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 Posted: Sun Sep 15, 2013 6:04 pm
With Remarque no longer assailing him and the rain now pelting the leaves at a steady drizzle, Bischofite readied himself for the final stretch of his preparations: the wait. Now that all the civilians were hidden amongst the trees, thoroughly gagged with ductape and rags, and fixed to their positions by the contraption secured on their necks, he had little else to attend to but his own glaring mark upon the place.
The general leapt into the trees framing the outskirts of the forest and sloughed off his military appearance, no longer a foreboding and brutal tool of the Negaverse, but a lone figure enshrouded with a plethora of leaves. And here he would wait, in his meager shelter from the rain, for an errant soul to meander through the forest he so thoroughly peppered with a host of unfortunate souls. Perhaps no one would arrive, and he would resign himself to returning home, all the while leaving the various individuals to wait out another night, hoping that no one tread the forest so carelessly.
Or someone of great importance might cross paths here, someone of royal import, to assail the trees and locate all the civilians he so painstakingly placed. And he would have to defend all that careful planning, all that curiosity, in a single slanted battle. Perhaps that was the best scenario, for he would have the wherewithal to defend the ideals he so adamantly lived for.
Or there would be nothing.
Nothing but the howling rain to seize his skin, to blur his vision, to hinder his breathing. And that storm would rage in such thorough injustice that all would drown in its wake, leaving nothing but the end result of entropy for the next wayward soul to find.
But soon, soaking skin and wet clothes soon, someone meandered toward the edge of the forest. Someone dressed in peculiar colors, sporting previously vivid hair now dampened by the rain, who... Wore a cast? Alois smiled. The night would bear him surprises yet.
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Posted: Thu Sep 19, 2013 11:48 am
Homework and torment bogged her down, and she needed to find the purple-haired woman who split her arm. Medea drifted into the forest. Surely there wouldn't be an agent or youma because no one entered the forest at night: No civilians to drain or steal starseeds from. She just needed an escape--to run from her colleagues and mentors and homework, to dive into the woods and shut her eyes and breathe.
Then, rain.
"No..." Rain sunk into the lining of her cast, she dashed under a tree, kneeling to hide her cast under her skirt, so the lining wouldn't deteriorate. Ugh, she didn't like storms or pain or nighttime. She just wanted space--some breathing time. Waiting for the storm to pass, she wandered under a tree.
Then the man in the storm.
Then the icy/dark/unnerving feeling and she leaned forward. That...was a powerful signature. Like Remarque's, but why would an officer hang about out here? He wouldn't find any prey...
She leaned against the tree.
"Not todaaaay." She sighed. "Not today please..."
She felt so tired, and Xenotime hurt her, and Buddy told her to hide away, but it wasn't enough to push her home, to make her curl up in bed and dream that life away. No, she would wander, search, but maybe this would be the last time. Maybe.
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Posted: Fri Sep 20, 2013 12:27 pm
To don the visage of Bischofite was to bear a fresh skin, one sewn over previously old, rotted sinew. A new start, the birth of another day unrelated to the previous. And with it, the world around him refreshed itself with his glorious insight - the trees now grinned in his curious mirth, they bore special fruits waiting for their chance to be cropped from the branches and strewn across the ground, where animals may yet feast on their furnishings.
And this peculiar little senshi, who stole away the grace of their shelters, who neglected to view the arrangement for what it truly was - a symphony, soon to give birth to a cacophony with her nurturing guidance.
But that could be explained. That could be arranged.
That might be deranged.
Bischofite smiled softly, a most human gesture. He spread his arms and approached the girl, bearing untold excitement and an avid interest in the paths she may take. "You," he began, his smile soon breaking into something of iniquitous glee. "You are a curious one, aren't you, little senshi? Meandering into ze forest, arm bound up into a cast, heart aflutter wis' fear. It's endearing, really, to see zat your kind places so much trust in solitude. Don't worry; you will find some friends in ze forest soon enough. Unless..." Within his grasp appeared two gleaming chakrams, still and silent against the night's predictable nature. "You want me to break ze rest of you too?
