=> [MINI META BATTLE] Phoenix Wrong

[saedusk]

Time felt like such an abstract concept as Aprife watched his own legs move, as he struggled to his feet. When he had gone down to his knees he wasn't sure, nor did it completely matter, not any more than the clearing smoke or the dying ring in his ear. Waking up from a dream when you didn't remember falling asleep was about how he felt in that moment, and time moved like molasses as he took in the room, the survivors surrounded by bodies. He couldn't believe in that instant how many had died, but then reality set in. It was more improbable that as many lived as he had counted. Errade had been fully focused on destroying everyone, even those who supported her. She had come very close to that goal.

He passed by a few trolls as he followed the living towards the inner circle where the traitor had fallen, only stopping when he reached Muerte's side. They exchanged no words, but Aprife realized he'd been injured, the fresh slice down his face looked raw and painful even through the haze. The fact that the greenblood wouldn't even be here if not for him hit home in that moment, and a twinge of something almost like regret made his nerves tingle. Of course he had known what he could be getting Muerte into, it wasn't as if this was a brand new thing, it wasn't as if he hadn't been in the rebellion all this time and experienced the brutal beat down going against the system had to offer. Still, he looked away quickly.

If he'd been a different troll, he might have apologized. As it were, Zeffer stole his attention now. Something was off, primal about him, and it took no deduction to understand what his intent was as he carried Errade's own weapon back to her where she sat cackling. There was heavy purpose in his step. Even as his matesprit, Aprife was unsure if he would've been able to stop him, not that he would have chosen to, not that anyone close enough to the action chose to, not even Byakko. It was easy to recognize the pain on her face, the anger, and surely she had a right. All the trolls who had died tonight, if anyone knew them enough to truly mourn their passing, it was Akko.

In one swift motion, the axe was raised, Errade was down, crushed beneath Zeffer's boot. Aprife waited, but when the payoff finally came, it caught him more off guard than he could've imagined.

There was a heavy thud, a sickening snap and Aprife's eyes could grow no wider as he balked at the scene. Orange blood pooled beneath her, but all he saw was yellow, a vision of himself, the forest, the strangers. In that instant he could feel the blade at his own neck like a cold, unwelcome specter of the past. Breathing was a luxury he could no longer afford.

A hand settled against his throat, fingers pushing too hard against the scar, a pulse vibrating from skin to skin with undeterred vigor. Alive. Pull it together, Invasi, you've still got your head. Blurred vision captured her head as it lulled into stillness near her body. The swimming at the edge of his vision began to fade as he realized he was looking at someone else, not himself, he was coming back to reality, and if nothing else what he heard next snapped him back completely. The yellowblood blinked the world into focus and time righted itself.

It would likely be surprising, when he mulled over this moment sometime later, that the anger never came. That redblood saw fit to undermine everything simply because they had given the traitor an easy way out? What were they to do otherwise, lock her away and feed her their food until she died or found a way to escape? Hah, she wouldn't live long without medical attention besides, and who here would offer it? Before he could say anything, she was gone, and the other yellowblood not long after.

Regardless of what they thought, his truth was much more significant to him than their misguided dreams of peace and hand holding. This was war, trolls died, blood was spilled. If his short stint in prison taught him anything, it was that the promise of life was fleeting. A friendly hand reaching down to rescue one from hell was never a guarantee. They had chosen to fight for a cause, and anyone who thought joining the Initiative would be without conflict or tough decisions had a lot of growing up to do.

There was only one regret in the orangeblood's demise, even if it was a small one, and it lay smudged in teal blood on the floor: USE HER. Ah, he would have agreed with that sentiment with unbelievable swiftness had the situation taken a different turn. While he felt no sorrow over Errade's death, she had gotten what she deserved in his eyes for all the lives she'd already ended and hardship she'd brought upon them, it would have been so much more satisfying to use her to their advantage before her end. It didn't matter now, though. She was gone.

Errade was out of their lives for good. Aprife had much more important things to worry about now. Finally stepping forward, he muttered a low "Zeffer" to alert the blueblood of his approach before he splayed a hand against his back, pressing gently, but firmly. "The kid is right," he was glancing between his teammates and Akko, but offering Kursha a short nod. At least he could think straight now. "We should probably get out of here."  

