|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 8:50 pm
Natron frowned, turning over the envelope Clarisse had given him between his fingers. It was remarkable what he'd let that girl guilt him into, and he was pretty sure that by now, she'd figured out exactly how it worked. She was fully aware that he disliked Bischofite, and yet with some wide-eyed begging and pleading, she'd convinced him to carry her note like some kind of human messenger pigeon.
He sighed heavily, and then pulled out his crystal communicator. Maybe after their last encounter, Bischofite wouldn't come. He'd tell Clary he'd done his best but he simply couldn't deliver her note and she'd have to do it herself, sorry.
"Bischofite? I know, I know, last person you want to hear from, but I've been asked to pass a message to you, so can you meet me on the roof of the butcher shop on Ninth? No kissing this time, I promise." A little bit of sardonic teasing entered his voice then. He dismissed the communicator, and then started pacing the roof again, not sure if he wanted Bischofite to show up so he could pass the damn note and get it over with or not so he wouldn't have to deal with the other General again.Strickenized nobody is happy about this at all except maybe clary
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 9:23 pm
A certain ominous quality drew his eyes to the curious dreamcatcher, hung suspended from his bony fingertips. The unusually light violet crystals appeared luminescent in the darkness of light, casting an anemic purple glow across the exposed hand that hovered beneath the ancient artifact. Dusky purple strands intertwined within their surprisingly sturdy circular frame, where they danced about the very center of the piece. Somehow that absent space, where no thread tread across the whole of the frame, possessed a nearly palpable foreboding that only drew the misanthrope toward it. Leaning ever closer still to the artifact, a single bony finger slowly approached the center, practically humming with trepidation and rampant energy. Closer yet, and he might feel some strange aeons stirring within that hole...
A tinny, disgustingly familiar voice crackled over his communicator, successfully breaking his concentration. The dark general groaned in seething anger, teeth clenched with the fury he held for the man whose voice now scattered his thoughts. Initially he considered ignoring the man, leaving him to stew in his own ineptitudes when the Saarlander failed to show, if only to return to Persephone and explain his utter disaster in delivering something as simple as a letter. But with the spell broken and possessed of no interest to resume his prior enthrallment, Bischofite left his perch in favor of the disclosed location - the butcher shop.
It promised a host of fun, be it at Natron's expense or otherwise.
For once in time immemorial, the night air felt cool and refreshing. It peeled across his rare exposed flesh, wicking away the cold sweat and tremors that pervaded his body of late. It stymied the weakness in his bones, urged him to cross rooftops with a zealousness of ages past - and he managed so with the same practiced ease as before. Perhaps a well-used brick crumbled slightly at his step, or a pipe bent beneath his inertia, but the misanthrope traversed the city with little footprint to follow. And once he crested a particularly steep roof, his golden gaze settled on the general who, if moderately conscious, recognized his presence already.
But, perhaps unbeknownst to Natron, Bischofite visited that very roof before. Where once a general stood, now only night air passed atop the zenith, and instead an oppressive presence materialized behind the pacing figure. "No kissing sounds more like a deterrent, Natron; I suggest you work on your projected motivations." Jests spoken in tongues of venom aside, the iniquitous general crossed in measured steps to face his peer. "You sought me, and here I am - all bird skulls and bombastic phrasing and positively brimming wis' murderous intent. And if your message zat you couldn't possibly pass on over ze intercom contains no orders of such violence, I'm afraid you'll haf' to face my disappointment."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 9:42 pm
Natron turned as soon as he felt another General's presence, and exhaled a small relieved sigh when Bischofite teleported the last few feet and he was certain that yes, it was exactly the person he needed.
"I dunno, you didn't seem all that fond of my kisses the last time we met," he said, it was easier to tease and snark when he was in full possession of his facilities and not experiencing an unexpected journey to Wonderland. "That bite mark still hasn't healed all the way, thanks so much." Explaining that to Des while tripping balls had been quite the adventure.
"No murder, unfortunately, you'll have to track that down on your own. A note, from Clarisse, which requires physical passing because apparently this is middle school." A little of his annoyance leaked through - he had been played like a fiddle into doing this, and he still wasn't used to the twist of wickedness that was present in Clary that had never existed in Cait, or had only existed in a much neutered form.
