20.06.202X - Persona

 

Persona

 

“...adio.”

Mishka cleared her throat and pointed towards the corner, struggling to speak. Slow, raspy breaths. Uncomfortable questions. Mishka didn't know – had she listened? Maybe she hadn't, maybe she'd missed it somehow. Or maybe you just skimmed over it.

“Yeah, the... radio.” Sayori began, still unsure whether she should tell the truth or not. On one hand, honesty is a virtue, on the other, well…

They could have been her friends.

 

“Just a moment. I'll grab you some water.” She tip-toed away, mind racing. Of course, she could always lie about it – that might have been the safest route. Too many variables. But still, barring the whole “honesty is a virtue” thing, didn't Mishka deserve to know?

Well, yes, but at the same time…

No.
A big fat no from a big fat liar.

The bottle was comfortingly cold – the summer heat had made itself more than apparent, whether you were indoors or not, and this would most likely be exactly what Mishka needed.

 

This and the truth.
No, not now.
Not yet.
But when?
When hell freezes over, or when I decide to be honest. Whichever comes first.

 

Sayori opened the door. Why'd she even close it in the first place? Mishka was up and running, or, well... up, at least. She didn't need to. Same with the sneaking around. Looks like old dogs do learn new tricks.

“Sorry. Force of habit.” She handed the bottle over to Mishka, who wasted no time in draining most of it.

Maybe it was the clonazepam, maybe it was something else, she didn't know, but the sudden feeling of cheer was more than welcome. Still, she had to come up with something about the whole pilot... incident. She carefully sat down on the bed, eyeing Mishka now and then as surreptitiously as she could manage, but the deserter seemed more fixated on her water bottle for the time being.

“Need another one?”

“Not right now.” Mishka finished her drink. “Thank you.”

“Any time.” She gave Mishka a wide smile. “I mean, I still owe you, but...”

Mishka chuckled in response and shook her head. “Sayori, you do not owe me anything.” She let the words sink in for a moment before continuing.

“You never have, and you never will.” She chewed on her lip and looked away, briefly lost in thought. “If anything…”

“If anything, I think I owe you.” Mishka cleared her throat, voice still slightly hoarse. “You… saved my life. You got me from Bedford all the way back home.”

“Saved you, huh?” Sayori snorted, her smile now more crooked than before. “You’re giving me an awful lot of credit, considering who it was that caused that entire situation.”

“Now you are the one giving yourself too much credit.” Mishka sighed before continuing. “Yes, the raid could have gone better, but…”

“A lot better.”

“The… the dissociation… it was not your fault.” A deep breath, this time. Is she steadying herself? “I… just get like that… sometimes. Not that bad – I haven't had that for a few years but…this is not the first time.”

“O-oh.” Sayori was suddenly at a loss for words. Just how was she supposed to respond?
Hey Mish, sorry about the debilitating mental issues. Wanna go fishing?

She didn’t really know what to do.

Mish had practically dropped a bombshell on her, and every idea she managed to conjure up so she could at least show her sympathy fizzled out in her too-active mind.  

Poor girl. Or, well, poor woman, I guess.

 

She briefly rubbed her chin, trying to at least make it look like she was thinking about something, but…

It was hard to imagine living like that, bottling everything up until the mind gave up in protest and rendered you completely non-functional, or worse. Clawing your own skin off, the animal in you desperately trying to escape its prison of flesh, so beside yourself with terror that not even the pain registers.

But then again, she thought darkly, how many people can imagine what it’s like to live your entire life irrefutably convinced that you’re a total piece of shit?

Christ, Mishka didn’t deserve this.

So many worthless scumbags in the world, and yet…

It just had to be Mishka. Her fucking Mishka had to suffer because the world hated kindness.

 

“Sayoshka?” Her tone was worried, and Sayori felt a sharp pang of guilt in her heart.

 

Calm down. Focus. You’re fucking delusional.

“I’m… fine. Just…” She gave a short bark of laughter, which sounded far more hollow than she would have liked. “Just… the world is fucking unfair, isn’t it?”

Relax. You’re fine. Mishie is here.

“Life is not a walk across the field.” Sayori looked at her in confusion, and silence descended once again.

 

“Ah, sorry. That was a Russian one.” Mishka laughed nervously. Attempted sprezzatura, half-hearted at best.

 

Maybe Mishka felt the same way. Maybe she didn’t. Be that as it may, she definitely didn’t seem up to the task of dissuading her.

 

“Life is… never fair?” She corrected herself, smile fading.

“Hm. Well they definitely got that right.” Morose and flat. Bitter.

