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<******** all -- someday he'd learn and that lesson would stick. Generals, Knights? The strength they held wasn't belied in their form or their dress, but in their magic. Except Faustites was no guise - it was himself - lived as a youma for years; deceptively strong despite his appearance.

Claw tipped, ashen, and burning.

"Opportunity" and the snarl hid his wince. At the bite in the strength of Faustite's grip on his wrist, like steel. As he twisted himself nearer, twined himself in, the sear of flame and heat too close-too close-tooclose! Smart-a**, ********, to ditch the hood and parted strip of clothe that Albite had always called a 'cape'. Slimed himself down - harder to grapple the way he wanted.

Unless Albite wanted to burn for it...Options...to sever the magic, and fight loose his prey?

Except he had Fasutite close - he could stand to burn - why else seek fire? His whole essence screamed at him to snuff it out with his own flesh if need be. To go down together. He already had him snared; tangled up so prettily.

Instead of seeking escape, Albite sought embrace. To give in, fold over, pull down. To move to hook his leg around the other, throw his size around that way - Make up for the strength and precision training he lacked with mass and height. The agony for it would be a white hot blind--

Of all the times he’d ever imagined Faustites hands on his throat. Digging press of thumbs - dagger sharp nail and tightening embrace; the thrill that he’d held for the threat of that. Never had his imagination gone quite so far with it.

The little trill of fear turned pleasure, that came with the heat of it. The knowledge that it would mark. That everything would mark, burn or break him outright.

Except Faustite wasn’t playing—

None of what was, would end in any of the pleasurable things of his imaginings. No more was it a game to his General than it was to him - and never was he so frustrated over being a Senshi, than every time he’d ever wished for a weapon. Which was any time he’d ever fought anything.

So, the frustration? Eternal, old, he hated it.

What good were his blunt little fangs and claws against true ones?

His ire for that seared his soul in ways far worse than any true burn ever could have.

Albite had roped himself in, and now he would kick his way out - Loose the binding magic - the pop fizzle of it fading out - to try and break Faustites grounded grip around his throat - wheeze and wince though that like air passed through a melted straw - and leverage every ounce of muscle in his thighs to shove a leg between them - kick him away instead.

The undignified Yelp that followed the pull, stinging against his scalp, and the smell was acrid. Absolutely infuriating, an added insult to injury and really - ******** - r e a l l y?! Faustite had to go for his ******** hair?

Every intake of breath accompanied by a wince, it ached, the very act of breathing only made worse by the taint of smoke. Albite watched in shock; his long locks literally being devoured by fire.

Even as he curled an arm around his midsection, hissed and twisted for the pain there- and it wasn’t worth looking at, was something he’d handle later, would push past the crisping clenching swirl of bright sparked agony -because Faustite? Just had to fight dirty.

“b***h!” A burnt out snarl, and Faustite was officially a b***h. Hair pulling was girl s**t, and there he was. Gripping and consuming with his endless internal flame, while crouched like a damned animal behind him.

Let him get indigestion off it for all he cared. Choke on it for being such an a** about that one single thing -

He wanted to lash out over it, the idea of something there and gone - fizzled away in his mind like the words were just out of reach. Like the ability to do something more was hampered by his own lack of progress.

He wasn’t built to fight fires- or generals - he wasn’t going to win at this - Senshi weren’t supposed to go solo…

Albite didn’t have a youma, but he wasn’t alone either. Pressed his fingers between his lips while Faustites fires chewed up his lengths into ash - and blew.

Piercing whistle and suddenly a vibrant bustle of bright luminescent wisp. The fat orbie bouncing off his generals head like an air filled balloon - again and again - sought to nuzzle his hair into static - press it’s soft blue glow into the space between Faustites burning gaze and Albites crouched form.

'Snide, smirking, hot as ********, absolute *b***h* of a General.' eyes wide and teeth set in grin that read - 'feral and frustrated' all in one. Unable almost, to believe what suddenly propagated the space behind and around him; that eagerly snarled after him at the behest of his firebrand.

The fine line between turned on and terrified, crossed and re-crossed in Albites bigfire flashpan of a hind brain. Between the rage being smothered like his charred dread ends into the rooftop beneath his boot - and his utter amusement at Faustite, of all people, being accosted by his dear orbie - bouncy little blessing in disguise.

Albites face ran through so many emotions in the flicker of a second - the span of time it took for Faustite to get a handle on the whole of the situation, tear open a scar in spacetime, and loose literal attack beasts of the rift on him.

Where as before he'd simply wanted to ******** with him, endlessly. To tip toe along whatever sand-drawn barriers existed and gleefully touch over them just to safely hop back; much like a child playing the 'im not touching you' game during long backseat rides.

Now? Oooh...Now, he wanted to <********> him.

To have smashed glass, broken bed posts, offices tossed akimbo types of engagements. To drag the powerful being before him into the kind of knock-down-drag-out fights that inevitably led into the best sorts of heated, hate filled after-affairs'; that anyone'd ever had. To punch his gorgeous firey General straight in the mouth for pulling that kind of s**t, and then take him to dinner afterwards. Offer up his own blood as apology, since that seemed to be the price of admission for fine dining as attaché on his firebrands arm.

Thoughts all for another time - when he wasn't making immediate space between the himself and the hands grouping of hunger filled maws that had dripped into reality around him, between himself and Faustite.

