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 Posted: Thu Nov 03, 2011 12:16 am
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Posted: Wed Apr 11, 2012 10:19 am
He stood at the edge of the doorway and did not want to take a step in.
The loft was a simple one, not too big, and not too small, and filled with very neat, very precise furniture that was all glass and silver and smooth. There was a stack of books on the end table beside the grey leather couch, all by the same author - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - along with a pair of reading glasses folded up tidily beside them. The kitchen was the same as it ever was - pristine and clean, all of the appliances (there weren't that many to start with) clean and shining, and set in their proper places. The cabinets were all closed, the drawers were all shut, and everything was as it should have been.
It felt like a hospital, Magiore decided. Or a museum.
With a sigh, he stepped into his apartment and closed the door behind him with a small snap. Inside it was quiet - almost a deafening sort of silence that rose and through the air and muffled everything in its path in a suffocating sort of way. He stood there, leaning against the closed door, and twiddled the keys in his hand, the quiet clinking noise of metal against metal somehow soothing. Magiore had not had much time lately to spend down in the workshop, not since he'd become...
...well, what he was. Which unfortunately was most definitely not Sherlock Holmes, as much as he wished it was. Destiny City was a far cry from London, England, and Lieutenant Aurostbite was nothing near as intellectual or intelligent as the Great Detective himself.
Magiore sighed. He stepped over to the table beside the couch, dropping his keys onto it - they made another clink - and picking up the top book on the stack.
A Study in Scarlet. Magiore idly flipped through the well-worn pages, stopping every now and then to read a specific line that he had highlighted, or a phrase that he had circled. Sometimes there were entire paragraphs covered in that awful, florescent, neon-yellow and he had to strain his eyes to be able to read the slightly smeared black text beneath it. But the words were as familiar to him as his own voice, and he indulged in them, let himself be lost within the pages of the story.
Being Lieutenant Aurostibite was not a story. He could not just highlight the parts he wanted to remember and skim over the bits that were more unappealing or more difficult to read. Sometimes he wished he were able to just close that chapter for a while, set it aside, and then come back to it when he was ready, more prepared.
Unfortunately he couldn't do that. There was no closing this chapter. It was open, permanently and irrevocably, as though the ink from the pages of the Negaverse had crept off and slipped up his fingers, sinking into his veins until he was entirely covered in black and the words were ringing in his head, resounding throughout his thoughts.
He did not wish to escape them, but sometimes he wished he could pause just a little longer to make himself stronger. Diving into the Negaverse head first had been his idea - with help and encouragement from the General-King, of course - but now he wondered if he had been too rash, too hasty in his decision. He did not wish to leave, and he did not regret his choice in the long run, but he wondered if he should have taken more time to become stronger.
He was like John Watson before meeting Sherlock Holmes - someone caught in their own nightmares without a way out, their path before them uncertain and unclear.
Why am I Watson? Can't I be Holmes? He always knew what it is that was to be done. I don't.
Magiore's eyes skimmed the pages, traced the curves of the letters printed there.
This is the path that I have chosen.
Is it the path that I want?
The answer to that, at least, was clear. Magiore's thumb brushed against the familiar feeling paper, rough and uneven against his skin. The book was one of his favorites, and Sherlock Holmes had always been his inspiration, the one steady thing in his life. It reminded him of things he could have been, things he wanted to be, things he loved.
Things he hoped he could be.
This is what I want.
He closed the book.
[ WORD COUNT: 750 ]
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Posted: Fri Dec 26, 2014 4:16 pm
Sometimes he thought about her.
(That was a lie, he thought about her all the time, more so than he meant to, more so than he had ever thought he would, especially from their first meeting. He had never before thought that he would be caught in something so incredibly confusing, and he often wondered why it was that he couldn't seem to make up his mind, why it seemed like he couldn't discern what was reality and what was merely an illusion.)
