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The fact that they were bickering out beside the great green garbage containers of a Cafeteria wasn’t as surprising as it should have been to Zink. Not given the General’s ‘cargo’, he wasn’t even as furious as he could have been –about- that cargo given that it was ONE, and there hadn’t been witnesses. He was willing, just at the moment to count his blessings.

He still spoke through gritted teeth though, as he tried to emphasize why the great green garbage bins were not an acceptable dumping ground.

“LOOK at him, no one is going to believe for a moment that that is a vagrant. A drunken fool yes, but you took –that- from what amounts to the red light district, he’s well dressed and he has… HAD money with him. He’s likely to be missed and you do not have GLOVES, I am not willing to find out if the glamor that hides us from being recognized extends to fingerprints!

Take him to the woods, Burry him, burry him DEEP, ten feet at least and NOT standing. If you kill a civilian you are going to have to deal with the consequences!”

The man speaking, for Gemma’s point of view was the shorter of the two, his manner of speaking very precise yet with authority and the expectation that he would be obeyed.

He wore a long coat that stopped only perhaps half a foot over the ground, dark enough in color it was perhaps black, or perhaps some other color so dark that the evening stole whatever hints of color it might have showed by day, save for the vivid curls of ‘smoke’ or ‘clouds’ that swept along the hem, since his back was to her, the only other details for his clothing were that he was wearing low heeled boots, like riding boots. His hair was a similar blue to the edging of his coat as well, and the gesturing hand that swept outward towards the direction of the deep forest that trimmed one side of the city if you went far enough, were fingerless.

The man he addressed was taller enough that the man in blacks and blues had to look up to him. An uncomfortable upward tilt of the chin, the lighting to illuminate the alley for employee safety was enough to bring out the hints of brown in his coat. He was decorated with skulls, beads, trinkets, masks, and most notably feathers that spread out from his collar as though they wanted to spread out in tiny wings and sweep the air. There was a curious war paint on his face as well, giving him a sort of ‘barbaric’ appearance that was somehow eerie as well.

The feathered general's typically stoic countenance warped into a sneer at his superior's livid accusations. Eyeing the shorter man with absolute irritation, he responded in clipped tones marred with ill-hidden derision. "What point is zere in meticulous disposal of such detritus, Zinkenite? We toss our trash, and for what reason? Echoing some ridiculous human sentiment, cowering in fear at ze force of ze police, brushing our deeds under ze rug to protect some misbegotten self-image? A paltry, pointless task to be certain..." The general's caustic gaze fell on the warped remains of the man in question, body and limbs jutting at unnatural angles in a pool of half-coagulated blood.

Seizing an arm, the taller of the two straightened up to shoot a spurned glance toward the general-king. "Hiding bodies feels like a pretentious act... Let nature reclaim what it lost to willpower. Your rank trumps mine, but understand zat I do not relish zis perversion of my philosophical sensibilities." The Saarlander shifted his gaze to the stars, a thin sigh escaping his lips, before he set his sights on the outer fringe of forest following the bluenette's emphatic gestures.

"I suppose ze trees will blossom brighter zis year, will zey not?"

“Nature will reclaim what has been lost, and I will not be wasting star seeds and energy on officers whom have been –shot- with the redoubled efforts to wipe out terrorism in this city. We wear uniforms, strange ones; I have no doubt at all that they would as happily shoot anyone who wears ‘strange clothing’. As tempting as it is to think that it might be YOU shot, which might bring with it SOME consideration of the consequences, I’d rather not risk it. So you deal with THIS instead. Get a shovel, and burry him –flat, or the depth will be meaningless. It wasn’t too good a task for my own generation, it is not too good a task for you.”

"'Your' generation... Yet you look ze same age as I," the misanthrope grumbled harshly. Turning toward the forest, he embarked on a slow stroll with boots clicking softly against the pavement. A wet, wrenching squelch freed the body from its coagulated ichor, and the feathered general exhibited no interest in carrying the corpse to its indicated location. "Your will be done, Zinkenite. A pity, zough; I would'f liked to get shot. Again." Finally the general hoisted the dead weight over his shoulder to better distribute the load. Without goodbyes, he departed into the woods.

The man who remained gave a small snarl and spun on his booted heel, clenching and unclenching his hand for a moment before exhaling, calming himself it seemed. He even seemed stoic when he lashed out and made a sizable dent in the face of the heavy metal trash bin, there was a quickness and an alarming grace to it that, combined with the fact there were clearly knuckle marks in the now indented steel.

He didn’t even shake his hand out as he withdrew it, only exhaled again before freezing, frowning as though he had heard something.
Now that he had turned so that you could see his face, you would find that the better part of his face was covered by thick black fabric, and had heavy goggles around his neck.



((This post was co-written by Strick for proper Bish Dialog!))

He gazed at her for a span of breaths, a quiet and gaze as though he were reading her in that moment like a book. A contemplative gaze…

He raised a hand and beckoned her forward. “Don’t worry, I won’t do to you what I did to the dumpster.” He said quietly, it was a nice voice; something velvety at the edges that were soothing when it was calm. So much better than the daggers edge that it unveiled when he was angry, as he had been with the man in feathers.
He even went so far as to reach up and pull down the fabric of his mask, revealing a young face that, combined with his height, just 5’7 and slender build made him seem very young indeed.