"Not everysing wishes for perfection - even I know zat. Sometimes ze broken sings are ze strongest, nicht?" He approached her without warning. Soon enough, one of the chakrams left his grasp. Embedded itself in a tree near the frightened senshi. "Tell me - how much pressure do you sink it takes to part bone? Shall we find out, or will you continue to use zese trees for your cover? Zese ancient oaks are not your protectors, little girl - zey harbor nightmares you never cared to consider."
He continued his approach at a brisk walk. Should he reach her, damnation would surely follow.elza magica Let's make this fun, shall we? Run Medea, Run! for the duration of the chase, roll a 1-3: 1 means she trips a wire, and Bischofite closes the distance a little bit. 2 means she may or may not trip a wire, but Bischofite draws no closer. 3 means she doesn't trip anything, and widens the ground between them.
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Oak PhD generated a random number between
1 and 3 ...
1!
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Posted: Fri Sep 20, 2013 12:35 pm
With his smile, she stood. When he opened her arms, she laughed. "Thank you." He didn't seem so terrible. He even called her endearing. How...sweet. It seemed silly to think an agent would break her into small pieces. They only wanted her to laugh and smile and trust. Except for the purple-haired woman. Or Mariposite. Or the blue-suited man. Yes. All those people were exceptions, and Buddy and the general before her were the true agents who sought her protection.
She approached.
Then he spoke of breaking her and nightmares and oaks--terrible, scary oaks leaning over with precious fruit she didn't know--didn't care to know, would prefer to read analyses on Spanish literature than know, but not tonight. Tonight the chakram shot into the tree.
"Oh."
And she would only blame herself because everyone warned her and she ignored them.
"No." She ran east. A wire snapped under her foot. She froze. She looked to the general. She looked at the wire. She looked at her arm.
She made a break for it.
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Posted: Fri Sep 20, 2013 1:21 pm
Bischofite only laughed. She had hope yet, this one, for she did not embrace him readily or test her trite, boring logic on him. She did not confine him to the simple use of 'enemy', or 'monster', and perhaps that was her only saving grace from a long, drawn-out death. No, for now, he would entertain her breathless fight for life and happiness and hope.
For now he would not enlighten her to the futility of her escape.
Rather, the general began his slow approach through the woods. Following her footfalls proved an easy task, especially with the copious amount of wrecked flora she left behind through hasty steps. And hastier still came her retreat, as with it came an indicative wire snap - soon afterward, a choke followed, along with the rustling branches bearing a ripened fruit. It hung heavy in its tree, still struggling, still thrashing about and gasping in an attempt to stave off death for a second longer.
He wondered if she noticed. He wondered if she blamed herself, for her inability to spot the wire beforehand. He wondered if she blamed him, if she transposed all her hate and anguish and guilt onto him, forcing him to don the visage of monster once more. But all these answers would come in turn; he needn't concern himself over them in the midst of a most curiously entertaining chase.
And as he passed the low-hanging fruit, he endured a sudden brush of goosebumps as he heard a final death rattle. Oh, how exciting.
And the night could only get better.
Finally he managed a clear view of the girl, scampering through the woods. He took an interest in her leg - how much pressure, he had asked before, would it take to cut through bone? As he readied the chakram that reappeared in his hand, he considered it.
But there were better ideas afoot. Instead of aiming directly for the spindly little senshi, effectively crippling her, he threw the chakram toward a more distant mark - the tripwire directly in front of her. He remembered choosing the tree with Persephone, he remembered winding the wire despite Remarque's protests. He remembered the civilian, wild-eyed and wet with tears, shaking her head emphatically as a means to gain a right to live.
And he knew she'd come down directly in front of a girl. Would they collide? Would the senshi be so stunned, so paralyzed, that their little arrangement would end abruptly?
He hoped not.
Terror was an excellent motivator; he hoped it wouldn't disappoint him tonight.