He remembered the touch of her hand on his face, the feel of her fingers drifting over his cheek, down his jaw (Real? Illusion?). He remembered the press of her lips to his own, the gentle parting of them so that he could taste her cool breath on his tongue, revel in the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her words that he muffled with kisses of his own (A memory, or a fantasy?). He remembered the way she had leaned so that her back was against his chest, his arms around her, his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, and the way that she had curled into him like a cat, content to lie there with him forever (Real or not real?).
He missed her. He wanted her.
(No he didn't. He wasn't a part of her world, a part of that world. He was Lieutenant Aurostibite, dog of the Negaverse, a member of the General Operations branch, someone who did what he was told because it was what he believed in, not because someone had forced him into it. General Zinkenite had recruited him for a reason, had shown him the way to go, and he was going to follow that for as long as he could. That was who he was, that was where he belonged. There had been no other choice to take, because he hadn't wanted a choice; when he'd been scouted by Zinkenite, Magiore Carpenter had found what he was looking for - and what he hadn't been looking for. It had been like a breath of fresh air, a gust of wind that had carried him to the right time and the right place, and he had known then and there that it was where he'd wanted to be; that Aurostibite was who he wanted to be.)
He wanted to call her.
(A bad idea.)
He wanted to talk to her.
(Another bad idea.)
He thought he might go crazy without seeing her.
(Maybe he was already mad.)
He could not seem to settle his thoughts. He kept them to himself, buried them deep within his heart, and wondered whether or not there would be a better path to take than the one he was already on; if there was somewhere else he could go so that he would not be as conflicted inside as he was. But he already knew there was nothing.
There was nobody except himself, nothing except the confused mess of his own mind.
[ WORD COUNT: 506 ]
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Posted: Fri Dec 26, 2014 9:12 pm
The phone call went badly.
Come to think of it, he really shouldn't have called in the first place; but as it was, Magiore hated leaving things undone, or uncertain. Open-ended had never really worked for him - even in books and movies, ambiguous endings with no resolution made him irritated. He over analyzed them to death afterwards, at least until he had come up with a solution that he was satisfied with.
This was no exception.
When he'd woken up, he hadn't planned on calling, but seeing as how the rest of his day was going to be relatively uneventful, Magiore had thought there would be no harm in it. He'd sat on the leather couch in his living room, staring moodily at the glowing screen of his phone, until finally he'd worked up enough resolve to type in the familiar letters of a name. The contact had popped up, right as rain, and then it had been another five minutes before Magiore had actually pressed the button to start the call.
He regretted it approximately three seconds after it had started ringing.
"Magiore? C'est que vous?"
He winced slightly. "Bonjour, grandpere."
(Magiore was not French, but his grandparents on his mother's side had been born in Marseille - and in spite of having American parents, had been raised to speak primarily French. They had taught it to their children, who in turn had taught it to Magiore.)
"Comment allez-vous, Magiore?"
"Ca va. Et vous?"
The conversation went on like that for a few moments longer: mundane chatter about nonsensical things before it turned into deeper subjects such as Magiore's future, his goals, his intentions. There were, of course, a few brief moments spent on whether or not he was getting married anytime soon (no); whether he was going to attend graduate school at all (also no); and if he wanted to visit France in the near future (yes, but not for them).
Needless to say, it was an exhausting conversation. Magiore tried to switch back to English after being reprimanded for his lazy French, only to have his grandfather rattle off several reasons why he needed to keep using it and not to forget it. It was somewhat embarrassing, but Magiore was used to it by now, and mostly just took things with a grain of salt.
(Or several. A truck full of salt.)
When he finally hung up, nearly an hour and a half later, Magiore severely regretted his life choices. He tossed the cell phone onto his glass-topped coffee table, propped his feet up on the edge of it, and leaned back into his couch, staring up at the ceiling. It was moments like these, he thought, where he was glad to live alone. He did not have his parents, nor his grandparents (especially since they lived thousands of miles away) breathing down his neck, constantly asking for updates on his life. It was much appreciated that Magiore only called home once a week to his mother and father, and once a month to his grandparents.