[kamileunaire]

When the sound of screeching rang out in the cavern, Zeffer almost thought that someone had been reacting to an injury, or waking up after being knocked out from Errade's bombs. Now that his focus was returning, his stomach sank at the horrific sight of the large room; corpses and bodies everywhere, from both sides, some mutilated beyond recognition whether from the fight or the blast. He sourly hoped that there would be survivors amongst them, but now he had something else to worry about, as he realized that the shrieks were addressing him specifically. His maddened eyes darted to the source of the high-pitched, petulant voice, and he stared hard as the redblood let loose a tiny tantrum for all the Initiative to see.

To say he felt baffled would have been an understatement. As she went on about fairness and morals, his eyes narrowed into confused slivers as he tried to understand the angle she was coming from. Did they really think it was going to be that simple? He huffed a short breath, almost a laugh, though the warm glow of his usual good humor had drained away long before the end of the fight. He met her angry gaze with one of disgust and perplexion. If this wasn't their chance to start fresh, he didn't know what was. The death of Errade should have been symbolic for everyone, and he had carried it out for the good of everyone. If the little redblood thought that she'd been the only one to suffer loss, then she was dead wrong.

Zeffer nearly exploded as Odette turned to snap at Byakko, a growl rattling in his throat. Pupils dilating, his mouth hung open as the little b***h had the gall to blame it all on Akko. He nearly launched himself in her direction as she turned to leave, but moments after, the frilly yellowblood decided to speak her piece as well. It was like a punch to the face, really. The blueblood let out a shaky breath and tried to ignore his bewildered feelings. Had they not seen what the orangeblood had done? Were they really so clueless, or did they believe that they were the only ones who were struggling? The blueblood roared, hoping it would get their attention.

"GET BACK HERE. GET THE ******** BACK IN HERE." His voice was raw, cracked, and he sounded more furious than he ever had. He paced, unable to stay still, fists clenched so hard that his claws began to dig into his palms. "You think this traitorous monster deserved to go on breathing? Do you actually think that you're the only ones who've suffered losses?" He snarled, voice echoing through the cavern, hoping that his words were carrying down the hallways. He wanted them to know just how moronic their actions were.

"She was answering to the military! This is vengeance for all of us, for all of those who have fallen! Mercy towards trolls like her is not an option. Do you honestly think that we're going to get results by 'fighting fair' and stepping softly!?" He spat on the floor, panting heavily. "We have to fight. This isn't a ******** game!!" Zeffer was about to haul after them and continue his tirade, when the hand on his back had his head whipping around. Aprife. The look in his eyes softened considerably as his matesprit murmured his name, and he inhaled, pump biscuit pounding.

A cough bubbled up from his chest before he could say anything else, and a bit of blood dripped down his chin. Zeffer was wounded all over, clothes drenched in blood and sweat, and shredded to hell. During the fight he'd been able to ignore most of the wounds he had received, but now, things were starting to sting, and ache, and the pain would only escalate from there. He reached to take the yellowblood's hand, and looked at him in tired puzzlement, glancing over at the retreating greenblood, before looking back again, between Aprife and Byakko.

"They need to ******** understand that this was necessary." He said, voice watery as he hacked up more fluid. His eyes were still unfocused, and he fought to swallow the anger that threatened to take hold again. "They pretend like they've never killed before. They think they're better than this, but they're not." by the time the sentence had ended, he was talking through clenched teeth, eyeing the doorway and willing those who had left to return. How could they pledge themselves to Byakko, only to pull this kind of bullshit at the end, when all was said and done? If they didn't find their way back, he would be happy to see them remove themselves. Once they began to rebuild, there would be no room for anymore weak links.
 

[Melancholies]

Shink

Muerte stared at the weapon, lodged now into the cave floor, head lolling as the body gave a few final spasms in tandem with the cut. She went still. His pulse thrummed under his skin, feeling electric and warm. The deed had been done. Errade now remained motionless under Zeffer's form, lifeless, gone. Had it not been for the dull ache in his lips, the greenblood was sure a hesitant tug would have formed at them, but instead they remained limp and stationary. The blueblood had put on a good show. He had to give credit when credit was due.

Clap, clap...

The applause was slow and tired, a quiet echo in the rather dreary room. Had it not been for the bodies piled against the walls, the sound would have surely gone on for longer, but instead it became muffled among the breathing and gasps of those still living. As Muerte stooped down to pick up his saw, a voice called out, shrill and shocked and panicked. Turning his head around slowly, his eyes caught the redblood, her face streaked with tears and her eyes wide with fury. For what? His gaze slid to the headless corpse for a second before snapping back as her tirade continued, glade thrown before Byakko's feet.

