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 Posted: Sat Aug 23, 2014 9:20 am
The cold drew across his skin in patterns known only by starlight. He hated the cowl of the universe above as he hated the perpetual boredom inherent in this iteration of the city - the continued oppression pigeonholing all possible actions into a dismal few. Even his own duties knew ample limitation through distrust, and the perpetual test of his willingness to adhere to the slowly tightening noose. Lately they demanded he channel his oppressions to those stars they stole away from the sky, and cut away all propensity to defect.
He never met the one he was to visit now - that amounted to his rare delight.
His usefulness in the war dwindled with the Negaverse's need for tactical strikes. Now that the senshi threat amounted to little more than a petulant glare from the woods surrounding the city, most legitimate attempts to thwart the remainder went to generals, or captains eager to prove their merit. The bulk of their strength centered in the city, while their organization slowly churned to maintain their holds over all touched by chaos. In his own manner, he maintained those small flecks of individuality, of the self within a sea of sameness.
A ghost of a piano tune lurked beneath his thoughts when warped fingers traced the edge of an aluminum trash can. The scrape echoed through the alley, where too many nights he lingered in their private darkness. Mouths steeped in tar offered a hum of their own, a simplified echo of notes known to once dextrous hands - far too long ago during the time he knew housing as a comfort.
Now he found it as confining as Negaverse policy.
As he emerged from the alleys, he spotted the building in question delineated only by a letter mounted to a plaque above the arched entry. Too long ago the Negaverse standardized their housing in an attempt toward a unified front - both benign and amenable to all who looked toward the meticulously manicured landscapes and freshly painted siding. Each uniform apartment housed one of many agents and senshi working for the Negaverse - Aludra, Columba, Adonis to name a few. A file delineated the basic information for each individual caged within those walls, as signed away on the terms of obtaining it. A lease signed with lives, with energy and starseeds in place of money as the commodity fallen from favor.
Whether due to the need for protection from outside riots during their rise to glory or the need to isolate those within, the Negaverse outfitted this particular building with a buzzer system available to those on the outside. In each slat next to their respective worn buttons sat a lined card with the name of the resident printed in varying hands - likely written themselves. He pressed one, worn white beneath the brass, and waited for the corrupted senshi in question to answer.
Columba... I wonder what your dreams are these days. Do you serve the Negaverse willfully, or are you biding your time? Come and show me.
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Posted: Mon Sep 01, 2014 6:02 pm
Columba had recently been allowed her own space, provided her handler, who resided nearby, was allowed to check in on her frequently. It was one of the smaller units, but was more than enough to accompany at nineteen year old who was fascinated by the prospect of her own room, much less her own living space entirely.
The apartment was in the early stages of the meticulous organization being dismantled by basic living, but the smattering of brightly colored post-its still littered everything. There were basic instructions on everything.
“Do NOT put in the dishwasher.” On the dish soap.
“NO SILVERWARE” was on the microwave and underlined several times.
“DO NOT EVER, EVER USE” was on the oven which ad been declared strictly off limits once Columba had proven willfully ignorant of some concerningly basic living skills.
She was nineteen, but sixteen years of those memories were gone, and her handler clearly had some anxieties about letting the leash loose. Incompetent as an offensive soldier and apparently equally incompetent in taking care of herself. Columba was not granted much in the way of trust, and not for rebellious behavior. Her corruption had been rough, and wiped nearly all of her memories away. Every so often there was a trigger, some flashes, but she had been sheltered from most things that would provide such sparks. Chaonis as a fellow corrupt senshi had been a rare anomaly.
It didn’t put a damper on Columba’s excitement at having defined territory of her own, an illusion of privacy, and who had already defied one of the post-its and totally used two cups of fabric softener that day. She was still riding high on the adrenaline of rebellion when the buzzer sounded. Her long, blue hair was tied back in a tight ponytail that trailed behind her as she skittered to the intercom and held her ear to the speaker, lips parted in awe that she had a visitor. It took a second for her to buzz back, her first time using the system and whatnot.
Once she did, though, Bischofite was greeted with a high and drawn out, “Heeeeeeeellooooooooooooo. Whoisthis?”
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Posted: Mon Sep 08, 2014 9:01 am
The flavor of broken shards known as newly-corrupted senshi brought him great delight, if only in its superficial form. A grin broke the creature's formerly stoic visage, and he hesitated for many moments while laughter slowly worked its way out of his form. He even leaned against he wall while doing so, leaving thick gashes of tar across the too-pristine surface. An improvement if anything, but... He'd receive that bill in the mail soon enough.
The fact that you're so stoked over a simple greeting lends cold insight into your state of mental unrest.
Finally he straightened, breathing a sigh to dispatch the last of his mirth into the cold night air. A taloned finger struck the worn button as he drew a breath on speaker. He weighed the use of title against the rare spark of interesting stemming from this encounter - whether to allow it a quick death with the presentation of rank or continue an unprofessional front in the Negaverse. Sorely, he chose the former. "Generalkönig Bischofite," he responded, adding a pause while he pressed his cheek to the wall, only a portion of his mask lighted upon the intercom's slightly battered surface. "Haf' you been given an evaluation before, Columba?" Typically prior evaluators left ample notes for the next, without fail at that. While Bischofite found no log of a first evaluation on this one, he rather enjoyed asking for the simple pleasure of hearing lies slip out from those recent converts.
While he waited for a response, he depressed the button and rapped his fingers against the wall beneath. Evaluations every six months, with notes of handler's progress recorded yearly. It was a... hundred point system? I've not done this in so long. A score below ninety requires reassignment. No - the first evaluation entails recording the corrupted's surroundings and handler information without executing the hundred point inspection. But... I think I need to record her stability in these surroundings, and make recommendations accordingly.
This is such b***h work. Natron should be attending it, but the b*****d purified.
"Let me in and we'll get started." It felt almost vampiric to demand entrance, as if he hadn't seen each apartment in these blisteringly compartmentalized buildings at least a thousand times each. He lived in her very apartment some years before her, when the Negaverse finally declared the city subdued enough for him to reside beyond the Rift in small doses.
I could just take her outside - see how she fares. It sounds far more delightful than trawling through this surfeit of excruciatingly dry questionnaires.
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