|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 12:28 pm
The Rift gave Persephone the creeps, and she wasn't even fully in the part that belonged mostly to youma, yet. Instead, she was in the cathedral-like Hall of Shadows, where she had met Obsidian, and where she came, sometimes, to poke at the strange crystals on the wall and to consider the history of the Negaverse.
This time, as when she had met Obsidian, she sensed another third-stage aura. She grimaced slightly, not immediately eager to introduce herself and engage. There had been too much betrayal by fellow officers, lately, for her to particularly want to be friendly.
So instead, she approached a crystal formation on the wall, fingers delicately brushing over it. She let out a soft sigh. These was too much like the ones from Bischofite's operation.
That night was going to stick with her for a very long while.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 7:14 pm
Weeks passed since the incident. Bischofite's condition never changed - no amount of time spent in the Rift for recovery purposes reversed or encouraged his youmafication. Forever lodged in limbo, Bischofite found himself often listless, and prone to wandering throughout the largely empty cathedral. Its halls sported ancient histories long rotted beneath the dirt of decomposition, from youma dust and crystal debris that continually swirled about the massive caverns.
The creature woke late that evening to a taxing bout of retching, as was common to him now, and spent a solid hour in a dreary daze of exhaustion. While his chest mended well enough, his shoulders still ached terribly with the burden of unwanted wings. He despised them but no amount of self-mutilation fully pried the wretched parasites from his body.
Nothing truly made a difference anymore.
Restless from the weeks prior, Bischofite considered venturing out of the confining room to stretch his legs as some meager attempt to assuage his ubiquitous melancholy, but already he doubted the practice would offer much relief. Still, he donned the very half-mask he wore for Wolframite's ineffectual siege against the Dark Mirror - akin to the plague doctor's mask, it sported bone coloring with red strands tied to one empty eye socket. While the mask itself offered little obstruction of his face, it obscured the many fine features required for expression. It provided meager scraps of comfort to know that these useless portions of his permanent uniform offered even the most rudimentary of benefits. If nothing else, no one saw the entirety of his face.
The first steps outside his room seized his heart in a panic, causing the once-confident general to falter in his step. He froze near the door, clawed hand clasped to the frame with death's grip, and for several stretched seconds he made no move to retreat or venture forth. While he stood looking down the hall, his senses searched desperately for any signs of movement - any indication that yet another officer passed through these seldom-used passageways for little more than curiosity.
Nothing stirred.
Finally Bischofite coaxed himself into meandering cautiously down the hall, goading himself with promises that if his endeavors proved too much, then he could manage a quick return to the room. And as he progressed, he neared the Hall of Shadows that sported a myriad of haunted faces within its walls. He knew its location for the sheer volume of officers passing through its confines, and thus his apprehension toward approach sharpened ever more. Still it grew as the aura of a Negaverse senshi drifted across his mind, yet he persevered for sheer denial that the senshi might acknowledge him.
The Rift lay not far from his location, now. With only a handful of paces, he might find a measure of freedom within its vast wastelands.
Yet his heart sank further when gold eyes settled on the all-too-familiar form of Persephone.
Gott hat es mir verraten.*Songstress Kitsune *[German] God has betrayed me.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 9:39 pm
Persephone physically cringed as the signature got closer, taking a long breath. She was probably going to have to People, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. Especially with a General - it was hard to trust them when Wolframite and Bischofite had shown her that rank didn't mean they deserved her trust. So she kept her eyes on the crystal, hoping that maybe they would walk by.
Perhaps unfortunately for her, she caught a look in the crystal at just the right angle, and there was no ignoring what she saw. It was a visage she would never forget, masked or not - there was no not recognizing those bird-bat wings, the twisted offspring of a Dark Mirror and what she imagined a Corrupt Princess might have. Quite a lot had changed in the strange merging she had witnessed in the warehouse, but enough stayed the same that there was no denying, even for a moment, who was behind her.
Slowly, the green-haired Corrupt turned, and confirmed what she had seen in the reflection.
