Faustite watched one such beacon, its sallow beams etching over his unchanging face. The door cracked and a second beam spilled out, cutting into the dark on his right, spelling out the old brick of the adjacent real estate office. The one at the door - an older woman, by look - chastised the soliciting man in a hushed voice. Her head jerked, bobbed, her fingers jabbed at him, and her face creased in quiet anger. The man, dressed in rags and a heavy smell that commanded a considerable radius, grew quick to anger in return. His voice reached crescendo and slurred speech filled the ears of all predators on the cluttered city street.
The door slammed and the light slipped back indoors. Soon, the blinds slatted shut over square windows and left Faustite's eyes to readjust to the darkness. The man removed his tattered fisherman's hat, presenting stringy wisps of salt and pepper, then retired himself on her doorstep. He would remain until the morning, the captain supposed.
Similar instances played out over the area, bearing minor variation in part and verse. Drunks were evicted from bars, partiers from clubs, and lukewarm company from their fickle hosts. The Negaverse came in such an hour to reinforce such behaviors, such budding social hierarchies, and reap the benefits from each interpersonal disadvantage. Faustite had done the same time and again; tonight marked no great difference.
Faustite crossed the street in purposeful strides. He tugged taut pant legs slightly before crouching next to the argumentative old man, and studied his face for all the wrinkles and grooves that time bestowed upon him. He looked aged in a manner that promised a lifetime of poor circumstances - poor decisions. He could be someone's grandfather, now the spokesperson for poverty. He could be an old steel worker legend from times when the American industry boomed, now permanently displaced from the workforce. Faustite's gaze continued to roam him with shadowed interest.
He seized one gnarled hand gently, and drew long on the energy within. Simmering anger still burned bright enough to fuel the Negaverse machine, he knew. But even now, months into his captaincy, he came no closer to understanding the purpose in targeting the vagrants, the addicts, the criminals. Was it simply easier to further disadvantage the socially stigmatized? Were they less human for their misfortune? Or did officers like Arsenopyrite and the like harbor a prejudice for them?
An aura bloomed beyond him, stark as the night. Another captain - another force hunting and pecking for energy through the dire parts of town. He pocketed the brilliant orb in hand, then fled to the steepled rooftop to meet their advance. His situation, after all, demanded he make connections.
It was late, and the delicious summer heat she had been so enjoying was beginning to fade again, sometimes. It was odd- it didn't get warm until late spring, then it started getting random chills again in mid summer. It wasn't even the predictability of sweltering days and chilly nights; sometimes, it was sweltering days and sweltering nights. Shahar had lived here for years, and she still could not keep track of the weather.
But one thing that she was passable with was the people. People were always the same. The homeless were still hungry, still thirsty, still grateful that she did not take and take without giving something back to her community. Grateful that when she left them, no one was dead or dying. That she did not hunt them with her monsters. The lower class with their overtime money, the middle class with their scraped change, the wealthy with their thoughtlessness- they still came to clubs, hungering for a brief taste to help them forget whatever their woe was for the evening.
And Shahar fed on them all. If not as herself (laughing and flirting and stealing free drinks and momentary pleasures) then as Titanite, stroking hands over bodies and tugging out the energy they had no real use for themselves. Never taking too much- one treated their batteries with care. Made them happy, and willing, and eager to please. She loved her rich, and she loved her homeless, because they all equated to the same thing to her.
Rungs on a ladder. One ensured they were solid, for each one would need to catch you if footing was insecure as you made your way along. She had been told she was taking advantage of the weak, but she saw it as a business partnership.Transactions. They all gave her something she wanted, she gave them something they craved in exchange.
She was pushing from the ground when she realized it- the brush of an aura spilling chill down her spine, something distorted. Titanite patted her companion on the hand, considered the way it seemed to rest near her, and stepped away from her hunting ground. Some knew of her methods, true, but she was proud of her methods. She didn't like the idea of others stepping in, perhaps making a mess of her carefully cultivated garden of impoverished human flesh.