Part of him actually felt... astonished. He was utterly bemused. True, he didn't know the gravity of the situation as say Aprife or Zeffer, but he heard the stories from the latter; hell he heard Errade herself during this encounter, manic as she spilled out her guilt. She was at fault, was she not? His eyes narrowed slightly as the frail looking girl ran, though he outright sneered when the yellowblood followed suit. There were more who felt this way? Who were they? He recognized them from the fight, and surely he had seen them in passing a few times. He was completely perplexed. He found himself looking to the body again, contact locking with those soulless eyes. Empathy seemed like such a prized thing among individuals he noticed; Errade herself showed no mercy to anyone. She intended to take down everyone along with herself, those loyal included... this—this organization was small. Muerte assumed it to be close knit, it had to be. For such a group to task themselves with dethroning the crown, he was certain there was something deeply connecting everyone here, some innate sense of solidarity drawing them all together—yes, because that was the very thing that tugged at his mind in the first place! The thing that made him feel like an outsider, because he was. He was but a shadow in the presence of everyone else, he did not belong. Therefor... why was it wrong that Errade die? He admitted to himself that her death was nothing more but symbolism ultimately—signifying the end—as the amount of death made one more seem subsequent, but... why would anyone want to show her mercy?

Did those two truly garner any sort of sympathy for her? Wasn't this war?

It seemed inane to him. For Errade to be how she was even strictly in personality and character... was there any way that they could fall to her level, as Vremea had mention? Muerte supposed, sure, it was a possibility. But how did killing her make them as so? Her death was just—and he was being very accommodating here—as he looked at the situation from different points of view. Had he been one of the Initiative standing here now, he would be thirsty for redemption and revenge. Not to mention, if anything—he glossed over her wounds—she would have died quickly regardless. They gave her the mercy the other two trolls so called for. He spat to the ground, something bitter tasting in his mouth. Morons, every last one of them.

He finally took the time to survey those still standing; Zeffer, Byakko... there was a greenblood unfamiliar to him there too, as well as some other individuals he didn't recognize. Eventually he came to notice Aprife, catching for the briefest of moments the hand at his throat, fingers at his scar. Ah, yes, that night hadn't been so long ago, had it? Did Aprife still feel fear from the encounter? He supposed, in a moment of sympathetic generosity, that he too would have been... terrified, having almost died. Death was his one and only fear, one he did not so easily admit. He worked hard to prolong the eventual demise—in fact he opted out of considering his mortality, usually—and was not above any sort of alternatives to such a fate, his organic body be damned. What was it like, choking on your own blood? Suffocating, having to deal with watching the light fade from your vision. What did he feel or think in those moments, ones that could have so easily been his last? It was unlike Muerte to consider these things, and as such the thoughts were dejected almost instantly after the realization. What little kinship was there was gone in moments. He had resolved.

His face burned where the flesh separated.

Zeffer called for blood, snapping the greenblood's head up. Turning to look at the exit the lowbloods had used, he wondered if in fact they did hear. What the blueblood said was true—they all had made sacrifices—including the ones that never meant to. Muerte touched his face, finally acknowledging the wound beyond hissing from the pain. The blood had begun to thicken now, drying on his skin, a coagulated mess he was sure. He shuddered at the thought of his appearance now. It would not scar. He was absolute in this promise. He would not let it blemish his skin, he was ******** perfect. This would not ruin his image. In the same breath, he would not let those imbeciles undermine everything because they couldn't handle the scene that just occurred. He had sacrificed himself for no gain. Would those two so easily toss in the towel, having (he assumed) been through so much more?

"Morons..." he muttered under his breath, the exhaustion beginning to seep in. Hesitantly, he took a step towards the small group mingling around Errade's body, following Aprife as he moved to touch his battered matesprit, though Muerte himself remained awkwardly detached from everyone present, lingering out of their space

"Don't you all look spectacular," he noted sarcastically after Zeffer finished his spiel, eyeing up the trio, though Byakko herself seemed... surprisingly void of any real trauma. She must have been leader for a reason, then. Zeffer was the worse of them, naturally, "Honestly, I would say I'm surprised you're even alive, but I suppose roaches are hard to kill..." Muerte sighed, "It's just lucky for you that you're in the presence of a doctor. What would you idiots do without my expertise?"

