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 Posted: Fri Oct 11, 2013 4:18 pm
A text. A simple request for a meeting. Yet it had full lips caught between pointed teeth as a grin slid along pale features. The morning after their violent meeting, when they'd parted after breakfast, Porsha had kicked herself for having not given Alois her number. The days had stretched on, and she'd mourned the lose of those tender marks left behind. Sentimental little tokens that had been looked upon with affection that had healed far to quickly. First the cut on her cheek, the rest. Fading away one by one until nothing remained of their intimate exchange. But she'd found him gain at the con, and made sure she'd left a lasting impression before giving up her number. Now he was messaging her, asking her to meet him outside the city, and she was all too eager to oblige him. That tightness was back, the excited nervousness that had lingered throughout the whole of every delightful encounter. Violent potential surrounded the boy like an omen, and Porsha has always been drawn to violence. A bus ride would take her as far as the city limits, and from there she powered up and moved in welcoming shadows until she'd found the plain he'd directed her to. Darkness stretched for miles, but it was incomplete. Tarnished by the moon and the pinpricks of light that made up the stars. Every last beacon a reminder of what they stood up against. It should have been pretty. It wasn't. Gun-metal eyes narrowed up at the heavens before she lowered her head and slid fingers along the edge of her hood, tugging it gently back into place as she directed her attention towards the large concentration of chaotic power that waited for her. "General." Not captain, not any longer. She had some catching up to do.
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Posted: Fri Oct 11, 2013 4:19 pm
He had good reason for choosing this place.
No reasons to hide, no one to witness her changes, nowhere to go without the same echoing, bland environment following as far as the eye could see. It was difficult for him to give her directions, given the nature of this place, but his signature would surely prove a beacon for the location. She would know him before she would know his intentions, or the reasoning behind choosing such a bland location. She would know the rolling hills, the grass half-dead from the dregs of summer scorches, and the rare tree to mark a milestone across seamless lands.
But even out this far, humanity pervaded the place. Should she travel far enough east, farmlands dotted the horizon, rife with cultivated gardens and genetically tainted crops. Humans made their own youma - in wheat and corn and all variants therein. Perhaps it was destiny that they became what they sow.
Bischofite rose from the ground slowly, dusting stray broken grass from the back of his infinitely long coat. Now that the weather changed, he found reason to avoid hating his current uniform, but he found it all too restrictive and cumbersome to the majority of his tasks. Nevertheless, Xenotime may simply do away with it for him and their encounter here may devolve past what he originally intended. Only a minor shame - there would be more instances to cultivate her appetite for violence. As much as he hated bearing the weight of being human, cuisine suited violence perfectly. One crafted it in such a way that only humans craft.
For a moment, he considered Medea - the meek, scrawny little girl who sought shelter from the rain and wished to wait out its passing. Would she have simply loitered in the area, completely unaware of the various civilians waiting desperately for their freedom? Probably; she seemed all nerves and reactions to truly process his reasoning behind that perfect orchestration.
No matter. Xenotime broke her arm, and that's why they would chat in the midst of a rolling hillside.
Bischofite watched her with practiced stoicism as she approached, lowering her hood and regarding him in equal fashion - grey and gold. The sun and the clouds.
Bischofite did not smile at her, did not wave or give any notation indicating his pleasure upon her arrival. He wanted to see how she'd react to such cold reception, if she would interpret their meeting as a punishment, or assume he wanted to dissolve himself from her life. He never mentioned the nature of their meeting - no words were exchanged regarding the violet-haired senshi, or his prance with her through the woods. Nothing even indicated they would discuss the politics of powered life - only that he wanted to meet her in person.
Words absent mirth and warmth, he greeted her by rank. "Captain." The word sounded harsher still in his guttural accent, and he approached her with arms folded behind his back - nearly militaristic in presence. Still, he watched - gauging her reaction. "Do you haf' any idea why I asked you here?" It was hard to suppress a grin.