He turned the note over a few times between his fingers and then held it out, as far as his arm could extend. He would rather avoid getting too close to Bischofite - after their previous little adventure, he had even less trust for the ruthless General than he had before.
"Literally my only investment in this is playing carrier pidgeon - and I admit, I'd be content to see you stay well away from her, but she wants to reconcile, so here I am."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 10:05 pm
The general folded his arms across his chest as his gaze darted quickly between the enveloped paper and the green eyes of the man urging him to claim it. Unless Natron truly cared for the girl, Cait I mean Clary if he recalled correctly, then his reasoning for enduring such clandestine communication might entail baser deeds. Bischofite's eyes narrowed as he studied Natron with a low hum. So what might entice him to perform such paltry favors? What might sway this shoddy general, regrettably his peer, into b***h work better suited to lieutenants? Perhaps his knowing of a second name for Clarisse, both pet names at that, lent more clarification to their relationship than he initially considered.
Love warps the wretched exposed to its poultice. He knew this, for he endured it himself. But Natron lacked the same torturous insanity that plagued the misanthrope over his loss, but that suspicion proved unsurprising. Natron lacked the mark of those so contorted by their own ideals that they cease to function in a coherent, societal manner - a plague Bischofite bore with far more enthusiasm. Natron functioned as one would expect: with hopes, goals, friendships, love interests, revulsions (as he demonstrated so freely before)... And what did he have? What did Bischofite have that stacked up to such a viable human specimen?
"I won't take it," he answered simply, a smile threatening to crawl across his pale features. "I want to know somesing first. When we talked, after you had a taste of LSD, you mentioned Clarisse by name - but you called her somesing else before you corrected yourself. You knew her under a different identity, did you not? From what I know of repurposed senshi, zey receif' a new life to reintegrate into society wis'out repercussions for ze defection. Ergo, my first question: did you knew as a civilian when she was a White Moon senshi?" Sharp eyes prodded the general for answers - goaded and gouged and gored for some scrap of a response.
However, the Saarlander pursued with further reasoning. "Additionally, to deal wis' me again after I tampered wis' your mental state and bit srough your lip is a mistake among mistakes. You know zis, and you know I am fully capable of acting on my own heinous impulses, should I find it wors' my while to cut you down. However, you still pursued me despite zese facts - and as you explained to me just seconds ago, you are playing into her whims and you must haf' a vested interest in protecting her, else you would find little point in voicing your disdain for any potential reconciliation. My second question: are you dating her?"
The question hung thickly between them as the meticulous general studied the opposite party. "Tell me your angle, Natron."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 10:28 pm
Natron frowned, withdrawing his hand and resting it instead at his side. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd do with a refusal - though he was nearly certain that returning with an unpassed note and a full rejection would leave him with a very miserable Clary and the task of trying vainly to comfort her.
He had the decency to flush in embarrassment when Bischofite called him on his slip of the tongue. "Yes, I knew her before she corrupted. We grew up together, really, but I didn't know she was Persephone until about five minutes before she came over and lost all her memories of the person she used to be." He exhaled quietly. There was no harm in speaking her previous name, was there? "Her name was Caitlyn." He recalled tripping over the names, and he wished she'd selected something farther from her old one when picking her new, because it was too easy to make mistakes when she reminded him so much of the person she used to be.
"And no, we're not dating - she may not remember, but for me it'd be a bit like dating a sister. I knew her for longer than I can remember, her family practically adopted me, so my angle, as you so elegantly put it, boils down to a lot of guilt that she's good at exploiting, even if she doesn't know where it comes from." Guilt over her lost memories, over having to watch her family suffer and knowing it was his fault because he'd delivered her to Zinkenite on a silver platter, over how angry Lance was with him because of the whole mess.
"So against my better judgment and because she's basically my responsibility, I'm dealing with you again."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 10:50 pm
"A childhood friend? You could'f lied and concocted a more interesting answer zan zat, Natron. I am disappointed." The general touched a finger to his own jawline, tapping absentmindedly while he studied Natron in the dim moonlight - it jutted across his features with such sharp clarity that the shadows carved out whole sections of the man's face. Even his hair threatened to overtake his countenance in some silent siege.
