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The roof housed scaffolding and thick canvas cloth intended to protect the new construction from light rains and winds - which entailed a prime location for Bischofite ti resign himself for a short rest. Behind the swaths of cloth, he found more than enough shadow to obscure his already dark form - and pale skin was easily smothered with the thick of black feathers at his back. While he could never fully commit himself to unconsciousness, the ability to close his weary eyes for but a breath already proved an incredible boon - and luckily, he still possessed one of the apples he squirreled away from Zircon's misplaced compassion.

However, the presence of a curious trespasser stole away what moments he had to nurse beleaguered necessities. Gold eyes peered out from behind the mask, catching fleeting glimpses of the boy as the canvas rattled from gusts of wind. Volatile hair, fishnet sleeves, punk glamor not terribly different from Kaulitz himself... And the method by which he carried himself struck the creature with such familiarity that it initially gave him pause.

Oh, yes... I know exactly who you are. We've met but a handful of times, haven't we? I hope I left an impression.

Rather than wrenching himself from the private darkness behind the scaffolding, he spoke loud enough for his voice to carry from beyond the fettered cloth. "What brings you to zis place, Matty? Don't you haf' a flower shop to babysit? I'm certain customers are missing your glowering snark while zey make zeir purchases. Or were you looking to step up your trite games of rebellion? I could help you wis' zat, if you're so willing." He paused, arms still wraped about knees folded to his chest. Only the very tips of his boots peered out from beneath the tattered remains of his uniform. While he waited for the teen's undoubtedly acerbic response, the creature rested his head against a too-bony knee.

Bischofite laughed - hollow and insidious, its roots in the guttural tones managed by his native tongue. "You don't want to ******** wis' me," he repeated, turning over the words slowly in analyzing their cohesion. "Oh Matty, wis' your polished switchblade, do you know how to use zat sing? Haf' you ever? It looks untouched - good as new. Just like you... Your yous'ful eyes, your lanky muscles, your energetic form in surmounting zis place. I could make you better, Matty. I could make you into somesing truly fearsome.

"So tell me, Matty..." Slowly Bischofite rose to standing, the edges of his peripherals unfurling in stars while his blood nearly left him cold. A drawn-out shuffle led him to the edge of the canvas where he lifted the flap just wide enough to allow for a full view of his exterior - from wings to bone mask. "Do you want to possess ze power of intimidation? I could lend it to you, for a price."

And what will you do, Matty? Turn that switchblade on me? Will you take this as an opportunity to protect your beloved sister? Your sister, who I've tarnished by now? Your mind is not so different than mine; it demands little effort to concoct a scheme to seek retribution. Your aims, though... How trite, how typical. I could reshape you, in time. You're much like... Ach, a younger, more naïve version of me. Still workable, still malleable. And perhaps, with enough careful guidance, you would join me in my stance outside the Negaverse. I suspect you have the same violent tendencies toward others - or want to embark in that direction.

Oh, if you knew the things I'd do to you...

A taloned hand grasped the scaffolding pole lightly, resounding in a few ringing clicks across the rough surface. "What do you sink, Matty? What is protecting your sister wors' to you?" Let's see if you inherited her same maddening need to place others before yourself.

"My name is Bischofite," he conceded in response. "Zough, you might know me better as Alois. You remember, right? Orah's friend." He wagered the shock of such realizations would buy him ample time to teleport behind the youth and block all exit. There existed behind him too little room to remain comfortable with an impassive approach - as the ledge lingered just behind him, he knew assertiveness to drive the teen back would prove a better option.

So advance he did, by placing taloned hands on both of Matthew's shoulders. The creature leaned forward, long beaked mask protruding into his peripheral vision. "You do remember me, right? Certainly your sister does. We could ask her, if you like. Surely you haf' a cell phone on you somewhere..." With a smile, his hands retreated from the youth's shoulders, one to seize hold of Matthew's own grip on his switchblade, and the remainder to frisk for pockets where the telltale shape of a cell phone might be found. "I suppose I should'f gotten to know you better - should'f bought you dinner first. Ach, so!"

His initial search found no results on the left side of the boy's body, and with his remaining hand occupied in securing the youth's grip, a thin smile wore on his face with a low chuckle while his left crossed over the boy's body. Almost immediately, he found the unyielding shape he was looking for, resting gently beneath the swath of jeans that hung only loosely fitted to Matthew's body. In his fingers slipped, struggling due to the awkward angle and presence of taloned fingernails, but he managed to work the phone free with little difficulty. Afterward, his fingernails slipped and slid across the slick surface, but he managed to activate the surface well enough.

"Unlock it," he demanded, as he held the phone flippantly toward the boy, only the top corners pinched between finger and thumb. It swayed and wobbled heavily in the light breeze. "And don't worry about calling up her number. I can type it in for you. Go ahead, Matty, call her. Ask her."

The fist struck his mask, likely painful for the attacker as well, and the small pressure allotted produced a pressure against one side of the bridge of his nose. Civilian strikes offered little more than an inconvenience anymore, when he found much more familiarity with the deadly strikes of those bearing power like he. All you know is self-preservation and anger, yet you're weak in both. I once thought you following in my footsteps. Are you ready to take the path, Matthew?

I am.

