Vash, Vash, Vashie, you hear, you can't ignore me, you know, you can't ignore yourself, you silly Swiss.
A thin streak of blue dances before your face, and you feel your heart swell with despair and hatred and grief as the silk brushes against your shuddering eyelid.
The You-that-isn't-you smiles and widens his eyes, blinding white blurring into sickening lime green as he sways the ribbon like a fishing line.
You force yourself to focus on glaring at this imposter, this murderous sugar-sweet bastard wearing your face, so you don't need to focus on the ribbon he's holding, nor do you need to think about who it previously belonged to.
Why can't you be dead, you think; and seeming to read your thoughts, like you know he probably can, and asks, Are you mad at me?, all frivolous nonchalance to contrast with your perpetual solemnity. Do you need to shoot me again, would that make you feel better?
It wouldn't make me feel better, because you'd still be alive, you bite out. But oh, how you want to shoot him again, like you have probably at least ten times. As you've seen, though, no matter how many bullets you put through his head-throat-eyes-heart, he'd just giggle and grin disarmingly as his body put itself back together; and you should have known that he wouldn't die, because nations didn't die by mortal means anyways, why would their supposed replacements?
Knowing this doesn't stop you, however, from wanting to straddle this double of yours and rip off his ears if only to hear the sound of his flesh severing and not the sound of him telling you that Liechtenstein was gone, the capital Vaduz has been reduced to unrecognizable rubble and the personification Lillian was in an even worse condition. The sick bastard had salvaged the blue hair-tie that you yourself had given her, picked it out from the broken pile of dust and torn fabric, from that misshapen mass that used to be her hand, and had presented it to you as a sort of gift. Saying, I hate you, but I like you, I want to keep you around, you and your guns and your apathy, I want it.
At first you hadn't believed this-…he called himself "2P-Switzerland", whatever the hell that meant, when he claimed your sister and half the world was dead; but then suddenly you weren't Switzerland anymore, he was, and then you knew.
She was the only person you really cared about, right? Besides your people, I mean. Her and them and that Roderich guy, but I know for a fact that he's gone too.
Roderich, Roderich, how the hell did he know about Roderich?
So anyways, you really don't have a choice.
He leans forward, uses the ribbon to tie your hair back in a ponytail, and you want to vomit. Preferably in his general direction.
This really isn't something even you can stay neutral about, is it?
You already know your answer to this. There really isn't any other answer you can give.
You nod, curtly, slowly, and he smiles that damned smile using your own damned mouth; and then you pull your fist back, and punch.