But for the sake of the experiment, he would stifle his inspiration.
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Posted: Fri Oct 11, 2013 4:20 pm
There was no smile to greet her. No light in gold eyes, nothing at all to speak of the fond exchanges they'd shared on multiple occasions now. She watched that stoic feature, and felt an answering hardness creep into silver kissed eyes as he addressed her, not by name, but rank. Tone devoid of any warmth or familiarity. It had her pause, stopping in the long grass to to fold arms beneath her breasts as she met the level gaze with one of her own. She didn't know what game he was playing, but if they were going for rigid formality and distance, then she could play along. It was hard to know his intentions, and she could admit to a certain level on unease raising up as he approached her. She watched him, gauged him, attempted to dissect his mood and intentions, but he was an enigma tonight, and she was without any map or key. It left a certain hardness to grey eyes. An anger that was impossible to hide completely. Anger that he could look at her with such coldness. Anger that he could pretend there was nothing there. That she meant nothing "No, I don't know why." She might have guessed, but it was impossible to tell from his current mood. Discipline did not cross her mind, she was too confident in herself for that. Too much the perfect little soldier to call down the wrath of the Negaverse. Or so she believed. A little informal at times, perhaps, but what she lacked in discipline she made up for in tenacity and ambition. So why then had he called her out here if not for another taste of violence and shared tastes? She had to bite her tongue to keep quiet. To not demand his reasons or motives. A polite inquiry would have been acceptable, but she wouldn't have been able to keep the scorn from her voice. Silence was safer.
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Posted: Fri Oct 11, 2013 4:22 pm
"I met someone you encountered before. Someone who knew what you looked like, how you fought. And zis someone was a senshi, of basic rank, and she asserted zat you broke her arm. Zough warped from ze rain, her story was true enough - her arm was broken, and she blamed it on you. Zis might sound like a moment of pride to you, to bask in ze glory you wrought for yourself, but you're mistaken. Do you realize why zis is such folly? Because she is still alif'e, captain. She is still breazing. You did not complete your job by letting her lif', and now we will discuss your punishment for doing so." How could the rest of the generals manage this stiflingly serious tone and professional demeanor for long? He couldn't see himself leading much of anyone in such a fashion.
Bischofite approached, but stopped six feet from the captain, who wore something of a scathing spark in her eye. He appreciate that about her - she knew when she was being wronged, and that was an impeccably useful skill to own. Still, he suppressed his inclination toward a wide grin, and instead slipped a hand into his coat pocket to reveal a single lighter. "Tonight, we'll begin an exercise. It is bos' symbolic and highly literal. If you're as smart as I sink you are, you will learn a lot from zis."
Oops, complimented her. Oh well; every mask cracks, albeit slightly.
As he continued his speech, Bischofite paced while idly shaking the lighter. Bubbles of butane loomed toward the surface in the otherwise viscous fluid. "Zere's a reason I picked zis field, and it accompanies your punishment. You see, captain, you must exterminate ze enemy if you want to win ze war. It is a simple prospect - and zere are many ways to go about it. But ze first hurdle to overcome in situations like zese is zat of grasping mortality. Naturally you already haf' a decent understanding of it, or you would'f taken to killing like it was nossing. And since you comprehend mortality, it becomes all ze more difficult to take a life. Someone may do ze very same to you.
"And zat's why you must adhere to zis practice as your punishment - in it you will learn about repercussions for half measures, like ze one you exacted on medea. So take zis lighter," he held it out toward her in a single, light gesture, "and tell me if you're ready. Once you are, I will explain ze rules for your endeavor." He watched her carefully; oh, how hard it was to suppress himself in moments like these. She already displayed a sense of aggravation - he wondered just how far he could take his charades before she outright snapped at him for them.
Who knows, it might be fun.
