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 Posted: Wed Mar 30, 2016 9:40 pm
01
The first one is easy.
There's a civilian down a street that leads to a bar; one of the low lit, low budget bars that has dim, florescent lighting, cracked leather seats, and bent bar stools. A flickering sign reads Andy's Pub above the grimy windows, and several grizzled men are lounging with beers or brandy, feet planted on the sticky linoleum floor. It's the sort of place where no new person arrives, and everyone knows everyone else. The regulars are greeted by name and a waiting drink, and the bartender has a memory like an elephant.
Wolfeite has been watching the civilian.
He's one of the regulars at Andy's. A tall, heavyset man with a square-jawed face and ruddy cheeks offset by waifish blond hair that doesn't quite seem to fit his overall build. He's come to the bar twice in the last two nights, and gets the same thing every time: a whiskey sour. There are people who greet him with claps on the back and handshakes, but while he sits with the others, he doesn't seem to care about being a part of them.
He won't be missed. Wolfeite is sure of that. They all just put up with him, none of them really care about what happens to him - and neither does Wolfeite, for that matter. All he wants is the starseed he knows is glowing behind the ribcage, the starseed that will end one life and give another, because for every starseed that Wolfeite consumes, he feels it giving back to him.
He knows Labyrinthite's warnings. He doesn't care.
The man crosses the street, and Wolfeite follows him, his movements cautious. He waits until they're at a crossroads where the lights don't change fast enough, and then he leaps out and grabs the man, pulling him back into the rancid, stinking alleyway. It's foul; the air reeks of mold and grime, but it'll have to do.
He's clapped a gloved hand over the man's mouth, but there's no point. He's too drunk to really notice, and he slumps in Wolfeite's grasp, his shoulders heaving as he sinks part way to the ground. Wolfeite lets him, a look of disgust on his face beneath the mask; this is why he doesn't drink to excess, in spite of the invitations. Drunkards are pathetic, and lose their wits.
Wolfeite very much needs to keep his wits about him.
He bends down, props the man up, and leans him against the stained brick wall. The man's head lolls forward drunkenly; the alcohol on his breath is so strong that it makes Wolfeite give a little hiss of annoyance, his dark eyes flickering dangerously. But he waits it out, and eventually the man tilts forward, rumbling snores dragged from his throat.
He's asleep. It's the perfect opportunity.
With a practiced ease that's becoming more and more routine by the second, Wolfeite thrusts his hand into the man's chest. His gloved fingers find the little pocket of space, and the glowing orb within, and he yanks hard, breaking past the barriers and back into the real world. He's clutching the glowing thing in his palm, and it's beautiful, Wolfeite's eyes fixated on it as he stands.
He doesn't notice the blonde man falling sideways, the snoring gone.
Wolfeite can almost taste it now. He reaches up and lowers the mask on his face so that he can see it more clearly, the little object who will bring him such power. If he has enough of them, he's sure that he'll be able to accomplish all that he wants and more.
He just needs to eat.
The starseed presses against his lips, and for a few seconds, Wolfeite just breathes in the heat of it. Then he pushes it into his mouth, sharp canines crunching against the glowing warmth, until he can swallow it. The burn of it sears down his throat, settles into his stomach, and Wolfeite can feel the tingling sensation from his head to his toes, a sweep of adrenaline.
It's an incredible feeling. He feels strong, capable, powerful. It's a heady sensation - or rather, a series of sensations - and Wolfeite wants to carry it with him as long as he can. It's as though the entire world has opened up to him, there for the taking, and all he wants to do is take take take. He wants to eat it all up, eat everything up, until he has his hands on every little thing possible, because this world - and everything in it - is his own. All of it belongs to him, in the end. It's just a matter of acquiring it, of putting the plans he has into motion.
To do that, he needs Labyrinthite. The others as well, though they are of lesser importance: Aluminite, Dia, Tourmaline, that traitor Aue whom Wolfeite has picked out specially, and it pleases him. He can make good use of Aue, and he fully intends to. Aue will be his eyes and ears within the White Moon, getting knowledge for him; his little show with Labyrinthite was simply that: a show. He's proving to the general his good faith, his so-called loyalty.
Loyalty only goes so far. Loyalty will not get Wolfeite to where he wants to be, will not be the foundation upon which he builds the kingdom he so greatly desires. He cares little for what will happen to the others in the process; sacrifices, after all, will have to be made, and in the end, it will come down to him, and that's all that matters.
There will be a crash later, he knows it. He'll simply ride it out in his room, let himself destruct whatever it is that gets in his way, go to sleep, and wake up and start all over again. The crashes will ebb, he knows this; they are a simple, temporary side effect, because Wolfeite knows what he's doing. He always does. He just needs more to get what he wants.
And Wolfeite will do anything to get what he wants.
[ WORD COUNT: 1,022 ]
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Posted: Thu Mar 31, 2016 8:12 am
02
He wants to go back to the Rift.
There is a youma that he can see, prowling through the streets of Destiny City. It's blackened and twisted shape is that of a bear-like creature, with heavy, swaying arms that go front and back as it lumbers across the alleyway, stepping over discarded newspapers and kicking dented beer cans out of its path. Every once in a while, it lifts its head and jerks its nose, as though its scenting the air for something, for those of the White Moon.
