[The watch doesn’t turn on by accident. It’s something that comes after its owner has spent precious minutes looking over her surroundings, gaze intent upon the unfamiliar streets. So when Anya lets her hands slip into her pockets, she’s startled at the rounded edge of something that’s not her cellphone and plucks the watch from her pocket, brows drawing together.
It’s here that the watch turns on, slender fingers pressing buttons to see what they do. There’s a shot of pale lashes, bright violet eyes and hair of white gold that falls about the watches face. Anya’s intent upon the whatever she’s doing (Which is actually little more than seeing if this button can do more than one thing, but details) and yet it takes her but a few seconds for her gaze to lift and startle upon her visage in the watches’ face. So here, residents, have a smile that’s tinged with just the right amount of curiosity and sheepishness.]
Ah, privjet, I didn’t mean to bother anyone, but could someone tell me when the next train stops by?
[Her voice is soft, professional, and carries a rather heavy Russian accent. She shuts off the feed with another warm smile and settles down to wait for a reply.] Third Person:
She’s on fire.
It’s in her hair, burning through the hems of her clothes, blood bubbling and blackening as her city burns. And yet Russia stands strong, torch burning brightly in her hand, chin raised as if she wasn’t standing in the middle of a broken, burning street, dirty snow and ash whipping around her.
Dimly Russia becomes aware that her smile has shifted, laughter ripping from her lips, body arching under the force of her mania. And she’s still burning, the stench of metal and wood and people. She can feel it in her bones, body caving in under the hole where her heart used to be. People are screaming around her: French, Russian, pleading and accusing. There’s gun shots and the slice of blades through air and they all fall.
But she’s not just a woman holding the thrum of a nation and its people in her veins. She is an avenger made flesh, torch arching forward to slam into the face of a young Frenchman, teeth bared as his skin blisters and peels under flame, screams jerking half way as he runs out of air. She moves forward with the force of a wildfire, body light and her strikes vengeful. She can feel the buildings fall, the little blips of lives going out a reminder that she’s got to drive out these invaders.
Come now Motherland, protect that which is yours.
And she does, sets people and building alight, pulls a gun from a dead soldier’s hands and shoots down fleeing men. Somewhere out there, France is moving about her own army. Perhaps she’s retreating, perhaps she’s urging them forward. But either way, they’ll meet their fate at her hand or that of her father’s.
And really, hers was a much better way to go.
So Russia stands proud among the burning wreckage of her heart, feels the chill of General Winter’s fingers upon her shoulders, the heat of her burning city licking at her sides and grimly faced she watches France’s men scramble into the forests. She’s lost many men here, can feel it in the thrum of her pulse, the scream of mothers and lovers and children in the roar of her mind. But France has lost just as many, and she’s not prepared for the fierceness of a Russian winter. Already Russia can feel the beat of enemy feet fall and with her job done she turns on her heel.
There’s a burning city to her back, a dying army, but she’s got men to patch up and homes to salvage. The war is not over, it's merely a tide receding from shore.
{ [FANDOM OC] Russia/Anya Braginskaya || Axis Powers Hetalia || reserve || 5 of 5 } IM REALLY SORRY
[The watch doesn’t turn on by accident. It’s something that comes after its owner has spent precious minutes looking over her surroundings, gaze intent upon the unfamiliar streets. So when Anya lets her hands slip into her pockets, she’s startled at the rounded edge of something that’s not her cellphone and plucks the watch from her pocket, brows drawing together.
It’s here that the watch turns on, slender fingers pressing buttons to see what they do. There’s a shot of pale lashes, bright violet eyes and hair of white gold that falls about the watches face. Anya’s intent upon the whatever she’s doing (Which is actually little more than seeing if this button can do more than one thing, but details) and yet it takes her but a few seconds for her gaze to lift and startle upon her visage in the watches’ face. So here, residents, have a smile that’s tinged with just the right amount of curiosity and sheepishness.]
Ah, privjet, I didn’t mean to bother anyone, but could someone tell me when the next train stops by?
[Her voice is soft, professional, and carries a rather heavy Russian accent. She shuts off the feed with another warm smile and settles down to wait for a reply.]
Third Person:
She’s on fire.
It’s in her hair, burning through the hems of her clothes, blood bubbling and blackening as her city burns. And yet Russia stands strong, torch burning brightly in her hand, chin raised as if she wasn’t standing in the middle of a broken, burning street, dirty snow and ash whipping around her.
Dimly Russia becomes aware that her smile has shifted, laughter ripping from her lips, body arching under the force of her mania. And she’s still burning, the stench of metal and wood and people. She can feel it in her bones, body caving in under the hole where her heart used to be. People are screaming around her: French, Russian, pleading and accusing. There’s gun shots and the slice of blades through air and they all fall.
But she’s not just a woman holding the thrum of a nation and its people in her veins. She is an avenger made flesh, torch arching forward to slam into the face of a young Frenchman, teeth bared as his skin blisters and peels under flame, screams jerking half way as he runs out of air. She moves forward with the force of a wildfire, body light and her strikes vengeful. She can feel the buildings fall, the little blips of lives going out a reminder that she’s got to drive out these invaders.
Come now Motherland, protect that which is yours.
And she does, sets people and building alight, pulls a gun from a dead soldier’s hands and shoots down fleeing men. Somewhere out there, France is moving about her own army. Perhaps she’s retreating, perhaps she’s urging them forward. But either way, they’ll meet their fate at her hand or that of her father’s.
And really, hers was a much better way to go.
So Russia stands proud among the burning wreckage of her heart, feels the chill of General Winter’s fingers upon her shoulders, the heat of her burning city licking at her sides and grimly faced she watches France’s men scramble into the forests. She’s lost many men here, can feel it in the thrum of her pulse, the scream of mothers and lovers and children in the roar of her mind. But France has lost just as many, and she’s not prepared for the fierceness of a Russian winter. Already Russia can feel the beat of enemy feet fall and with her job done she turns on her heel.
There’s a burning city to her back, a dying army, but she’s got men to patch up and homes to salvage. The war is not over, it's merely a tide receding from shore.