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 Posted: Sat Nov 02, 2013 12:28 am
He swallowed, and it hurt.
Bischofite imagined witches suffered a similar fate. Buddhist monks performing demonstrations during war times. Children deemed cursed beyond salvation. Corpses cast upon a funeral pyre.
He wiped his palm across the still-fertile grass. Ash from bodies long forgotten. The act of demise meant something, but how many now travel forgotten through the world? Curling through a breeze, caught in a branch, brushed across fur? Memory didn't mean much, he knew, but to travel the breadth of the world - to catch in a child's lungs - to land atop an eagle's meal - to intermingle with mulch... Those casualties now assumed their own conquest. And soon they would live on through every being on the planet.
It was an exhausting thought, especially considering his position in the lot of it. As a survivor, he was not privy to such spoils. Death truly opened limitless doors - to influence others almost imperceptibly, but so wholly and absolutely that they alter the entire course of their lives to follow suit.
But what would ash bring to Xenotime, whose eyes are no different? Pain, surely. A fever so great that she may enact the very same death using any senshi who crossed her path. Or even a frigid pall that halts all ambition, all desire to move forward, and she stagnates. But would she?
He watched her tiredly. No. "We'll find out." The words tasted sharp and metallic, but he found it sufficient to answer her question about his ability to teleport. It was a question of energy - a simple one, a basic one. Oh, but he wanted to close his eyes, to relinquish all thought under the guise of exhaustion, to slump against the tree and capitulate to darker realms than these - but he had more work to do. Far too much to deal with recuperation times in a hospital bed or on a couch.
But her touch wasn't helping. It spoke of concern, of soothing, and with soothing came relaxation.
Despite her caressing hand, he struggled to his feet. With the help of the tree, he stood straight enough, but his skin stretched disturbingly tight. To shrivel, still alive, into a taut sack of bones... He coughed, and the thought departed with ragged breath. "Your place. Go, and I will follow." A concise command, measured to conserve what meager hydration he had left in his body.
A glass of water never sounded so inviting.
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Posted: Sat Nov 02, 2013 9:57 pm
From smoldering ashes new life emerged. A fierce resolve to aspire, to protect, to climb ever higher until she was untouchable. Until those she cared about were untouchable. The road to safe haven was paved in practicality and ruthless execution. Blood and ash. The fire had eaten up a piece of her and replaced it with something hardened and charred. There was no more room for illusions. Fire had cracked the rose tinted glass, and heat had warped the frames. Her hand fell away from him as he moved, and she watched him intently as he struggled to his feet. Looking up at him pulled her gaze downward, along his body and the angry wash of red, damaged skin. It made her wince, sucking a breath past her teeth. Just looking at him hurt. It made her own burns tingle, throbbing in time to her pulse. Each beat more intense then the last. The flames were dying, the embers were cooling, but her skin still seared, even in the late summer air. And her's was a pale shadow of what her general endured. Had endured. Would endure. For her. She got to her feet as he coughed, breath leaving that tall body in labored drags. A nod answered his command, and she was gone. The remnants of the field, and it's curling smoke melted away. Trees sank into darkness. Crickets faded into silence. The sounds and sights and smells of their meeting place all fell away. For a second, as soot stained boots touched down on pressed linoleum, there was silence, and it was profound and solid and deafening, then the city itself crashed into her, invading her senses. Exhaust and concrete seeped through the open window, and on their wing the blare of horns and the distant symphony of Destiny City's night life. The normalcy was startling. Xenotime didn't know how long she stood there waiting, staring at the window. Seconds, no more then a minute, but to her each quiet click from the clock on the kitchen wall seemed to stretch on infinitely long. Slowly she counted, chest raising as she pulled in a long, low breath, holding it in. One. Two. Three.
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Posted: Sat Nov 02, 2013 11:14 pm
All that remained before him slowly dwindled to ash. Even the breeze felt hot on his skin, though it already cooked from his own self-destructive purposes. The fire dwindled to a dull, crackling hiss and the field dimmed, darkened, faded toward black. A sea of errant carbon to match the brilliant destructive force that sieged every last dried out piece of straw that this damnable field had to offer. And with it, he hopefully dispelled every last notion that Xenotime could afford showing mercy, and instead elect to toy with her targets in such a purposeless fashion.
To only break her arm... What a trifle. What a waste.
But she would be better now. She'd learned of her mistakes, and he clarified the means by which she could correct them. However, his work was not yet done - much to his chagrin, given his current crippling agony. He'd executed his own half measure, and now he needed to solidify the final two beats before he might return to her. And given the current state of the field, he had little to work with.
Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt. So to force himself to walk, to stoop toward the grass not yet touched by flame, to manipulate his fingers dexterously enough to pluck ash-stained flowers from the ground, only called his suffering to an insidiously destructive level. It was at this time that he truly felt imprisoned by his own body, whether by the humanity of it or the sheer pain that constricted his movements. It didn't matter, but his mind fought desperately to prevent himself from succumbing to the blistering, boiling heat and simply ceasing all movement.
Maybe they were blue at one point, a soft baby blue to match the sky in early morning times, or perhaps a vibrant purple that the nobles coveted from years long since past. But blooms earned their delicate reputation, and such colors were long covered with soot carried by sordid winds. Now greyed and half-charred, he plucked them based on their beleaguered state and forced his cooked fingers to curl about the stems. He had to hold onto them now, else he'd lose an important piece to the coming ultimatum.
He knew she would understand, but he had to be sure.
With a strained groan, he straightened up and double counted a dozen. The cinders smoldered, and the the field deadened to quiet crackles. Not even crickets sang their songs in the middle of the night anymore. When all dwindled to silence, it was time to go.
And go he did - to sprawling linoleum ductaped in small patches, where the woodwork didn't quite match up in the corners, where peeling formica adorned pressboard in what was classified as a counter. Outside, a car crash stunted a life. Inside, the resounding ticking of an analogue clock measured the time it took him to readjust to his new location. Teleportation always scattered his senses - he found himself listening for splintering glass, pained screams, frantic telephone calls more than her voice.
It lasted seventeen seconds. He counted.
When he became fully conscious of his surroundings, and not the peripheral events outdoors, he rummaged through Xenotime's painted cabinets for a single, unadorned glass. Plastic, really, but he found it suited the flowers just fine. Translucent plastic with a faint rose tinge to sharpen the grey on dying buds. The repurposed bouquet now stood as a timer.
"Xenotime," he started, but quickly found his throat too parched to continue. After usurping another glass and sipping some water, he rediscovered the burning pain but found a modicum of relief afterward. Enough to continue. Rations, it felt like. Rationing what desperate amounts of hydration he could sustain. "Zose flowers will dry out and return to ash. It's inevitable, and it would'f been my fate today." Were it not for her. "It will take some time, and during zat process I expect you to kill someone. But if you fail to do so, and zey are nossing more zan dust, zen you will not see me again. It will be as if I died today. Verstehst du mich? Do you understand?" He eyed her tiredly.
Just a little more time, just a single answer, and he could rest.
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Posted: Sun Nov 03, 2013 7:16 pm
Heavy boots hit the kitchen floor and Xenotime's breath rushed out in a dizzying hiss as relief washed over her, weakened her knees. She swayed, pressing the heel of her palm into the ridge of her brow as she reached for the counter top. How much would she give for a reprieve from the strain. Muscles shook, a fine, imperceptible tremble that threatened to grow and grow until she was doubled over in full body tremors. She could fight it off, hold it at bay as she took in burned clothing and singed flesh. Eventually they would win, she would have to yield. Everything bottled up would spill over and outward and there would be no spotting the flood of emotions that followed. But not yet. They weren't done yet. She took in the sight of the flowers. Simple wild flora, pale, soot stained and heat marked. They caught her eye, and she stared down at them as he placed them in their rose tinted glass. Tired and uncomprehending. Her name rasped between them and she found she mourned the flawless crescendo of his voice. It was heavy now, strained, abused, not quite what it should be. And she she drank it down, every rough word. Golden eyes mirrored silver. Tired, and pained. She waited for his ultimatum to inspire anger, unease, something, but all that came was quiet acceptance. This road was unavoidable, the captain knew that, Bischofite was merely setting the pace. There was only one answer. "I understand." The words were soft, but there was no waver to her voice. She met those tired eyes, watching intently for whatever her agreement might illicit, then reached out to take the glass from his hand, stealing a much needed drink for herself before handing it back and heading for the hall. Charred clothing melted away, and when she stepped off the linoleum it was sandal wrapped feet that sank into plush carpet. The shorts and tank top she wore were kinder to burned skin, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she crossed the living room and disappeared down the hall. She was heading to the bathroom, for the first aid kit tucked away at the back of the linen cabinet. She grabbed it and went back to the kitchen, setting it on the counter before unclasping the lid and flipping it open. Wordlessly she pulled out a small, aerosol canister and held it up for him to see the bold words that stretched across the white and red label. Burn spray. It had never been used, the cap was still encased in it's clinging, sealed plastic. With a soft, humorless laugh she peeled away the plastic, letting it drop on the floor. Then she smiled.