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Oak PhD generated a random number between
1 and 3 ...
1!
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Posted: Fri Sep 20, 2013 1:23 pm
Rustling. Arms dangled skinny and the legs dangled thick and a dead girl's eyes looked upon her like "How could you?" Medea didn't know. When did she become so terrible? Somewhere goodness gleamed like chakrams slicing through wire. Heavy rain. Mud-stained clothes. Hair tangled and a dead girl who once ate smoked sausages maybe or watched fireworks in the park or grew asparagus or pretended not to hear her boyfriend's girlfriend on Valentine's day pressed heavy against her like the clouds, the shadows, the rain.
These small things, these good things, faded, and Medea squirmed out from under her. Distance. Some distance so she could enchant, but where? He seemed close. Normally she loved closeness, but he infringed, too close, too eager. Even that laugh. A painful laugh. A horrific laugh, mocking hers. She always laughed. Always smiled, and it was his turn.
She slid out from under the girl. Snapped another wire. Rustling. A body. A heart stopped beating. Her heart beat faster. Her hair darkened in the rain. Her eyes wet. She studied the feathers--black--the lining--gold--the smile.
Run or fight?
Left or right?
Coward.
This was the game. And she was the loser. She dashed left.
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Posted: Fri Sep 20, 2013 2:44 pm
Bischofite followed at his even clip, monitoring her movements from an ever shrinking distance. Even as he progressed at a brisk walk, she failed to stave him off - failed to maintain a steady pace through the thick underbrush and their metallic threads. He still thoroughly enjoyed it. Did she? It mattered little; whether he wanted her to or not, she would learn something from this.
Provided she survived. Given her current performance, he wasn't sure she would - but that did not deter him, nor would it ever.
"Senshi," he called through the trees and legs and shadows, "tell me your name. Tell me who zey call you. Tell me so I can curse your star and everysing you stand for, tell me so I can burn it to ze ground along wis' your pasetic attempts to evade me." He smiled, recalled his chakram. Pushed the limp legs out of his way with the sharp blade. They bled heavily; curious how quickly blood ebbed to its lowest point.
"Tell me so I can dissolve every memory of you." He spoke evenly, and his voice carried despite the woods being rife with palpable fear. Were she not stumbling through so brazenly, perhaps these hapless individuals had less reason to gasp and shudder in choked fright. No matter; it was better this way.
More entertaining this way.
Maybe Buddingtonite would be proud - for rather than enduring youmafication, rather than barbecuing his dog or destroying the business he painstakingly acquired, Bischofite played with errant souls who strayed through the forests and called themselves heroes, bastions of light, protectors of the innocent.
And he here led one through the woods, curved her path through strings so sharp they cut through wit like butter, and she singlehandedly defamed their only image. Surely Buddingtonite could see past his ceaseless contempt and commend him for at least that. If not, well... Perhaps not everyone was salvageable. "Just a little longer now, senshi. Just a little longer and you'll haf' killed everyone or reached a veritable clearing. Which will it be, hmm?" He smiled, laughed.
And furthermore he mocked in a singsong voice: "Eenie meenie miney mo, E. I. E. I. E. I. O., where you, where you, where you go, it's all ze same to me."
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Oak PhD generated a random number between
1 and 3 ...
1!
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Posted: Fri Sep 20, 2013 2:47 pm
Sing-song and a playful tone. He asked about her name, tiny planet. How she wished to float into the sky, vaporize into stars, watch him far away and the civilians struggling, rewind his actions, so he took them down from their branches. Instead they swayed in the wind, choking and wondering if they would be alright. The rain couldn't wash her away and the sun couldn't dry their tears, the girl bled from his blade. How funny that rain and blood trickled, and the song carried through deep into her and she wanted to sing, but she couldn't sing, so she wanted to laugh, but she couldn't laugh. Not even cry. Not even hope. She tripped over the wire. The shadow approached. So much closer now. So much farther away the city seemed. Trees and trees blocked her out. Where was the sun?
She couldn't even remember her name.