"Bischofite," it was only in the vaguest sense a greeting, tight and almost sharp. Just seeing the General again brought up a torrent of emotions that she had been trying so very hard to suppress. Betrayal and anger twisted together, and propelled her closer to him, on foot at first until she recalled the powers that being a Negaverse Eternal granted her and she simply teleported the last few feet, raised a hand, rolled partially onto her toes, and slapped the half-youma with as much force as she could manage.
"You lying son of a b***h!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 10:00 pm
His name alone roused a veritable blanch. Lips peeled back from teeth in an unsuppressed cringe, and Bischofite hastened his gait in hopes of avoiding confrontation altogether. Yet, a spatial shift placed Persephone directly in his path, and he halted abruptly to avoid further incident. No greeting came from partially parted lips, naught but a soft gasp in recognition of events to come.
Her hand struck across his face with such force that he sidestepped slightly before his new center of gravity rendered him incapable of righting himself. The creature grunted from the sudden pain. from collapsing upon the ground in such a manner that it jarred the tips of wings - jamming the long fingers hidden beneath feathers. A seething hiss came afterward to confirm joint bruising. For a moment after, the room swam - likely an aftereffect from lack of eating and dehydration brought on by his inability to tolerate anything beyond the gentlest of edibles. He found no desire within himself to move; instead, he sat half-sprawled on the floor with a warped hand pressed to the sting in his cheek.
Persephone, I once regarded you as the most superfluous of all the Negaverse's tawdry companions. Yet... I've far usurped that position from you. You, who managed some inclination to lead a team, to ensure their safety in trying times... While I harbored no interest beyond placing them in danger's path. Who was wrong, that night? Does it matter? Would my words hold more value than the dirt beneath your sandaled feet? I wager not - to stand atop a rotting hill fosters more sense of accomplishment than standing atop my jaw.
I wonder if Iscariot applauded herself for the deed. Skewering a scourge... An effective vaccine to my plague.
Gold eyes darted to Persephone's feet, unable to surmount the journey toward her face. What right had he now? Laurelite's decree confirmed his treatment among others as a full youma, though he still sported the auric energies of a general. She could plainly demand his starseed torn from chest and even now he scrounged no scrap of heady defiance to combat her. All such measures of assuredness, of confidence and bravado, long escaped him that night. He wondered if such assets absconded with his breath, once sword pierced lungs to bleed them dry.
You approach me in such vehement anger... Either my mistakes mark the pinnacle of Negaverse travesty or I was wrong about you. And what else should I add to the pile of fallacies? I'm... fundamentally flawed.
I could ask for death, but you would find it a reward.
"I know," he muttered softly. "I understand now."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 10:19 pm
Perhaps with less suppressed anger bubbling out of her, Persephone might have displayed her characteristic blind concern for every member of the Negaverse, but for the moment the tiny Corrupt had quite a lot of rage to unleash, and with the actual source of it in front of her and not really protesting, it was very easy to just let go and scream. A lot.
"Oh, you understand, do you?" She asked, though it was totally hypothetical because she kept plowing forward without really giving him time to respond. "You understand what it means to put your trust in someone, to hope for one goddamn ******** minute that maybe, maybe someone from whom all you wanted was just the tiniest bit of respect, might actually be giving it to you - only to discover that you're just another pawn in some crazy ******** plan to bring about hell on Earth?"
It was a strange feeling, for her, to be this angry. As always, her words flowed with little pause, little worry for thinking through what she was saying - and for once she didn't care if she dug herself a deeper hole with Bischofite, if he came away with even less respect than before.
'It's pretty freeing,' she thought, 'to not give a s**t about your approval anymore.'
"You picked me because you knew. You knew I was desperate to prove myself, and you used me. ******** you, Bischofite, I hope it hurt when Avalon stabbed you. I hope my magic was still going, I hope you felt it twice over."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 10:39 pm
Kafka. A first sign of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die.
Kafka. Suffering is the positive element in this world. Indeed it is the only link between this world and the positive.
Kafka. From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.
