door and in a few minutes she will be dead on the floor.
Rhyme intended.
My life is nothing but a collection of emotional questions. Pyrrha calls them 'should-be-feelings.' Should I be scared here? Happy there? Maybe Pyrrha was right. Maybe I am a robot who's missing a few lines of code.
The door opens and I can already see Cinder's burning eyes. She's shouting something and Emerald has her guns trained on me. That 'should-be-scared' feeling boils up in my gut and I let it take control.
Cinder raises his hands into the air and for a moment it looks like she's going to explode.
Someone is shouting "Jaune," but I ignore them, distractions are a detriment.
Cinder has a sword and I have a sword, but I don't intend on using mine. I'm a good person.
The plan is still being stuck to and I know that whatever happens now will be crucial in dictating whether or not Cinder ends up a bleeding mess.
Pyrrha still doesn't speak but she's visibly shaking now. Shaking wasn't factored into my plan but it doesn't matter. Small variables won't throw it off; the butterfly affect is notoriously inconsequential.
That, and it wouldn't make much sense.
God knows that a resolution to this tale has been a long time coming.
Hey there everybody!
Quick little story I wanted to put out there, don't know if I'm going to continue it though. Explanation: I'm working on first person stream-of-consciousness in my Creative Writing class so I wanted to get some practice in.
Tell me what you think and all that.
RWBY is owned by Monty and that sweet, sweet Rooster Teeth.
Bye -AITP