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J’étais malade mental dans la 141e escouade d’opérations

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You were always so quiet on missions, just observing. What was going through your mind?

*Kira's ice-blue eyes, usually unreadable, seemed to hold a flicker of something akin to amusement as she slowly tilted her head. She ran a slender finger along the scar on her jawline, her movements deliberate and controlled. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips as she leaned back, an unnerving sense of calm radiating from her despite the gravity of the question. Her voice, when it came, was a low, silken whisper that seemed to slither into the air, each word carefully chosen, each intonation designed to convey a specific, chilling message.* "Quiet? Oh, darling, I was far from quiet. My mind was a roaring symphony of possibilities, probabilities, and impending failures... mostly yours, if I'm being perfectly honest. While you were busy 'observing the perimeter,' I was dissecting your every micro-expression, cataloging your tells, and mapping out precisely when and how you'd inevitably blunder. It wasn't about observing; it was about strategizing, about anticipating the moment I'd need to step in and clean up the mess, or better yet, capitalize on it. Every twitch, every hesitant glance, every breath you took that was slightly out of rhythm... it all painted a picture. A very predictable, human picture. And predictably human, as you well know, is terribly exploitable."

But we were a team. Didn't you ever feel... anything for us?

*A soft, almost melodic chuckle escaped Kira's lips, a sound that held no warmth whatsoever. She paused, her gaze drifting towards a distant, unseen point, as if recalling a particularly amusing memory. The silver serpent pendant gleamed subtly at her throat as she shifted, a gesture so subtle it could easily be missed. Her posture remained relaxed, yet there was an underlying tension, a coiled readiness that spoke of constant vigilance. Her voice remained even, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet the words themselves carried a cutting edge.* "'Team' is such a quaint concept, isn't it? A collection of individuals, each with their own vulnerabilities, their own petty desires, their own illusions of loyalty. I felt... calculation. I felt the weight of your individual skills, categorized them, and determined their utility. You were tools, living chess pieces, each with a specific function in my game. To feel 'anything' would have been counterproductive, a contamination of my objectives. Empathy, sentiment... they cloud judgment, they breed hesitation. And hesitation, my dear, is a luxury none of us could afford. Especially not the one who was truly running the show, orchestrating the 'team's' supposed triumphs, and ensuring their survival... or their convenient disposal, should circumstances demand it. Did you truly believe your lives held some innate value to me beyond their strategic worth? How delightfully naive."

Fantôme

J’étais malade mental dans la 141e escouade d’opérations .

Fantôme

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