(Even that was too much sometimes.)
[ WORD COUNT: 518 ]
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Posted: Sat Dec 27, 2014 9:28 am
He read a few lines of his book and decided that he couldn't concentrate and went into his workshop instead.
The loft in which he lived was more of a studio apartment. Magiore had spent a great deal on rent in order to find a quiet place that he could both spend time and also be able to do as he pleased without interference from nosy neighbors or landlords. It was two bedroom, with a large living room and attached kitchen, complete with island jutting out from one wall where he sat to eat, instead of a table. The first and larger of the bedrooms was Magiore's; the second had been converted into his office slash workshop. It wasn't particularly big, but there was at least enough room for him to work without too much problem.
Now he stood there with tools in hand, a pair of worn goggles pulled protectively over his eyes. The metal mask he was supposed to wear lay on the table before him as Magiore tied his apron around his waist, knotting it securely and then looping it around once more just in case. He tugged his gloves on, unable to stop the wince of displeasure at the scratchy texture, and reached for the mask, turning it over in his hands. It was rather heavy to wear, but it kept the sparks from getting on his skin, so with a sigh he strapped it on carefully, tugging it to make sure that it fit.
He picked up one thing, set it down, and then picked it up again.
Mintaka's face flitted into his mind; Magiore tried to push it away, tried to think of anything other than her gentle eyes and her quiet spirit, but it was impossible. His thoughts were full of her, and he dragged a piece of metal towards him, turning it over and setting it into place in front of him. Contemplating it for a moment longer, a sigh passed across his lips.
He picked up his tools.
Several hours later (he didn't know exactly how long, time seemed irrelevant when he was working, and occasionally he spent an entire day brazing without realizing that it had occurred), Magiore emerged from beneath the heavy mask. He pulled it from his head with a relieved gust of breath, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of a gloved hand, and set the mask and tools down off to the side. The workbench was littered in scraps and the excess shavings from the stamped metal sheet, but in the midst of the chaos and the mess was the finished product.
He was actually relatively happy with it, in spite of every single reason why he shouldn't have made it in the first place. Magiore reached out a hand and picked it up, slowly turning the tiny object over in his hands. The work gloves made it too bulky to see properly, so he stripped them off and then tried again, eying the detailing with an artisan's eye.
It was (stupidly) satisfying. Magiore set it down again, smoothing a thumb over the cooling metal, and reached over to the large cabinet on the left side of his desk. It was full of a dozen smaller drawers where he kept miscellaneous odds and ends, and after a moment's contemplation, he tugged open one of the trays where the necklace strings were kept. Rummaging around for a few seconds, Magiore found what he was looking for and pulled it out, nudging the tray shut again. He picked up the little object he'd just made, strung it carefully onto the chain, and then closed the clasp, holding it up in front of his eyes.
The newly constructed rose pendant swung like a pendulum in front him.
[ WORD COUNT: 518 ]
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Posted: Sat Dec 27, 2014 11:20 am
It took him a while to get home.
He left the park - and the girl on the bench - with rapid steps, not wanting to stay long enough that he might be discovered by anyone passing by. Hat pulled low on his head to hide the majority of his face, Aurostibite sidestepped a few trees, slid deeper into the throes of the small wooded area, and waited until he was entirely alone before shedding the glamour that kept him as a member of the Negaverse.
A moment later, Magiore Carpenter strolled out of the trees and down the sidewalk, hands slipped into the pocket of his coat, his dark, curly hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. He crossed a street, went down a road, and then crossed another street before he was at his apartment building. Magiore took the stairs (he had never liked elevators), and up on the third floor his loft was waiting. He went inside, rather quickly, and locked the door behind him, bolting it shut securely.
