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It was a strange experience, being the only person who could see something happening. She was the eye of her own storm -- and while her starlight cast the scene in front of her in sharp black-and-white relief like some sort of beautiful shadow puppetry or weird Frank Miller illustration, she could still see what no one else could: Bischofite and his companion, the knife descending, Ida in the way. A strike. A second strike, claws on Ida's face and tearing black down her arm. A harsh, undaunted stab -- and here, Hvergelmir's tight spinning faltered, wobbling abruptly out of rhythm like a spinning top fallen over -- here the star winked out. The rest of the action proceeded. The three of them were struggling with each other, shouting at each other to get away, tearing and pushing and each trying desperately to accomplish their own task.

And Bischofite -- clutching at his wound in pain.

Too late, she thought, with horror. No -- please -- not here, not here -- anywhere but here! Not after we promised you safe conduct, not here --

"What have you done," she cried out, running forward to try and get them separated from where Bischofite seemed to be dying. "You have no idea what you might have just cost."

She pulled at Ida first, to try and get her away so she could try and get the other man away, so she could get to Bischofite. Ida was already recoiling -- she was injured too, sticky with hot tar -- and there was so little time, Hvergelmir could only think I have to do something, I can't let him die.

There was so little time, and she was no healer. She couldn't stop a fatal bleed, she couldn't even run for help before it might be too late --

"Give me the knife!" she hissed suddenly, jerking her palm outward toward Quenton for the once-used weapon. Her other arm was still wrapped around Ida's trying to stabilize them both as they fell back, their contrary movements knocking into each other. "I have to call for help, give me the knife!"

It was the only option she had remaining, the only wild hope and higher power she had left to invoke to staunch the imminent death of the man on the ground. She had scars where she'd done it before, guidelines where she could do it again: a blood offering is the surest way to call a princess. She could try to call Sailor Cosmos once more. It was all she could think of, with so little time to act.

It would be an understatement to say that everything escalated quickly. There hadn't been enough time to call Kairatos back as a weapon popped up and actions were taken.

The area briefly sparkled in a blinding manner, essentially cutting off the Mauvian's vision for a brief moment as her pupils narrowed into slits.

It made it easier to hear a creeping comment amidst the chaos.

"Ze Negaverse owns fates worse zan deas' - to know zis is a mercy you will never understand, Ida. Zere is no better way."

The Mauvian's ears twitched at the comment, which stuck to her far more than the rest that followed. Only when the manx's eyes recovered would she see some forms disappear from the ordeal.

The cat blinked, then took a step or two forward, not really distancing herself much from Sailor Irene. In her mind, she was scrambling to find some sort of hope, something which could ease this dire situation which Bischofite was in now.

There had been so many energies gathered, and even with her efforts there was no way to block all of them, especially after Iris expended all that energy.

Words seemed to fall from her maw without much thought of the consequences at this point. "...tell your superiors the reason for your condition is.... because you were ambushed... I don't know if it will buy you anything, but... with as many of us as there were, it wouldn't be an entirely impossible scenario... the blame is... all ours..."

It might have been frustrating, but the senshi were ultimately adjusted to being villainized in this city.

A few more steps and soon enough the cat had circled back around to rub up against Irene's ankle once more.

What I have done? Euthanasia?
But Quenton's eyes widened as the bright eyes of the knight blazed nearer to himself and Ida's yanking. As a hand was thrust with directives hissing like radio static from the twisted visage and harried motions. Then the two disappeared. He didn't see Ida's panic for her phone, but he could guess it. Of course. What do you but run away in the well of the wave?

********* voice broke through the brief daze of annoyance, and she was gathered by Irene. Irene who looked equally terrified and left. There were all gone. Save himself, save Alois.

Quenton limp-shifted with the stiffening tar burnt into the jeans and his thigh back to the Half-youma side. He dipped, pressed kiss farewell and less chaste deepening of that for a breath. A gesture though wasteful moments before. It was from the standpoint of cause and effect. It wasn't from the standpoint of the very reason they were there- the difference between Alois and Bischofite. Alois wished to be alone, a wish still to be granted, but it didn't have to be with the last moments of bleeding thought given to the idiocies of panic.

Or even to words.
Or names. Just an act, pure as fire- that ashes meet the dawn.

Then Quenton pulled back, and wordless went as words had promised. Limping.
It was not the tar that hurt.

[ Quenton Exit ]