 

Why was it like this again?

Mishka was awake, why couldn’t she just let go for once? Why couldn’t she stop reveling in negativity, like a pig in shit? Why did her comfort zone have to be a constant barrage of self-hatred and disgust at the world around her? Her only solace, her only escape was chemicals and violence and a dangerous, unhealthy, possessive fixation on Mishka — just because she showed her a modicum of kindness?

 

You’re fucked up. Damaged beyond repair.

You should have burned yourself alive at McCoy’s. You should have let that pilot ice you.

 

“Sayoshka?” Again, worry and fear and tiredness. 

She couldn’t bring herself to look Mishka in the eyes, for fear of those eyes burning away the filth that was her soul, for fear of them finally seeing just who she was.

“...I’m sorry.”

“...did something happen when I was unconscious?”

Yes.

I happened.

I killed two defenseless people that were begging for their lives.
I tortured a wounded man until he pissed himself with fear.
I gained the other one’s trust and then shot her in the back of the head.
I stole their belongings and brought the radio down here.
I left their corpses in the forest because I didn’t even care enough to put them in a shallow grave.

 

“N-no… I’m just happy to have you back, a-and…” She bit her lip. “I’m… worried. About you.”

“Well, I think I will be fine, as long as you are here.” She gave Sayori an encouraging smile. “I mean, now you at least know what to do, right?”

 

God, Mishka.

You don’t fucking deserve this.

You deserve to be at home, nursing a drink in front of a fire, as far away from this shithole as possible.

Words didn’t feel like enough anymore. She moved to grab Mishka in a tight hug, but stopped herself when she heard a sharp hiss of pain.

Fuck. Painkillers. Forgot about that.

 

“S-sorry. I didn’t… I forgot about…” Mishka shook her head and gently patted Sayori on the back.

“Do not worry. I would still like some painkillers.” She gave her a little smile.

 

Sayori carefully rummaged through her stash pouch, still sitting on the bed, one hand resting on Mishka’s shoulder.

“Oxycontin?” Her hand carefully closed around the foil-backed blister. 40 milligram tablets, maybe they’d be good enough? “Would… would that work?”

“Please.” Another slight smile, tiredness now more than apparent.

“Here you go.” Sayori thumbed out a couple pink tablets into Mishka’s palm. “Sorry, I forgot… I didn’t think…”

God, I hope she wasn’t in pain earlier…

Should I ask her?

Maybe not.

The hug was nice. Hard to break free from, most definitely. The Oxycontin seemed to slowly work its magic — if she concentrated hard enough, Sayori almost thought she could hear Mishka’s breathing gradually slowing down, feel her heartbeat calming just a little…

Maybe she was just deluding herself. Extrapolating patterns from random deviation. That wouldn’t be the first time.

Still, it’s a nice thought.

The clonazepam fuzz was back, and quite apparent, at that.

No giggles anymore, sadly.

“Relaxed heaviness” was the best way she could put it at the moment. No uncontrollable thoughts buzzing their way through her mind at Mach 10, no doubts and no self-hatred – although they would probably return fairly soon — just sedation and comfort and calm.

Sadly, all good things had to come to an end, and so did this.

“Anyway, I...” Sayori stammered awkwardly, breaking free from the hug. “I made you some... some coffee.”

It wasn't supposed to be this awkward. It was just a mug of – at this point – probably room-temperature coffee with far too much sweet stuff in it, the chocolate was probably congealing into a sticky mass at the bottom of the mug – if it hadn't already – and there was probably too much cinnamon, to boot.

She almost wanted to protest when Mishka brought the mug to her lips.

Almost.
I can do better,
I promise.
Please let me try again.

Mishka hummed in appreciation, voice still tired and raspy, and took another sip. The pressure was gone again, and the familiar, fuzzy clonazepam high crept back in.

“I like it.” Mishka gave a slight smile. It felt genuine, as far as she could tell.

“Happy to hear it.”Sayori nodded in response, unable to stop the relieved smile creeping onto her face.

“It is a bit sweet, but...” Mishka pursed her lips. “It might be a good idea to have something sweet, now and then.”

“I… I think you've earned it.”

She most definitely had.

Consolation prize for the one that stuck around despite everything.

And so, even when seated upon her blood-flecked bed, with bandages covering her face and her fingers, Mishka seemed… calm. Despite the tiredness, despite the pain, she was still hanging on. Still Mishka, still herself.

That was possibly the strangest thing about her, Sayori thought. Total control.