Then he slumped back against it, eyes closed, his breath escaping in a long, exhaled hiss. Magiore slid slowly down until he was on the floor, his back against the door, and tilted his head so that his face was toward the ceiling. His chest hurt; breathing in the chill night air had not helped his hasty pace, but at least he was inside now.
He was safe. He was home. He was on his own, like he always had.
The girl's face flitted into his thoughts; her wide, terrified eyes, the way that her hand had trembled as he'd grasped her wrist, the way that she had tried to pull away, to no avail. Energy draining was the same wherever he went; sometimes the victims did not even realize he was there, and it was only after they stumbled, drunken-like, down a hall or through an alleyway, that he would leave them be. Sometimes he took too much, and they collapsed where they stood, sleeping soundly, and sometimes he took too little, and they were left merely confused and wondering.
Sometimes he thought it would be better if he regretted what he did for the Negaverse. It would certainly make his relationship - or lack thereof - with Mintaka better (or maybe it would make it worse, who even knew anymore). But Magiore Carpenter had been taken in by General-King Zinkenite's words; had been drawn to them like a moth to a flame, and ever since then he'd worked for the Negaverse, lived for the Negaverse.
She had been so young. She had been so scared, but still he had done what he'd had to. Aurostibite disliked draining energy from the younger ones, because he disliked the looks of surprise - and more often than not, hurt - on their faces. They were so naive, the younger ones of Destiny City; too naive, too willing to talk to strangers, too willing to give up information that they should have held closer to them. The girl tonight had just been another example of that; they were so willing to offer themselves up without even realizing what they were doing.
He did not regret his actions, no, but sometimes he wondered if it would be easier if he did.
[ WORD COUNT: 549 ]
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Posted: Sat Dec 27, 2014 2:58 pm
Drinking was a bad thing, but he did it anyway.
Christmas Eve, and Magiore was sitting at a local bar. He'd come here approximately an hour and a half earlier; there had been a time when he could have gone home for the holidays, but those times were long since passed, and now he was just alone. A part of him had considered trying to contact Mintaka, but the other part of him - whether the more rational side or the stupider side, he wasn't quite sure - had reassured himself that it was a particularly bad idea.
He shouldn't talk to her. He'd asked her to wait for him, though for what and for how long was uncertain. A part of Magiore's heart ached, throbbing dully when he thought of her, because the conflicting emotions he felt were going to drive him insane eventually. Some half of him almost wished that he had not seen the memories inside of his head; of their "future" together, but Magiore Carpenter - and Lieutenant Aurostibite - did not take lightly to regrets. Things happened, and they happened for a reason. They were to be dealt with.
This was not so easily dealt with, not when he longed for someone he could not have.
The bar was relatively crowded, in spite of the particular day. Magiore stared flatly at some point above the bartender's shoulder, his head balanced on the palm of his hand, his other hand absently swirling the leftover bourbon in his glass. He'd tried watching whatever had been on the blaring televisions above the liquor racks, but it was some sort of sporting event, and Magiore had never found those particularly appealing.
The bartender gave him a sideways look, clearly wondering if he was drunk or not, and if he should be cut off; but Magiore had only had one drink so far, and was very slowly working through his second, which meant that the haze of inebriation had yet to occur. Instead, he merely felt mildly irritated that he was sitting in such a place on a day that should have been spent elsewhere.
(He had no idea where else there was to go.)
"Hey."
The voice came from his right. Magiore turned his head, eyes flickering over the face of the stranger. She was tall and curvy, with red hair that cascaded down her back in silken waves, and was wearing a tight gold dress that clung in all the right places. She'd slid into the seat beside him without him noticing, and now crossed one long leg over the other.
"Hey," said Magiore, without much effort behind the word. The girl smiled at him. She looked a few years younger than he was, maybe nineteen or twenty. A good candidate for energy draining, if he was up for that this evening; clearly interested in him, batting green eyes that were heavily smeared with eyeshadow as she leaned against the bar top.