He gave a silent acknowledgement to Aprife when he suggested leaving, glancing around the area. The blasts probably left the place very unstable, so surely the lot of them would evacuate quickly, however... his eyes slid over to Errade's body, in sight begging to be taken, though Muerte was sure that was out of the question. Still, he turned to the dwindling number of trolls, willing the last of them to funnel out quickly. Muerte would do his part as doctor, tend to his pseudo-comrades.

But first he would have his trophy.  

[saedusk]

In stark contrast to the obvious destruction around them, Aprife was tender as he quickly took the offered hand into his own. He could feel the blood through the gloves, warm and sticky against his palm where it had been drawn from the source himself. Zeffer's rage had been so palpable that he could still taste it on his tongue, even now, bitter. It upset him, but he held onto his calm exterior as best he could. There would be time for greater comfort later.

"They will learn." Would they? He couldn't know. Perhaps he would attempt to talk to them later. After all, he could be convincing when he tried.

For now, though, it didn't matter. For now, they had to get out of here, move on, worry about this unfortunate mess later. It was obvious Zeffer had taken more than his fair share of hits, and while Aprife definitely couldn't match his injuries, the weight of everything was beginning to make itself known. He was tired and everything ached. Everything, but his bloodpusher even more so as the blueblood coughed yet again, that awful, wet sound. He would be alright, Aprife knew that, but it didn't change the worry.

He wanted to be out of here. It was silly and certainly not very strong of him, but he thought briefly of his lusus and how nice it would be to hunker down with the old man as a pillow. There was simply no one softer and cozier than Bumbs.

Pleasant dreams, but ones cleaved in two as a familiar, notably abrasive voice filtered through the air around them. He couldn't even be mad. All he could do was halfway smile. "Where would be we be without you, Muerte?" he drawled. "I knew bringing you was a good idea."

Though he was speaking to the greenblood, he squeezed his matesprit's hand. It would be okay, the touch promised, you'll be well taken care of. The yellowblood still felt vague surprise that Muerte had stayed at all, but he was appreciative, at least, of the scientist's willingness to delve into the realm of medicine once more to come to their aid.

Ah, but- "What about you, you gonna be okay? That gash looks pretty nasty." Aprife was attempting to usher them all out, even as he questioned the greenblood, still remaining controlled, keeping any inklings of unwanted feelings (guilt) in check. Of course, he had no way of knowing Muerte had his own final plans to attend to before joining them.  

[leon_a_darkangel]

Stryke peered from behind the splintered table he'd found shelter behind. Blood still clung to him, and a dull ringing made it hard to really make out what was being said. Even when he's spoken it had been a deafening mumble almost like he'd stuffed cloth over his sponge clots. Swallowing nervously, his eyes darted around the room as the scene unfolded.

He'd told, no promised himself he wasn't going to look. Yet the resonating echo of the roar had made it impossible to ignore what was happening no matter how hard it was to hear. There was a faint gleam of the axe. The mixed degrees of emotions, the tension in the room was thick enough one could easily walk across it. Until silence overcame all present, and for Stryke at least, time seemed to slow down.

The resonating sickening crack made his jaw clench. As resigned to the world as he was, a cold sense of apathy settled deep in his pump biscuit. The rust colored blood pooling seemed to coincide with time resuming in an almost fast forward blur. Words were exchanged between those present, and their emotions added to the mounting tension. Errade Etturi’s life had ended. While no remorse found its way into his thinkpan he did feel bad for those who would otherwise wished her fate be spared. Be it morals, or their belief in things needing to be softer, or kinder whatever the case was it didn’t matter now. Letting her rot away in a prison had been one of his initial thoughts, but seeing as she was no animal to be caged…this seemed like the correct path.

The little yellowblood wasn't so sure; everytroll had their own reason and code of ethics and honor. That much was given, even in the vicious caste driven system they lived in. Yet, it was just as the fearsome blueblood had stated. They were at war.

The realization of being a part of a war was a fact that chilled the youngster straight to the bone. While gentle kindness and soft hearted remorse was admirable; there was no room for compromise. Not for a troll whose sole purpose was destruction of all those around her. Stryke truly believed the death had been clean. And swift, thankfully. Namely above all else, it had ended her suffering. There had been no toying with her, the deed was simply done. Her bleeding to death was due anon without treatment regardless. His only regret was that several of the trolls he wanted to think of as friends had been angry, crushed even and yelled, or had written in varying degrees of hurt.

However, there were no take backs in death. It was final and absolute. A hazy malaise fogged him as he began to move, staring blankly ahead.

