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A summons felt like an electrocution, almost. Maybe that was the best way to describe it - a bolt shooting down from the crown of his head and temporarily seizing every muscle on the way down, until it fizzled out in his feet and left him both breathless and alive. He wondered if inmates felt the same way, back when the electric chair was still in commission. Did they feel most alive before the jolt stopped their hearts? Did they know invigoration before pain? He smiled, but no one was around to see it.

And soon his surroundings no longer faced him. No more barren rooftop, with only the company of a noisy air conditioning unit to cover his thoughts. No more streets emptying out their denizens into homes, establishments, final resting places. No breeze to tease the feathers that adorned his hair, his cape. The elements that composed the real world - all the stimuli and potential - fell away to a darker, more muted place that he'd visited time and again. One almost eternal in its sameness - save for the slow weathering of crystals that jutted out of the landscape. In a sense, it wasn't so different - this place housed its own brand of people, and they operated under similar guidelines: the need to eat, to rest, to seek.

To seek.

Bischofite had been sought out like this numerous times, though for different reasons. But as he mentally inventoried those events, he recognized that each occasion heralded something positive, be it praise for a job well done or a promotion. He had little reason to think that this summons was any different, but... He couldn't go any higher. So was it for praise, then?

Perhaps whoever summoned him could've saved their time and energy. Praise wouldn't have affected him much at this moment - already shaken by events prior, he found it increasingly difficult to maintain a powered form. Everything amounted to nil - all his plans, his traps, his acerbic debates. The White Moon propaganda proved impenetrable to him, as he could not shake those innumerable mindless followers from their steeled devotion. And he hated it, so why praise him for effort absent results?

However, there was another consideration he had missed for a time - that he could be punished. As of late, he'd been losing control over his impulses, so it seemed plausible enough. A reprimand, then. A do your job better. A get your s**t together. He could tolerate it. Swallow it. He had before.

Like hemlock on the way down, a violent death would entrap him. But afterward came muted, dawning realization.

Maybe this was another gift of revelations.

But as he passed through the doors to her office, he paused. Twitched a little. Ground his teeth a little. Shifted his gaze a little. He didn't like this. His instincts yearned to go right back out that door - to ignore the summons and continue with his ceaseless toiling in halfway-hardened mud. Escape and decay.

It must've been his father he was thinking of.

The summons had come like a flash of hot wire in his skull, but Captain Serpentine did not even think to disobey it. He had donned his uniform and appeared in the office of General-Queen Laurelite - a woman he had never personally met but had at least seen the name of during his learning of the Negaverse hierarchy. With Buddingtonite there as well, he relaxed, somewhat. Whatever it was, it had to do with both of them. It would either be praise for their successes... or handling of a certain situation that the taciturn man had made sure to report to the proper authorities, as he and his partner had agreed.

When Bischofite had appeared, his demeanor noticeably shifted into a defensive stance. If Buddingtonite's gaze blazed with fire, then Serpentine's burned with ice. Even in the safety of the Rift, of a General-Queen's office, the Captain had his weapon unfurled and at the ready. Both weapon and wielder were snakes just waiting for the excuse to strike. The only reason he did not launch himself immediately towards the feathered General was because he was certain that the woman in whose office they waited would handle the situation.

He would never forget. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth that he had spat towards the one trying to end his life--who would have ended his life, had not Carnelian, a Senshi, proven a more reliable ally. The scent of gasoline and other vehicular fluids, first filling the air of the junkyard with their scents and then burning as they caught flame. The madness that dripped like poison with every word that fell from Bischofite's lips - a poison that had seeped into his partner and caused him to wilt.

His partner's lively whisper evoked a small, predatory smile, but he said nothing. Silent as ever, he maintained his guardian position at Buddingtonite's side and nodded towards him in assent. As with many aspects of his life, this meeting would go with as little speech as possible. Whatever words were spoken in this office?

He hoped they marred Bischofite forever.