My thoughts are not unique. My intentions found minting before my time, budded seeds within skulls of old that lacked my compunctions for violence. I died to these words, these empty phrases fostered from years of reading beneath the trees of Saarland. To consider these my ideals... Hubris.
Kafka. I have the true feeling of myself only when I am unbearably unhappy.
I am a facsimile, a shoddy copy of a fake of an imitation. The Negaverse employs the ineffectual. See Bischofite. See Malicious. See the mass of nameless youma trawling through these atrocious wastelands with nothing more than instinct to guide them. These are our faults as an organization, aren't they? I thought I was culling the weak by subjecting what officers gathered at my beck to assault by our posthuman counterparts. But was I truly proving my own pointlessness?
I can't tell what's right or wrong anymore. I've lost everything.
My anchor... The chain snapped from the boat, wholesale bitten through by darker creatures in the depths. Quenton...
His vision blurred in pools toward the bottom of his gaze. He recognized this steady decline of composure immediately. His masks had yet to block all sight from cut holes affording vision. We were foil to each other, Quenton. The anarchist to the totalitarian. You, a phoenix, while I suffered in a pile of rot and trash. To rise from garbage... I would've given anything for you. Everything. We made plans, didn't we? To complete your conditioning, to test for its effectiveness, you knew to kill me. My existence beyond that point... It would've been superfluous. So full of pain without any hope of reconcilement.
But I botched that too, as I've botched everything.
Bischofite sat silently while Persephone rifled through one sharp statement to the next, hardly giving pause for breath. He found no need to interject, to interrupt and reprimand, to object to every assertion that his usury was born from malice alone. Was he even sure anymore? "Iscariot sought sirty pence from my pocket when she pierced my chest. I fear... Iscariot is not ze right name anymore. No..." Of all these literary references in my possession, why can't I place an accurate title?
"I died, Persephone." I never fully understood death. I saw it purely as the end of the body's functions. I never knew its symbolism... The way I lost everything at once. That's Death, far beyond the meager machinations of one's flesh shutting down.
How dull I was, all this time...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 10:56 pm
For a brief, petulant moment, Persephone wanted to kick him, to spur any kind of reaction at all, but apparently literally kicking him while he was down was beyond her. Her hands flexed open and closed.
He spoke of Iscariot, and certainly it was a metaphor she grasped - she couldn't particularly remember any biblical interest, but the traitor seeking thirty pieces of silver was a common enough image in literature.
"I'm not exactly sure Avalon is the one who ought to be called Iscariot here, Bischofite." She said, and the anger was finally drained from her voice. Apparently it had run its course in her, and what it left behind was a lot of hurt, but a lot less desire to lash out.
"God, get up, this is embarrassing, if I'm going to yell at you you could at least have the decency to not look like a kicked puppy while I do it," she huffed, even as she offered him a hand to help. It was a lot harder to be angry at the creature sitting before her than it was to be angry at the hypothetical image of a mad, prideful General who had mocked her and torn her apart. Bischofite had suffered for his crimes, and suffered heavily.
He said he died, and it was easy enough to agree. So much of what had both infuriated her and attracted her to him seemed lost, in the broken half-human creature on whom she had unleashed her rage.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 11:13 pm
"Iscariot is too light a term sometimes." It's genocide to open a second Rift. Judas himself betrayed but one. Lucifer fell for hubris, not mass slaughter of his brethren. Satan stewed in Cocytus from treachery. All these crimes weigh differently, on scales suited to their needs. I can't tell where I fall - which circle, which hell, which dreary afterlife suited to those wandering eternally. Could I define my place? Perhaps it has no prior association. I don't know. I just don't know.
At her behest, Bischofite braced his palms to the floor and hoisted himself slowly to his feet. A brief moment of imbalance occurred just before he straightened up entirely, but contouring his wings to his body in a makeshift mockery of his old cape remedied it. A brief sigh escaped between feathers shortly before they folded. Still, he found no ability to focus on Persephone or her outstretched hand - guidance offered out of habit.