"However," Bischofite clapped his hands together with resounding fervor. "Ze fact zat you are subjecting yourself to me, due to guilt alone, offers somesing of merit. Most people shy away from pain, as I suspect you are on a superficial level. It pains you less to deal wis' me zan to suffer her jabs zat constantly remind you of your intentional dismantling of her family. It is easier, less painful, for you to stomach my presence zan to relif' zose moments." Walking past the redheaded general, Bischofite nearly brushed against the man. His steady pacing delivered him to the lip of the building, where he cast his attention toward the sickly street lamps standing sentinel to the vacant alleys. A newspaper swirled lackadaisically through the streets, carried by winds too whimsical to offer any real direction.
"Zat is where we differ fundamentally." His gaze never left the street. "I seek pain, you avoid it. But... we may yet agree on somesing, even if it's trite and possibly asinine. Clarisse, or Clary as you so willingly called her, has wronged us bos', even if ze degree of severity changes between us. She sent you out to deal wis' me, and..." A faint huff passed his lips as they cracked into a saturnine smile. "I see no reason to avoid displacing zat pain back onto her. Do you?" In a half-turn, Bischofite regarded the other general over his shoulder. View partially obscured by feathers, his eyes offered little hint to his true intents.
The iniquitous general finally approached the one who summoned him so easily, and his steps rendered little space between the two. He halted, offering a hand toward his peer. "I know you don't trust me, but zat's irrelevant - trust feels more and more like an exploitable weakness zan any real sign of strengs'. But if you find it appealing to subject Clary to an ample dose of agony, zen take my hand. You might find my messods crude, but I assure you, zey're effectif'."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 11:14 pm
"No sordid inter-faction love story, sorry to disappoint," the redheaded General said in a tone that indicated he wasn't particularly sorry at all. All things considered, that might have been easier, really - at least she'd remember him as more than someone who was kind enough to provide her with a couch to crash on.
The slightest ghost of a smile appeared on Natron's face at the mention of turning the tables on Clary - perhaps it was crueler than he'd normally be to a friend, but perhaps he also kind of wanted to teach her a lesson about using his negative feelings as a bargaining chip. Perhaps next time, she'd reconsider, and do ridiculous tasks like this herself.
"Depends on what you're planning," he said. He would rather not see her physically hurt, but scared? Certainly, and he had no doubt Bischofite did fear well.. If it was more than he was willing to do, well, he could always teleport away and call the whole note-passing mission a failure. And possibly reprimand Clary for being stupid and juvenile about the whole thing. "I'd rather not kill her, since I'm accountable for her safety," to people beyond the Negaverse - god, Lance was probably going to murder him just for facilitating interaction between her and someone he knew was as dangerous as Bischofite.
"But yes, I think I'm in." He reached out and took Bischofite's hand - once again, against all sanity and better judgement. Trusting his fellow General would always be a mistake, but working with him for a short time didn't require more than the most basic trust not to stab him in the back.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Feb 01, 2014 10:01 am
"Oh, you'll like working wis' me." A giddy smile crossed his features before their collective scenery reformed into butcher block counters, stainless steel cabinetry, pristine white tile, and a display bereft of ice. Neon reflections bled into the fixtures, illuminating the dim business with an ominous red glow. Occasionally a car passed, headlights peering into the building as if searching for signs of their indiscretions. The counter squeaked, though immediate investigation revealed no cause. An industrial door stood behind natron with a single mesh window that revealed the purpose of the room - stocks of meat hung frozen by their hooks, all linked to a conveyor chain for easier selection.
Bischofite refused to release the man's hand. Instead, he pulled Natron toward the freezer door, as he searched about the area for a key. As he spoke, he refiled through cabinets and drawers with his free hand. "You see, I'f always wanted to find a suitable partner, Natron. I'f managed to team up wis' various captains and lieutenants during my..." Bischofite trailed off as he prodded for the proper word. "Reign." The word came with a vague snarl. "However, my cohorts proved incompetent at self-preservation, so while I might stand here fully capable of my next atrocious scheme, zey're likely stuck in a pot on someone's bookshelf." Finally the general plucked a key from a ring on the front of a knife block. It slid into the freezer lock easily enough, and a resounding click of the tumblers allowed passage into the algid space.