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Posted: Fri Oct 11, 2013 4:23 pm
Confusion came in a winding tail before realization had already cool eyes narrowing. Medea. The pathetic little wretch of a senshi that she'd left broken and crying on the train tracks. The pitiful little thing that had been such a disappointment and waste. Snapping her arm hadn't been a point of pride. She did not look back on the occasion fondly. The fracture itself may have brought a momentary wash of satisfaction, but the encounter still left a bad taste on her tongue. It was a hard thing to keep her lip from curly. But she kept quiet, tongue held tight between clenched teeth, as all manner of ease slipped away from her figure. Tension sang through shoulders that had crept up by inches, and her fingers dimpled against her own arm where she gripped it. Had he killed her then? Choked the life from her? Stabbed her, eviscerated her? Was she lying somewhere cold and broken? Steel eyes snapped down to the lighter, following it as it bounced and moved, and all at once she had an idea of what he meant to do. It made her stiffen, gaze jumping to his face as he spoke of mortality and consequences, and maybe, just maybe a tiny flicker of fear broke through the rising anger. The lighter was offered out to her, and there was that urge to reach beyond it. Past the hand that held to wrist, It would be so easy. A quick jerk and a twist, and.. No. Not this time. She might have had the skill, but now he took the advantage in strength, and certainly he was cautious enough to expect some manner of retaliation, even from her. So she took the lighter in her hand, fingers squeezing around it, and swallowed the venom and scorn that threatened to choke her. "Please proceed." The words were carefully spoken. Each individual syllable enunciated through teeth that hardly parted. Bischofite, how you move thy. And in that instant, she did loath him.
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Posted: Wed Oct 16, 2013 8:11 am
"Good." He finally indulged his want to smile, to flash her his cunning in the form of a toothy grin. She'd earned her reprieve from his sudden formality, the coldness that pervaded his earlier words. "You might find zis tactic a little... Overwhelming, but perhaps zat is in ze nature of ze lesson. To do less harm, to perform somesing less extreme, would do a disservice to you and spit in ze face of what I am trying to teach you. You haf' ze ability to stomach what I try to teach, what I try to bleed into ze hearts of many. You are special, Xenotime, so you deserf'e to be taught in a manner zat highlights your importance."
However, he knew in doing so, the price he paid was steep indeed. Would he die here? He wouldn't mind - knowing that he could not ascend to the plane of existence he desired, that he failed in such a fundamental regard, dismissed any lingering distaste for death. He did not actively seek it, though this night may prove different from his prior intentions.
Finally he began walking backwards, pacing a solid ten feet before he stopped amidst the higher blades of dried grass. "Light ze field, Xenotime. Right before me. Do not falter, for inaction is worse zan a half measure." He stood awaiting her movement, her convictions, her tentative devotions.
And he remembered time spent with her - exploring the depths of violence on the first night they met, atop a highway, an overpass, and they lingered in the dark. Among headlights. Blazing horns. And they discovered each other in that mass of tangled rebar, of concrete and chassis. From that experience, he knew Porsha - Xenotime - understood the depths of the notions he followed so closely, and echoed some of the same sentiments. So if he survived this night, in the middle of some nameless field, then she would have easily digested the understandings he tried to convey.
But what if he died here? Burned to ash among the dried-out kindling? Would she take his place, and scathe the lands in those same acerbic ideals that he touted so readily?
He had his doubts.
"Do not falter," came his warning. Golden eyes fixated on her stoically. "Understand zat what I will teach you here will hurt, but as I said before... Suffering is key to change."
And he braced himself for the pain.