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Posted: Fri Nov 08, 2013 8:22 am
Hearing her acknowledgement was enough. Now he no longer needed the added durability and strength of his alter ego, so Bischofite gave way to an excessively drained and beleaguered Alois. He slumped to a counter with a sigh so defeated he may as well have lost the war.
Burns were hard. Hopelessly, painfully hard. Should he have a choice, he'd never deal with this again.
As he slumped to the counter, cool formica met cooked skin. Some cream color, he noticed, sieged with cuts across its surface as if the prior resident lacked a cutting board. Various stains ate into its plastic exterior, and he was fairly certain that a child from days long past colored in a chip with black Sharpie (if Sharpies existed back then). Suddenly her apartment didn't seem so different from the Rift, and he had yet to determine whether that was due to exhaustion or some real connection between the two. Certainly both the Rift and her apartment had unspoken history, as evidenced by ruins and peeling countertops... He sighed, and it hurt.
He was thinking too much again. Too much about nothing. Too much about dead end topics. Too much and it wasn't enough.
But Alois didn't bother to silence the thoughts. If the Rift and her apartment were one in the same, then what did that make Porsha? Was she still Xenotime in this comparison, or something more? Surely she owned the place, so it would put her on par with Metallia in that regard, but she also rented it. She paid her dues to stay, so she wasn't Metallia. No, she was Xenotime, a Xenotime who lingered in the rift long before he became a part of the Negaverse. Yes, that sounded right. At least now he could put that notion to bed.
Once the violet-haired girl returned, with a first aid kit no less, he watched her lazily. Watched the way her loose top shifted around her skin, ghosting out a figure every so often. Shorts framed the remainder tightly, a strong contrast to her usual choice of shirt. And she carried a med kit at her side, and he might've only noticed because it covered a stretch of her thigh where his name faded into smooth skin. A shame, a pity. He hoped she carried those letters in her bloodstream now. They would've passed the blood-brain barrier. They would've nested inside the folds of her mind by now, ever present in her peripherals.
But Alois was too tired to echo her laugh, or meet her gaze with a tired smile, or acknowledge the burn spray she showed him so abruptly. Instead he begrudgingly pulled himself upright from his slumped position and started to pull his long sleeved shirt over his head - an unconscionably slow and painful process, he would later admit to himself - and every modicum of stray fiber and tag dragged over his most sensitive burns. Often times he had to pause and allow the throbbing agony to subside ot a dull ache before he continued the troublesome trek, but after what felt like an hour of brutal, grueling exercises in futility he finally had the shirt off.
After folding it into a vaguely square shape, Alois placed it on the counter. On it, he rested his cheek. His arms curled loosely about the amalgamation of fabric. Soon after he recognized the sounds of Porsha spraying her burns, but they melted away soon after.
He was tired, so he slept.
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Posted: Fri Nov 08, 2013 5:58 pm
As she pulled off the cap of the burn spray, Porsha watched Alois as he worked to remove his shirt by painful inches. It was slow going, and despite the ache in her hands that seemed to seep down to the bones, she couldn't even fathom how much torture that so simple action must be putting him through. She winced, and after a handful of seconds she reached for the draw with the cutlery, ready to fish out a knife so she could simply cut the fabric away and maybe save him some pain, but he managed to pull the garment over his head and her hand fell away. He looked exhausted, absolutely spent, and that fatigue was only expounded as he folded his shirt and lay his cheek against it, as if it took too much effort to walk the half a dozen paces that would take him too the couch. And maybe it was. Golden eyes closed, and barely a minute later his breathing deepened, evening out. Porsha frowned down at him, shaking her head as she drew in a heavy breath and let it out in a sigh. Experimentally she gave her left hand a quick pass with the spray. It was cold, and soothing, and she breathed a sigh of relief that the medication wasn't accompanied by any unpleasant sting. Too many shots of antiseptic had made her weary. With the knowledge that it was not only harmless, but soothing, she set to work coating the red and ruined skin that was visible on Alois' back and arms, thorough and precise. When she was satisfied that she'd attended to every painful inch she set about moving him. It was a tricky maneuver, and even taking care where she lay her hands she still managed pull pained sounds from his throat, rousing him from that much needed sleep. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and there was remorse in her voice, but she didn't stop touching him. He couldn't sleep in the kitchen. Getting him to the bedroom was slow process, and through out the long, painful walk she whispered to him, apologizing, assuring him that they were almost there. A few more steps, just a few more. The sheets were cool, but that was the only comfort then were likely to provide. Laying him on the bed, she hoped exhaustion would let him sleep through the night. She tended to his chest and his hands, even fetched a cool, wet rag to clean away the soot on his face. then she took care of herself, carefully bandaging burnt hands. It was a painful process, and she was glad he slept, because she didn't want him to hear her whimpers.
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