After the General-Queen herself spoke, Bischofite watched her in silence for a stunted handful of seconds before he shifted his gaze to the pair of captains practically across the room from him. The deeply tan one, the shorter one, with his muted rainbow hair and unusually vibrant garb stood protectively - and he remembered the acrid smell of burning automotive fluids when the man caught fire at the junkyard. He remembered smiling while the agent went up in flames. He remembered the humming in his hands, a near shaking feeling, when he released the lighter from the car's console and dropped it into an oily pool of gasoline.

He must've razed the place to the ground, though the captain survived and nothing changed in his eyes. The captain still hated him with a depthless, algid rage that would not suffer by a gasoline-fueled junkyard fire. Maybe he should've expected it - given Ida's reaction to him, all his efforts changed nothing. This man included - the one who stood so defiantly between him and Buddingtonite. It shouldn't matter if they were lovers, but he suspected as much.

Something murderous lurked in those cold, cold eyes.

Bischofite busied himself with removing his gloves while he spoke - tugging on each individual finger before removing the glove entirely, and folding the two meticulously before tucking them into his sash. A drawn-out process, but he needed something to focus on besides her insultingly polite demeanor. "Zere is not much to be said about ze captain who stands wis' his weapon out and practically brandished toward me. He said zat I tried to kill him, but on ze night zat he tried to kill me, I had not met him prior." His gaze shot toward the offending captain sharply, blistering with a repugnance for the predicament the man placed him in.

"However - I am not keen on allowing my peers to try and strike me down wis'out resistance. Given zat he had superiority in weapons at ze time, I used what was natural to me - ze cunning to set my obviously flammable environment alight. Burning him down was my messod of self-defense, and it is one I do not regret. If I hadn't nearly killed him in return, I would not be standing here in front of you." With a growing, almost palpable urge to sneer, he continued. "To zis day I don't know when I presumably tried to kill him. I'f attempted murder of a lot of civilians, and I don't regret it - if he was one of zem, zen I had no way of knowing about it and he never sought to gif' me notification before I nearly ripped his ******** guts out." He could not help but stray his gaze to the captain one final time as he finished his sentence.

"Zat being said..." He could stall it now - with Buddingtonite present, the matter most certainly concerned him too. But why? Bischofite never laid a hand on him. Surely he gave the redhead an overwhelming assortment of strange and frightening evidence to think that the misanthrope would end his life someday, but he had no actual intention of doing so. Didn't he know?

The urge to smoke left his hands shaking. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and pinned his hands to his sides with his elbows. It wouldn't quell the shakiness, but the others might not notice it now. And in this suddenly stifling office, what mattered was his outward composure - not his inward crumbling ruin on which he stood with broken legs. At that moment, he realized he didn't really belong in the Negaverse. And the reasoning behind it shocked him - he hasn't truly expected it, at least not in those terribly short and quickly dwindling seconds in which he had time to exonerate himself. It was a surprisingly straightforward realization, bereft of dressing or pomp and circumstance. Just a simple statement, anchored at the forefront of his mind:

The Negaverse wasn't dark enough for him.

After clearing his throat, he broached the more sensitive subject - the fate of Buddingtonite, which he had painstakingly mulled over for many nights past. Most of them were unconscionably painful, but slowly - surely - the choking lessened bit by bit. His anaphylactic reaction to potentially losing a man he never truly had faded. But... Despite all those nights, it still hurt to make eye contact with him, or think about him to a reasonable capacity, or look at him. It hurt to hear his voice on the street, from a stranger. It hurt to look at his shop. It hurt to think about the regrettably long note he left sitting in the man's guest room dresser. And it hurt to wonder what happened to that note - if he found it, burned it, or simply left it to gather dust just because he recognized the handwriting.

"Buddingtonite... Was a project of sorts. I don't know if you keep tabs on him, as he is not part of your branch, but..." The words crowded his throat; he choked on them for a moment. "He hasn't been able to perform his duties to a... sufficient level for quite some time now. I wasn't aware of what caused it, but I knew zat ze source of it did not matter. It did not deter ze fact zat he desperately needed help. From what I remember, it seemed like he wasn't fully aware of ze difference between being in uniform and out, because at one point he tried to command me while still wearing civilian attire - rank difference aside."

