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Well, s**t, who's there was probably not the worst possible prospect Quartz could've encountered while out on a routine energy collection. Well, s**t, who's there did not promise vicious teeth-grinding or bloody mayhem. Well, s**t, who's there was maybe a reasonable person. Shoot-first-ask-questions-later types did not, to wit, ask questions first. Well, s**t, who's there obviously did.

So here was the decision.

Did Quartz:

(a) Attempt to summon his General, which would probably get some page killed or corrupted -- and therefore was not a desirable solution -- and would maybe get Quartz in trouble for not handling the situation himself -- and was therefore also not a desireable solution?

(b) Run like hell, which advertised not that he was averse to battle, but that he was afraid of battle, and was likely to draw even Well, s**t, who's there into giving opportunistic chase? or;

(c) Attempt to reason with Well, s**t, who's there and hopefully agree to not kill each other, and each go on their merry way?.

He liked his odds with Well, s**t, who's there. Schörl had given him good battle training, if it came to that, and this was only a page. He should be able to secure an escape if he had to.

"Well s**t, Lieutenant Quartz is there," he called back amiably, stepping into the light of a street lamp with his hands held out in a gesture of no-harm. "Who else is here?"

Quartz laughed at that, offering a sweeping, mock-courtly bow in return. There was something companionable about the page, something black-humored that he appreciated. It seemed suited to this war, this life.

"Been there, done that -- " He swept long fingers across his bandolier sash, its former stars now all broken and struck into phases of the eclipse. " -- And got the t-shirt, I'm afraid."

He leaned back to rest his weight against the lamp post. "Not to worry, I have no intention of helping you shuffle off the mortal coil unless my General asks me to." He had a small energy sphere in hand, and began idly rolling it across the backs of his fingers like a coin. "So, what brings you out here on a cool spring night in uniform? Are you the patrolling-for-monsters type? Powering up before you have to's a risk I don't really recommend. Ups your chances of ending up like me."

Quartz frowned heavily and wished for a glass of something that burned going down. "You really are new to this," he assessed glumly, his heart weighed down like lead. "I was, too. Dionysia, Page of the Cosmos, at your service, brother," he said with a second bow, flourished just like the first. "Until they dragged me down into the shitpool with them, that is."

He considered it a moment, then said: "But, as I have no desire to see you walk my same primrose path of delight, go ahead, then." He stepped up onto the edge of a lamppost and swung lightly around it, bored and casual, Singin'-in-the-Rain-style. It was some vestigial compulsion to swing on things that was left as a holdover from Eli Bell's life, no doubt. His former career. "Ask me whatever questions you like. I'll be your Jiminy Cricket of the evening."

Quartz knew a way of laughing that was pretty and milky and went down smooth, a way that brought the listener in and made them want to further a conversation. He had an idea of that laugh being successful, in general -- certainly it worked in bars when he was angling some guy or some girl to buy him one more drink when he'd overspent his allowance. But he didn't use that laugh now.

This laugh was ugly, with razor edges, and if there was anything of humor about it, it was in name only. He wasn't sure he'd ever actually laughed at anything out of true amusement -- not in his new, rebooted memory. Eli Bell, according to his facebook page, had probably laughed a lot. Lucky b*****d.

"I was very young," he said, "And very new. I ran into a captain killing someone. I didn't even know what she was -- I assumed we were the same, both just . . . magical powers, monster fights, whatever. I'd never met anyone else like me before. But she didn't -- well, she obviously wasn't what I would've imagined. We fought, if you can call it that." He shrugged, licking his dry lips. "Wasn't much of a fight. She tied me up and brought me to a General-Queen, who put a hand in my chest and pumped my heart full of blackened s**t till I couldn't remember my life before, and all that was left was -- this."

He stepped down from the edge of the lamppost again. "Now I roll over and beg like a dog to be allowed to go outside for a few hours at a time. My new and exciting life in the great and wonderful Negaverse."

Quartz shook his head -- but inwardly he was thinking, Finally, yes, someone's listening. Someone's got the good sense to try and stay out of trouble. Save yourself, kid. Stay smart.

"The General-Queens and General-Kings of the Negaverse run this whole s**t-show," he answered. "Right beneath the Great Queen Metallia, Her Divine Horribleness, Font of All Madness and Evil, Blah Blah Blah, Long May She Reign Terror Over Us All or whatever." He leaned back against the lamp post. "No one really gets to see Metallia much, apparently -- but our power comes from her, and what we collect in energy goes back to her, too. Beneath her, like I said, are the General-Sovereigns: only a couple of them floating around. Then the Generals, then Captains, then rinky-dink little Lieutenants like me, shoveling the s**t that flows downstream."

This was, he thought, a pretty good summary of their rank structure.

"Fortunately, General-Sovereigns are easy to spot. You'll feel them, like all the other ranks feel different . . . you'll know one's around when you get this sudden feeling like all the joy's gone out of the world and no one's ever going to be happy again. It's this feeling like Death itself is coming to smack you in the face with its big, unholy d**k. You'll want to run away, which is like -- recommendation: definitely do that."

He cast his gaze off into the distance, a bit of gravel creeping back into his voice. "The one that converted me -- Laurelite -- didn't look like much to be worried about, if you just trusted your eyes. But she could've crushed my skull into the ground with just her pinky, if she wanted. I promise you, do not ******** around with these people -- you're no match for them. Pick up your petticoats and goddamned run, and hope they've got bigger fish to fry."

Quartz paused. "Just like that," he said, snapping his fingers. He wished he could say it had been something more complicated -- that there was more to it -- but there it was. Hand in, power in, lieutenant out. "Wish I could tell you there was some kind of trick, but that's really all there is to it. And you come back to yourself and all your memories are ********, and they give you away as a prize to some sadistic ******** who wants to bring you up right."

Quartz squinted. "You won't go ******** around with them, right? Trying to take them on on your own?"

Leaving was a dangerous topic. So dangerous, in fact, that Quartz ignored it entirely.

"Avoid Generals too. And Captains. In fact, just avoid everyone. That's probably the best advice I could give you."