"But I would not worry if I were you, Natron. I am quite convinced zat you discovered zis prior, but we are not compatible. I am too vicious, and you are too well-suited to b***h work for my taste. However, zat does not bar us from working togezzer for somesing as trite and benign as zis." Finally he relinquished his grasp on the general's hand upon entering the freezer. Bischofite weaved through the various partial carcasses, never once lingering on one for longer than the rest. "All meat sounds ze same over ze radio waves, Natron. Sink about it."
The general paused adjacent to a nearly-intact cow, complete with shoulders and flank - the first cuts to go. His breath caught and yet another devious smile broke his normally stoic visage. "Perfekt. Kommst du hier*." Extending his arm toward his borderline willing companion, a chakram materialized in his grasp, with which he beckoned. "Your task is simple, Natron. I will call Persephone, and if, by some possessed idiocy, she tries to ignore me... Zen I want you to scream. Your cue will be a quick slice at ze cow. It's simple, obnoxiously bereft of physical pain and suffering, and it will likely pull at her heartstrings enough to both confirm zat I am not to be toyed wis' and zat she should reconsider using you as a pawn in ze future. I hope you're ready."
Leaning against the carcass, Bischofite raised his arm, palm upward, and a cloudy crystal precipitated in his hand. While looking askance at his companion, Bischofite obscured his mouth with the communications device. "Per. Se. Pho. Neeee." He called singsong into the crystal. "Sei nicht so rückgratlos**." Afterward he paused, stalling through the seconds as he awaited her response.
Oh, how he hoped she would ignore his call.Die Fluegel der Freiheit *"Perfect. Come here." (Utilizes the informal command structure rather than the formal/respectful alternative of Kommen Sie hier) **"Don't be so spineless."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Feb 01, 2014 12:33 pm
Natron frowned a little - Bischofite's utter lack of concern for the officers he'd lead to their deaths was yet another point on his ever growing list of "reasons to never be within a hundred feet of Bischofite unless it was utterly unavoidable." This classified, he supposed, as some form of "utterly unavoidable" because he hadn't been able to say no - but wasn't the point, here, to pay Clary back for using him this way?
"'Not compatible', that's one way of putting it," the shorter General acknowledged. Bond villain schemes weren't in his repertoire. He was an executioner, not a torturer, or so he liked to tell himself. There was no reason to drag things out - end the enemy and be done with it. "I'm not sure I would've played your games even when you had the authority to make me," because he was well aware that there had been a point where Bischofite outranked him.
Language barrier or not, a command was clear enough, and this was one case where the German wasn't too far off from the English, so he followed the directive and considered. "She'll think you've tried to kill me, which will go straight at the part of her that feels awful for what happened to that girl in the warehouse." He was all too familiar with how close she kept that event; her sleep was disturbed enough that on the evenings he spent at hime, she often disturbed his.
"Perfect."Persephone had very specifically asked Natron where he was planning to meet Bischofite to pass on her note, so that she could be as far away as possible. Of course, plans never worked out as she meant them - instead of being far away, she had ended up down only a few blocks, leaning against the wall of an alley and trying not to panic. At least at this distance she'd be well aware if anything went too wrong, right? And she could still avoid actually participating.
Excellent.
So when Bischofite's voice crackled through her communicator, she nearly screamed, and what did come out was a muffled squeak. She summoned hers and stared at it, eyes wide. It wasn't so much that she was ignoring him per se, but she was very definitely trying to not have a goddamn heart attack because through every single scenario she'd concocted for how this might go - and she'd run through quite a lot - none of them involved him actually contacting her.
Especially not with that very, very frightening tone to his voice. So she stood frozen, fingers curled around the crystal, heart racing with what could only be described as the beginnings of panic.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Feb 06, 2014 1:20 pm
"I don't sink she likes you much, Natty." The general pressed a finger to his lower lip as he smiled. A small huff indicated his mirth, as it danced through his eyes. "I suppose it's time for us to work as a team, isn't it? How distasteful. Ach!* I feel ze tears starting to p***k my eyes. We'd best get zis over wis' before I become a blubbering mess, Natron. I don't sink you're ze type to lend a shoulder." The general ushered his unwilling ally toward the crowded husks of beef, where sound carried without the tinny echo.