Zeffer's roar at the retreating females fell on a numbed thinkpan as he quietly went to slip from the room. The greenblood's clapping and words he spoke left him feeling hollow. The kindness exchanged between the two matesprites, and their leader wasn't lost on him. Including how Lunear comforted Miliue, or how the adults one another. The three trolls in the center of the room were trying to pick of their fragmented reality all around them. Stryke found himself making a mental list in a vain attempt to have something to focus on. Someone would have to talk to the angry moirails; namely without rage and malice lacing their squawk gapers, no matter how righteous a fury. Stryke wasn't sure it was his place to try and talk to either distressed female, but he could try at the least when they were willing.

Scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve, he quickly decided he wanted not to be seen looking like some wiggler for the tears he had shed. This was no time for him to be a coward. Stryke knew only one thing in that exact moment; it was time to go. “you're right. we have to exit the room…the ssstructure isn’t safe.” He muttered to those left in the room as he walked away stiffly without looking back, lusus in tow.

Once outside the room filled with carnage, Stryke raised his hand as if to call out to either Odette or Vremea but found no words when he noticed Kursha rushing after Vremea. Instead, he found his eyes cast to the ground. He didn’t have it in him to try approaching either after what had transpired. Not right now anyway. So he walked onwards without looking up, wandering aimlessly while he tried to come to terms with what had taken place.  

[Hivestuck]

The hot air in the cavern was stifling, heavy with a mixture of bodily excrements and the strained tension that lingered above the group. Many of the surviving trolls had circled around Errade akin to a pack of wolfbeasts, all the while she continued to incoherently scream and hiss at those who had ousted her until her twisted face was orange. Rustic blood continued to pool on the ground. Errade clutched at her lethal injuries, lost to them, keeling over as she hoarsely screeched up at her executioners. The previous Head of Intelligence had offered no cogent response to those who addressed her.

She was only silenced once Zeffer swiftly delivered his justice with the traitor's own weapon.

The pool at her knees began to spread, much more rapidly now, as Errade's decapitated head lolled into a puddle of her own blood with a few light ripples. For a moment, all was silent, until discord broke out among the rebels.

---

The rocky hall beneath you murmured with a vague tremor. While the cavern around you seemed to be holding up surprisingly well, given it had just held up against several bombs, it seemed wise to evacuate for the mean time and regroup later.




This thread will remain open so you may continue to roleplay. The final meta orp/closer will be posted tomorrow afternoon~  

[seekingCylem]

Zeffer decapitated Errade. Rasali was sickened by the sight, by its proximity, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be surprised. They were surrounded by so much death already, literally and figuratively. What was one more? Rasali’s dismay stemmed from the lack of solace Errade’s just punishment brought her. It wasn’t like she learned anything in her final moments. She wasn’t repentant. If that heavy of a loss didn’t have any effect on her outlook, she really was irredeemable. She was a monster.

Was. Was. Was. Rasali forced herself to look upon Errade’s headless corpse as the trolls around her yelled and shifted around her. Rasali had come to these caves in order to redeem her failures, but now she found herself saddled with even more responsibility. She hissed around a tight inhale as she thought briefly of the troll that saved her from the blast. She wanted deliverance and all she received was a greater burden. This was a tragedy.

It was also unacceptable. Tragic as it was, Rasali refused to let things, the Initiative and her involvement, end on these terms. These terms were decided by an awful, awful person. Rasali felt sick even to refer to Errade as a troll. Trolls were better than this. Rasali was better than this.

Rasali inhaled and exhaled slowly and methodically, only for the breath to be knocked out of her again as the caves rumbled. Survival instincts drove the sad thoughts from Rasali’s mind. If it weren’t for the threat of a cave-in, she would be grateful.

”Let’s hope it isn’t daylight on the surface,” Rasali muttered. With a solid jerk, she wound her chain around her forearm. Turning on her heel, Rasali gave the room one brief, final look.

Byakko. Rasali wanted to catch Byakko’s eye, but was reluctant to bring more attention to herself. The atmosphere was tense and somber. It was appropriate for a room littered with so many unnecessary deaths. To blatantly interrupt this moment seemed excessively cruel to the deceased.

Rasali gave a stern, purposeful nod in Byakko’s direction. Rasali said she supported Byakko’s cause and she meant it. She hadn’t seen the last of her.

However, for now, Rasali needed to go home.  

[melona-pan]

Trolldad had often lectured a young Byakko about her rage; it was a problem, she needed to learn how to redirect her aggression into assertiveness in order to be effective as a leader. But it was a strenuous task to lecture sweeps of feral instinct out of a troll, and she had never particularly understood the difference.