Bischofite hated the thought of continuing, loathed it to no end, but should he not defend himself now, the punishment may be far too strict for actions taken. Slowly he ground his teeth, mulling over how best to phrase his coming explanation without sounding psychotic or utterly stupid. Maybe it was best to be labeled either - insane or cognitively inept criminals often received a very different sentence, and perhaps the same result carried in the Negaverse. "I am not a conventional man, General-Queen. I don't pat my friends and cohorts on ze back and offer a few choice words to cheer zem up. Zose actions don't make sense to me, because zey are trifles. Strong pain requires strong analgesics - or a different, even stronger hurt to mete out a little relief." He glanced toward Buddingtonite, and instantly regretted it.

Bischofite cleared his throat, though it did not fully dissolve the waver that threatened to undermine his composure. "I told him zat he had to suffer in order to change - in order to evolve and overcome ze tribulations zat sreatened to swallow him whole. But zat was not enough - zat became clear to me not long after I said it. So I left his house, where I stayed for a time, and embarked on a different solution - since my proverbial analgesic had no effect, I would pursue a harsher course of action.

"It was easy enough to teleport into his house since I had been zere before, and his dog didn't much care for me, but he didn't exactly stand up to me, eizer. So I would make nonverbal sreats in an effort to force him to change - to make him finally object to ze ceaseless flow of s**t and piss zat became his life's laments. I wanted him to get srough zis, to surmount all zat misery, even if it resulted in my being branded ze archenemy. Knowing zis, I took off his dog's collar and nailed it to his bedroom wall, just abof'e his bed. I cut his lamp cord's casing back and used a paper clip in it, so it would explode ze bulb next time he turned it on. I'd leaf' him any small, disturbing indication zat I was zere, zat I could'f killed and skinned his dog, so zat he might realize zat he needed to change - zat it couldn't wait."

After a deeply necessary sigh, he closed his argument - despite how hollow and vapid it sounded when spoken within these sweltering confines. "If I am to be punished for what I sink is right, zen do what you must. But suffering is ze key to change, and it must'f done somesing for him if he stands before you wis' ze intent to crucify me."

The green-and-gold clad Captain had turned away from Bischofite, although he could hear the systematic removal of his gloves. His shoulders remained tense in open preparation for an attack, should it come. His gaze, however, was fixated on the General-Queen during the two testimonials offered. The Indian tried to keep his facial expression perfectly neutral, but as professional, as cold as he had a reputation for being...his demeanor was misleading. Underneath, Serpentine's emotions grew thick, sharp, and massive as an iceberg. Few could penetrate deep enough to see the extent of the mass, how even a slight crack on the face could grow into a fissure, a festering darkness waiting like a hungry maw for satisfaction.

He had patience in spades. The length of time it took for first the feather-covered General, and then his fellow Captain, to give their stories did not bother him. That did not mean he did not react. Serpentine's hands tightened around his whip as Bischofite spoke, twisting and turning the green leather as word upon word carefully crafted of piss and ink spewed out of him. A hiss passed through tightly sealed lips, but nothing else. Let the raven shriek and caw - it was nothing to him but noise. The desperate ravings of a bird desperate to fly faster than the fear that propelled its heart against its hollow, fragile chest.

Buddingtonite's rebuttal provoked different reactions. Slowly, those hands relaxed. Although the shortest man in the room, Serpentine's spine stiffened and he made sure to stand at his full height. He had never been more proud of his partner, his friend, than he was at this moment. To see the confectioner stand up for himself against the man he feared, to speak clearly and forcefully of what he would and would not accept... such a change from both the irreverent drunkard with whom the taciturn man had originally been paired and the depressed shade that Buddingtonite had become under Bischofite. Of all the seeds he had planted during his time in the Negaverse... their partnership, their friendship was truly the one that had produced the most glorious bloom.