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Posted: Wed Oct 16, 2013 8:52 am
he smiled at it was sudden and startling. He smiled, and that building rage faltered and cooled. Chest tight, ribs expanding as she drew in the night air around her, and she could hear the subtle percussion of her teeth as they rattled together. The angry mask was crumbling, and all because he had called her special, important. She had his attention. She lingered in thought. She was a fool. Silver eyes widened at his command, and now she could smell it. Subtle and barely there. Carried away by time and the wind, but still there, hiding, waiting, deadly. Sharp nails bit into her palm as she squeezed the lighter, and she watched in trepidation as he moved away from her. "Bischofite." His name was a hiss between clenched teeth, not in anger anymore, but mounting unease, dread, fear. But she only spoke his name. Her only protest before he urged her into action with needling words and pricks to her loyalty. Inaction was worst then half measures. She cursed, low and with feeling. Fear had consumed rage, swallowing it down and thrusting it away, but she pulled it back now and wrapped herself in the familiar warmth of it. It wouldn't protect her from the flames, but it would save her from the indignity of showing pain. At least for a while. But she was a fool. And she did not see yet where this lesson was heading. This would hurt. Suffering was a key to change. Hurting was important.She didn't hesitate. The lighter came up, and she smashed her thumb on the wheel to spark it to life, tossing it to the ground him front of her before she had the chance to think twice. And then she braced herself for the pain.
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Posted: Mon Oct 21, 2013 10:24 pm
The moments following felt... Light. Slow. Soft.
Almost ethereal.
In hindsight, he questioned whether he was truly present. Perhaps only his body lingered, while his mind departed with the flames. To greater places, fonder memories. Brighter times, when the people around him breathed guttural tones and forest laced the land with such voracity that he may as well have dwelled in the trees. Where snow came down in droves during the frigid winters, and the landscape shifted dramatically to a second, white world.
But in truth he did not recall where he fled to, nor did it matter much in the coming seconds. For once the lighter impacted the ground, flames pouring across the invisible design left by the general, something equally uncanny happened.
Bischofite watched the flames lick up his uniform, tracing the piping and folds and curves, yet he felt nothing. No heat, no pain. And in those brief moments, he only watched their unfettered ascent with mild mystery. They danced and roiled across him, encouraged only by the errant gusts. They hid and peeled away from the breeze, but soon returned like devils dancing amongst the captured souls that toiled in hell. And the behavior of such lively fire reminded him of youma - the very beasts he aimed to join - for all their ferocity and wild fury. Nothing hindered monsters in their quest for sustenance, and the flames endured all the same.
Perhaps youma might scathe the streets of Destiny City in full force someday.
Sudden, overwhelmingly piercing pain broke his thoughts, seeking wretched howls from his lips while he struggled to maintain some semblance of control over his own reactions. His body screamed to escape this place, to depart from the flames, to roll across the ground in some desperate attempt to cool the fires and save his skin from cooking beneath the unbearable heat, but he could not allow for such luxury.
Xenotime deserved to see this. If he had the wherewithal to teach her of her folly, then he had to persevere through the absolute agony sieging his body.
"Watch," he managed through clenched teeth. A strained groan broke his tempered speech, and he constantly fought to keep his voice at a manageable level. "To break her arm is to burn me alif'e. Your intentions may be to stop her, but an arm will always mend. And when it does, she will seek revenge. She will seek zose you respect, zose you care about, zose you lif' wis', and bury zem wis' her scorn. She will learn from you not to hesitate, and she will commit ze very act zat you did - she will set me alight - and she will not rest until I am nossing but ash.
"Do you like watching your comrades suffer, Xenotime? Because every half-measure you take puts zem in danger." He struggled to maintain some semblance of composure, and in doing so let out a strained scream. The pain grew at an alarming rate; he hadn't much time. And the flames did not stop with him - soon the field would turn ablaze, and they desperately needed to leave. "Now watch a whole measure come to fruition - zis fire will grow from half-measure to whole, from flame to inferno. And once it concludes, not a single blade of grass will haf' survived. Now run - run!"
And with his final command, he collapsed to the ground momentarily. He couldn't breathe - the heavy smoke and flames choked the breath from his lungs, and each respiration burnt him from the inside out. His uniform started melting to his skin, and he lacked the energy and desperate motivation to crawl out of the point of origin and roll across the ground as a last effort to extinguish himself.