 

Unlike Mishka, she felt like she was constantly in flux, never quite sure of where — or who — she was, picking up and discarding and rediscovering different modes of thought, different points of view, a rapidly-shifting amalgam of whatever philosophies felt either the most novel or the most relatable at the moment.

Then again, the Russian’s calm and collected exterior could have been false, a manufactured persona — it wasn’t that hard to pretend to be fine, even when it felt like the world was crashing down around you.

 

Besides, there were worse defense mechanisms than hiding behind a veneer of self-control.

Or so it seemed, at least — she hadn’t any experience with that.

“Fake it ‘til you make it” only worked if you had a good idea of what you were even trying to fake. That had become more than apparent when she’d decided to appear more confident at the start of her first year — it all turned into some kind of sad joke when she realized that she couldn’t even remember what confidence felt like, let alone emulate it.

But, she thought, you’d already need a modicum of self-control to fake self-control, wouldn’t you?

Of course, but the same goes for pretending to be fine, do

 

“Sayori?”

Mishka interrupted her thoughts, perhaps just in time. No sense in dragging herself down that rabbit hole, not now. Given the chance, she could probably doubt and gaslight herself into accepting that water was dry, but this wasn’t the time for that.

Mishka was awake. She could at least pretend to be, as well.

“Sorry, sorry, just… navel-gazing.” Sayori mumbled.

Mishka blinked, mouthed the word to herself, then blinked again.

“I am sorry, I… do not understand what you mean…”

 

“It’s, uh…” Sayori scratched her hair, trying to puzzle out how to best explain the idiom — this wasn’t the first time this had happened, but usually it was pretty easy to solve.

Usually.

 

“Well…”

She winced. How would she even explain the word when she wasn’t entirely sure of the definition herself? She’d always felt it was slightly pejorative, referring to some form of solipsistic — and perhaps ultimately pointless — philosophizing. There’d probably been a definition up somewhere, at some point.

 

She might even have read it.

 

Still, it was the words that stuck with you, and not the definition — words had a certain energy that already implied the definition. It might have been in a vague and nebulous manner, but it was still there, for want of a better word.

Besides, did Mishka even know what “solipsism” meant?

Do you even know how to define that?

 

“I’m just… stuck in my own head sometimes, I guess.” It felt close enough. It might have been far off, it was hard to tell. Still, it sounded right. “Thinking a bit too much. Pointless stuff.”

“...Oh. I… understand..” Whatever Mishka thought of her faux-intellectual wordplay and her awkward attempt at waving the situation off, she didn’t know.

 

She was very hard to read sometimes.

 

Even harder when you couldn't bring yourself to look her in the eye.

 

 

Trying to cook chanko nabe in the middle of a total societal breakdown would have been quite a puzzle even back home — trying to cook chanko nabe while stuck in the rural American Southeast was infuriating. Replacements and compromises and missing ingredients until the meal barely felt like a shadow of what it was supposed to be. It was almost bad enough to make her give up.

Almost.

 

Now wasn’t the time for that, though. For one, she wasn’t a stranger to improvising her way through a meal at all, and while a few of her stateside attempts to recreate something familiar and comforting had fizzled out, she had succeeded far more often, even after the infection hit.

For two, well…

Mishka needs food.

That was it.

She’d chop down every single birch in Kentucky if she had to, she’d fish until the rivers ran dry if she had to, she’d knead out noodles until her skin cracked if she had to. This was her chance. She could give Mish something nice, something to welcome her back, something to comfort her.

Welcome back to the world of the living.
Hope it wasn’t too nice on the other side.
Maybe I can join you next time.
We can both go to Hell.

She would have preferred cooking it with fresh udon instead of whatever dried instant kind they had, there weren’t nearly enough spices — or even the right kind of them, the mushrooms weren’t the right kind…

To put it shortly, she had an entire laundry list of minor complaints and tiny niggles that by themselves didn’t mean all that much, but felt almost apocalyptic when taken all together.

Well, “apocalyptic” might have been a strong word, but…

The spirit of the dish was in jeopardy.

 

Thankfully, she still had some pork belly she could cube into the broth, a bit of ground chicken she could tart up with fresh ginger and roll into tiny balls, she’d managed to find a brick of still-fresh tofu at some point, the brown cube slotting neatly into her freezer, and perhaps most importantly, dried kombu and bonito flakes for the broth. Funeral postponed, for now.

And it did smell quite nice.

Mishka seemed to think so as well — the young woman had brought a chair into the kitchen and plopped herself down on it, and was observing Sayori’s shaky hands and nervous cooking with her interest more than apparent.

