A knife is a tool that can harm and help. Often feared when it should be respected, disregarded when it should be acknowledged. A doll is a tool that—
The angel begged for mercy. It sobbed and cried and tried to say anything that would stop it from happening, any set of words that might take away the pain and the fear. It didn't work, because all her words were empty and she was not rea—
Stillness and silence. The sounds of the air circulation systems and muffled noises from outside the bunker. The pilot was on its back on the bottom bunk. The senior pilot was straddling it, her cold gray eyes staring down at it, her calloused hands pinning its hands above its head. Taking in all of the pilot beneath—
Another kill. A player this time— though the bots are often harder— eliminated in a spray of precise gunfire. The doll onscreen moved to collect the pile of loot the player left behind. Beyond the screen, the doll was tense, waiting to see it it would get ambushed in turn. It finished its grim task and turned just as a crack of gunfire rang out and—
The doll flexed each of its fingers, watching as the porcelain digits shifted in their ball-jointed sockets. It still hurt to move very much. Its witch told it that it would continue hurting for a long time. Months, at least. Years, maybe. It might never stop hurting entirely. It hoped that it didn't—
It takes out the load of laundry and places the clean clothes into the hamper. It left them in the washer a little too long, and so they smell slightly of mildew. It frowns and—
The combat doll removes the knife from the throat of the third attacker. It's a man, with short brown hair, greying at the temples. It looks up at its mistress and she is wide-eyed with panic. The doll drops the knife and stands, going to attend to its mistress. She flinches and it feels like it has been shot again—
The doll knocks on the doorframe of Miss's office. It has been instructed to come get her when it is feeling tired, to avoid another accident like what had happened the previous week. Miss turned to see it standing there and smiled at it. She was the most beautiful thing it had ever seen—
The doll cuts, swift and sure. The celery splits into even slices, just the right size to be roasted in the oven for the pasta. It adjusts the position of its gloved hand and cuts again—
The vampire was so hungry, and the hunter was so persistent. It tried to run but it was too weak. It thought it would die when she bound it in ropes inlaid with silver and gagged it with a bit of ash. It woke up in a strange room, tied naked to a pole, that same hunter offering a bleeding finger to it—
The song starts again, an endless loop. The doll sobs, insensate to the world and curled in a fetal position on the bed. It hurt so much, like it was being torn apart by the music that inked itself on the doll's soul—
It was warm and soft, curled up on the chaise. There were low voices coming from the other side of the room, a conversation between some of its loved ones. It could have listened, but it was so soft it found itself drifting off—
The doll's hand was disconnected from its arm, pieces splayed out across the artisan's work bench. It was remaining as still and quiet as it could, which was very. The artisan liked to ramble while she worked, and it learned a lot about both proper maintenance of ball jointed dolls and just how pretty the artisan thought the doll was—
germansingergirl
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