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Chrysocolla hasn't powered up, hasn't patrolled, in -- god. She's not sure. Week and a half? Her henshin pen makes her throat close up when she looks at it now, but -- you know. It's good to work through those things!

She's seen Alexa - aka - Sylvite. She's fine. Amphitrite is fine. She doesn't know who else was in there, and she doesn't know if she'll care all that much. (It should be concerning. It isn't.)

But she can feel that aura from what feels like a mile away -- ugly-bright, sunshatter cutting through her skin - it's like the Knight with the glasses, the red hair, the one who had a sunburst emblem and looked like he hadn't rested well for a year. Same rank, same feeling - brighter. Ugly. Worse than a normal third-rank by miles. And, rounding the corner - she knows that stupid white hair, but - not like this. Not rainbow-glittering, not becaped, not - well. Not all decked out in stupid mock-warrior regalia. That's no fair. That's no fair at all.

So Chrysocolla took a pointed breath and coughed. "I'm surprised you weren't at the lockup, Knight. You talk the big talk - about justice - how come you didn't join in on torturing us for a week?" Her eyes glittered bright with fury, arms crossed over her chest. "You'd be delighted, wouldn't you?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Chrysocolla snarled, gritting her teeth -- her anger was boiling up under her skin like a living thing, red-hot and ugly in all the perfect wrong places. "I was patrolling with a Lieutenant my age - and you took us both prisoner for a week, abused us, chained us - nobody kept any track, any order, I was ignored for days until I cried and begged for water - wouldn't you have liked to see me debase myself like that, Knight?" Her words were filled with so much vitriol it was practically a physical thing.

"The powers that be have rewarded you with a rank up. Congratulations. Obviously they don't judge on merit, or the time I had your starseed in my hands would have disqualified you." She shifted from foot to foot, arms tense as they crossed, glaring daggers at Hyperborea. Not summoning her magic yet, but -- she was stronger than she'd been, from training with Cinnabar. Even though there was little chance she could beat a third-rank in hand-to-hand combat, but if everything went perfect, then maybe - well. No use dwelling on those.

"He glowed like you, you know," Chrysocolla hissed, stalking towards Hyperborea - there were faint rings of bruises around her wrists, mostly-hidden by her gloves, but not entirely. "But gold. Glasses, accent, sunburst symbol, red hair. Would you know him?" Her voice shook - clearly, no matter how angry she was or put-together she wanted to seem, it wasn't 100% legitimate. "Tell him he's just the greatest goddamn guy for torturing two fifteen-year-old girls and god knows who else."

Her fingers clenched so hard her knuckles went white under the fabric. This wasn't fine. None of this was fine.

"I used to be one of you until Laurelite saved me. And I don't care about heavenly bodies -" she took a few measured steps towards Hyperborea, glaring down - "I care about this planet. I don't care about some stupid rocks out in space whose people all died a thousand years ago! They're all dead! I -- don't -- give a s**t!" Her shoe scuffed against the ground in anger, dirtying the toe -- but it didn't matter. It'd be gone, when she powered up next time.

"...You forget, Knight."

A quick second -- and then with no warning, no movement, Chrysocolla was behind and to the side of the smaller girl - she focused on her own hands, thrust them towards Hyperborea's back's center, aiming to rip and tear -

and there was a harsh explosion of light, and she went flying back, skidding across the ground, blinking spots off of her vision and not thinking about how it would bruise - she hadn't hit a wall, but only just - and this ground was brick.

"Look at yourself."

Chrysocolla gestured to -- all of Hyperborea, really; the glittering marks racing up and down the smaller girl's skin. She coughed, then, still trying to pull air into her lungs - and barely caught herself on hands and knees when she was thrown to the ground, thankful for her gloves and boots that protected her skin. Her fingers closed around handfuls of crit and dust and what might-have-been snow some time ago (slush now, nothing but slush) - and she pushed herself to stand again.

"You -- you can't call yourself human, like that. Neither can I, maybe. But at least I accept it. How much of your life is this? How much of your life is spent looking to fight us?" She backed away from Hyperborea, circling the other girl warily. "I don't speak for everyone in the negaverse, Knight -" the smile on her face didn't match the venom in her words - "but you? You do this because you like it. You like hurting us, because you think you're doing the right thing."

She pressed her hands to her chest and whispered "Warhol Mood Reversal," cupping the orb gingerly when it shimmered into being, and looked for all the world like she might cry - or scream and rage - or maybe both.

"They died for you, because of you -" It was -- approximations. Guesswork. The way Hyperborea had snapped when parents were mentioned, and what she'd said now: truth or not, it might get a reaction. But -- no time to think about that. The way the Knight's shoulders collapsed, the way her eyes turned nervous: that was her favorite reaction.

(Maybe it was evil, to think that way. But these people weren't any better than the worst of her kind. They needed to be eliminated.)

(And she couldn't grab Hyperborea's starseed -- so she'd have to do this the hard way.)

She hooked her leg behind the Knight's knees, pulling, tripping her to the ground - at the same time, taking hold of the cape and ripping best she could. It irritated her. What also irritated her were those god-damn-crystal-laurels -- no no no, they were ugly -- Chrysocolla used her free hand to grab them from the other girl's falling head and dash them on the ground, shards shattering - cutting through her gloves, drawing blood - and she pressed her hand full of shards to Hyperborea's sternum, eyes burning, tears welling up because god what was she doing -

Corruption or death.

"Shouldn't have sold your soul," came the snipeback - the way Chrysocolla's eyes glinted, ugly and hard, was nothing like the way a girl her age's eyes should be. Up this close, there were bruised-purple half-circles under her eyes, colored the way they would be on anyone else -- but she had justification for this. She had a cause. She had a reason.

(She didn't listen too much to the little voice anymore. When you had a power, you had it for a reason: her reason was to get rid of brats like this.)

All the reasoning in the world didn't help her when her arm was bent back, though -- it hurt, it hurt something awful, and Chrysocolla cried out because she couldn't stop herself. And when Hyperborea activated her aspect, when her skin started to burn, Chrysocolla started to cry rough, rasping sobs - because this was all wrong.