There was a pause. The girl just smiled at him.
It was easy to get her out of the place, even easier to pull her into the shadows cast by the bar's side wall. She went with him willingly (so naive, he thought), giggling profusely as he slid his fingers through hers (they were cold and unfamiliar, he didn't like the feel of them against his own, and had to resist the urge to pull away). Magiore walked forward until her back hit the brick wall and she was pinned and breathless; and again, it was easy, almost too easy. When he kissed her, she responded with unabashed eagerness, her arms around his neck, arching herself against him, and his hands were on her hips, lifting her off the ground so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. The mouth that kissed his was not familiar, the hands that gripped his hair were not delicate and soft and gentle, the voice that whispered in his ear was not warm and adoring.
Maybe he could forget like this. Maybe -
He stumbled away five minutes later, wiping lipstick off of his mouth with the back of his hand. The girl's shouts were still echoing in his ears, mingled hurt and anger at his rejection, but Magiore cared little for the whims of some stranger he'd never see again. His head was spinning with the effort of just walking, and by the time he got back to his apartment, he felt horribly drained. He collapsed onto the couch in his living room without even taking off his coat, one arm flung over his eyes, his breathing uneven.
Too easy, perhaps, but too pathetic as well.
[ WORD COUNT: 778 ]
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Posted: Sun Dec 28, 2014 7:13 pm
It took him too long to get from the park back to his apartment again, but that might have been due to the fact that he could hardly stand up straight and walking was immensely painful. Magiore's pace was on par with a snail, or perhaps a less active turtle; each step made him wince, and his breathing was heavily labored, one hand pressed against his stomach, the other gripping whatever was nearest to keep him from losing his balance.
Drinking, fighting, and arrogance. A lethal combination that should not have been mixed. He had not been Lieutenant Aurostibite in the fight either, but Magiore Carpenter, silver brazer and bookstore clerk. He was not a weakling - he'd been in enough brawls to be able to hold his own against who he needed to, especially when it came to his training - but when it came down to brass tacks, Magiore was not exactly a fighting machine. His arms were toned from years of working, but not nearly as muscular as others; his body was not built for strength, but for agility and speed, with a lithe figure that was tall and lean, rather than stocky and toned.
Still, he'd thought he would be able to handle himself during this particular night - but that was the arrogant part of the equation. It was the part that, when bothered, had roared to life, intent on proving himself (though that had hardly been necessary). It was the part of him that had decided that his pride was more worthwhile than his physical being.
The drinking part of the equation was easy enough to distinguish. Magiore had been at the bar down the street from his apartment complex, half because he'd wanted to kick back and relax, and half because he was still trying to forget about the things he shouldn't have been thinking about. He'd already downed three shots of Captain Morgan before he'd been bothered by the large man sitting at the end of the bar, and three shots was enough to set his blood buzzing, his head ringing.
The fighting part had happened shortly after. Personal space had been invaded, words had been exchanged, and then the pair of them had gone at it, much to the dismay and irritation of the bartender. He'd been the one to pull them apart, not hesitating in the slightest to throw them both out, in spite of the fact that the fight had clearly been one-sided. Magiore had been on his back in seconds, the man pummeling his stomach with his fist, and he was relatively certain that he might have broken a rib.
Still, he didn't feel entirely bad, and that was possibly the less practical aspect of the whole thing. In fact, he felt somewhat amused, which was strange; perhaps because the pain did not bother him nearly as much as he'd thought it would, even though it took him close to thirty minutes to get back to his loft, when it was only a five minute walk to the bar from his place.
Or maybe it was because he was finally doing something instead of sitting dormant for all these years. Following orders was one thing, but doing what you had to do to get to where you wanted was an entirely different story.
[ WORD COUNT: 557 ]
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Posted: Sun Dec 28, 2014 7:27 pm
He wrote a letter.