Ruthie? Medea? Alois? Thraen? James?
A civilian gasped their last.
Buddy? Mariposite?
Who...?
She stumbled forward and gasped.
Her heart beat so quickly.
She turned around.
"LEAVE ME ALONE."
She dashed into the clearing. A wide open space freckled with flowers. Small. Innocent. Good. Tricking her. Wires laced the earth, slipped between their buds, cut into the grass.
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Posted: Sun Sep 22, 2013 9:36 am
"It wouldn't make a difference if I did." He watched in great interest as the girl before him scrambled far too quickly than her legs could allow. With every fear-fueled endeavor came another snap of the wire, another low-hanging fruit.
Perhaps this was no different than an alternate rendition of Alighieri's suicide forest.
For all her hapless wandering, for all her useless and convoluted jets through the forest, for all her troubled wake, the girl froze upon entry to the clearing. The moon echoed high above, the forest spread its fingers in the form of shadows across the ground. Blades of grass sported dew that shone in the moonlight, like tripwires netted across the surface. During the day, this clearing hosted picnics, children playing, adults conversing about their latest recipes for lemonade. Senshi who meandered through to view the public in a calmer light. Deer, squirrels, beetles that sought a small change of venue, still soft to their vigilance.
And in nightfall, this domain was his - to manipulate its quiet visage and lace it with such vitriol that anyone who crossed its length would drown in the blood of their own morals. It supported death at its outskirts, but never within the clearing - that would be too clear, too clean.
And Bischofite hated clean.
"Careful now, girl - you're treading water." Even with his slow, looming presence at her back, she failed to maintain any form of a lead. Disappointing, but he came to know this type of underwhelming performance from the White Moon Court. So steadfast were they in their projected morals, steeped in their own propaganda, advertising their wholesome intentions to safe the masses - and from what? For what? Maybe she'd know.
Maybe it didn't matter.
He was upon her in seconds - graced with the power of unmitigated darkness, he crossed the paltry ravine between them absent time. At her back, he forced her into the clearing, onto the ground, onto a crisscrossing bed of tripwires, with the express interest to direct her gaze toward the moon. Her moon. Some dead, dreary, husk of a planet repeating the same motions through the sky. Did she really think her court was any different from its namesake?
He wanted to know.
So he joined her, pinned her shoulders to the ground with his hands, straddled her and broke every last tripwire separating her from ceaseless verdant blades. Chakrams aside, it was time for business.
The distant sounds of choking permeated his coming words with a sense of urgency. But even as they gasped and rattled and seethed, he chose his words carefully, spoke clearly, articulated slowly. She would know the pain of failing on this night, of absolute departure from the former, brilliant life of a senshi in the wings. A senshi destined to deliver the city from darkness. But this was no play, no act, no halfassed recital. "You, child, haf' been living in a dream where ze words leaf' me alone mean somesing to your aggressor." He smiled, leaned in close, watched her pupils in their stunted palpitations. "Did you notice zem, or did you simply scamper away and close your mind to such soughts? Zat you caused zeir deas' here in ze forest, zat now ze police, whose job you usurp in such a trifling fashion, will now haf' to comb ze place for all zese corpses zat you cast from ze trees? Look now, at ze horizon. Take it in: a ring of newly-rent flesh encircling your moon." As an added means of encouragement, he pressed the heel of his hand to her chin and forced her head upward, toward the trees behind her.
"Tell me your name," he urged again. "Tell me, and I might ease your burden." He smiled. He laughed.
It sounded no different than the death rattles.
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Posted: Sun Sep 22, 2013 10:36 am
The trees shimmered in pink and blue and her pupils shrunk like buds shutting or butterflies cocooning, and the grass glistened and the water smelled sweet. The sun shone brightly. The sky broke clear and blue, and the apples dangled low and crisp. Perfect for plucking and biting in, deep and sour, no not sour, always sweet. Never tart or bitter, and this...thing. Something pressed against her, forced her into the licorice net. What could it be? A...cloud? A fluffy pink cloud forcing--not forcing. Forcing sounded too harsh. How could she build this illusion? She wanted so desperately to face death from her delusional, rosy bubble, where nothing could hurt her. She coped with the cast this way. She coped with the man on top of her that way, by sinking deep into her delusions and memories like the net beneath her, and she'd never wake. She'd rather sleep through life than face that Destiny City didn't smell of roses and shine in sunlight. She closed her eyes.
