Welcome to Gaia! ::

The thing about the Negaverse was that Jack couldn't turn it off when he wanted a little bit of space. Not that Jack was ever particularly concerned with peace and quiet. It was the demands of the job he didn't like-- the fact that anyone could reach Proustite through the power of the purple communication crystal he would rather have left ignored at the bottom of his sock drawer. Everything else -the power, the reputation, the parties- was just fine. Better than fine, even. Proustite enjoyed being a Captain when he didn't have to do anything. How he had actually managed to earn the promotion was beyond him- he suspected that it was some kind of accident. The Negaverse wasn't exactly renowned for it's sanity.

Proustite had been around long enough that he had seen -though not personally witnessed- the murder of a Queen, and the steady rise of several other worthy soldiers. All of them twisted by Chaos into shadows of their former selves. ******** Tanzanite had grown wings. He had personally had his power ripped away by Metallia for following Hematite in his dissension against the rise of the Dark Moon Senshi-- and then forgotten how he'd earned it back.

He yawned.

Cinnabar.

Her name alone was enough to make him wonder. She sounded spicy, Proustite thought. It was that, more than any sense of duty, that had compelled him to meet her to discuss... whatever it was that she wanted to discuss.

The park bench was hard under his a**. He lounged with his legs outstretched, heels up on the ground, the back of his neck resting on the back of the bench so that he was looking up at the sky. It was night time, because of course it was. Nobody ever wanted to meet during the day. He squinted up at the stars, tried to count them.

One, two, three, four, ******** I already counted that one...

He puffed on the end of a cigarette, exhaled smoke, thrilled to the feel of it leaving his lungs.

"One," Proustite started again, pointing with his hand in the air this time, "two, three..."

He felt her before he saw her. The dark promise of a power signal not unlike his own. Captain. He wondered what she looked like, took another drag of his cigarette and let his eyes drift closed at the sound of her voice. He didn't want to look at her. Not yet.

There was a quality about her voice that warmed his blood.

The corner of Proustite's lips twitched when he exhaled. His smoke coloured the air.

"I didn't have anywhere else to be," he said, ashing his cigarette over the back of his park bench. His gaze flickered to Cinnabar then, eyes bright with curiosity and a... particular sort of warmth. She was both everything, and nothing, like he'd imagined she'd be. She was a woman, sultry and strong, with eyes the colour of a fresh flame. But the tail- that was unexpected.

Proustite considered for a moment, head tilted to the side. Deciding that it amused him, he took his cigarette from his right hand with his left, and then shook hers.

"Have a seat." Proustite gestured at the park bench, fished in the breast pocket of his jacket for the pack of cigarettes he'd bullied out of the hands of a skinny twelve year old. He cocked an eyebrow at Cinnabar, offered her the pack. "Smoke?"

Proustite lifted his cigarette to his lips, puffed on the end, and retrieved a lighter from yet another pocket in his jacket. The lighter itself was ridiculous, shaped like an old school jukebox that did not actually play music when you flipped up the lid. He offered this to Cin as well, lips twitching at the corners, fingers still tingling just slightly with the memory of her touch.

Nothing about Cinnabar was subtle. She radiated sexuality and confidence in a way that Proustite could not (and would not) deny being attracted to, though his favourite women were always the ones he could not predict. Like Sandy from the ice cream parlour on 9th Avenue who wore her hair in pig-tail braids and always told him to 'have a nice day!' with a smile the size of the sun on her face. She seemed innocent, Sandy did. The sort of girl who helped old ladies with their grocery bags across the street. But then he'd asked her to see a movie, and she had the button of his fly popped before Jack had a chance to pull out the old yawn and stretch.

He couldn't remember the film at all, but sometimes, when he was alone, he could still feel Sandy's hand where it had all but burned in his skin.

Proustite wondered if the way that Cinnabar had chosen to sit on top of the bench, so that she was looking down on him, instead of beside, told him everything he needed to know about whether or not she would surprise him.

Still, she was lovely to look at, and so far he wasn't bored.

Far from it, in fact.

He took another long drag of his cigarette. The tip glowed red. Like her eyes. When he exhaled, he made a point of blowing the smoke away from her. For Proustite, this was beyond considerate.

"I might be," he said, "Tell me what you want."

'I mean to forcibly remind those thinking of abandoning their posts how long the reach of the Negaverse is.'

A very long time ago Proustite had stood alongside his fellow soldiers in a dark room confronted by Tanzanite for standing in opposition to the birth of the mirror senshi and their queen of smoke-- Hematite and Bismuthite, Azurite and Paragonite, Spinel and Wolframite, Ajoite and Uranophane. Aree had stripped them all of their power, and then there had been hands on his ankles, and light that reached like tentacles to drag him across the floor.

He remembered it well. The sensation of helplessness-- of knowing how <********> the earth was and being without the strength or the power to protect himself. Or his family.

Cinnabar had his attention, though Jack was not necessarily inclined to let her see that. He propped a foot up on his knee, and regarded Cinnabar thoughtfully, head cocked to the side. Why did she care? Was she simply being a good soldier? Or was there something else at play, here?

He considered. Thought -with some amusement- about the way that she had held his lighter, and fixed his jacket, and then touched his chest. She is like a cat. The end of Jack's cigarette glowed red in the night. He pinched it between his fingers, and then blew a ring of smoke into the air. She will paw at me until I give her what she wants.

"Sure. I'll help you out." He said it as though she'd asked him to join her for a game of baseball in the park. "I'll be your eyes or your ears or whatever."

Jack did not care about disturbing locks or alarms. He walked around dressed up as Proustite in the middle of the day, and went wherever he pleased.

"Let us forcibly," his lips quirked at the corners, "bring our fellow officers home. Tell me, pussycat, is there anyone in particular you are looking for?"