"You were..." He drew breath in pause. Beyond his lack of affect, Bischofite found it nigh impossible to form coherent sentences. What knack he had before for crafting diatribes from thin air now slipped through his fingers. "You said you were desperate to proof' yourself. Why? Zere's not... need for doing so now. It's..." Why is this so hard? "Wis' rank you are entitled to respect. Automatic. No, ingrained. It's ingrained." Pools of thoughts bled into one another until he waded through some blackened muck of turbulent ruminations. Without the ability to sift through the dregs, he stumbled through sentences until he could find the next scrap of information to pass on.
Slowly he approached a crystal jutting from the wall. A nailed finger touched the tip of the formation in a simple gesture.
"Zey obeyed orders. Zey followed you. Leto was zere... Wasn't she? You ignored me. My orders." Did they qualify as such? "It doesn't matter now. Everysing's gone." The nail traced down one side of the crystal as he continued to speak. "Everysing's done. For naught." The visage in its faint reflection drew no reaction from the creature. However, in the warped images dancing through its sheen, he found the wherewithal to regard Persephone's reflection.
"A captain once questioned me for my reasoning. Jarosite. I could not answer him..." Bischofite paused, a saturnine smile crossing his features as he drew faint, mirthless laughter. "You are better suited to ze Negaverse zan I."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 11:39 pm
As soon as it became clear he wasn't going to accept her aid, Persephone withdrew her hand and exhaled, using it instead to smooth her skirts even though they didn't need it at all. She cringed slightly watching him stand, and it made her wonder, with how automatically he responded, how much of the man remained and how much was youma.
"There's a large difference between respect and authority, Bischofite, and besides - you're my peer, not my subordinate. I don't command either from you." She couldn't even command it from the lower ranks, much less her own. Lellouch called her traitor, her commands ended with her Lieutenants injured, and she couldn't even manage something so simple as convincing Virgo that she had only played a part in Bischofite's grand plan to raise the Rift unwittingly.
"I ignored your orders because they were ridiculous, and I hope you hadn't put too much faith in me blindly following. I don't leave people behind." Not when she could help it. Once was enough, one night covered in the blood of someone she should have saved. Never again.
She moved closer again, but this time remained at arms' length, frowning. Certianly she'd wanted to hear that, to have someone tell her she actually was suited for the Negaverse - but it tasted bitter, coming here and now.
"Better suited, perhaps, but let's be fair, we're running more of a 'take over the world' evil operation here; destroying it makes that difficult." Her expression quirked into a smile. "Not that I'm particularly suited to rule or command s**t."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun May 25, 2014 7:40 pm
"You're wrong, Persephone." For once, his gaze met her eyes, though that moment passed in hardly more than a second. His attentions shifted once more to the crystal before him. "Laurelite decreed zat ze whole of ze Negaverse treat me as a youma in entirety." I have no rank right now; I belong with the shadows writhing about outside, burning for purpose that never came. Perhaps just burning. "You could command me to lie down and wait for Iscariot to finish her Task, and I would submit. If you... endeavored to rend ze wings from my body, I would submit. My will to resist matters wholly inimical to my philosophies fled me when I discovered my fate. I fear... Zey are not recoverable."
When you turned, you discovered half your life missing. You suffered the loss of half of yourself, as split brain patients often did. Now you work alongside remembered feelings, small inclinations of what was in tandem to that which you exercise control over. The hand that reaches for the coat, beyond your conscious thought, coupled with the hand that sought to unzip clothing while the phantom takes the lead. You learn to cope with it.
But no one can cope with death.
"Fais' eludes me now." Had I possessed it before? "I always sought you were a pushover. I banked on your..." Willingness? "Desperation to please. But zat was only one of many betrayals zat night. Wis' each twist, ze whole of ze operation warped to almost unrecognizable shape..." Bischofite stooped slightly to peer through the planes of the crystal, examining the scene beyond in translucent, manipulated textures. "I never liked ze Dark Mirror. Yet every tactical choice proved ineffectual in ze end... Each endeavor amounted to furzer evidence toward nihilism."