“What’s your name?” He asked with a smile playing there on his face now. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Most people never do see us.”

“Gemma” He repeated carefully and gave a small nod, the information stored for latter. An unusual name, and if it weren’t a nickname he could do some digging about it.

He laughed at her question though, a friendly rich sound of real amusement. “No…we’re not wizards, and we’re not the ones who are aliens.”

The statement was such a careful one, it should, or it might, make it clear that there were in fact, aliens. “I’m… Zinkenite.” He carefully omitted the title for just now. “I and mine, we fight those…terrorists as you call them, the ones who roam the city at night.


“Though… they can look as human as us, at their heart… they aren’t like us, to help combat them, we’ve found an ally as strange and strong as they are, but that dwells here on earth. It protects us…she protects us”

“Oh yes…” He smiled. “Oh yes, you can absolutely help.” He smiled at her like a cat that’d just found the canary in his cream.

“In fact, I feel I know just the general you can report to, better yet, you can report tome every other week about just how you are doing.”

He flashed a Cheshire smile and took a step closer lifting a hand as though to demonstrate that he held nothing in it. “I have a philosophy I should share. No power should come without… a price.” He reached forward like perhaps he would turn the path of his hand to touch her arm, but it moved forward through her chest, fingers curling around ‘something’ inside.


And then the pain came, a sharp DAGGER of pain through her chest.

He drew his hand back and tilted his head slightly, considering her new uniform and gave a small nod, though his face turned into a small frown at the sight of the weapon tucked under her arm. How that was going to progress, or even is useful he was less than sure.

“Welcome, Lieutenant Astrophylite.” He nodded and exhaled softly as though that had been at least slightly taxing.



“Now… time to meet your new General.” The corner of his mouth curled upward for a moment with mischief before he pulled his mask back up to cover the lower half of his face.

“I am General-King Zinkenite…and this”

He made a small gesture with his hand as though he could draw the other man from the air.

“Is General Bishophite.”

The pain subsided, and the newly-christened Lieutenant Astrophyllite felt... electric. Like she could run a mile and compete in the long jump and the high jump and not break a sweat, which was saying something, because she was usually way too uncoordinated for track and field. She glanced down at the weapon she was suddenly holding - an ouija board. She'd played with one a few times, before it was confiscated by the dorm minder. Witchcraft was not allowed in the hallowed halls of Saint Magdalena's Seminary.

(Also, these clothes were cool. She'd never been allowed to wear heels before. She felt very grown up in them.)

Her focus snapped back upwards when the feathered general returned suddenly, looking just as disgruntled as before. Maybe more, because now there was mud on his boots. Where had he come from? He hadn't been anywhere close by even seconds before... Offscreen teleportation, she considered. Magic.

Wicked, she thought.

"My name is Lieutenant Astrophyllite," she said clearly to him, not sure whether to be insulted or not by his tone and how he'd phrased the question. It was a lot of unnecessarily complex vocabulary, but she was following along as best she could. Fake it 'til you make it and all that!

"My General," she added, looking towards Zinkenite. "You mean I'm to..." she tried to match both the men's flowery way with words, but the syntax got away from her. She backtracked. "You mean he's in charge of me? Like a coach?"

Bischofite looked like he was sort of pissed off, and she hoped that wasn't her fault - they'd barely met! Well, if he was going to be her commanding officer, Astrophyllite would just have to try extra hard to impress him.

Assigning a general to captain's duties? Who the hell placed you in power? Finally Bischofite turned his livid gaze upon his superior, his normally mild features cracked into a derisive snarl. "And for how long will you avoid me, Zinkenite? How long must you subject me to your tawdry sense of humor? You waste my potential, just as Laurelite did, wis' your trite tricks and pointless assignments. You cannot lead ze Negaverse to victory wis' such juvenile antics, you insufferable windbag.

"You haven't even demonstrated your propensity for rule. You'f never raised fist, you'f never raised voice, you'f never raised morale but once in your godforsaken life!

"You corrupted some wayward child, and for what? To subject me to ze grueling process of raising an officer for your own damnable enjoyment? And yet you deny me any means of finding clarification for your stupidly obtuse actions, but for what reason? Because it's fun? Never before haf' I met a General King as inept as you, Zinkenite. You tarnish ze title wis' your whimsical idiocy." Finally the general summoned chakrams to hand, brandishing one of the gleaming blades toward his superior. Though his focus lingered on the shorter agent before him, Bischofite did not act entirely for his own benefit.

If this newly-corrupted lieutenant was to serve the Negaverse, she deserved a small chance to evaluate if her assigned superiors were worth dying for. "Don't blink," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth - a staccato warning to the unconscionable speed possessed by higher ranks.

Should Zinkenite stand the chance of earning a modicum of the misanthrope's respect, now stood the time for such actions. Now, behind a detestable school, behind dreary dumpsters and just beyond the woods blooming brightly above an uncounted number of bodies. Now, with a lilting breeze tracing ghosted intimacies through their hair.

Now, with his opinion laid bare and a tall chance of death looming hardly a few feet away.