When the pair came to a halt, Bischofite paused behind the shorter general and wrapped an arm loosely around the man's neck. The Saarlander considered it an echo of their earlier meeting. "If you are curious, I'm stalling because we're currently fighting, wis' you desperate to diffuse ze situation and abhorrent toward drawing your weapon against what should be an ally. But I don't care, I'f never been fond of you, even from when I first met you as a lieutenant and you teleported behind me like ze schwanzlose b*****d** you are. Maybe I'm just acting out my aggressions. Everyone knows I must haf' plenty after zat demotion. But..." Bischofite glanced at the wrist of his glove. "It's about time zat I'f taken ze upper hand. Let's put on a good show, Natron; try to show a sense of humor." He patted the man's cheek before heeding his communicator once more.
"Persephone," he called breathlessly into the crystal, feigning his exhaustion. "You're quite adept at agitating me. It's unsafe for your friends and family, zough you don't quite haf' ze latter anymore. Na ja, Natron will suffice. Won't you say hello for me, general?" Without pause, a chakram sank into a cut of beef hanging directly before the two. Thin trickles of blood oozed down the surface, detestably slow from the unforgiving chill of the meat locker.
Self-control proved far more difficult than he initially considered.
With a steadying breath, Bischofite spoke into the crystal in a low, menacing tone. "Persephone. I will not repeat myself. If I wanted to speak wis' you again, I would not haf' contacted a liaison for a severing of ties. But since you cannot grasp zat infinitely simple prospect, I can engraf'e it on Natron's chest before I liberate his intestines from his body. If you cannot find your tongue to respond wis'in ten seconds, you may haf' to carry Natron home in handfuls." The general tightened his grip on the shorter man's neck while slicing into the beef once more, this time cutting away to reveal white ribs.
Inwardly she hoped she'd hold her tongue, or that Natron's acting would evoke skepticism.Die Fluegel der Freiheit whoops forgot translations *Alas! **Dickless b*****d
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Feb 06, 2014 3:53 pm
It was a great difficulty for Natron to ignore the derisive little nickname, but he did remember that telling the taller General to stop touching him last time had only elicited a lot more touching and so he was hoping no reaction produced better results. "I'm certainly not lending one to you," he acknowledged, pulling his jacket tighter around him and wishing the stupid thing was thicker. Or longer. Either would've helped. Clearly his General uniform was not designed for practicality, but then he'd learned that already.
"If you actually attack me, forget allies - I will defend myself," he said, his tone sharp. There was something about actual physical contact with Bischofite that put him on edge. Never mind that in this case, it left him in a vulnerable position - he was physically pretty small, so if the other General actually decided to make this a real physical confrontation, he was well aware that he would lose.
As soon as Bischofite attacked, Natron gave a cry of pain, influenced as much by past experience as fear that he might actually become a victim if his performance weren't good enough. "********," he swore, making sure to sound tired, as if he'd been on the defense, "what the ******** is wrong with you?"
His second cry of pain came out more strangled, thanks to the pressure on his neck. Persephone's fingers clenched tighter around the communicator as the seconds drifted by, and her heart pounded faster. The silence was far too long, long enough that she was beginning to wonder if it had only been her own hopeful imagination that had conjured up a call.
She was wrong, and as far as she was concerned she had never been more wrong. The second call was all she needed to know that, and Natron's cry of pain shocked her out of her stunned stupor and into action. She immediately started running in the direction of where she knew Natron had planned to meet Bischofite, casting out for a more precise feel of two General auras. A threat to the life of someone she cared about was certainly excellent motivation. She clutched the communicator tight, finally speaking into it.
"Bischofite, please, don't hurt him, not again - I'm coming, but it's not his fault, it's me you're angry with." Panic and fear filled her voice. Was she really attempting to reason with someone she knew to be a multiple murderer? But there was a difference between killing civilians and killing allies, wasn't there? "Just - if you want to lash out at someone for this, make it me."
She couldn't stand to see another person suffer for her mistakes. How stupid had it been to ask someone else? She should've accepted what would come - if he turned her away, or...well, if as had apparently happened, he'd gotten violent, it would've been entirely for her to deal with.