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Posted: Mon Oct 21, 2013 11:25 pm
The lighter hit the ground and there was a second where nothing happened, and then grass and accelerant ignited and spread. Silver eyes slammed shut, and she flinched away from the roil of heat that washed up at her until finally understanding dawned as that promising warmth came no further. Xenotime sucked in a startled breath, and she watched on in dawning horror as the unseen trail of gasoline lead away from her, and towards.. "Why?!" She screamed it, voice high and frantic. The flames circled him, engulfed him, licked over his uniform and up his body. Consuming and burning and ruining. Shock rooted her in place, his words kept her in place still longer. That proud, sure figure folded, bowing low as her shoulders rounded and every awful thing he he was trying to teach her sank into her very core. It was too extreme. It hadn't had to come to this.. She screamed again, and there was fear there, anguish and frustration. Run he'd said. And whatever force had kept her still broke. Run. "NO!" She ran, but not away. The young captain ran towards the fire. Towards that tall figure as he sank to his knees, disappearing behind hungry flames. Strong legs carried her through grass still scorched and burning, through flame itself. It took seconds to reach him. It had felt like an eternity. Don't be too late. Don't be too late! The smoke burned her lungs, she couldn't breath. It stung her eyes, and she couldn't see. The roar of the flames filled her ears, and she was deaf. But she could feel. The heat, the biting, agonizing pain as she too burned. When she reached him she paused only long enough loop her arms around his torso so she could pull him upright, and she dropped to push her shoulder into his stomach, lifting him up as momentum carried her forward, out of the flames, out of the grass and into the trees. Collapsing finally at the bass of a tree, the trunk of which she'd lean the general as she tore at still smoldering material as it melted and hardened against his skin. "You son of a b***h," she hissed as she worked, cursing as fingertips and palms burned and blistered. When shed done all she could to cease the damage she knelt before him, cupping his face, a hand patting against his chest before sliding up against his neck to search for a pulse. Her own was choking her, breaths coming in short, sharp pants. "Wake up." She sounded frantic. Her eyes were burning, soot.. tears. Pale lines form tracks down ash darkened cheeks. "Come on, don't do this to me.." Was that despair making that bold voice crack? Fear, loss, desperation? If he died, how would he ever know she wept for him?
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Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 12:00 am
His breaths came in weak coughs that found strength in short bursts of air. He found it difficult to feel through the pain, like swimming toward a surface infinitely far away. It pervaded every inch of his body, as if the ghosts of flames still danced across his skin. Still melted the fabric of his uniform to his flesh, in some haphazard means of securing a monster's visage.
Pseudo-youma... A strange concept, even in the throes of violent pain.
Tired eyes opened (a miracle at that; he thought they'd melted shut due to the searing heat), and the world revealed itself in a mottled mess of color. The hand against his neck registered in a pinprick of pain slightly elevated above the rest - as if she sought to drown him back into reality. He groaned, his voice barely carrying across tired cords. The heat still seared the majority of his thoughts - with every pained breath came another reminder of the inferno he'd barely escaped.
Due to her intervention. Bischofite knew full well that he did not teleport to escape the flames, as he remembered lying low in his lukewarm attempt to circumvent smoke inhalation. Rudimentary teachings, that. But... still, he lay beneath the shade of trees, the boiling inferno only background noise to his current location. But his skin still seethed with the reminder of screaming flames.
Or maybe he was the only one that screamed. No - he distinctly remembered two voices.
Porsha. Wrong again - Xenotime.
"Der Zweck heiligt die Mittel.*" He managed through a sooty cough. He didn't want to sit up, but he forced himself off the ground regardless. Skin protested in its stretch and contraction, still half-burnt from his near-deadly scheme. It felt easier in theory to lean against the bark, but it only served to remind him of the endless agony of clothes melting to skin. Instead he sat up straight, with no crutch behind him. "Machiavellianism." To breathe the word felt no easier than breathing the same choking smoke he'd inhaled moments before.