Not even the choking and collapsing civilians could wake her. Not even the agent's laughter.
"Medea." she said, as if it would save her. He told her to wake up. Wake up, Medea, but she said no. He smiled. The sun shone too brightly. The trees seemed too pink and the apples tasted too sweet. That rustling. She cried. Diamonds. No. Tears. Breaking down her face onto the grass soft like a bed, welcoming her home, not pointing into her. No wires tonight. "Please--"
Girls died pretty. Sparkled in the moonlight. Ignored the bodies dangling around. Ignored the warmth of a body on top. She couldn't charm the earth or sky--couldn't charm herself out of this.
I beg of you, she wanted to say. She wanted to thrashed him off or curl into a little ball, anything but this silence. How could she speak? So frightened and lost in her imagination. She had to say something--anything. An escape.
"What do you want?"
Could he be sated? Would he let her go?
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 7:25 pm
"Medea." He grinned. "Would you murder your children out of spite, Medea? I haf' met many mysologies in my time, but none as insidious as you. But... I haf' no pretentious connotations to my name, no predetermined image to lif' up to. How does it feel to continually fail to measure up to your namesake, Medea? Granddaughter of Helios? As bright as you might be, even ze sun is overtaken in shadow." Case in point, she lay nearly obscured beneath his visage, buried by feathers and blacks and golds accented with earrings that collided in fits and starts, timing his speeches and enthused body language. "Oh, what I would do to you..." He mumbled in his guttural accent.
But this was a time of famine, not of rest. She would starve, wild-eyed and feverish, long before she earned her reprieve. She would not find solace in her imaginings, in her rationalizations or her depersonalizations. From her, he would reap all these benefits, all these infinitesimally small amnesties and force her to endure the full brunt of reality, of helplessness, of complete and utter worthlessness. Through him, she would die. Through him, she would endure a transformation so glorious that she would put her namesake to shame.
For the quest of murder in the name of revenge could not hold a candle to algid, caustic apathy.
"Medea, Medea, Medea... Let's get started, shall we?" He laced his fingers together effortlessly, and forced the hammock of bones and joints against her throat with enough force to silence her. After shifting his weight a modicum to get comfortable, he began his endeavor to strip away all the meager barriers preventing her from fully digesting the scene.
And the famine began.
"Zere is a way to understand all zis deas', all zis misery and violence in a manner zat makes sense wis'out demeaning it. Call me a monster, a vapid beast, a murderer and defiler, but zat does not dispell ze scene before you. Ze bodies will still hang. Ze meat will still rot. Ze memory will still remain. But zere is somesing you must first understand about your capabilities zat eases your burden here." He breathed an even sigh. "People carry ze freedom of choice - you must choose to alter your philosophy for zis act to be acceptable, endurable. You see... In Nihilism, we accept zat all sings will occur wis' or wis'out our participation. All zese people would'f died tonight regardless - if not you, zen someone else would trip ze wires. if not me, zen perhaps a case of mass food poisoning, or a youma attack... Or a senshi attack. Es ist egal.
"It is ze difference between ze White Moon Court and ze Negaverse, is it not? Sink about it - ze Negaverse understands zat ze universe naturally leans toward entropy, and it seeks to operate wis' zat in mind. All sings will degrade, all sings will come to an end, regardless of our participation. We are free to act as we will - to murder for starseeds, to drain energy for notoriety, to kill senshi for glory. It doesn't make a difference.