“I really would have liked some chashu, you know?” Sayori sighed, but maintained her smile. It wasn’t that bad. “Just… on the side, or something.”

“Chashu…” Mishka seemed to mull the words over in her head, before coming back with a slight nervous smile. “It is the… pork belly that… you cook slowly? With the sauce and the spices?”

Sayori couldn’t help giggling a little at the description. Well, it was technically true, at least, and it did feel quite nice to realize that Mishie still remembered the chashu from the one time she’d made it for them. While Sayori definitely wasn’t the type to toot her own horn, she definitely was the type to make some mouthwateringly tender chashu.

“Nail on the head, sister.” Sayori stirred the pot, the smile refusing to disappear. She briefly contemplated throwing in the greens already — no bok choy, but she had managed to get some spinach, at least. She could use the cabbage they had laying around, but she still felt a bit unsure about it.

Maybe a small amount? Hope the sulfur doesn’t ruin the dish…

“Usually, I prefer having chashu with ramen, but…” Sayori decided to break the silence before it got too pregnant. “Haven’t had ramen in a while. Dunno. Maybe we should?”

 

Mishka smiled from underneath her quilt. She looked kind of like a very low-effort roleplayer or a stereotypical stoner, wrapped from head to toe in a soft blanket, pinprick pupils staring out from underneath a goofy-looking hood. As long as you looked past the scars and bandages, that is.

“I think it would be a good idea.” Another smile, eyes fixed on the side of Sayori’s face while the girl was busy grinding spices into the simmering pot. “When you made the noodles with the meat and the toppings, I…”

She cleared her throat. “I liked that very much.”

Mishka seemed a bit… strange, perhaps? Definitely more open, more talkative, but also a lot more nervous. While some of it might have been due to the Rivotril-Oxycontin one-two-punch, the nervousness didn’t really make sense. She seemed fidgety, for lack of a better word.

Still, it’s not like Sayori considered herself to be much better off, at the moment. Despite the clonazepam in her system, she still felt a little bit nervous. Maybe it was just the mahogany eyes observing her every move with curiosity. Maybe it was Mishka being this close

 

Okay, Takahashi, how about you simmer down for a moment? You’re not interested in her in that way, right? Mishie is your friend, she’s probably just excited to see just how you cook everything. Maybe she wants to help out some day? Besides, the poor thing just woke up from a five-day coma. Just ease up.

But at the same time…

How often can you hug a friend before it gets weird? Once a day, maybe.

Is it weird to like how your best friend smells and just… sniff them? Yes.

Is it weird to take their t-shirt and use it as a pillow case? …you’re a fucking mess.

A creepy, possessive, violent mess.

It’s going to be a glorious day indeed when you finally realize that Mishie can’t possibly live up to whatever unrealistic fantasy you’ve built up around her.

Shut up.

But it wouldn’t be the first time for you, would it?

Shut up.

Remember him? Remember how perfect and wonderful you thought he was?

Shut up.

Eventually you’ll understand. Mishka is just… human. Same as you. Same as him.

…She’s nothing like him. She’s kind and caring and strong and driven and…

She was a sniper in the war. How many people do you think she has killed, just with her rifle? How many artillery strikes or bombing runs has she called in?

She was doing her duty.

Oh, absolutely. And who cares about civilian casualties, after all?

Fuck you. Get out of my head.

Sorry, sunshine. I’ll be with you until you finally pull the fucking trigger.

“Are you alright? You are… your breathing, it is...” Concern. Worry. Please stop fucking worrying about me please I’m begging y- “...heavy.”

“Y-yeah… I’m fine.” She cleared her throat lamely. “Just, my head… it feels like… like it’s n-not working properly. I’m s-sorry.”

 

Mish carefully put her hand on Sayori’s shoulder, causing the girl to stiffen in response.

 

“Please… do not be sorry. I know… that…” Mishka suddenly seemed very… awkward? More so than usual. “You… you h-have…”

 

Mishka gulped, audibly at that, and looked away. The hand stayed, She seemed to be mouthing words to herself, but seemed… lost. Still, it’s not like the topic was hard to guess.

Oh, poor Sayori, you and your depression and your worthlessness, I understand completely, you can’t do anything wrong because you’re barely human anymore. We can’t expect you to take care of yourself, or do anything properly. You’re like a little innocent baby.

“Yeah. I’m fucking depressed. I know.” She didn’t mean for it to come out like that. Bullshit. “I… yeah. I know. Been dealing with this for a while.”

Mishka opened her mouth, as if to protest, or to console her, or do anything, but eventually just settled on giving Sayori’s shoulder a half-hearted squeeze and a quiet, crestfallen mumble.