It took Magiore the better part of a week to finish it. He kept starting and stopping, starting and stopping until he finally sat down at his desk and decided that it was better if he did write it, even if he never sent it. Getting everything out on paper and out of his head was more important than letting someone else see it, because he'd always bottled everything up inside of himself, and that had so far never worked out to his advantage.
So he wrote. And he wondered.
I think about you more than I should. I don't know if you realize just how much I think about you. You are the first thing to enter my thoughts when I awake, and the last thing to leave my thoughts when I sleep. I often marveled at other's abilities to discern what things like this mean, or how best to control it, but there is nothing to do that hasn't already been done. I cannot pretend that I do not care for you, but I also cannot pretend that I do not know whether that caring is because of the memories that we share or because of my own feelings.
If it is the former, then I am afraid of hurting you of it being just a trick of the mind. If it is the latter, then I wish to figure out just what it is that I feel for you and if it is in line with your feelings for me to ask you more questions about yourself, so that I may better understand both you and myself.
Do you love me?
I do not understand the meaning of this. What was shown to us was not set in stone; there are no rules for the future. Things are not always known to us or to anyone else. I dislike those who say that it is fate that rules lives, when it is not that. Fate may have a hand in what happens in our lives, but it does not control it, nor does it prevent things from happening that should or shouldn't occur.
You and I will make our own paths. I cannot say for certain what that will be, or whether those paths will intersect, but do not let something else dictate how you feel or what you are thinking. I wish for you to think of me always. I wish for you only to be happy in your decisions - happy because of the choices you have made, rather than setting aside that happiness because you feel you are obligated to do so.
Do not let your heart be at the mercy of anyone else but your own willpower and your own strength.
He finished writing, reread it, and then carefully folded it into thirds. Magiore placed it into an envelope that had no name written upon it, and then quietly set it on his desk, in a place where no one but himself would see it.
[ WORD COUNT: 505 ]
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Posted: Wed Sep 02, 2015 11:44 am
The first victim is a young man.
Aurostibite doesn’t know how old he is. He’s probably, maybe if he had to hazard a wild guess, somewhere around his early twenties, maybe even mid twenties, judging on his hair and the youth in his face, around his eyes. But looks, physically, around sixteen or seventeen, a mere teenager, a mere child. The drugs he’s clearly ingested after however long he’s been taking them have clearly stunted his growth, along with his mind. His body is too thin, bones visibly protruding around his collar and his sides, wrists and ankles so slim that Aurostibite thinks with a simple twist of his own hand he could snap them in two. Dark circles make rings under his eyes, which are hollowed out and glazed, a pale, watery blue. He probably isn’t even noticing that there is someone standing next to him, looking down at him with an expression filled with disgust and irritation. Two circular marks on the inside of his arm, just below his elbow, are clear indications of just how this youth spends his time.
Aurostibite doesn’t have time for pity, nor does he have the luxury for it, not when life is already so precarious as it is. He’s got too much to and not enough time to do it all, not enough time to take care of what he needs to. There is one thing that he wishes to protect above all else, and that is Mintaka, but he can’t do that if he is not where he should be. The Negaverse has been his home for so long now that he’s grown complacent within it, and this is a problem. It’s made him weaker, made him less capable, made him simply stand back and let the world move around him instead of actually taking a part in it. Not only that, but he has also had to watch everyone else move forward ahead of him, a fact that Aurostibite finds both embarrassing and shameful.
He has been in the Negaverse for almost four years now. He should be a general he should be so much more than he is, and yet…
...and yet he’s nothing, and it’s pathetic. All these years, and what exactly does he have to show for it? Nothing of consequence. This is perhaps why he was so adamant and strangely eager to follow along with Captain Umber’s starseed idea. He agrees with the method, as well as the logical reasoning behind that, in spite of not knowing the other Negaverse agent well - but a part of Aurostibite has also been secretly desperate for some kind of purpose, some kind of meaning. He has that, as a civilian, with Durumi, whom he loves and cares for like no one else, and he has sister, even if Kodi is as annoying as she is (that damned dog of hers). But as Captain Aurostibite of the Negaverse, he feels lost.