The creature sighed softly, with a touch of voice to the movement of breath. He shifted toward the entrance to the Rift, back wholly turned to the corrupted eternal. As he spoke, he cast words over his shoulder toward her presence. "I never aimed to destroy it - only to change it. In my attempts I'f learned zat you can only reliably change yourself. And zat change... So often it leads to desperation. To wants overwhelming any sense of reason, if I could ever claim such a font in ze first place." Finally he started toward the great stretches of wasteland lingering beyond the end of the hall.
"'Ze trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't sought about it.' I wonder if I am not trapped beneas' a bell jar now." I wonder how long it might take for me to suffocate? No - the question becomes the identity of the killer: a lack of air, or the drowning tides of my thoughts?
I wasn't meant to bear this existence without you, Quenton.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun May 25, 2014 8:37 pm
Persephone felt her heart sink. Something felt wrong about that, cruel - even considering what Bischofite had done. To strip him of all rank, to place him below the lowest Lieutenant, even when he felt like every other General she had ever met...
There was an irony there, too.
"You have even less reason to listen to me, then." Not even youma obeyed her. Rationally, she knew that it was because of what she was, but it still felt like more proof that her rank was completely an accident, undeserved, a combination of circumstances out of her control. "If I'm treating you like a youma, I ought to assume you'll do absolutely nothing I say and possibly try to eat me."
Her eyes drifted down the Hall of Shadows, and she reached up to run a hand through her bangs.
"Inadequate is never a word I would have chosen for you," she said. She followed his footsteps, at least for the moment - closer to the entrance to the Rift itself she would be likely to turn back. It would never be a place she was particularly comfortable.
"Change is a worthy goal, and I've seen you affect it. But in this case...is there a difference between change and destruction, when in changing it you tear out the heart of the thing?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun May 25, 2014 8:57 pm
"Change is destruction. It's only a matter of how destroyed you come out of ze endeavor." Eyes cast down toward his feet, however changed now, as he paced toward the Rift. His footfalls felt unsteady. Always, he leaned backward. "I always wanted to change, but I never knew what I was changing for. Changing to. I suppose it didn't matter when every iteration was as ineffectual as ze last. It's strange... I'f learned zat change is destruction of ze previous self - a deas'-rebirs' cycle reminiscent of ze Phönix." Quenton.
"I tore my own heart out." His tone faltered toward the end, words cracked beneath pressure too great to bear. A gnarled hand drew to his chest, over the still-healing wound wrought by Iscariot, where pain ever deeper emanated from the lethal blow of loss. Even now it bled in shades of grief.
"Zere's somesing else I realized after I learned of my fate." Pausing, Bischofite steadied himself with a hand pressed to the wall. One wing parted from its place on his shoulder, loosing acerbic whispers into the otherwise shadowy quietude. "I sought zat... Tearing away all distraction from our officers, all manner of loved ones or obligation existing outside of ze Negaverse would provide an irrevocable edge. But... only after my monumental failure did I realize zat I never fully understood ze motivations of ozzer officers. Zat... I lack some fundamental understanding of humanity as a whole, because I never truly possessed any humanity in ze first place. Or maybe... Too much."
My passions fed my actions, and now extinguished, I find no further motivation within me to get out of bed again. To speak again. To fight again. Did you suffer so, Persephone? When you left your prior life to exist as the contrived Clarisse Stark, do you remember a wretched agony so acute that it paralyzed your every thought? Do you remember willing your lungs to fail, if only so the next breath wouldn't hurt so terribly? Do you remember screaming until your throat bled with sorrow still unquenched?
I cannot convey these thoughts to you, Persephone, but they fester so. They're crippling me, eating through what warped foundation is left for me to stand on. Soon I won't leave that fetid room for any reason - to eat, to walk, to know daylight again. I can't survive this. Not alone.
I need Quenton.
The creature slowly sat, legs folded slightly beneath a tattered cloth that extended beyond their length. His hand still pressed to his heart. "Do you remember when you first awoke, wis'out a name or memories of all you might'f accomplished to zat point?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun May 25, 2014 9:27 pm
Persephone stopped, a bit away from the entrance tot he Rift. Chatting with one youma - half-youma, properly - was one thing, but going into the territory of so many things that wanted her dead was another.