"I absolutely love you, you evil son of a --" though the words sounded like a curse, pained and stressed; the light in his eyes spoke of absolute joy. Albite suffered and sucked a breath through the pain of getting gone - made for the side of the roof that'd had the convenient piping layouts across it.

Easier now to take himself over a bridge than to jump. If he couldn't outrun them? He knew he had something left in him - a shining little drop of magic - what little good it'd do against a grouping. If he couldn't outpace them at all? Then he still wanted to be damned close to that ledge. Get himself right up to it...

Forward momentum lurched suddenly, left Albite on hands and knees seeing static with the rapid shifting of scenes. Running towards one point only the be yanked to another. His mind screamed for time to process, as he felt his stomach drop out from beneath him; like his legs.

He was now officially sick of the ride, wanted the ******** off - the teleporting had gotten better with knowing the destination before hand. All the getting dragged around s**t was something he could get accustomed to; playing tag along. He hadn’t known Faustite could do that — and how the <********> had he done that?! Summoning youma from the rift and snatching him out of thin air like a paper doll - like molecules and atoms - a terrifying concept. If generals were likened to gods, if they could all do these things—-had he ever stood a chance at all?

Wild eyed and shuddery, taking in air like a bellows as the haze of adrenaline wore off and the pain wore on. Albite knew he was going to end up calling the game in Faustites favor - what chance did he have in the end. “You don’t get to b***h at me——about cheating—-when you can do that, and I can’t?” bitter snarl and weak smile that accompanied it. All the things he never could, and never would be able to do. One more thing being a Senshi barred him from - he was sure.

The confused scrabble of claws tearing in against roofing, shifting the hunt back around. Albite blinked the static off, stared the beasts down - and pulled a sickly yellowed thing from the subspace beyond. The best part of Earl. Faustite had gotten the energy, and Justice had kept his soul only for the sake of baiting in the denizen sharks that would feed on him like so much carrion sunk to the depths of the rift.

The refused star seed had been his - sometimes he’d look at it and wonder - pull it out and compare it to his own. Try desperately to understand how all of a person could be focused down into the single point of such a confusing crystal of life.

All that contemplation easily tossed aside, carelessly even — “Go fetch you hungry ********> — as Albite staggered himself into standing, and chucked the glowing gem away from himself. The look the leveled at Faustite would have drawn blood were it a weapon, spilt the mess of it all in the muddied waters between them, and begged him to come in close.

Strickenized

The flash of dust and demise of youma that occurred in the background remained ignored by Albite, flash of white noise. Gaze unwavering as he tuned into his generals words. There was a brief flicker of warmth for hearing Faustite say he believed there would be a later. Some future timeline that existed, in which Albite not only survived long enough to earn that promised ‘more’, but was also powerful enough to wield it without things ending in ruin. Carrot on the end of a stick - labeled super - labeled eternal.

Though he’d rather it have simply been labeled Faustite and be done with the middling in-betweenness of it all.

Faustite laid out a challenge, dog whistle to Albites pavlovian nature. Any other time he would’ve gagged for it; drooled hungry at the dinner bell that promised a meal and a good time. Except something about the tone was wrong - rung hollow and off key to Albite’s ears.

“Did you think I was running from you?” Attention for all the wrong things, and Faustite was ignoring the ‘other’ that lay thick in the air. So Albite would waste his precious granted seconds of time doing as he’d always done.

Talking.

“Do you think I’d ever, run from you?” Head cocked inquisitively, an eerie sort of focus leveled on the bent, burnished flames of his General. More curious wolf than dumb mutt in that brief moment - to want to risk going after Faustite in his apparent exhaustion; even if that didn’t necessarily equal weakness.

To stand and let him come.

Make the need to flee feel real, to be hunted and awash in that fresh new thrill from an actual threat being leveled in his direction.

Either decision, he knew he would bleed for - ache, bruise, and wasn’t he already doing just that? Better to do that standing where he was. To save himself the energy rather than dart off at Faustites panted demand.

In another life, he was sure he would've been pegged as the maiden sacrifice who offered to be flung into the volcano's roiling lava below, appeasing some ancient deity.

So endlessly fascinated with what was before him. Faustites perfect form and pace, the fever pitched sear of air around him was a feast for the eyes. Like watching the sun go supernova, basking in the broil of a furnace; until the swelter ate the very moisture from the air.

"Ah---" there suddenly, were all the reasons to run, utter fool of him to forget in his own stubborn willfulness that the very being he was obsessed with was on fire. In the most literal of senses.

A breath expelled, hissed back in through clenched teeth, all too dry, the taste of fire and sulfur -- a slew of damnations bitten back in favor of saving his breath to run. To turn away from the human blaze like a flinch. Whip quick, he made for the ledge - wanted down, not over - sought solid gravel and tarmac laid ground beneath his feet.

Didn't trust the roofs, weak things under that sort of heat, better to have a landmark to shoot for. Put a visual bead on areas laden with discarded iron beams, and gravel piles - unused pylons and excavation equipment.

The landing jarring enough of every little hurt that he staggered for it, growled against gravity's pull, surged against it to dig in and run. His thoughts were every useless, proved time and again, better to use the one good thing he had. Youth and solid muscles, even if the practice of it burned.

That his boss was going to make him work for it. To fight against his baser instincts to flee things - especially if he could punch them - no sense in punching fire though. <******** hell, firebrand...'