Radial (talkjive) wrote,

Poland could really give a shit about curfews. Way to remind people they had something to be upset about, you know? Like you couldn't talk sedition during daylight, anyway. (Poland always had time for sedition. Poland could talk sedition through broken teeth better than some, cough, people, could behind the sight of a gun.)

Belarus was seriously unstable--unstabler--though, so she flashed forward and grabbed the man crossing in front of them, twenty minutes until curfew.


"I'm a fucking landmass, I don't need papers," said a voice that made all of Poland's latent sympathy wither away. Belarus started to grab for her sidearm and Prussia's voice turned shrill. (He never raised it, anymore, Poland almost wished he would, he'd see him choke on pieces of his own tongue if he wanted to give Poland an excuse to flinch. But Russia didn't like little ones to fight, so Poland had to wait.) "Okay, okay!"

He went in his coat and came out with a crumpled wad, which Belarus took between two fingers. Poland and Prussia stared past each other while she looked through it.

"Name, some shit I made up and they misspelled," Prussia said. "Occupation, lighting up your life. Can I go yet?"

"Seventeen minutes until curfew, GDR Comrade," Belarus said. "Why are you out so late?"

"Because Russian whores only work nights.  Give me those back, you know who I am."

"Everyone must be checked." She peeled two pages apart. Slowly. "You could be an impostor."

"Like anyone would dress up like that," Poland said. "Like, not even a Russian whore."


"He could have contraband."

"You want to stick your hand down his pants, I'll turn around," Poland offered. "You have fun with that."

"Fifteen minutes," Prussia hinted.

Belarus scowled--probably, not like she was a wealth of emotional variance, somebody had yanked her crazy knobs to the right until they broke off--and shoved the papers back into Prussia's hands. Prussia opened his mouth but apparently had a smart thought once in his life and closed it again. He gave them a jerky nod and turned around.

Halfway to the street corner, Belarus drew her pistol, sighted carefully, and shot Prussia directly between the shoulder blades. He dropped like a sack of wet laundry. Poland jerked, his lighter singeing a hole in his glove.

"I mean, I sympathize," Poland said. "But--why?"

"GDR Comrade lives on Schwedter Strasse," Belarus said. "There is no way he could have made it home in thirteen minutes."

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