Vision finally returned, and golden eyes settled on Xenotime's soot-stained face, bearing small rivulets that revealed gleaming, pale skin. Maybe it was only the backdrop of seething flames that provided such a stark contrast, but the presence of those bilateral lines seemingly demanded his attention. For the moment, he needed to forego his philosophies.
He nearly cremated himself, after all, and would have if not for her intervention.
"Es tut mir Leid. It's how we apologize in German. Directly, it means 'it does me harm'. I sink it's more fitting zan 'I'm sorry'." He tried to laugh, but his lungs balked at the effort. Pain etched his normally stoic countenance into weathered pain. "Do me one more favor." He gestured toward the building pyre in a weak point. "Watch it - for a time. Watch how it overtakes ze field in its forceful drif'e." His voice came weakly - already tested and forced to its limit beneath grueling agony. "You're watching violence, Jägerin. Ze very sing you treasure in zis war..." He sighed.
Oh, how it hurt to move.Beejoux *The end justifies the means.
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Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 9:20 am
Weak coughs meant he was breathing, and Xenotime fell back on her heels and relief crashed over her with such force she felt absolutely dizzy with it. Lightheaded and weak. For a moment she could only sit there and watch him as clawed his way back to her from the brink, and every sound and small move brought more tears to paint tracks along soot covered cheeks. She wanted to hug him, or shake him, or scream at him, but she was afraid to touch him more then she already had. Even her hand withdrew, hovering uselessly in the air between them. He spoke, and dark brows pinched in. She didn't understand, and there wasn't enough room among battling emotions for idle curiosity. Later, maybe, when she was sure he would live, and when he was somewhere safe and pain didn't contort stoic features with every shallow breath, she would ask him. Maybe. When he forced himself up she reached out for him, catching an arm, his shoulder. Careful where she touched, avoiding the worst of the burns as well as she could. Jesus, he looked awful.. The apology made the captain stiffen. Full lips parted, her chest expanded as she drew a breath, but no sound escaped with it's passing. Only the soft rattle of teeth as they chattered together. It does me harm. She could choke on the truth in those words. Drown in the overwhelming irony. When he pointed feebly she glanced back over her shoulder at the blaze, and a shudder raced up her spine. One favor. She stared with wide eyes as the field they stood in disappeared. Consumed and ravaged by the hungry flames. "This is destruction," she corrected softly, swallowing as red and orange danced within coal eyes. It was contrite. His lesson had sunk in, pierced something deep within, and now she felt as though she would bleed to death. Because he asked it of her she watched, until great black stretches of smoldering land emerged. Smoking and crackling as the soft wind urged the flames elsewhere. She watched, and she listened to his labored breathing, and she felt tiny tremors, the small movements that were born from pain, and gave birth to pain in turn. When she dropped her gaze and wild hair fell around her face it hid so much of the wash of emotion that flicked across her face, but the tug of her cheeks, the pull of her lips, as teeth clenched. That he could see. Desperation gave way to worry, and with every passing second that worry twisted and changed until it was anger that filled silver eyes still shiny with tears when she turned back to him. She trembled, too. And the fingers that were a moment before nothing but a light, gentle touch, tightened, pressing into skin and muscle and bone, and it was she could do to keep from slamming blistered knuckles into that handsome, pained, soot covered face.
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Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 12:05 pm
Bischofite hissed through the pain at her sudden touch - skin pulled, and its cooked exterior protested greatly. If he settled for long, his skin tightened, and only proved to further antagonize movement. Her calm gesture only proved this.
However, she did grant him his one request - to peer at the flames in their endless pursuit for the last of the meager kindling provided by the dry fields. It was absolute, domineering, deadly. Had she lingered in the fields, she would've surely died by now - body consumed wholly by flames far faster than the greatest generals. But need they run from such a source? For fire itself lent more to chaos than anything else. He closed his eyes, though it hurt to do so. Uttered a sigh. It felt like soot caught in his lungs, and he half-expected to breathe smoke, as if it were a viable outcome.