Instead, she moved to meet it, indulging her curiosity. She always liked meeting new people, or re-encountering the old. There were only a few she'd avoid. When they called her bluffs and she had to follow through with her threats... that was almost always an unfortunate situation. Hopefully this one would be more enjoyable.
As she approached, moved from the ground to the roof- further from her garden- she was the first to call out, her accent as light as she could make it. "Hi~ Good night for a walk, is it not?"
Among others of the Negaverse, bracing for confrontation came much too easily. In a hierarchy system where hundreds vied to stand out from a charnel house of the intellectually and emotionally braindead, meeting connections within the militant faction resulted in more rivalries than friendships. This recently-learned fact provided a clue into the Negaverse's apparent inability to quash the inbound senshi menace - if no one could stand with each other while motivated by the promotion carrot, and each sought their own bloodied ascent into power, then how could they win?
And it was only then, when facing the impending meeting, that Faustite recognized the insidious divisiveness that such a culture cultivated. He saw how easy it became to see the incoming figure as a hostile from an in-house cold war. How the wash of a dark aura meant just as much strife. How expectation demanded that he prove his worth to peers.
The bluenette approaching sported a fitted uniform of greys and subtle red accents, and furious streaks of blue hair that coiled about their dominion. They claimed her squared shoulders, spilled down her straight back and teased at the light breeze that played about the area. She looked confident, aware. She sounded pleasant. Yet still, the Negaverse's limping hierarchy system demanded that he see her as a rival - like they stood at opposite ends in the french court. She would be his better of course - older, more human, more cultivated in plying to men's expectations of a warm welcome. Of companionship, of courtship. She outmatched him by look alone. Of course she did; black eyes and smoking pipes offered no comfort in a social world.
But, he supposed, his lack of outward humanity gave him perspective.
Some of Faustite's restraint receded. His shoulders found a more natural position. Fingers laced loosely behind his back out of habit more than expectation, with warm pipes pressing against the insides of his arms. He stood surefooted. "I haven't taken walks outside for a while. I must be missing out." He looked about himself, away from the captain before him and toward the distant smattering of stars. She was right - with the temperature moderate and the light decent, the climate was right for a nightly walk.
But weather and walks were always a pretense, even among the elite. He knew he had to break such habits, to deconstruct the social bible given to him. Still, the struggle produced hesitance, and he forced himself to speak beyond the pleasantries. Letting her slip past into the night without a word otherwise would be so easy, after all.
"People aren't fans of the inhuman, really. But you look like you could use the company. Tell me, Captain: do you have a minute?" A minute, an hour, the night - any time spent in company not unkind was a much-wanted social exercise. Even if he lounged among predators.
The distortion in the signature that she felt only grew apparent as she drew near, and even that was not something that was immediately visible. It was in the eyes, really. Hands were hidden, but pupil-less black eyes with black sclera were hard to miss, even in the darkness, and her curiosity was piqued. She never hid such things, caring little for if people were offended by her interest in them- be it deformity, injury, or… perhaps partial youmafication? Very good contacts? Halloween was a bit away, but it was possible.
Possible. Not likely, given the distortion, and even less once he spoke. “People are not fond of many things. For many, the inhuman causes a feeling of fear. Most of those ‘many’ do not have my speed, or ability to teleport should- what do they say over here? s**t hit the fan?” She knew the phrase quite well, but sometimes it was easier (and certainly more fun) to play up her heavy accent, play with colloquialisms and have some bit of a good time harassing her company.
In the dim lighting she could not make out too many details about her companion. A deep brown, or black, perhaps, and bloody-red shirt. A vest- the remnants of a waistcoat, perhaps?- in still-good repair. Shoes, heeled, skin pale, hair almost as inky-dark as the empty pools that were- or once had been- his eyes. And behind him, pulls of warmth. Perhaps a bag in his hands? No; there seemed to be too much for that. A high body temperature would have more smoke on the sides, perhaps?
It was unusual, and the tall woman prowled closer, bright teal eyes gleaming. “I am fond of company, even the inhuman. Come, you may walk with me if you wish. Or were you planning to sit here?” Either way his body would shift, would move, and she would be able to angle herself around to see the rest of him, to take in the first small mystery. “I am Titanite. You are?”
