Icy wisps of air circled up around Clerise as she peered down the hefty flight of stairs, the darkness ahead of her a comfort. It was time to stop being a useless piece of s**t and be a big kid with the real hunters.

It was embarrassing, given the fact that she was a good four years older than most of the trainees.

Unfortunately, the momentous occasion was peppered by anxiety that was only just covered up by excitement-- she felt it all in her bones, rattling around in them.

Times were changing, and for once, she wasn't being left behind.

Which meant she needed to take life by the horns, or something.

Taking the steps four at a time, the acrobat lithely leaped down into the dim, surefooted in her trusty, albeit worn, sneakers. They made a shrill sound against the stone floor as she whirled around the room, peering at each weapon's tablet for no more than a moment, her energy levels unbearably high as she waited for the sensation the other hunters had described in brief.

She didn't dare touch them. Not yet. Clerise Wilson knew that she had signed her life away (for a second time), and that she had killed and been killed for this rebirth, and yet...

Getting a weapon. That added some...finality to the matter.

To gain a weapon would mean to gain a division, which meant a team she would need to dedicate her life to once more. It was so recent that she'd been torn away from her troupe-- but...

The connection wasn't a strong one. Her old troupe had disbanded a year ago, and the new one was more of a rag tag group than anything else. For ******** sake, they were in Chicago in January, they obviously were not the best...and not very smart to boot.

The thought of a new...family, or something like it, made the redhead's heart clench. Most of the time she had been angry, drinking and working to drown out the sounds and shadows.

But the people here; they knew the shadows. Knew them as intimately as she did, the seductive croon of whispers promising her demise.

Clerise slowed her skip to a walk, fiery eyes peering at each individual tablet. Many of the crude pictograms bored her; blades and firearms and melee weapons. From lances to flails, brass knuckles to crossbows, rapiers to war hammers.

Every weapon she could dream of was present, etched into the glowing stones. She circled the room, walked the full circle and--

And not a single one called to her.

"What a bunch of horse s**t," the acrobat muttered, her voice shakier than she cared for it to be. Not like the ******** could hear her anyway-- if they even could. They seemed like a dead bunch--

It came upon her like a serpent, the vibrations winding around her like a constricting snake, and Clerise whipped her head around so fast she nearly gave herself some whiplash. Red eyes glared at the walls, narrowed.

"Which one of you ******** is that?" she asked, curiosity leaking into her voice. The only answer to her query was a laugh, low and raspy, and a pulling sensation right behind her eyes, beckoning to Clerise in a rather insistent manner.

The surefooted girl fell towards the tablet that summoned her-- one of the first ones by the door. She'd overlooked it before, because it looked like some sort of ring or bracelet. The urge to press her face to it was overwhelming-- the beckoning wanted her there, as close as she could manage.

{[ You're an idiot. Put your hand on it, please. ]}

At the voice, Clerise screamed and scrambled back, eyes wide. It came from...inside her head, but that was impossible. Scooting backwards, the girl glanced around like pre-roadkill deer in the face of a semi, fingers curling into tightly balled fists.

{[ ...You must be the world's only living brain donor. C'mon now, none of this. Do as I said. ]}

The voice invading her mind, or at least the space between her ears, was gravelly. Not quite monotone, but certainly on the flatter end of the spectrum, and ...was that...Australian? Was he a ******** Australian?

{[ You know, love, I can hear you quite well? ]}

Clerise paled a little, standing slowly. She peered at the tablet-- really? This ...this was her formidable weapon? She'd seen some of what the others had-- sniper rifles that glowed and blades so sharp they could split a hair. But a whirring started at what felt like of the base of her spine, crawling up her well muscled back, the cacophony tremendous.

"Okay! Okay I got it already, holy s**t! You're ******** impatient!" Immediately, the woman pressed her right palm to the tablet-- the tingling in her hand was remarkable. Unfortunately, that ******** buzz didn't seem to go away at all. Instead, the sensation of movement got stronger as the little rock glowed brighter before dissipating into thin air--

The replacement?

A large metal hoop, easily half her height, now rested on her arm as if she was carrying a ******** easter basket or something. It was a good thing she hadn't ever slacked on the pushups and aerial gymnastics, because the hoop was HEAVY. She peered at it with inquisitive eyes-- it really was like a large, bladed hoola hoop. A solid inch of metal thick, and a good four or five inches wide, with two indents on the outside where she could grip the thing safely. The inside of the weapon was smooth, rounded even, for use... but the outside?

Carefully, Clerise ran a finger along one of the sharp points, and was shocked by the fact that it drew a nice little droplet of blood.

{[ Are you quite done copping a feel, Clerise Wilson? ]} he asked and admonished at the same time, but she was too fascinated to feel any real shame.

"What are you?" she asked, wondering if there was a better term besides...you know. Calling it a hoola hoop of death.

{[ I quite resent the term, albeit its accuracy. ]} He didn't share the private irony of being a former grim reaper with the girl. The touching details of his past life could come later.

{[{[My name is Balthazar, but you may call me Captain until we are further acquainted. ]} he replied breezily, and it was clear that if he had a hand to wave, he would have.

"Crotchety b*****d, aren't you?" the redhead quipped back halfheartedly. She was still fascinated by the weight of the hoop in her hands, giving it an experimental spin on her arm. It was clear she'd need additional strength training to utilize him fully. While Clerise was well aware of aerial hoop tricks, she knew fully that it was quite different from having one for a weapon.

"Pleased to meet you anyway, a*****e. Captain. Whatever."

Balthazar said nothing in reply, merely scoffing as Clerise climbed the stairs, carefully hoding the weapon so it wouldn't slice her palms.

He'd chosen her, sure-- but Clerise had a feeling that she was...a tool, a means to an ends. A way out of this little cell and up into the bright world above. She couldn't blame him; Deus was using her, she was using them, and now they could exist in symbiosis, if necessary.

It still didn't change the fact that Captain hadn't exactly welcomed her with open arms.

{[ Wilson, ]} the weapon replied with abject exasperation. {[ I don't have any arms. ]}