Down eager avenues of lifelessness
Word Count: 1258
Faustite left the regal offices of the General Sovereigns in a deep fog. He coasted down the hallways with a certain lifelessness that belied his autopilot tendency in those moments. Internally, he deliberated over what came of him - the hand through his chest that stripped out a margin more of his humanity, and unveiled more of the insidious curse which continued to plague him. His heart still beat in his chest, somehow unfazed by the influx of chaotic energy, and his starseed throbbed with a heavy chill. Each step felt jaunty, uneven, while he roamed the twisting, yawning halls back to Chrysocolla's makeshift quarters.
A further blackened hand strayed to his chest, searching for a weeping hole that never was. Yet he felt it, he felt the blade rend through his meat and bone with a finality, with assurance that he would die. But Faustite wasn't himself in those moments, and he knew it.
The feeling failed to subside by the time he reached his shared quarters. Retiring to the mediocre mattress, Faustite felt himself sink into its confines. He coughed then, short and slightly smoky, but found no relief to his consternation. That sense of bitter righteousness that all but defined him as a youth started to slip, and he failed to catch hold of it before it quickly strayed from his grasp. His sense of self began to decline, too, and in its deadened husk nested vulturous power. He knew, then, why so many officers before him traded in pieces of themselves to obtain further authority - further ability. They derived a very powerful freedom out of surrendering those parts of themselves -- those weaknesses that obstructed them from becoming their better selves.
He wanted to hate it, however. He wanted to feel remorse, regret, rage. He wanted to feel something beyond the limitless cold that settled in his chest. Even then, after unbuttoning his waistcoat and leaving his dress shirt open and bare, he still felt the snowflake pattern etched indelibly into his chest. Yet, his fingers and his gaze could find nothing of the sort. He felt much like an unwitting host, playing prey to a parasite he couldn't see or name. Or, perhaps, a poltergeist. Or, given his history with his family, a lightly-tinted canvas that now accepted the mark of any burgeoning ambition that saw him a suitable target.
Enlightenment comes to even the dimmest. It begins around the eyes, and it spreads outward from there- a sight that might tempt one to lie down under the harrow oneself.
Where was that from? I can't remember anymore. I must be going mad. He paused in his own thought, smiled, laughed until he lapsed into a coughing fit. He looked upon his own pallid chest again for signs of blood, for splinters emerging from his starseed. He saw nothing of the sort. He considered, briefly, running back to the Sovereign and requesting that the promotion be taken back, the exchange refuted and these changes better left to someone of greater capability - that his promotion to captaincy based on bodily need and a consistent quota qualified him for little more than a pat on the back. The exchange would be a simple one, he decided. Chrysocolla would surely agree with him in that he's unfit to lead anyone - even the greenhorns corrupted in on a nigh daily basis.
A deceptively simple thought chased it, and embedded in his mind with no trouble. Wait and see, it suggested. Wait and see what comes before you turn away power. Pressure continued to build between his bones, and the alarm he should've felt was diminished by that single sentiment. Another cough, a sputter. Black spit came up with another puff of smoke.
Wait and see. The words grew to a mantra.
Faustite wrenched himself from the bed with a start. He needed some air, he decided. A promotion was reason enough to view the top of the world again, where his life once existed in the cutthroat traditions of high society. By now, crazy was the new sane. Captain was the new Lieutenant. He scrambled faster, further - his hand nearly slipped from the doorknob in wrenching it open.
He set to the halls again, a storm of smoky urgency, as he searched for a more experienced captain. He passed the library in his pursuit of a valid energy signature and recognized at once where he found the white-haired captain, where she lay crippled by her own hopeless pursuits. He wondered, then -- was he to be like her? The thought spurred him further. Faster.
Slave was the new master.
But the halls lay bare, ghostly in their lack of presence. He felt youma on occasion, but the rest of the Negaverse's military force remained busy enough at such an hour that he found no souls in those wretched halls. He passed crumbling stone and disintegrated grout, and bushels of crystals so strong and bright that they overtook the place in their lurid purple glow. He passed the doors to the old throne room, where dead tales slept. He passed the database room, where officers once worked tirelessly in a better, later hour. This time, however, none adorned the seats.
Faustite coughed yet again, and this time, his body twisted and turned to squeeze out his last breaths. The coughs came long and rasping while he sucked in air at a desperate pace. He couldn't fill his lungs anymore, he realized - not to capacity. Every time he tried to take a full breath, that chilling blade from memory bit further. Still it left no mark, but he felt is pressure at his back surely enough. He waited for its hilt to bury between bones, to claim its throne among his still-growing viscera.
Panic crept upon him. He wondered, then, if the promotion was little more than a death sentence - a suspicious Sovereign's determination that he must suffer for what happened in Umber's disappearance. Surely he knew, surely he felt it in how Faustite's starseed trembled in staunch defiance to the influx of chaotic energy. Surely he gleaned the memory of it when his calloused fingers found those delicate planes. He drew the guilt out of him, wove from it the story untold, and wrenched it out in exchange for the host of chaos that now damned him down into hell.
Hell was the new heaven. Pain was the new gain. All the careful trends and interpersonal do's and don'ts left Elex crafting a perfect ruse for himself - a boy that fit indelibly within his class. Now, without such a mask to wear, Faustite was confronted by an utter lack of expectation. He had no social mores to which he could anchor himself. In fact, he had no expectations at all.
Now, he faced finding his true self - buried amidst pain and pressure, tied between youma and man. Somewhere there was Elex, the real Elex, the real Faustite. Somewhere beyond the trends he lay, waiting to be discovered.
But the pressure continued to build and reached a crescendo at his back, where he collapsed against that very wall where Sarabauite lingered earlier. Deja vu spared no one, he realized, as he fished for his communicator between short and shallow breaths. Whatever came of him now, he needed answers. Company. Awareness. He needed that security blanket of expectation for just a moment longer, as darkness encroached on his vision.
After all, this might just be a panic attack.