When Buddingtonite grew quiet it was, at least, Serpentine's turn to speak. His golden eyes flashed as he shot a glare to the General. "Bischofite is a liar." It was a simple enough declaration, but one dripping in venom, as though the bite of his voice could produce physical wounds. "He knows my face, if not my name. As a civilian I was taken; I could not reveal myself because Senshi and Knights were near. If not for Carnelian, a true asset to the Negaverse, I would be dead at his hand. I informed him of this when I sought vengeance. If he cannot differentiate friend and foe, then he should not be attempting anything."

His gaze swept back to Buddingtonite, as did an outstretched hand, "My partner and I have both made mistakes. For this, we have each received corrective assignments. From this, we have grown. Now, we are one. We have team tactics. We have personal youma. We meet our quotas. Buddingtonite works to further Infiltration’s goal of conversion; I, to further Spec-Ops's goal of domination. For what does Bischofite fight? To make others suffer - this is not a goal of the Negaverse. How many theatrical, insane missions has he led without payoff? How many officers have been entrusted to him, never to return? I have never seen the officer again who, following Bischofite's orders, abducted me."

Speaking for this length of time did not come naturally to him, and the man had to pause for breath and to keep his throat from drying out. Yet, he was not done speaking. The Captain had waited long enough to air his grievances. He did not intend to start now. "If Buddingtonite were anyone's assignment, he would be mine. General-King Zinkenite assigned him to my care the first night he received the Dark Gift. Now, he has grown into his own officer, my equal in rank and responsibility. For Bischofite to threaten him, regardless of motive, is inappropriate. He further poisons the air of trust that we, as officers, are supposed to have for one another.”

Serpentine had always had a stiff neck, but that did not mean he could not bend. Haughty as he was, he acknowledged the superior rank of the teal-haired woman that had summoned him here. Slowly, carefully, he genuflected before her, his sharp voice no less severe when referring to himself, "If punishment is due, I accept sole responsibility. My desires, not my partner's, led me to confront this beast in person. My loyalty, to Buddingtonite, to the cause, have led us both to seek your judgment."

The rainbow-haired man now bowed his head and waited for Laurelite to speak. Whatever happened now, he was confident of two things. One, Bischofite would be found guilty and punished. With two other Negaverse officers of his and Buddingtonite's caliber to contest the madman's word, there could be no doubt. Two, and equally important, Buddingtonite would be safe. No matter what happened to Serpentine for his attack, his partner was completely free of guilt by association.

Whatever happened now, at least the part of him that cried out for justice would be silenced. Hopefully lapping its fill of Bischofite's blood with Buddingtonite happily proposing a toast.

Bischofite met Buddingtonite's gaze with an open sneer, mustering tides of resentment to fuel his statements. "If you wish to exonerate yourself from ze status of pet project as you so eloquently put it, zen stop acting like a petulant child. No matter how you spin your tales of how might'f gotten ze two of you killed, you cannot deny zat you are a mediocre facsimile of a decent officer. You cannot amount to anysing given your flippant and compartmentalized view of what happened between us - and I regret ever telling you ozzerwise. Nix my initial evaluations of your potential, Buddingtonite, for you are dirt. Kiss a** all you want, but it won't rectify your prior transgressions in your laughably lacking performance."

Perhaps comparing him to a weed proved more of a boost than the redhead initially intended, for they spread so readily and heartily. But Bischofite doubted such a label, for all his hard work met with little to no fruition. Were he not standing in the midst of such an abrasive atmosphere, he might've openly voiced his doubts to Laurelite, but the lot of them worked to present a hostile environment rather than an environment conducive to change. Regardless, they would have what they sought - through collective effort and playing the part of the obedient dog to idle superiors, they earned enough respect to afford the punishments they sought.

Unable to stomach more open slander for methods they never bothered to understand, Bischofite relegated his attention to the rather nondescript decorations adorning the makeshift office. Various informational posters were tacked onto a p***k wall, using what he only assumed was some form of putty, be it of youma origins or something more benign. And as he half-listened to the gold captain's statements, his fingernails dug into the grout between nearly black bricks.