Now, as she stared down at the glassy eyes of Errade's head resting in a pool of her own rustic blood, a sinking bolt of realization struck a chord somewhere deep in the mutant's thinkpan. She had been selfish. Was selfish- she still felt no penitence over Errade's death. Akko had thirsted for Errade's blood, wanted justice for her lost comrades, and most quintessentially of all, Zhuque. Avenging Trolldad had always been a pipe dream, one that she had rocked herself to sleep fantasizing about many days in her recuperacoon. While she flinched as Zeffer swung Errade's own axe with a feral roar, Byakko felt no shred of sentiment for the traitor. Only satisfaction.

But that was her justice- not the Initiative's. The cold chill of dread swept through her body, not out of remorse over Errade's death, but over the realization that she had put her own wishes before what was best for the Initiative. Something she had taken an oath never to do. Given, Errade was lethally wounded, and there was no promise she would have been of any use, but shouldn't they have tried? She swallowed hard, shoulders softly shaking as she continued to gawk down at the rippling blood of the woman who had, prior to this night, been considered one of her most loyal. Everything else in the cavern seemed hazy, out of focus. Akko knew that the traitor could have been useful, recognized it, went to stop Zeffer- but she had tossed logic to the wind, renounced her prior reluctance and given him her consent. Her bitter resentment had won. Selfishness prevailed.

Would Trolldad be disappointed in her?

Byakko's wide gaze flitted to Zeffer, her executioner, matching his own distant stare. The clatter of Errade's axe echoed in her skull, as did her final gurgling scream as the blade sliced through flesh and vertebrae. Their exchange had been fleeting, and before Akko had time to recollect herself and speak up, Odette was screaming at Zeffer. Akko's lips parted in disbelief. The redblood turned, verbally lashing her wrath on Byakko. She froze.

Odette's words stung as they slapped the rebel in the face, the pounding of her pump biscuit in her ears crescendoed. Change things for the better? She visibly shook with some dark emotion, knuckles whitening around her spiked club. No- Byakko didn't regret Errade's execution. Even with the loss of potential information, it was for the greater good. Hadn't they collectively spoken and proven the traitor's guilt, hadn't Errade confessed her sins for all to witness? She was steadfast in her decision. What other possible outcome had the redblood hoped for, what morales did she speak of? Regina flashed through the mutant's mind, her imprisonment, their encounter- the Queen's mockery of the integrity of the rebel's code. The Initiative stood for equality above all, proving one's worth through actions rather than birthright. What punishment short of torture would befit Errade over execution, seeing as she had slaughtered hundreds? Were they just to throw away the sacrifices those made tonight?

Still, Odette's tearful words continued to rip at Byakko. In some distant way, the girl's situation seemed to echo her own. Akko had nothing until the Initiative took her in, and she didn't fully appreciate what she had until it was torn from her. They had given her everything, it imploded on itself, and Byakko had burned what little was left in the name of retribution. Everything and everyone was gone. Death and destruction, indeed. Her losses didn't discredit Odette's own- but surely the other girl recognized the risks of being in the rebellion. Akko's expression visibly crumpled as Odette pointed at her. While she disagreed and remained vehemently resolute in her choice, was even confused by the other girl's reaction, Akko still felt a burning playing at the edges of her vision as Odette grieved. She didn't blame her for being distressed- how could she? They were promised a trial. While Errade's fatal wounds had put a halt to that, there must have been alternatives. They could have tried. She should have at least listened.

Her anguished bewilderment only mounted as Odette fled, tossing her weapon to Byakko's feet, and Vremea began to speak. Akko still failed to see the sin in killing, given the circumstances, but she desperately wished she could see it from the pair's perspective. She had no words. The rebel leader didn't know how to react to two of, what would be, her veterans reactions of anguish. Even if she had found the words, grasped at some sort of audible response through her swollen throat, Vremea had turned and left before she could choke anything out.

She felt like she was walking on glass.

Until that moment, Byakko had managed to hold herself together. Save her flickers of emotion and uncomfortable shifting, she had concealed... well, everything. Her overwhelming confusion over the girl's discord. Her horror over Errade's betrayal and death, the trauma of knowing essentially every troll she knew lay dying or dead, scattered around the cavern. Concealing, she was good at. She hid her blood, she hid her identity, she usually hid her feelings. Hiding was easy.

This, wasn't.