"Conversely, your little court fights so heavily against ze natural order of sings - zey seek to revert everysing from chaos to law, to reverse ze natural decomposition of ze world around us. You're fighting a futile battle, trapped wis'in Nihilism wis'out even an inkling of wit to indicate how hopeless you truly are. It's what makes toying wis' your kind so fullfilling, you see. Haf' you ever seen an animal's eyes when it finally recognizes ze moment it will die? It's much ze same." Finally he released the pressure on her neck, allowing her to speak once more.
"Try to impress me - else you might end up anozzer low-hanging fruit."
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 8:16 pm
Who was he, a greater Medea might have asked, to press his hands to her throat? Dangerous, yes. Prideful, very, but not worthy enough to kill, and yet, that Medea, the sun-sorceress, the killer, didn't rest under him, crying for her life, waiting for its end. He gave her the chance--not to deify, but to survive. When did survival reduce from wandering continents in search of food to lying under a General? How weak she must have seemed in the prehistoric scope. The General, the predator, the Senshi, the weak. Rain sunk into the earth, slid off her hair and skin and deep into the mud, where more flowers would blossom in white and pink and light blue. She shook her head.
"I can't--" Bodies swayed like palm trees. "--How would I even--"
She shut her eyes--defeated. Finish me, she wanted to say. End it. Be done with it. Failures vanished all the time. Snuck out of back doors and never seen again. You could always find another sweeper, another one to clean the racks, someone to pick up around the house. The ones like him, though, you couldn't replace. They hovered over like shadows, marking the way, deepening shadows. Ink stains were permanent, and she knew she couldn't erase him from her memory. He'd forever linger. Immortal.
She hated him.
"Please stop," she whispered. She studied his gaze. Brave face. No cowardice tonight. Be strong, young girl. "I must ask you to--"
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 8:55 pm
Bischofite frowned, much like the shadows whittling away at the meager light of dawn. His brow furrowed, eyes half lidded in contempt while he looked down on her. She, the meek little wretch who sought to play his games, who sought to lose in such a spectacular fashion, dared to defy him now, to spit in the face of coming victory. Much like the senshi of the past, she sought defiance - toward his ideals, his actions, his aspirations.
And in turn she would receive the same treatment.
Bischofite paid little heed to her whispered pleas for mercy. Once more he summoned a chakram to his grasp, and pressed the blade against the faint cloth covering her shoulder. As he leaned on it, the pressure incurred a deep gash along the socket, threatening the joint in a manner promising dismemberment. And he took pride in this fact. "Do not deny me, Medea. Ze Negaverse may be rife wis' ze weak, infected wis' paltry schemers like Buddingtonite, but I am not of zeir ilk. If you continue to make a mockery of what I ask, zen you won't haf' a broken arm to heal, girl." To prove his point, he pressed against the chakram once more.
Vivisection may yet retain its claim as an art form, should she continue her halfassed charades. No matter; what is one more amidst a nest of bounty? She, the one fallen from the trees, the one nestled amongst spider wires, a Schmetterling* overripe and housed in a rotten cocoon.
"Tell me - who broke your arm, girl? Was it an accident, or somesing more nefarious? Was it while powered, or while a civilian?Did you instigate it, or did someone decide to break you for what you are?" The smile returned, for now he might yet pull some fun out of the woefully uninteresting senshi beneath him. The girl who squirmed and writhed and cried for mercy, for absolution, but she had still more time to spend in famine, before the bounty would grace her lips.
She hadn't yet earned her right to eat.
"Would you still eat fruit, knowing you consume its flesh? Would you feed from zis forest? I suspect its offerings will takes more succulent, more delectable zan before. I suspect ze Garden of Eden was built upon a necropolis, for ze fruit could not harbor such sweetness wis'out ze labors of ze dead.