Yes, Bischofite is a liar. Bischofite is always a liar. Bischofite finds genuine use in lies, so let us discount his stories and poignant methods in favor of crucifying him for the sake of unity.

The general curled his fingers against the wall upon hearing mention of the captain who once worked with him - the one he remembered needing more than a little coaxing to work together in a probing experiment. Not only was Serpentine referencing a time when he was in dire need of refining for his methods, but an accompanying officer who provoked actual, legitimate change with his death. "And do you remember zat officer's name, Serpentine? Do you remember his face? Do you remember what he sounded like, his mannerisms and inflections in speech, his idiosyncrasies in ze way he conducted himself? If you're going to use him as a tool in your conniving little contradictions, zen at least appeal to pathos by utilizing his name." It took a great deal of effort to manage the foreign th sound required for garnering some significance to his statement.

But before he could expound upon his response with the fluid reasoning behind his actions, Laurelite called him toward her desk, and he complied with relative ease - for he was not mentally destitute enough to openly defy someone who could strike him down with little effort. However, he considered acting upon such impulses, if only to taste the experiences wrought from those actions. Would she kill him for defying an order and rebuking his subordinates, or simply break him to the point where submission was no longer a choice?

He exhibited no surprise when she cited him as something of a loose cannon - an officer who would not conform to the rules and discretion more commonly observed by his peers and subordinates. He knew Benitoite would've urged him in that direction, but he hadn't enough respect for his general to shirk his beliefs for such a heinously ineffective method of attack. The general clicked his tongue to dissuade a retort when she actually had the gall to call him an asset when her phrasing so obviously indicated otherwise. She explained that, while he effectively gimped the Negaverse's efforts, he still held worth for his unusual inclinations.

But perhaps the most notable statement she made reflected his rank in a negative light - and he narrowed his gaze toward her in expectation of those implications. What was she insinuating?

Cold anger threatened to spill into his speech when she segued into deeming Serpentine as his new superior officer, which only fueled his growing concern for the coming punishment. Bischofite dug too-long fingernails into his palm while he waited for her to articulate the exact punishment that he recognized but not dared admit. Did she truly intend to demote him? To destroy what little progress he painstakingly made because it was simply wrong? Then what was the point in continuing his efforts with the Negaverse?

Or was that the plan all along? Suppress the weed until it found more merit in the opposite faction? No need to cull the weak and useless and uncontrollable when one could eliminate them more effectively as enemies and retain high morale.

But Bischofite could not remain silent for much longer. "You assume zat Serpentine qualifies as a good soldier." His reproach came nary above a whisper. "But did he not make ze same mistakes I did in taking matters into his own hands? Why award leadership to someone who subscribes to ze same folly as I? If you intend to go srough wis' zis punishment in ze manner I am sinking, zen you may very well haf' squandered my purported merits." Foolhardy as it was to fight her superior decision, he could not bring himself to respect such an obviously lopsided affair.

Serpentine kept his eyes pinned to the floor. Bischofite’s jab about the now dead officer was a moot point, and not one that so much as made a prism-colored hair fall out of place. No, the Captain did not know the officer’s name. He had never been introduced. That was… pretty much his entire point. He had never had the opportunity - to forgive, to punished, to meet. Bischofite had denied both of them that.

Like a bronze statute, the green-and-gold clad officer waited. He had made his argument, his gesture. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a blow to fall. Wait for a chance to rise. Wait for Laurelite to deliver her verdict. He rose to his feet only when she gave the order to step forward and took his place beside Buddingtonite. Nowhere else could feel more natural to him now.

The General-Queen’s words did not fall on deaf ears. He simply had a marvelous way of picking and choosing which he felt were important to him. He had never claimed to be guiltless, so to be denied that label meant nothing. Confronting Bischofite may have been an indulgence, but it was not one he regretted. He gladly took responsibility for it. More discomforting were the implications that his cause was ‘petty’ or his confrontations ‘squabbles;’ clearly he and Buddingtonite had failed to impress upon their judge how dangerous their road had been.