Her eyes flickered to the roof of the butcher shop once it came into view - no one there, so it would have to be inside. The source of the auras was definitely there. She tried the door, desperately, before remembering that since she could see inside, she could get inside, and teleporting through. Her entire body weight went into knocking open the door to the meat locker, but once she was through, her legs gave out from fear. "Natron! Bischofite!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Feb 08, 2014 11:39 pm
"It's me you're angry wis'!" Bischofite imitated in a falsetto tone. The general loomed near his peer's ear, watching his breath unfurl against the man's goosefleshed skin. "She becomes so terribly boring when she adopts such a self-sacrificing stance, wouldn't you say?" Suddenly the general drew a breath and tapped his index finger atop the shorter man's shoulder. "What do you say we jam her up a bit for her 'holier zan zou' stance, eh? Perhaps we could convince her zat, if she drops ze trite act and acknowledges zat her safety is wors' more to her zan yours, she'll receif' ze reward of my actually speaking wis' her again. If not... we could bos' haf' a little fun at her expense. Assuming you're not as much of a killjoy as she is. But... I cannot help but sink zat you are."
Bischofite half-turned at the sound of his name, nonplussed to find a panicked Persephone standing dumbly in the doorway, just beyond a husk of meat. Finally Bischofite pushed the other general away from himself, toward the defaced cuts of beef that now hung in ribbons from their carcass. Surely enough, Persephone possessed the eyes and logic to make sense of the scene - Natron's marked lack of injury, the lone destroyed corpse, and only trace amounts of blood lingering on Bischofite's chakrams. "Cait I mean Clary," he greeted with venom. "How gracious of you to join us.
"Allow me to render somesing painfully clear for you, girl: appealing to me srough a liaison is so disgustingly insulting to me zat I foster an overwhelming need to murder ze shitstain who agreed to pass notes for you." The derision in his speech tasted palpable, like gun oil and blood. "Do not repeat zis asinine process ever again - should you find ze need to address me, do it yourself. Next time you send someone, you won't find zem so pristine." The general watched Persephone with a hawkish, feral disgust.
Slowly he began his approach, weaving through corpses hung high on meat hooks. "I never read your note, Persephone, so I haf' no indication if you expected to ream me out or apologize profusely. I suggest you clarify accordingly, lest I run out of patience and embark on target practice using Natron. Should you find zat his life is still wors' more zan yours, I'll use you instead. But do not lose sight of ze true meaning behind my words: a half-measure like passing zat damnable note will end wis' someone dead tonight." Perhaps Natron would surprise him in the end - he never knew of the man's weapons, as he knew of Bischofites, so that advantage still lingered in his hand.
A small, mischievous smile peeled across his countenance. "But do be quick about it; I suspect zat Natron might catch a cold if he lingers for too much longer. Be considerate, Persephone."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Feb 11, 2014 5:32 pm
It didn't exactly take Persephone long to realize that she'd been quite thoroughly punk'd. At first, she was so relieved she wanted to cry - but quite quickly, it was replaced with a very warming sort of anger.
"Well." She stood up, brushed herself off, and smiled, the sort of smile that lacked any kind of actual happiness behind it. "I see someone's been running his mouth about my name." Her eyes flicked to Natron, narrowing. How much else had he spilled? Had he told Bischofite more of what he knew than he would reveal to her? She would have to have a very, very long talk with her roommate.
She took a breath, fingers curling into fists for a moment and then relaxing. "I assumed you would find my presence detestable, thus why I sent an envoy. That was obviously a mistake, one I will not be repeating." She crossed her arms, a small effort to warm herself. "I had meant to apologize - I spoke thoughtlessly, and even in spite of that, you took the time to put together an extremely thoughtful gift. Which I also wanted to thank you for." Her smile shifted to a slightly more real one. "Also? It's good to see you as a General again. Power and sharp pointy things do good for you."
Then, she let out a soft laugh. "But let's not pretend the one in most danger of getting sick in here is Natron. He'll be fine, and even if not, maybe getting sick will win him sympathy points with his boyfriend, if he can actually get him to pick up the phone." Taking a jab at something she knew made him miserable? Never. "I'm the one wearing a ******** short-sleeved dress and this is not thick material."The expression on Persephone's face actually had Natron taking a step back - it was one he was far, far too familiar with, and one he generally only got to see when he had ******** up very badly. Maybe telling Bischofite even as little as he had about Clary's past had been a bad idea.