He nearly reduced himself to ash.
"No - destruction describes ze aftermas' of violence. Burning somesing down points toward entropy - everysing breaks down beneas' flames, as part of combustion. Surely you remember it from school. All zose formulae taught to explain ze molecular level of decomposition..." He sighed. It hurt to speak, to move, to exist. His body hummed with ghostly flames, still ravaging his form. To continue his strained efforts toward enlightening her proved useless for the moment. He'd much rather capitulate to the pain and refrain from movement for a while longer.
Silence, and in those precious moments, allow each revelation to sink more slowly into her skin. It did little good to shoot rapid-fire information at a new pupil. In turn, he would ask her to enact what she learned here, but now was not the time. He needed to recover, to seek a little relief from the unrelenting agony searing his bones. Surely she needed something of the same, as she did not escape entirely unscathed herself. The soot staining her face - and the misery that threatened to wash it away - proved as much.
He wanted to touch her, but it required insurmountable effort.
The blaze burned brightest before it slackened, and he found himself irredeemably drawn to the event. He couldn't shift his gaze to any other point of interest, not even Xenotime. For here the violence died away to reveal naught but smoke and bones, charred dregs of the field that once stood proud before. And he liked it - for in this instance, no traces of the senshi's sentiments remained in this place. No order, no livelihood, no expansive grace. This field symbolized victory in its own private way.
But Xenotime banished such thoughts shortly after, through the strengthening of her grip on his shoulder. The skin pulled taut, coaxing a strained yelp from him. Blisters threatened to tear open, and for a moment he felt wet fluid creep up from a splotch on his arm, but he questioned whether it was a ghostly fulfillment of his suspicions. "Let go," he managed through clenched teeth - but she refrained from slackening her grip. Finally he seized her wrist and sought to peel her hand from his shoulder.
He didn't need more pain right now.
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Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 2:10 pm
It was hard to hang onto that anger as tightening fingers pulled a pained yelp from the general. She looked stricken, and her grip loosened on his shoulder as he grabbed her wrist but she didn't let him go. Couldn't bring herself to open her fingers. If she let him go.. When had she let him dig so far under her skin? Had that been his intention? Did it matter? With a frustrated, growling sigh she pulled her hands away, burying fingers in violet hair as she curled over her knees. She wanted to hit him, to shake him, to scream in his face. She wanted to drag him to her bruise her lips against his and wrap his scent around her body. She wanted him. The idea of him dying hurt. It hurt worse then she would have thought possible. It made her chest ache, it stole her voice, made it hard to talk. When she swallowed it was audible. "You're coming home with me." It wasn't a request. If the demand in her voice didn't banish any protests, the emotional cracks would. Silver eyes glared up at him through soot stained bangs. "I don't think I've ever been this angry," she admitted, and with it came the horrible desire to slam her fist into the tree behind him. To split her knuckles against the bark and watch the blood and bruises rise. She settled with pressing nails into her scalp before straightening. "Or terrified." She wanted to ask him why, but she knew. Asking wouldn't change what happened, and it would only belittle what he'd been trying to teach her. It was an important lesson, she understood that, but he hadn't had to go to such extremes. No, that was a lie.. Raising up on her knees she leaned towards him, her palm bracing against the tree beside them. "Don't do that again." She hated sounding vulnerable. Hated being vulnerable, and hated him for making her feel that way. But she hovered close to him, searching his face without even knowing what she was looking for, before brushing her lips against his. The softest caress. He was here, and he was real, and she'd almost lost him because she lacked resolve. His lips tasted of ash.