The first flicker of life from Serpentine was the tightening of his jaw. The situation seemed to be deteriorating. When had he not allowed Buddingtonite to be punished? The Indian felt he had not only given others free reign but assisted in many of Buddingtonite’s punishments. Extra training, persistent patrolling, hunting youma together when his ginger friend was required to obtain one, holding back a throng of people in a mall so that his partner could publically drain an individual that had threatened to compromise him… yes, Richard screwed up often, but he always, always made up for it. He always learned. The florist had come to value that pernicious attitude. He had, after all, been one of the first to foster it. As a result, Serpentine certainly never thought of himself as a crutch - as a supportive rod for deserving, promising plants, yes. They were hardly in the same league. Yet, he held his tongue for it was this judgment that he and Buddingtonite had sought. It was beyond them, now.

The balm to his ego was a new responsibility. For all of her misconceptions, Laurelite knew who of the three officers before her should be the one to exert control. A smile, though small, cracked across his face both at Bischofite’s obvious displeasure and Buddingtonite’s eagerness to tease. Yes, this result was natural. They had won and were being rewarded, in a sense. Complete control over one who had sought to exert it. The irony was not lost on him. He would do as Laurelite commanded, to the letter. Oh yes, he would teach the feathered man his folly. His response to the all the speech around him was simple, merely three words, and all for the one who was presenting this gift to not only himself, but to Buddingtonite as well, “As you command.”

General-Queen Laurelite. Slim and petite, her face framed with soft green curls and eyes to match. Her words indicated a certain politeness, echoed by her disposition and gesticulations as she guided what could only be described as a cacophony of bruised egos. Even her uniform spoke of simple grace, of small embellishments that enhanced her natural appearance rather than superimposed jarring elements. All these disarming features slowly wove into Bischofite's opinion, rendering her perhaps not far above a captain in terms of physical ability. He might've consciously acknowledged her rank, but beneath the surface, that opinion crumbled to doubt.

Doubt that someone so demure could wield power beyond his own, could belt out orders to rearrange the ranking among the three officers, could lead the Negaverse. By that sweet smile, she solidified his judgment: she now stood as the epitome of those same sightless, dutiful little officers who toiled and fought in the name of protecting the beleaguered mother, the disdainful father, the presumptuous sister.

Her hand shot through his uniform, through skin and bone and a cluster of veins, and he didn't react. He didn't have time. When the general recognized her very act as validation for his earlier concerns, his superior already peeled his uniform through his body - every twisted, knotted fiber pulled through flesh and bone and back again, toward her hand, dragging energy and chaotic power behind it like some warped trawling of a lake bed. Like bloated corpses, those scraps of energy surfaced at her fingertips, dismantled and sucked away far past his desperate attempts to reclaim them. The chaotic power rearranged fibrous muscle tissue and passed through marrow upon exit, and his body practically reconstituted itself in its wake.

Bischofite didn't realize he was screaming - he didn't realize that he clung so desperately to the General-Queen's arm that his nails alone threatened to tear into her uniform in that white knuckle grip. He didn't realize he tried to wrench the arm away from himself, starseed included if it silenced that pain boiling out of his core and spilling scalding pain to the very tips of his fingers. He didn't taste the blood, however minuscule, that trickled up his throat from the force of those screams. Instead he clamored for any fragment of power he might snatch back from her iron grasp, in his wretched inclination to huddle those last remnants of energy to himself like broken viscera.

But he felt it all peel away, like skin flayed from his taxidermy subjects. With it came every torturous yearning that he knew so intimately from trying to forsake his addictions. The itching beneath his teeth, the frazzled thoughts, the cold sweat that left him both far too hot and shaking beyond his control - he knew it all, and he hated it. Hated her. Hated the Negaverse. Hated Serpentine and Buddingtonite and every scrap of encouragement that he never should've penned.