Everything in the past week or so, really, had been a bad idea, and that fact was really starting to catch up with him. He probably should have stayed at home and insisted Clary handle this whole thing herself, because he was fairly certain that she was pissed at him, too.
"I don't appreciate my safety being used as a bargaining chip, Bischofite," he hissed. This was definitely not what he'd signed up for.
The mention of Des made him flinch, and he knew the reaction was both visceral and obvious. Exactly what Clary had been going for, probably, but also a sign of weakness he wished he'd suppressed with Bischofite right there.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Feb 22, 2014 11:37 am
Where Natron retreated, Bischofite advanced. Where the two settled into stale quips over subjects trite and paltry, Bischofite maintained an unusual silence. Where they objected over Bischofite's typical acerbic wit, he inwardly boiled at their petty arguments percolating around him. Were they so steeped in their daily, asinine lives that they forced aside duties for potshots at each other? When had Bischofite become so engrossed in these tepid tricks?
In reflection, he realized he fell victim to half-measures himself. These two lingered in their own blackened muck long enough; it clouded their eyes, their ears, their very minds. No, what they saw was not far beyond each other, and they threatened to reel him in like some hopelessly hooked, half-dead fish. Were he not so acutely aware of his constant place, perhaps he would've succumbed to this ridiculous scene and given in to their squabbling.
Bischofite approached at a quick clip, eyeing his quarry with the same feral disgust he displayed prior. Standing nearly a foot shorter than he, Persephone proved no physical challenge to overwhelm - even with their ranks tied. Chakrams clattered to the ground in a loud, contained cacophony when his gloved hands found her throat, and a cold fire burned in his eyes while his grip tightened around sinewy muscle that he knew too well. Her throat - it fit his palm perfectly, like an apple weighted properly in the hand. Were this a lesser occasion, he would've smiled at the sudden realization.
He only squeezed tighter.
Natron's complaint toward his methods never broke his concentration, but the unwelcome intrusion sparked a different realization - Natron and Persephone fed off each other. Regardless of their social discrepancies or other ridiculous complaints, the two grew from their collective irritation to the point where each actively tried to stand up to him. As Bischofite mulled over these facts, a dichotomous reaction blurred his countenance between a revolted sneer and an approving smirk. They belonged together, if Persephone survived.
But Bischofite lacked the restraint for further half-measures aimed toward Natron's irritating objection. Parting one hand from Persephone's throat, the Saarlander swept a chakram off the ground and dispatched it immediately, straight for the offending general. "Make no mistake, Natron. We may be equal in rank, but your words hold little import over my actions. You, who faltered so easily when you ambushed Persephone... Don't you remember? Even as my superior at ze time, you failed to deliver ze kill order until I goaded you into it. Even as a general, you're beneas' me. A glorified grunt. You're dirt, just like me, but you haf' a bit of s**t mixed in." Finally his features contorted into a jagged smirk, one far darker than his earlier display.
"And you, Persephone," he started as his thumbs pressed deeply into the grooves in her neck. "I suspect you never fully understood my earlier reprimand. Maybe if I cut off ze flow of oxygen to your brain, you'll be so starved of it zat you'll haf' to pay attention. Listen carefully, for your comprehension of my words will dictate if you survif'e ze night: do not rope me into zese pointless charades, regardless of your reasoning. If you can claim even a modicum of understanding for my character, you will recognize zat ridiculous apologies in ze form of a note carried by an unrelated liaison could only serf'e to incite my rage." With one final, quaking squeeze, the general threw her to the cold, sticky floor.
Rounding to face Natron, Bischofite watched him with a stoic calmness, despite indications toward the rage bubbling beneath the surface. "You two aren't soldiers, you're a pair of children drowning in your own forced malice. Persephone, you don't belong wis' ze Dark Kingdom - you are too weak. And Natron, you should'f died in zat burning warehouse, or relegated yourself to ze b***h work you're so suited to. Donning ze general's attire does not suit you." With his caustic opinion spat, the general's presence dissipated from the algid meat locker.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