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Posted: Sat Oct 26, 2013 12:05 am
If it were a different time, a different place, he might've felt the gravity of her words. As it was, he stewed in his own pain, brought about by an inferno that he instructed her to light. And now he suffered the aftermath, which he considered the most important part. The calm used to digest fresh teachings and adversity, as a means to validate the lesson. And in turn he learned from her - perhaps not philosophies steeped in violence, but how individuals react to his harsh and outlandish teaching methods.
And if she thought them unnecessary... Then he hadn't gone far enough.
He needed her to burn with the fresh knowledge that, by allowing senshi to go free as she did, she put her peers at risk. She put her friends at risk. She put him at risk. And if she hated to see him go up in flames, then so be it. Let her consider what it's like to walk in on him, dead and mangled, at the feet of an assailant. Let her ruminate on what it would be like to never see him again, in the short time they've known each other. If the thought of him burning to ash terrified her, then let her horror fester into vengeful action.
Bischofite tried to swallow; his throat felt painfully dry. It hurt to speak, to breathe, but he suspected that the heat of the flames and smoke dried it out. If he continued to ramble as he had, he would surely suffer cracks large enough to bleed, and the thought of coughing ichor every five seconds as it dribbled down his thought sounded painfully monotonous. He would've sighed, but his lungs felt too raw and sensitive to allow for such a breath. It hurt to move, and he knew that by remaining inert, his skin would contract as well as the rest of him. Shrink and shrivel beneath the still-cooking skin. A husk, nothing more.
"If you learn from zis, zen I won't haf' to," came his rebuttal. He offered a weak smile. It faded quickly, and in its wake he continued in a more serious tone: "If you want to see me alif'e and well, zen break her neck next time."
And now, he hoped, she would eat drink and sleep the notion of empowering every action to such heavy-handed notions. She would meet a quip with a broken spine, and lack all regret for it.
He watched her with tired eyes as she loomed in. Vibrant, perhaps too vibrant. She was angry, and it showed in the unnatural brightness of her eyes. Maybe it was the dying flames in the distance. Maybe her pupils shrank and her irises reflected more light. Maybe it didn't matter. When she kissed him, he found that the latter held the most truth. He met her with equal resolve, but broke away soon after to cough into a mostly-charred glove. Half-expecting flakes of ash, he shifted his gaze from his captain to his hand.
Blood.
He knew it.
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Posted: Sat Oct 26, 2013 7:22 pm
She took in his message, drank down his lessons and his words. They resounded in her head in lingering echos as he coughed into his hand and they both looked down upon the startling splash of blood that painted across his palm. Darker for the darkness around them. Glossy and near black, rather then the vibrant crimson she knew it to be. The captain stared down at that small splash, fingertips curling against the harsh bite of the bark under her palm, and wanted more then anything to reach out and touch him, to stroke his cheek, to murmur some desperate, pretty lie about how everything was going to be alright. It wasn't. They were at war. This was no game, and he'd done well to remind her of that. Xenotime settled for lifting her free hand up to slide fingers through his hair. It was singed, certainly burnt in places, but not to the scalp. The touch was gentle, hesitant, as if afraid he would break beneath her fingertips, and that in itself was a terrifying thought. He wasn't fragile, and he wouldn't break at her touch. "We need to get you somewhere safe, and clean." The anger was receding, and fear followed. It left her voice tired, a touch strained, but caring and practical. Burns needed tending, cracked lips needed balm, scorched lungs needed cool water. They had to get back into town, to her apartment, and they couldn't return the same way she'd come. "Can you teleport?" How she longed for the ability to carry another with her through the rift, through space itself. It would make things so much easy. A thought, and the woods around them would melt away and carpeted floors and neat, simple decor would replace them. These lengths, this pain, he'd done it for her. To teach her a lesson. To make her better. She would be better. For him. It didn't matter when he'd managed to write himself into her life. Nor whether it was intentional, or happenstance. The only thing that really mattered was that he was important to her, and she would never again willingly place his life in danger. If that meant eliminating an enemy so they could not, in turn, harm him, then so be it.
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