"Would you taste of such a garden, Medea? One of revenge and suffering, much like you? Or would you choose to feed ozzers wis' your labors and beleaguered intentions? You're cute, you're fragile, you're atrociously meek, but I do not sink you ze type to maintain such innocence for long."*Butterfly
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 9:28 pm
She lurched with the chakram pushing into her, crying out. She fell back and glared, staring deep deep deep into him, like she would stare into a trench, darkening at the bottom, bottles and fishies wasting away. Little skeletons dissolving into bubble and air. "Fine." Enough games. "You get to know." Breathing heavy--heavy, heavy, heavy like the storm. "A purple-haired girl." Thunder. "Gray hoodie. Silver eyes." She glowered. "She instigated. You happy?"
And then.
She sunk into the earth. Limp. Pupils shrunk.
"You know Buddy?"
Would Buddy save her from this? Did he hate this guy too? Maybe they were comrades--allies. Maybe--Maybe they slept together too, drifted together, watching for Senshi like her. Maybe if Buddy couldn't convert them, this one killed them. Was that THE TRUTH?
No.
She trusted him. Adored him. He would never ever hurt her. Not unless he received orders, he said, and he wouldn't as long as he kept her a secret.
As long as he kept her a secret.
NO. HE WOULDN'T DO THAT. BUDDY WOULDN'T HURT HER. PEOPLE WHO KISSED DIDN'T HURT EACH OTHER. NEVER EVER. NOT WHEN THEY KISSED LIKE THA--
Mud and rain and flowers and him--not him the red-haired one, but the black-haired one. Black-haired one, did you have a name? What did you whisper to all your friends? Why did you trick girls into the woods just to watch them die? Surely this wasn't for fun? Surely, surely.
She smiled. Exhausted. Weak. Certainly she was about to die. Something like that maybe. She would just slip under-into the gray. Always death, right? They died from the beginning, like those bodies fell forever, never breaking or shattering, and she eternally poised under him, waiting for the apple. Always. Like a ring.
"What do you know about innocence?"
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 10:15 pm
"If I was ever sated, I would haf' no drive to persevere." Purple hair. Gray hoodie. Silver eyes. That sounded like... Xenotime. Was this her method of assault? He smiled. Golden eyes shifted to her cast- sullen and soaked, a meager method of containing the fracture therein. With all the tempered power she wielded, Xenotime left with girl with but a broken arm? Was this a warning, he wondered? Was it akin to a kiss, a farewell between lovers ill-met to begin with? He liked the idea of conviction, but it appeared Xenotime did not share that sentiment.
If only she had shattered the girl's ribcage, left her to drown in her own blood. Her own bone. Her own weakness. Then, perhaps he could've met someone more worthy of this fated night.
Alas, he was beginning to figure his fate was to suffer eternally.
"She and I will haf' words over zat." Where did she learn such leniency? Deplorable, to leave a senshi so untouched by chaos and adversity and entropy. Why, Xenotime hardly touched the girl, left a mark that would fade in a month's time, maybe more, depending on the nature of the fracture. But... He would hasten its recovery, as a means to return her to whole once more. And once she assumes that undefiled image, Bischofite would instruct Xenotime to defile her fully, to reduce her to a state so desperate for guidance that she would be properly primed for the general's unique brand of idealism.
For the moment, Bischofite discarded his chakram amidst a severed heap of wires, not far from violet tendrils spilling outward from the senshi pinned beneath him. "I will answer one of your questions, and I will choose ze one I prefer. And ze answer is yes, I do know Buddy, as apparently you do too. And to call him by such a name... What haf you been doing wis' him, hmm?" Already he wondered if Buddy intended to deliver on the ultimatum, to demonstrate his abilities as a conniver and a deceiver and sully this girl with so much deceit and chaos that she could no longer stand to view the moon without wretched, unrelenting hate.
Alas, that would make him proud. Impressed. It would stir his passions into roiling flames.
A fire with such blistering temperature that it would burn the garden to cinders. No more trite myths to stand on for moral guidance, no more named enemies lurking amidst beauty.
Such things were fairytales. Her fairytales.
"If you tell me ze nature of your acquaintance wis' him, I may hasten your recuperation." He watched relentlessly - awaited her answer, awaited lies, awaited improvisations that denoted a friendship or a kinship or a tryst.
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