The discord shook her. Byakko's kanabo slipped from her sweaty palms as she reached to clutch at herself, shuddering with a single sob as her composure snapped. It cluttered loudly to the stone floor. She looked away from the few trolls gathered near her, friends, but was only met with the charred faces of the dead. A second sob escaped her lips, stifled halfway by a choke. She couldn't risk looking weak, not now, not after everything she had fended off with her stony walls. She cursed herself.

She snapped back as metal scraped on stone, Kursha had retrieved Odette's weapon. Akko's eyelids fluttered as she struggled to hold back tears, barely managing to fend off the cursed mutant hued liquid, as he noted his support. Byakko twitched. Her biscut lurched temporarily before plunging back into despair- at least he understood. If Zeffer had faltered, surely he would have reacted. She smiled weakly in thanks at her teammate, unconvincingly, but she appreciated his words nonetheless. They did nothing for the shattered feeling.

More screaming, from Zeffer this time. His furious words were mostly drowned out by the ringing guilt in her head, but she knew his intent regardless. He had her back, as always. "Zeffer, stop," came cracked words. Her raw throat stung. She didn't know if he had heard her, but as her vision slipped to him, her expression was clearly one of defeat. She agreed whole heartedly, but the fighting was over. The rebellion couldn't take any more hits tonight.

The banter between the others was lost to her, as she continued to stare glossily around the cavern. Faces of the dead were everywhere. The room was grim to a drowning degree. She had given Aprife a shaky smile, expressing her genuine pleasure to see her friend alive and well, and given Muerte a lone nod of appreciation before turning to gaze around the room. Her eyes met Rasali as she dizzily looked around- the greenblood nodded. Byakko felt a pang of elevation once more, and returned the purposeful nod. She had found a valuable ally in Rasali, at least, Byakko was certain of that much.

"We really should get going." Byakko spoke suddenly as she felt the tremors from the base tingle up her legs, turning to the small group collected around Errade's corpse. "It might not be safe here." They could regroup later, but for now, everyone clearly needed some rest. She would be back to check for survivors once the others had been evacuated.

Byakko retrieved her kanabo, and after gesturing to the remaining trolls left lingering in the cavern, made her own exit. Glancing down the hall, her eyes narrowed on the others who had already taken their own leave. Was Kursha trying to make amends with the girls? She noticed Stryke, seemingly on his own, wandering shakily throughout the base. Byakko balked before hesitantly approaching the boy, deciding her luck was better used on the boy than the two who were obviously furious with her. "Are you alright... Stryke?" She paused as she recalled his name. He was well spoken for his age, and seemed to have a much better grasp on their situations than some of the older members. He shared her sense of justice, and was clearly merciful; his only wish was Errade to have a swift death. Byakko appreciated where his morales lay.

At least all was not lost.  

[leon_a_darkangel]

Stryke heard someone ask him if he was alright, and namely use his name. Blinking slowly, he stopped looking rather awkward as if he hadn't expected to be spoken too. While he still was visibly unstable, he had it in him to tip his head back and look up into the eyes of the tealblood whom had addressed him. The voice belonged to none other than Byakko. She looked pained, even if her face tried for a stonewall appearance. Being attentive to his surroundings and namely others was second nature to the yellowblood. Besides, it didn't take a genius to discern she was upset.

It took him a moment to decide how to answer her simple question, a tired look on his face reflected his inward termoil as he slowly, and rather tentatively nodded. "yesss..i will be. i just need to go home and collect myself. sleep in my own recupracoon for a long-while..but then again, time is the great equalizer after-all." Sighing slowly he offered her the semblance of a half-smile, although it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He wasn't fine at all, not right now at least. But this wasn't about him directly, he was only a piece of a greater puzzle.

A horrible fate had fallen on the Initiative this night. Its people had suffered as a whole, but if any were to grieve, he believed it was this troll. As much as he sympathized with his friends, none were faced with the choices she had to make but her own self. Stryke never believed in asking another trolls to change themselves, be it for better or worse. He would not start now.

However, that wasn't to say he knew without question that they had all paid a price; some greater than others. Some had paid in blood, and others had paid their toll in emotions. So was the world they lived in.

Something occurred to him; Ryk felt he needed to be clear with her of his intentions. His next words were no half lie. Stryke spoke from his heart. "that aside. i stand by what i said in the meeting room when i met you initially byakko. " He concluded, demonstrating his support and loyalty to her without a wordy explanation or further reasoning. There was no need. He had a nagging suspicion Byakko would understand, so he fell into silence momentarily choosing his next words carefully.