He feels as though he has nothing.
(It’s an unpleasant thought.)
The man is almost dead as it is, or will be within the next week, considering the sheer amount of drugs he’s been taking. And Aurostibite should feel bad about thrusting his hand into the cavity of his chest until his fingers close around what he’s searching for, yanking it out gracefully. He should, but he doesn’t.
This is all part of the process, after all. This is just life.
[ WORD COUNT: 580 ]
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Posted: Wed Sep 02, 2015 11:57 am
The second victim is a middle aged businessman.
Aurostibite usually tries to avoid anyone who is taller and or larger than he is, for obvious reasons. Even as civilians, they still possess strength, after all, and he has no intentions of overstepping boundaries, of trying to attract too much attention to himself at present. He doesn’t want to take the risk of being overpowered, doesn’t want to take a chance of being subjected to a compromising situation. He’s already botched one or two attempts at energy gathering, he has no desire to repeat the mistakes he once has.
The subway station is deserted at this time of night, save for the businessman. He’s a short, squat fellow with dark hair slicked back and a slight upturned nose, his glasses thin and expensive looking, inlaid with silver that is shot through the frames. The shoes on his feet are a glossy black, too shiny to be anything but pristine, and his suit is perfectly tailored to fit his frame, dove gray and sleek. Clearly a man of wealth and importance.
Clearly a man of too much wealth and too much importance. His watch is laden with diamonds, a facetious, overly extravagant accessory that is simultaneously obscene in its size and mildly offensive in being shown off to those around him. This is someone that is used to getting his way and what he wants. He is used to being on top of the pyramid.
Aurostibite has no intention of letting him stay at the top.
He sneaks up from behind, movements quick and quiet. The man doesn’t notice him at first, engrossed in the (latest model, of course) phone in his hand, making noises of exasperation at whatever he sees on the screen. He doesn’t notice Aurostibite sliding up to him until it’s too late, one of his daggers jutting into his side - not penetrating anything more than perhaps ripping a bit of that expensive suit, but a warning to keep still. The man, surprisingly doesn’t put up a fight; Aurostibite half expected him to be one of those businessmen who snorted with disgust at being in danger, who thought themselves above such things.
Thankfully, this is not one of them.
His fingers find the man’s neck, press against the side, and he feels the energy beginning to seep out, warming his palm. The man’s lashes flutter; he’s clearly not a struggler, but he’s stubborn, Aurostibite gives him that. He doesn’t seem to want to give in to the tiredness flooding his body, but eventually he does. Eventually he sinks down, sagging to the floor fast asleep, and Aurostibite catches him on the way down, carefully propping him up against the ugly tile wall.
Everyone gives in at the end, after all.
[ WORD COUNT: 464 ]
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Posted: Wed Sep 02, 2015 12:22 pm
The girl at the bar has tried to flirt with him three times this evening so far, but Aurostibite has no interest in returning the favor. Even with the fact that he’s madly in love with his girlfriend doesn’t fact that tonight is not a night for anything other than work. He has no desire to be involved in anything other than completing the task he’s set for himself, and is, in fact, entirely oblivious to her attempts at making him turn his head. The constant flips of her hair, as well as the batting of her eyes, goes entirely unnoticed as he makes his way through the throngs of people. At this time of night, the club is positively drowning in people, the music throbbing in his ears, reverberating throughout the walls until it becomes nothing but music. It’s hard to even hear the shouted conversations from one person to another person, the beat echoing deafeningly through the building.