She wanted to hug him, which was an absolutely idiotic desire. Her instincts bubbled with the need to encourage, to tell Bischofite that it would be alright - but would it? He was right, he had torn out his own heart, and she sincerely doubted that there would be any recovering what he might have lost as Alois.
"You're right, you were missing a crucial piece. For some of us, those...distractions are our motivation. What are we fighting for, if not for the things we can return to?" She paused, and then a dry laugh passed her lips. "'We' might be a bit inaccurate since at least I lack most of that." She waved a hand, vaguely. "Still."
She exhaled sharply. Her amnesia was always going to be a sore point, a frustration that never went away. Sometimes she swore she had something, a fleeting bit of feeling, and then it was gone again.
"I'd say 'how could I forget,' but that seems ironic given the subject of conversation."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun May 25, 2014 9:47 pm
"You haf' somesing to return to, even if it's a contrived life built on nebulous foundations." I want to feel the grit of dust between my hands again, smell spring on the cusp of growth when buds still show green on the trees and flowers only as bulbs. I want to feel the texture of pennies immortalized beneath epoxy. I want to touch his skin again. To taste. To see. To hear. To smell... Yet all I find is the stale odor of rotting castle and a dim cavern stretching far past the sharpest vision. This is my Hades - but you don't live here anymore, Persephone. Even you fled from this vile place.
"So everyone fights for constancy..." Now that she brings it to mind, it seems so blatantly obvious... How could I have been so blind? Humans despise change - the unknown is often feared and reviled, and afterward endured in fits of grief, before they stomach the change and adopt it as a constancy. Why should our soldiers differentiate from this common thread? "If I remember, people only seek change when ze pain of constancy outweighs ze pain of change. I was wrong... Pain was never ze key to change. It was ze product of it." Another touted principal unraveled. How many more was he to shred before redemption glimmered far ahead?
Bischofite drew a steady sigh to quell the building tightness in his throat and chest. "Do you remember having days when ze burden of amnesia grew so great zat you could not wrench yourself from bed, nor manifest any desire to sate basic needs? Do you remember questioning your own continued existence when you had nossing to show for your years of life? I imagine it's..." Much the same. To finish the thought entailed a final blow to fracture what meager composure he emulated.
"Do you ever wonder what you lost? Experiences, achievements... lovers."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun May 25, 2014 10:06 pm
Persephone slowly sank down, pulling up her knees and resting her chin on them, arms wrapped aorund her legs. She almost seemed to be making herself as small as possible, a practiced and easy action when she often wanted no more than to be passed by.
"Pain is both a key and a result, I'd argue," she said, "since very rarely do we seek to change until there is something that hurts in one way or another. But adjustment...yes, adjustment is absolutely agony." Her gaze returned to the half-youma before her.
"As Clarisse? Absolutely, there were days when just getting out of bed seemed too much to ask. Why bother, when Clarisse Stark was nothing more than a figment, a person who never really existed?" She exhaled. "Persephone was the only thing that kept me going. At least Persephone was something, even if everyone hated her." A strange dissociation between her selves, and none of them properly felt like her. "Sometimes I was angry. At Order - because it wasn't enough to toss me around like a rag doll and break me, they had to take eighteen years of my life, too. At myself, for rushing in without really considering the consequences, and for not properly thinking. I could've avoided this whole moronic amnesia mess if I'd chosen the Dark Mirror instead, but no, had to have the fancy hair and the bat asswings." There was a level of sarcastic contempt in her voice, primarily directed inwards.
"Mostly I just couldn't muster the power to give a s**t about being Clarisse. It took me a lot of time and a lot of prodding to start trying, and there are still days when I don't want to."
She sighed. "I don't know if it's the same at all, really. Leto told me once that remembering can be worse, because you have to face all your failures, and face everything you left behind. I'd imagine that's more akin to what you're dealing with, now."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
