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She’s a devil.
He just has to keep telling himself that— has to keep the words on repeat inside of his skull, has to close his eyes, screw them up tight, and think back to the days of his conscription when Marley taught him up was up and down was down and that Eldians were at fault for everything bad in the world.
But then he looks at her, and he wonders.
She’s a devil.
A devil in normal, drab clothing that you’d find at the market in just about any internment zone; a devil who mostly hunts for her meals, who lives off the land because she considers it a waste to do things any other way; a devil who plays intricate pranks on her comrades, and always gets away with the ensuing mischief because of her infectious laughter.
She’s a goddamn devil, he reminds himself once again, standing over a yet another large searing hot cauldron of boiling liquid while blankly staring down into its depths.
Niccolo watches wordlessly as bubbles of various sizes rise to the surface before they pop, and he feels his own stomach churning in a manner akin to the way that his stew is currently simmering.
Because yes, she’s a goddamn devil.
But Sasha is a devil with a cute band of freckles from constant exposure to the sun that spans all the way across her face and crinkles in just the right way whenever she smiles.
Sasha is a devil who he sees holding the hand of a crying child while making funny faces to cheer them up simultaneously, even if she’s falling apart from having to do her duty as a solider on the inside.
Sasha is a devil who cried with a mouthful of lobster, complimenting his food without giving a damn who or what he was— and that one simple act of kindness had in turn made him realize that he, too, possesses a true passion for creating joy.
She’s a devil.
But if she’s a devil, then maybe he is, too.