But at the greatest weight of it all, the crushing oppression that left him physically sliding toward the ground against the unforgiving, coarse wall, was his derision for himself.

For all these weaknesses, left raw and exposed by Laurelite's hand. An easy rendering, the perfect skinning. She possessed the finesse and dexterity he only hoped for, in some distant, unlikely future. The lieutenant exhaled a hoarse breath, a cutting reminder that he withheld air as if to somehow squirrel away some chaotic energy for himself, far from her greedy grasp. Nothing worked. Nothing protected him from dropping twice to the rank of lieutenant. Nothing stymied the consumption, the yearning. At one rare point he might've stood fearsome, but now Bischofite collapsed on himself as a wanting shadow, an ineloquent husk.

Bischofite didn't hear Laurelite, nor could he hear anything beyond the high-pitched whine of desperate loss that radiated through his head. The simple act of shifting his gaze demanded energy beyond the poor reserves he still possessed, but the lieutenant searched Laurelite's features in a dazed, glassy drift. He didn't know what he expected - maybe regret, maybe satisfaction - but her countenance disclosed nothing more than the professional politeness with which she addressed the situation. Nothing more.

Standing entailed an exponentially larger effort, one demanding the assistance of the wall he leaned against for quite some time now. Slowly he scraped his way upright, but his legs cramped with an old addiction he never knew he had. Bischofite kept his head down, whether out of shame or his need to hide what pain he still endured, he didn't know. Didn't care. Next came the mocking, the jeering, the gloats of victory from the pair of captains that now stood superior to him, and all their inane tasks - the b***h work - that cushioned their egos. They won, they knew it, and he fully expected the two to grind his tattered sense of self into the dirt. And when even that was wrenched from him, he might reclaim the very power that left him a crumbling ruin rather than an officer.

Once recovered enough to move, the lieutenant ran a hand through his sweat-slick hair at a markedly slower clip, like his body dropped in temperature during the endeavor. He watched the pair out of sheer exhaustion: the stronger of the two, who readied his whip at Bischofite's initial entrance; the charmer of the two, who held more sway than he truly recognized. And for once he didn't have the wherewithal to form a mordant remark.

All he wanted was for chaos to pour back into the holes it left behind.

There had been a time, many years prior, where Krishna Dhawan had been given a chance to work for a butcher. It would have meant more money for his family, not to mention a significant discount on higher quality meat. The fourteen year old boy had already known he leaned more towards nurturing flora than anything dealing with fauna but he went, all the same, at his father's insistence. He had not had to watch anything be slaughtered, but the processes of peeling away fur to expose flesh, the scent of blood, the crack of bone... messy, distasteful, however necessary. He had never gone back and devoted himself instead to the more aesthetically pleasing task of growing plants.

Today, it seemed a very similar process was taking place before his eyes. Even now, he did not share his partner's obvious glee in Bischofite's screams. He was no sadist. Unsympathetic, stone-faced, cold-hearted, maybe, but he took no delight in pain for pain's sake. Still... there was no denying that a sense of satisifaction warmed his blood. Justly deserved. Everything that had transpired was justly deserved.

The General-Queen was telling them they should be sorry... but Serpentine was anything but. He held not an ounce of guilt for the actions he had taken to this point. He had been right. Right to pursue Bischofite and see the depth of his insanity, right to protect Buddingtonite from the danger he had, however unwittingly, let into his life. Right to come here, before the woman who coated herself in sugar to conceal the controlled poison she wielded.

When Buddingtonite reached out for the general turned lieutenant, Serpentine moved to the opposing side and snaked his arm underneath the crook of Bischofite's arm pit to offer him something just as solid, but more mobile, than a wall upon which to lean. His eyes caught signs of some movement between his partner and their new responsibility, but he was certain the ginger-haired man would tell him later of its import.

For now, Serpentine reveled in acknowledged superiority as he asked his partner a simple question on their way out of Laurelite's office. "My place or yours?" They needed to teleport somewhere where they could collapse afterwards, afterall, and all safely recover. There was no time like the present to show the lieutenant his new world.