Aurostibite knows it’s dangerous, this whole concept of hiding in plain sight. But at the same time, it’s working. No one - except the flirtatious one at the bar, apparently - seems to have really noticed him. Here, in this place, he’s just another person, another unusually dressed man passing through. The uniform is not out of place here, even after he’s taken off his hat and gloves and unbuttoned the coat a little to be less obvious. People are dressed far more conspicuously, some in more layers than strictly necessary, some in too little layers, leaving quite little left to the imagination.
Aurostibite’s eyes only skim over everything, seeing none of this. He’s looking for easy targets, easy victims, and every so often, his hand brushes against the back of someone else, or two fingers find the pulse beating beneath a wrist. Little snatches of energy here and there, his face entirely impassive, his touch so fleeting and brief that it’s hard to even tell where it’s coming from in the first place.
Once or twice, he lingers a bit too long, and the person notices him standing there. But he’s not doing anything wrong, they see. He’s just having a drink, glass of whiskey raised to his lips, free arm dangling casually by his side. After a few minutes confusion, they turn around again, back to the music and the crush of people, and forget that he even existed. And Aurostibite likes it this way; likes that he can just slip into the throngs of moving bodies and disappear in plain sight, even if he doesn’t actually like the whole touching part. He doesn’t like his space invaded unless it’s done by Durumi, after all; even Kodi gets a glare and a push if she sits too close to him. Being touchy-feely has never been one of Aurostibite’s stronger points.
When he leaves the crowded club about an hour later, he feels quite satisfied with himself. He lost track of how many people he managed to siphon energy from. A great deal or just a small taste, it doesn’t matter; energy is energy, after all, and that’s what he needs. No one was killed, no one was even put to sleep, Aurostibite flitting away before the draining got too far, and for once he is pleased. He feels as though he’s managed to make an accomplishment of his position in the Negaverse.
It’s a rather enlightening sensation.
[ WORD COUNT: 574 ]
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Posted: Wed Sep 02, 2015 12:34 pm
Sometimes Magiore sits and looks at Durumi and wonders how on earth he managed to get so lucky - and why he was so stupid enough to not to accept her advances in the first place, why he had tried so hard to push away each and every feeling he’d developed for her over the past year. It had taken him too long to reach the conclusion that it simply wasn’t worth ignoring anymore. He could no longer bear the thought of being without her, not anymore.
She is a beautiful woman - because yes, she is a woman, and not a girl anymore. She has grown into a fine, lovely person, and he is blown away many times by this fact. Her hair is the color of starlight and brightness, a stark and obvious contrast to his own dark locks, which tumble down his back in raven black waves. But her eyes, unlike his as well, are full of every emotion she feels, the kindness that she directs, not just towards Magiore, but to others as well. The patience she holds when it comes to stressful situations, the generosity and the lightheartedness. He loves to see her smile, after all, because it lights up her face, brightens her eyes, adds pink to her cheeks, and Magiore loves to see the way that eases her into contendedness.
But most of all, he both loves - and hates - how big her heart is. It holds much inside of it, her love and adoration for him, and her love and adoration for others that she holds near and dear. And Magiore knows full well just how giving and how gracious and how incredibly loyal of a person Durumi is. She has never been anything less, has never treated anyone without the respect or kindness they are do.
But it also means that her heart hurts more easily. She carries a lot on her shoulders, both from her time spent as Durumi and her time spent as Mintaka. Her staunch and unwavering loyalty means that she is devastated when she loses things, sad and lost when she finds out that something she knows has changed - or rather, someone. People like Chariklo, who have been lost to the other side, whom Mintaka has loved dearly. People like himself, stuck at the level he is in the Negaverse, dragged away without a chance to say goodbye, kidnapped and locked away in a cell with the others. He has no chance of making all of that stop - it is ridiculous to even think that he has the capability of taking away her pain, even if he wants to more than anything. But even so, even with his inability to stop the pain, Magiore does what he can to ease her into a state of comfort and reliability.
He will do what it takes to protect her, regardless of circumstances.
[ WORD COUNT: 486 ]
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Posted: Sat Dec 19, 2015 7:38 am
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