After a moment or two, he spoke again without intent of pressuring her. "what about you? are you alright?" He asked gently, eyes on the older troll waiting to gauge her response.  

[Melancholies]

Ah.

His sardonic voice slowly rang out around the cavern, quietly dying in his throat as Aprife made mention to his wound. His face remained frozen, mouth gaped mid-word before it carefully closed. The gash, of course. The one that was scrawled across his face, messy as if a child had taken a marker to his face. He was sure his cheeks and his jaw were splattered with green—when he glanced down at his shirt for a moment, he could see the fluid bright against the white fabric, having dripped down during the fight. The gash. The one on his face—the one that absolutely wouldn't ever, could not ever scar. His pulse started to quicken under his quiet demeanor, hands clammy and uncomfortable in his gloves.

The gash.

The, ah, wait. What?

His eyes bore into Aprife's, cold and distant and for a second seemingly empty. Vacant. As if his cognition and recognition had simply left him—to where? Who knew? They were completely unreadable if only because they, for that second, became tiny windows into a void of... nothing. A puppet, almost. He forgot to breathe. Was that necessary? Probably. Muerte tilted his head to one side quizzically.

"What gash?"

He sounded earnest. Or well, as earnest as he could sound through the thick cut of his dreary dead voice. There was no emotion there; something had severed inside of him much in the way the skin parted on his bruised, oozing cheek. His chest rose and fell a little abruptly as he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, eyes sparking slightly, narrowing with a cold vehemence. What was Aprife even talking about? He almost balked out a laugh. The side of his mouth that hadn't been split with the gash offered a tiny grin, twisting like a snake, only a smidgen of his sharp teeth showing from behind his bloodied lips.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean." And it's true, he didn't. For the smallest, briefest moment, he had forcibly forgotten. The pain was numb in his face. His hands were no longer sweaty and disgusting—they were numb, too. His feet, as he took steps to brush past the yellowblood, felt as if they were pushing through static, walking on the same white noise he could feel budding in his ears. "Listen to your leader, fool. We really must be going."

Ironic given how the greenblood was facing the direction opposite to the exit. He would follow them shortly, but for the moment he waited for their quiet retreat. The footsteps were lost to the ringing in his head soon enough regardless. Casting a look over his shoulder, he saw the last of them retreating away, low ominous growls coming from the depths of the room. Equilibrium had been misplaced somewhere along the way—the qualia in his head had a funny taste to it now. He was alone in the room.

The saw felt light, like a feather.

Kneeling down by Errade's headless corpse, he pondered a multitude of things for a short time. Life was so fragile and meaningless sometimes, wasn't it? Just like that—he regarded her lifeless eyes—everything was gone. What was it like? Was it empty? Was there consciousness after death? Was Errade still cursing the rebels, locking in the throes of her hysterics, from somewhere beyond? Or was it dark and cold and nothing. He shuddered. Death was a frightening thing.

Muerte had already decided he was never going to die, however,

True, in the heat of the battle, Muerte had let the most of his rage out. The anger and frustrations of the investigation, the confrontation with Aprife, being dragged here in the first place. Perhaps they were petty reasons in retrospect given how seriously it affected everyone else who was present—jail, war...—but Errade was still the cause of it all, regardless. She was the cause of his current misfortune. She was the cause of the wou—

Ah, no, she wasn't the cause of the wound on his face, because he didn't have one.

There was that sick half grin again, though rather than having empty eyes they were filled with something that absolutely burned bright indignation. Knocking the dismembered head away with the back of his saw (he simply grew bored having look at her face), he quietly poised the weapon. He slammed down.

His weapon was made for sawing, being well, a saw. But more so it was truly there to be a bonesaw and, well—as Muerte pressed down-crack!-and held up a lifeless hand, dripping coagulating blood—it was pretty well suited and good at its purpose. What a lovely specimen. For a second he allowed himself to marvel at his trophy.

Though it wouldn't do good for someone else to see. Those neanderthals didn't comprehend or understand or want to understand science or medicine or the importance of his work and so, with a fluid motion, he tucked the object away into his lab coat. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, not his mind really. Rising to stand on his feet, he looked down at the headless, now also handless body.

"I do truly hope death is as awful as I believe it to be. I unfortunately cannot say it was a pleasure."

Offering the body no other words than that, the doctor turned on his heels, the quiet clicking sounds of his boots being one of the last sounds to grace the scene of the crime.