Dropping the phone, a hand darted into Matthew's chest at an inhuman speed, fingers sinking about a gem that the man likely never knew he had. The pain would be systemic, he knew, so his talons wrapped about Matthew's grip worked to pry the fingers free from blade. As soon as it would clatter to the ground, he would risk neither stabbing himself or Bischofite.

The attempt demanded great caution when he knew so little energy to execute it.

"You could be a wonderful pawn, Matty... Or you could be mine." He spoke the words softly, solemnly, shortly before a power so black and insipid coursed down his arm in a pain of equal greatness to what the youth was undoubtedly feeling - a hateful, dark burn that set every fiber of muscle, bone, skin alight in the most revolting and insidious agony. And with every second that he aimed to drown Matthew's formerly pure starseed, he felt his strength ebb in droves - in a certainty that he may not even be able to stand afterward.

Yet nothing became of him.

Nothing became of the boy known as Orah's brother, who still maintained his switchblade and his terrible hairstyle and his punk outfit replete with fishnets and zippers and all the excess garb Alois himself knew so well. And soon the remaining reserves of effort slipped away from Bischofite's grasp, leaving him to relinquish the boy's starseed and veritably lean on him for stability.

The last of his energy was used in summoning a stark crystal, simple as it was, shaped eerily similar to those that lay in the hearts of men and women.

He aimed for a wide broadcast, a frequency picked up by a surfeit of officers. "I found someone," he called, breathless. "Matthew Gowan - black hair, blue streaks. Dressed in punk attire. He seems a civilian, but I cannot corrupt him.."

And if he couldn't, he'd find someone else who would.

The air crackled for just a second, and then in a haze of black, a petite figure appeared next to Bischofite. She had the appearance of someone who was very well kept, though brushed down the front of her outfit all the same. At the commotion, her eyes lifted to observe the one she assumed to be Matthew, and she smiled, so very kindly, at him.

She didn't know if he could see him, but she knew that she was happy Bischofite had found them before a cat. Before he had wound up with the others. Her sweet expression hid the bitter rage that swelled inside her, and she looked between the two males. "Bischofite, thank you for calling me. Perhaps you would like to fill me in on what I've missed. This boy," she looked to the civilian and despite her words for Bischofite, her full attention was on the one she assumed to be Matthew. "You have tried to enroll him. You have failed," she said, though with what sounded to be more concern than reprimand. "Are you healthy? This is not an error on your part?"

She could be hopeful that this was, in fact, what she expected. She wanted a Senshi.

She didn't want a fluke, she wanted a weapon.

Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides as the only indication that she was excited about this; her calm demeanor was often misleading. She wanted so badly to plunge her hand into the boy's chest and pump him full of all the glorious energy Metallia had bestowed upon her, but Bischofite had found this man.

Bischofite should be an integral part of his transition.

But, please let this be a senshi, unawakened and untarnished by the White Moon. She didn't want to deal with another of those Transcended Senshi.

Hearing a woman's voice, Matthew's head jerked up as he panted, sudden hope making him weak in the knees. Oh god, an adult... he had so long ago out grown the desire to seek an adult for protection, but right now? He'd take whatever he could get...

At least until her words registered and he realized she was talking to this Bischofite guy as though she knew him. Asking him if he was healthy... asking him why he had failed. <******** hell... The teen jerked back as he watched the small hands squeeze in fists and release again, but a hand in his shirt stopped his retreat and dragged him to his feet.

You try.

"No! Please... I swear to god I won't tell anyone, just let me go!" Matthew babbled as clawed fingers dug into his shoulder to hold him still, a wing spread around him to hem him in dark feathers. Despite the pain, he pulled against the hold, his hands flying up to try and pry Bischofite's fingers from him. He had never thought people actually existed who could do things like this... he'd seen the news about terrorists, that documentary about the Negaverse, but... magic only existing in video games and movies and books, it wasn't supposed to be real! His mind even shied away from call these unearthly abilities 'magic'... they were so threatening and ******** ******** ********... what had he stumbled into? Was he going to die here? He really, really didn't want to die.

"Your hands are dirty, so you put zem on me?" Bschofite huffed, halfheartedly trying to shy away from her grip. The surge of power came soon afterward, a brilliant and roiling stream that nigh cooked the very fibers of him, which dispelled all inhibitions toward her touch. She was right, in a sense, which perhaps allowed him to receive the stream of power more readily. A hand soon sought the youth's starseed from his hold, ready to contribute the chaotic vastness that pooled into him.

His hand burned like fire without the release; inwardly Bischofite feared of imminent destruction should he refrain from seeking an outlet.

"You were always a brat, Matty," Bischofite hissed through his teeth. "You deserf'e zis, but you don't deserf'e what comes after. Rejoice in your bittersweet victory." If only Orah knew what we've done to you; I wonder if she would balk at this act? If she would praise it, request it for herself? No, Orah dislikes change, as evidenced by her continued stay at the flower shop, even if she insists on nursing or the like. You would do more with this than she ever could, Matthew. Don't disappoint.

A last push sent further chaos into the beleaguered seed, either cracking it or converting it to one of far darker deeds. He couldn't tell which; already his hands cooked as if the skin melted away. Idly he wondered if he'd come away from this with blisters on his hands.