“I am… sorry to hear that.” Sayori’s heart fell. It wasn’t… she didn’t mean to upset Mish like that. “I, well, I… know you… you have depression. I… knew since we first…”

Mishka cleared her throat.

“I k-knew since we first met, when… when you had… b-buried Izzy. I could… I could tell.” Mishka’s pinprick pupils were now steadily fixed on the cheap plastic countertop with the cutting board and the assortment of prepared ingredients, her hand dropping loosely off Sayori’s shoulder. “I… just want you to… to know, that… that you…”

Mishka groaned quietly and ran her fingers through her hair — not that Sayori didn’t kind of feel like it. 

This was awkward.

 

“What.. what I want to say… it…” Mishka wavered, took a breath, and then, finally, somehow, managed to say it. “I am proud of you, Sayoshka. I’m… prouder than you could imagine. You… have been through so much, and yet, you…”

“I… I am very happy to have you here.” She finished. “I could not… imagine… to have someone els-”

A silent tear sizzled on the stovetop.

“Please don’t.” She managed to keep her voice at least slightly steady, but try as she might, she was  unable to mask the sadness. “Y-you… please. Don’t.”

 

“...I… I do not…” Mishka sounded even more lost than before, and while Sayori couldn’t ignore the slight pang of guilt in her heart This was… painful. Why did she have to say that? What the fuck did she have to be proud of? “I am sorry if… if I upset you, I… you… I just think you deser-”

“M-Mishka? Can we…” Sayori mumbled, trying her best to keep herself under wraps. “I’d prefer if… can we please talk about this… some other time? Please?”

“I…” Mishka opened her mouth, closed it, then looked away and blinked, clearly at a loss for words. The kitchen was silent, apart from Sayori scrubbing the cutting board with quite a lot of unnecessary violence, trying to feign some kind of nonchalance.

 

Sayori knew Mish wouldn’t start crying. Mish isn’t a little bitch. Unlike you. But…

You just couldn’t even let her compliment you? You just couldn’t accept her saying something nice about you? Hope it fucking felt good to put her down. That’ll teach that bitch to try to make you feel better, right?

The silence was… suffusing.

You’re a heartless bitch, you know that?

Shut up.

Pretty funny how you can take someone friendly and awkward, someone with nothing but good intentions on their mind, and then just shove them face down in the mud because they threatened your comfort zone, isn’t it?

…shut up.

“...Mishka? I’m…” Sayori cleared her throat. “I… I’m…”

Sayori sniffled.

Oh, crocodile tears now? I’m sure she’ll forgive every single time you’ve tried to get her killed. I’m sure she won’t mind you leading her sister to

“SHUT! UP!” The kitchen knife embedded itself in the cheap plastic countertop, vibrating from the force. Heavy breathing. Mish was probably shocked — Sayori couldn’t muster the energy to look. It took a moment to even register that she’d said it out loud, or that she’d driven the knife into their counter, or that there were tears running down her face.

“Are you… what ha-”

Sayori pulled Mishka into a hug, a desperate, hopeless, sad hug, a tear-filled hug, ignoring even the slight hiss of pain from her comrade.

“I’m s-so fucking sorry, Mishie, I… my b-brain…” Sayori winced, tears running down her face. “My mind f-feels like… l-like it’s not working, like t-there's something wrong with it…l-like there’s s-something in my head.”

Mishka gingerly patted her head, murmuring quietly. Whatever she thought about the “new” nickname she didn’t let on.

“...Sayoshka…” Mishka sighed. “You… you have been through so much. Please… do not apologize.”

 

Sayori didn’t respond. Maybe Mishka was right, after all. It… hadn’t been easy. Life hadn’t been easy. And that was putting it lightly. After Katie left, after she finally started feeling at… home? No, “home” wasn’t the right word for it — neither was “comfortable”, but… she got used to it, at least. 

After that, the brief spark of hope she’d felt after the evac helo took to the skies kept her going for almost a few weeks, even after she realized there weren’t any new ones coming, and her slowly-developing friendship with Mishka had kept her afloat, as well, but now everything seemed… hopeless.

“I… know this might not mean much to you, but…” Mishka still held her close. “You will feel better. This will pass.”

"...p-promise?" She didn’t want to let go. Maybe Mishka was just lying to make her feel better, to keep her head in the game, to stop her from thinking about could-have-beens and maybes that served no purpose as it stood. What mattered was Muldraugh, their situation, their stockpiles, their survival.

 

But be that as it may, she cared.

Mishka cared.