"Faustite." Most of the Negaverse expected answers with expedience - pithy, straightforward replies that valued time and efficiency. Smooth transitions. A dearth of intellect and creativity.
Most of the Negaverse just wanted results.
Her airy, lengthened vowels and proper intonations sounded paradoxical against her paramilitary garb. She stood there, swathed in darks and secrets and combat boots, speaking at him in such a manner that he recalled a floor aglitter with fractal light, with silks and chiffon sweeping across its surface with impeccable timing. Hands clasped and eyes locked, and an announcement aired over an unnecessarily expensive sound system:
Foremost, we would like to thank the Beauregards for their astoundingly generous donation of…
A car horn sounded below them, and reality struck him once more. Faustite reeled back into the frame of their conversation. He set teeth, wrung hands. Kicked boots against the tarmac to strike up a pace - an anchor, as it were, to the outside world. To the present, far distanced from memory. "I don't like to stick around," he admitted. Movement kept him awake, aware. The alternative - to dwell in recollections abandoned to another life - begat punishment. Idle memory procured no new energy or starseeds to feed the Negaverse machine. Moralistic conversation hindered the weekly harvest.
As moonlight flickered and waned, entrusting Titanite's face to shadows, time warned him of its passing. I doubt they're afraid of me because I'm inhuman. His jaw tightened. Seconds weighed on his shoulders. "I don't have a lot of time to talk, but I'll walk with you. It's been a long time since I've had a conversation." Broomite, she called him once. Fit for storing in a closet. Fit to perform work. Unfit to chat, dream, write, plan, think. "I must've forgotten how to talk to people." He struggled to swallow his impulse to smile.
He spoke his name quickly on her question, but offered little else; her head tilted, considering without judgement, waiting for a moment in extended silence for him to come out with something more than just a name. No rank, no title, no medallions she could see that gave her hint to the length of his service- not that she wore any herself.
Hands moved from behind his back, and her eyes flicked to ink-dipped fingers, bright with interest. Not a writer- there was something about them that fed into the feeling of no longer human that he so willingly gave off. It was only when he began to walk, and she remained stationary for the brief moment to give her the sight of what caused her curiosity to flare. Were those... ?
Huh.
It was such an inadequate word. Fascinating, really, whatever was happening there. The features of this partial youmafication (not deformation) explained that his comments were not, perhaps, willingness. Resignation? He could not hide such a feature for long unless he was using his glamour. And why waste glamour on a fellow agent of the Negaverse? He had sacrificed a piece of himself for the goals of their Queen. Was this not honor?
“I do not like to stand still either,” Titanite assured him, long legs stretching to catch up to the other agent, “I get ‘antsy’ and start prowling about looking for trouble.” Shahar liked trouble. Especially when it was hallucinogenic. “You may stay with me so long as you please. Do not think you will offend me to leave. You are on Metallia’s business, I am sure.” She would not want to interfere.
“I would think that talking to people would be like walking, or riding a bike. A motor skill as much as anything. Conversation is not always a work of art. Small talk is not a necessity. You can speak without words.” Shahar had learned that when she got absolutely s**t-faced the very first time, and had it reinforced every time she went to a club. “Sometimes it is easier. There is less obfuscation.”
Metallia? The word etched a frown in his features. Metallia's just a phrase. A whispered secret. Metallia's the first word spoken when you want salvation, when you call for damnation. Like the word alone holds some insidious, malignant power. But how many agents have even seen her? How many answer to her? She's just a name hidden behind a door. The engine at the heart of the machine. Metallia, the Negaverse's god-c**-bogeyman. Metallia, the progenitor of Stockholm syndrome as people like me are invariably tied to her whims.
"Schörl's business," he corrected despite potential repercussion. His hands fought for something to do; the night air only slipped through his grasp. "I work for my general, not some abstract entity.
"I've never met Metallia. Other agents are either too dumbstruck to speak of her or too paranoid about explaining her name. She may as well not exist." Did Titanite know her? Had she witnessed Metallia at any point in her career as a fellow Captain, or did her superiors decide that a meeting with the Negaverse's grandiose entity ranked above her paygrade? With such little talk of this elusive queen floating about, Faustite accepted that flimsy excuse as the answer.
