Stalingrad post #4 [Accidental video. Warning: Violence against an innocent computer]
[He's in Moscow. But his heart's in Stalingrad. It beats when his people move. It stops when they stand still. Any minute now there will be a knock on the door, because they need him. Don't they? But for now, he is in his office, staring blankly at the laptop in front of him. He doesn't look very well. He's gone pale. He's bleeding again. Wounds all over the place, but most of them are on his hands. There are blisters on them, too. There are bruises on his head, and there are bullet holes in his coat. Those will get fixed in the morning. They always do. In between the laptop and him is a field report. He doesn't need it. He can count off his casualties in his head by now. One by one. This one lost to frostbite, this one lost to Germany, this one lost because he took a step backward. He said no more of them. But one by one, they build and build, one less beat in time with his.
One million casualties. Just a number. Anything can be a number. One million people. Nothing important. One million people. He's lost more. One million people. They're just a statistic. One million people. They can be forgotten. One million people. They're just numbers. One million people. Numbers, nothing more. One million people. They're not important. One million people. They're a necessary sacrifice. One mill--
It only takes a moment. One moment he is there. The next he is gone. Collapsed under a weight. Invisible, but heavy. A weight he has to carry. Over and over again, until this war is over. Because he can't lose this city. He can't. He can't. He can't. But somewhere else, he could. Another lifetime, another place, which that community showed him. Another place. Another time. Where he could be.... He could've been...
Happy.
But instead he is here. Instead, he is this. Instead, this is the role he must play. Instead, these are the things he must do. Instead, he is Russia and so much more than that. Instead, there is Stalingrad. And he might as well give the people what they want.
It's quiet on his end. Very quiet. Like the sound of a million people not breathing. There's a flash of motion, something grey and metallic and heavy and fast approaching the laptop. The screen goes static. The screen cracks. It sounds like a million wires being snapped all at once. Maybe it is. Ivan doesn't care. It picks up audio, for a moment more.
It sounds like lead hitting plastic. And then, it sounds like Nothing.]
((OOC: Russia's destroyed his laptop, and won't be coming back until he wins Stalingrad. What does this mean for you? Well, not much, actually. ICly, he'll be gone about a week, but OOCly, it'll be as long as I can manage not posting with him, pretty much. He'll be getting a new laptop via Minato and pals, and Fel, if you want to do Adventures in FascistLand during this week, that can work, too. He can be worldhopped to, if you dare. He will not be replying to tags in this post.))
One million casualties. Just a number. Anything can be a number. One million people. Nothing important. One million people. He's lost more. One million people. They're just a statistic. One million people. They can be forgotten. One million people. They're just numbers. One million people. Numbers, nothing more. One million people. They're not important. One million people. They're a necessary sacrifice. One mill--
It only takes a moment. One moment he is there. The next he is gone. Collapsed under a weight. Invisible, but heavy. A weight he has to carry. Over and over again, until this war is over. Because he can't lose this city. He can't. He can't. He can't. But somewhere else, he could. Another lifetime, another place, which that community showed him. Another place. Another time. Where he could be.... He could've been...
Happy.
But instead he is here. Instead, he is this. Instead, this is the role he must play. Instead, these are the things he must do. Instead, he is Russia and so much more than that. Instead, there is Stalingrad. And he might as well give the people what they want.
It's quiet on his end. Very quiet. Like the sound of a million people not breathing. There's a flash of motion, something grey and metallic and heavy and fast approaching the laptop. The screen goes static. The screen cracks. It sounds like a million wires being snapped all at once. Maybe it is. Ivan doesn't care. It picks up audio, for a moment more.
It sounds like lead hitting plastic. And then, it sounds like Nothing.]
((OOC: Russia's destroyed his laptop, and won't be coming back until he wins Stalingrad. What does this mean for you? Well, not much, actually. ICly, he'll be gone about a week, but OOCly, it'll be as long as I can manage not posting with him, pretty much. He'll be getting a new laptop via Minato and pals, and Fel, if you want to do Adventures in FascistLand during this week, that can work, too. He can be worldhopped to, if you dare. He will not be replying to tags in this post.))