09-01-2008, 02:36 AM
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Nikita couldn’t force herself to listen to him anymore — every word that left his mouth seemed to make less and less sense, and made her feel more and more out of touch of everything. There were always those little mind games where you would ask someone what they would do if they woke up and the world was different. That was how she felt right now. The past few years of her life didn’t exist to her at the moment — she was trapped in a memory of the past. This whole influx of the present on her image of the past clashed so greatly, it was nearly enough to totally overwhelm her. After some thought, she narrowed it down to one of two things. There was something wrong with him — Patriot, or a really damn good impostor — or there was something wrong with her. Since she couldn’t really test the latter option, she would try to narrow it down the other way.
And how? She knew. The weight of the steel at her side was enough to remind her. Though no one else really knew this, but that particular knife of hers was a gift — the only gift — she had received from Patriot. It was less of a present and more of a command within itself. He had given it to her to keep her ass out of trouble, and that was what she had done. When he had given it to her, he had sworn that if she had ever pulled it on him, he’d turn and cut her down then and there. If this wasn’t Patriot, he could either try to run, try to disarm or otherwise incapacitate her, or maybe even go the route that Patriot had promised to do. If it was Patriot playing some game, she would have placed a seal on her own life. But what was it if it was nothing but confusion?
And so, without a single intention of causing harm, she — with practiced speed and deftness — drew the weapon and held it, half-menacingly, out at her side. Her expression was one of dark expectance, like someone who had just insulted one of the more dangerous individuals around and was waiting to see what would happen. And that is what she was doing.
Nikita couldn’t force herself to listen to him anymore — every word that left his mouth seemed to make less and less sense, and made her feel more and more out of touch of everything. There were always those little mind games where you would ask someone what they would do if they woke up and the world was different. That was how she felt right now. The past few years of her life didn’t exist to her at the moment — she was trapped in a memory of the past. This whole influx of the present on her image of the past clashed so greatly, it was nearly enough to totally overwhelm her. After some thought, she narrowed it down to one of two things. There was something wrong with him — Patriot, or a really damn good impostor — or there was something wrong with her. Since she couldn’t really test the latter option, she would try to narrow it down the other way.
And how? She knew. The weight of the steel at her side was enough to remind her. Though no one else really knew this, but that particular knife of hers was a gift — the only gift — she had received from Patriot. It was less of a present and more of a command within itself. He had given it to her to keep her ass out of trouble, and that was what she had done. When he had given it to her, he had sworn that if she had ever pulled it on him, he’d turn and cut her down then and there. If this wasn’t Patriot, he could either try to run, try to disarm or otherwise incapacitate her, or maybe even go the route that Patriot had promised to do. If it was Patriot playing some game, she would have placed a seal on her own life. But what was it if it was nothing but confusion?
And so, without a single intention of causing harm, she — with practiced speed and deftness — drew the weapon and held it, half-menacingly, out at her side. Her expression was one of dark expectance, like someone who had just insulted one of the more dangerous individuals around and was waiting to see what would happen. And that is what she was doing.