Faustite exhaled sharply through his nose. "My mother always taught me to be mindful of people's status. To look for social cues and speak to them accordingly. She said to say as much as I can while doing as little as possible. That people respected idleness as a privilege. She'd disagree with you outright. She'd say that conversation is the most powerful tool you have, and to misuse it is to throw away your status. But status doesn't mean much in the Negaverse." Can I still say that I miss her? That I'm sad? That I'm homesick? That I'm troubled?
Can I say that she misses me?
"So if my choices were conversation or trouble, I'd rather look for trouble."
He frowned, and she countered it with a smile, a fierce baring of teeth in the darkness. “The business of General Schörl it will remain, then.” Titanite wanted nothing to bring her to the attention of that one- she had never met the General, but there were rumors. Then again, there were always rumors. She supposed it plausible that Schörl was an amenable enough leader, but she would still pass on the opportunity to learn for sure by interfering, even on accident. “I have never met her either, I doubt anyone but the very obedient or the very disobedient ever will.” She might have asked how the half-youma found his employment, moving back to a more mortal topic, except that the conversation switched to something else entirely.
Mothers. Shahar loved her own. Vartui was a flawed woman, certainly, who had made choices that had cast her far from the strict arms of her parents, but the older woman had never hesitated in the choices she made, and never had she given her nine children any cause to doubt her love and affection for them. Words had not come hard to her, but the proof of her strength was in work-roughened hands, that dug in the dirt all day and put food on the table for her children at night.
Her lips quirked at the differences between their parents. “All s**t stinks, no matter who drops it.” Shahar was certainly no diplomat. “Idleness is boring. It is not a privilege to be bored, and look at life through a glass.” Status meant little if one was too idle to use it. “But who am I to say that your mother is wrong, any more than I can say that she is right?” Opinions could vary- were encouraged to differ, actually. Experiences varied made life all the richer when it all came together, like ingredients in a pot. Shahar liked to think of it that way- sampling all the pleasures that life had to offer.
“It is convenient that you are looking for trouble, though. It is one of my hobbies. We can stir some up, perhaps- kick a senshi hornet nest and watch them buzz like angry bees.” Not one of her better ideas, but surely something that would be fun, with some company.
Faustite exercised vast mental restraint to avoid a tirade about his superior officer. Anger welled thickly, sealing his throat and clouding his mind. The unadulterated rage cut him off from all thought. Small wonder that Titanite applied weight to the name Metallia; she never once met the Negaverse's real bogeyman.
But Titanite proved pliable enough that she never once dwelled on his superior officer. His anger cooled then, forming a plug in his throat. It tasted of ash, of disappointment. But what good was voicing his discontent to another captain? For what purpose could he justify it in an organization where treachery is rewarded richly? He knew so little of Titanite beyond her propensity to spout proverb and unsolicited advice alike; how could he say that she would promise him any loyalty?
Titanite's comments reduced down to interactivity. To the americanized view of seizing the bull by the horns, of taking life by the taint, and other tasteless colloquialisms. Such a motif ran rampant through american speech and culture - easy references to the bell jar, to the ivory tower. What was so wrong in staying clean of life's filth? He wished he could choose; his preference lay not with becoming half-monstrosity. Umber removed him from the comforts of the bell jar, and Schörl introduced him to the contemptible cesspools of life. He loathed her for it, hated her with every ineffectual fiber in his being until it twisted him out with perverse rage. But, Titanite cautioned, it is not a privilege to be bored, and look at life through a glass.
Faustite agreed to ******** disagree.
A slow breath offered no relief; smoke left his pipes in a short gust. "Please," he managed, albeit grudgingly. "I need to hit something. In fact, I'll lead." He spared no time for assent; anger burned as its own potent fuel in leaving off the rooftop, and descending to the streets below.
Whoever I find… Let them look like Schörl.
infinities
fin! can either assume happy fun beating times or write it out as a second thread
