i n [B] o x . // acata.

[abandonware]

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[abandonware]

He's always saying that.

[If it were anyone else, she would almost sound fond.

Zero's mention of other things makes her ears feel warm, for some reason, and she does not make any further comment on that. There's no way in hell she's asking about sparring right now. But she does tilt her head, curious.]

What's wrong with flowers? [She liked them, even though this is something she would not admit.]

[intoningly]

Seriously?

[ She stops, mid-snip, as if frozen by how ridiculous she finds the question. ]

You wanna' look at me and take a fucking guess?

[ Her voice is flat, not angry. She comes to life again, snipping a last few leaves with more aggression than necessary. ]

Never had great luck with em', even before one started growing out of my eye.

[abandonware]

[A2 takes this in with customary silence. Contemplative.]

Strange that you're helping, then.

[There's a vine twirling around the post of the fence. She reaches out to stroke one of the leaves, weighed down by droplets of water.] Where'd that thing come from, anyway?

[intoningly]

The ground.

[ She says simply, taking one of the flowers between the fingers of her prosthetic hand and examining it. ]

Thought I was finally going to be put out of my misery, and then what do you know– stupid thing pops out of the dirt and decides it has other plans for me. Figures.

[ She lets go of the flower in her hands, frowning and scrunching up her nose like she's suddenly smelled something foul. ]

Can't trust any living thing, even if it can't talk.

[abandonware]

[She has no real comment on wanting to be put out of one's misery, because honestly, same hat. She assumes that the strange flower has to be related to some sort of "magic," again. There was nothing mechanical that would animate the near dead and allow them to keep themselves. Not in her world, anyway.

Magic. It didn't make any sense to her. She's made somewhat uneasy by it with each new facet of it she discovers.

The dead should stay dead.]

And you can't get rid of it?

[intoningly]

I could.

[ Her knees hurt from crouching, so she finally falls onto her butt, sitting on the ground. ]

Means I might die, or worse– lose an arm.

[ She glances down at her prosthetic, flexing the fingers and watching the black metal glimmer in the light. ]

Wouldn't be ideal, not being able to fight properly when people like you are running around.

[ There's no malice in her comment, even despite its nature. It's stated like a simple fact. ]