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Alive, not a mindless monster, the girl who lay on the pavement did not seem to have any of the hallmarks of a human that had been turned too far. What was left of her mind could not be determined as there was no consciousness, barely even any pulse beneath the fingertips of Howlite a sure sign that it would be a few hours at least before what it was that now lived inside the shell of Linarite could be determined. The shell though, would look quite familiar to the man who'd forced her back into this form:



When the ordeal had started the knight had accepted what she thought was her fate and though her eyes had welled with tears they hadn't spilled over. Lina would have been utterly damned if in her last moments of life she'd spent them crying rather than looking square into the eyes of the person that was reaching into her very soul to tear it from her body and end her existence. But that wasn't what had happened. Feeling the hand inside of her chest stiffen Lina Knight had had enough consciousness to see, to know that Zinkenite was doing the precise thing she had told him she would not willingly accept. That was when the tears overflowed, lips moving to silently form a denial before her world erupted into agonizing pain.

If corruption had been bad, if her subsequent promotions had been painful, and if purification had made her feel like she was being cleansed in fire this was the exact opposite of that. Chaos wormed its way into those healed cracks, ripping them apart to make room for its influence once more with little care for the pain it inflicted upon the traitor knight. She wanted to scream, she thought she could scream, but there was no sound.

Then there was nothing at all. There was only the prone Captain Linarite lying on the pavement as Howlite crawled over her in pained disbelief to make sure she yet lived. Unfortunately, she was indeed very much alive and brought to Zinkenite's ideal of home, whether she wanted to be there or not.

It was always a mistake to preach to Howlite.

Zinkenite was blinded by his own propaganda, the fantasy he'd painted for himself of the analytical strategist, the father and reserved guide of the Negaverse. He was just a lost little boy, grabbing desperately for the toys that comforted him most, the familiar. His desire to possess Linarite, to reclaim her from Elzo, the bigger, meaner boy on the playground, was an obsession. One that he had finally accomplished, and one that would, ultimately, disappoint him, as all idealized moments inevitably did to their creators.

Howlite was different. She needed no driving passion, no farseeing mission to inspire her to accomplish her goals. She did not strive to know that what they did was 'right,' and she didn't care if it was 'wrong.' The blonde general was as unswayed by storytelling and metaphor as she was by the begging of her enemies. A tool. Her strength, and her biggest weakness. They all had them.

The General-King's flowery words fell upon uncaring ears, and she instead saw only the choices he had made, rather than the rationalizations he had made for them.

But she had been given an order.

The bluenette was slung over Howlite's right shoulder out of necessity, rather than preference, the blonde's broken left wrist held close to her body as she kept her dark gaze firmly on nothing, offering Zinkenite little more than the lift of her chin in farewell before disappearing into Negaspace.