Can youma smell like that, Wolfeite wonders, as he watches. He's sitting on the rooftop of a nearby building, crouched down so that one knee presses against the low hanging cement wall, a hand braced beside it so that he can keep his balance. He's been surveying the youma for several minutes now; it's a fascinating creature, built of Chaos and who knows what else; something so steeped in the Negaverse that it's risen from the depths of it.
Wolfeite wants to take it a part and examine every inch of it. He wants to find out what makes it tick, what makes it work, why they choose whatever shape they come in. He wants to learn why some are humanoid, and others are merely feral in nature, and how many there are that exist within the confines of the Rift.
How many youma are truly capable of being controlled by a Negaverse agent? Labyrinthite has told him only one, but Wolfeite doubts this. The youma are bound by their ties to the Negaverse and Metallia, are they not? They are created beings pulled from the depth of Chaos, shaped from it, molded for their own intents and purposes, and there has to be more to them than anyone knows - than Labyrinthite knows. Wolfeite knows that Labyrinthite is a powerful, strong, and knowledgeable man; he can use that knowledge and that strength and that power for his own goals, because that's all the general is, really.
The means to an end. And once Wolfeite has what he wants, he will have no use for General Labyrinthite of the Negaverse.
He is going to learn more, do more, be more. He has the abilities to far surpass all those that have already crossed through the Negaverse, and he is going to take full advantage of his new position to reach into the far neck of Negaspace and the Rift, learn it's secrets, pick apart it's pieces and put them all back together again according to his own plans.
He is better than all of them, anyway.
The bear youma is crossing the street now. Wolfeite watches it go with narrowed eyes, a breeze rifling through the air. He can see it shifting through the darkness, using the shadows as cover, gleaming red eyes flashing quickly and brightly through the night, the scuffling sound of feet and it's movements in the quiet alleyway that is nestled between the building Wolfeite is currently on and the next.
He can't see what's happening well; Wolfeite shifts positions, edges over to the other side of the rooftop, and hears more scuffling noises. Then a cry and a thump, and the distinct sound of a struggle down below; the youma has apparently come across an unwilling victim. A boozer, perhaps, lying drunken in the alleyway, or maybe a homeless person trying to sleep, or perhaps just someone on their way home, unsuspecting and uninhibited enough to cause a problem.
Wolfeite slinks along the rooftop, gives it a moment or two, and then makes his way down, leaping nimby.
He lands a few feet away with a muffled thump that sends yellowed newspapers and posters flying everywhere, gusting about in the wind that tunnels through the narrow space of the alleyway. Straightening, he glances around to find that the youma has a slight young man in his grasp, thick paws wrapped around skinny wrists. The kid looks to be somewhere in his teens, and has a scruffy, grimy look about him that suggests a runaway, his face narrow and pallid as he struggles.
It's useless; the youma is much too strong, and Wolfeite watches for a few seconds as it lurches towards him, the kid pushing hard against it to keep it from coming closer, but it's a fruitless endeavor.
At least for a human; a normal human.
Wolfeite moves forward, black and scarlet uniform like ink and blood in the night. He barrels into the side of the youma, then follows through with a solid, ringing punch to its gut that sends it crashing back. The starseed he's consumed only moments before is burning through his veins, and Wolfeite can feel the heightened senses, the sense of adrenaline that chases its way through his body.
It's exhilarating. Addicting. Intoxicating.
He wants more of it.
The youma gives a roar, but Wolfeite has dissipated it within seconds. It's not one of the more powerful ones to him, just a simple mass of Chaos that is easily taken care of. Wolfeite feels a distinct sense of satisfaction as he watches it crumble to dust - though a part of him is regretful that he can't take this one apart like he wants to.
Next time, he thinks.
He turns to the kid, who is half slumped against the wall, panting heavily. Wolfeite takes a step towards him, and cocks his head to the side, surveying the tattered clothes, the sickly face, the defiant expression in a pair of greenish eyes that border on hazel.
"You're welcome," says Wolfeite calmly, and the boy snorts.
"I coulda handled that," he snaps, and spits on the ground in front of Wolfeite's shoes. "Weirdo."
He gives no reaction, not outwardly, though inwardly he feels a burning anger that bubbles up, twists in his stomach, roils through him. It's paired, however, with a certain sense of satisfaction and amusement at his words, Wolfeite's lips twisting up into a smirk beneath the kerchief that masks the lower half of his face. He draws nearer, and the boy shrinks back with a hiss.
"I can take care of myself!"
"I never said I was going to take care of you," Wolfeite says carelessly, and without any hesitation, he plunges his gloved hand into the boy's chest. His fingers close around the starseed in its little, hollowed out space, and he yanks it out without refinement, hardly noticing as the boy's eyes grow dull and he collapses onto the filthy alleyway. He's not important anymore, already a fading memory in Wolfeite' mind as he turns away.
The starseed in hand, he makes his way out of the alleyway and down the street, tucking it safely away for later.
[ WORD COUNTER: 1,132 ]
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