Welcome to Gaia! ::

His long list of commanding officers grew longer by the day, Faustite mused almost dully. First Umber corrupted him, then added Arsenopyrite as an auxiliary captain. Chrysocolla inserted herself next, promising to take care of him after the death of Elex Yorke. But she presumably broke under that strain, however little it may be (for shuttling someone to and fro and bringing them the occasional gift of tasteless food did not qualify, greatly, as bearing a heavy burden to him), for after her came Schörl.

And he was to meet her that night.

He knew nothing of what to expect. No great warnings or indications came from Chrysocolla, not that he found her a trustworthy source of information. He never once met the general himself. As ever, the Negaverse Database offered little to bring a dry snapshot of a person's civilian life into any discernible personality. Perhaps it was a western thing to leave the spirit so woefully unportrayed, he didn't know - but he tired of it nonetheless. He tired of all of it, really - the walls studded with violet crystal, the walking echoes of humanity storming the hall, the monsters barking out orders with reckless abandon. And yet, he didn't want his life back.

But his new life promised much of the same in following a role, obeying orders, becoming the person the Negaverse wanted him to be. They placed the mark of their ownership on his eyes and hands, left them smeared with evidence of his own wrongdoing. Of Umber's wrongdoing. Of Chrysocolla's failure to help him before the worst came to pass.

He crossed those hands, one upon the other, as he waited for this general.The crumbling remains of the library surrounded him, where new books intermixed with the old, unintelligible copies that long since rotted there. The floor, dark with dust, was sectioned and resectioned with cave formations.A great crack in the table before him betrayed its poor weathering. Like all other portions of the Cathedral he knew, the area spoke of obscenely new technology paired with old testaments to a long and brutal aging process. Negaspace was unkind to all its denizens - officers and furniture alike.

One day, he supposed, the Cathedral would come down on the lot of them. How coincidental it would be, that their failure would lie in poor infrastructure.

The benefit of location was being in ‘regular’, so Schörl could come and go at need without the extra time allotment required by the Hall of Shadows demanded by the Rift. The ruin and so far unplumbed depths of code-cracking in the Negaverse War Machine meant the glorified fire-pit storage held little interest or use to the rest of the corps for interruptions. General Schörl apparated to a quiet, most likely unpeopled corner among the stacks, found it so, and strode out where the other officer felt and was waiting. “Punctual.”

A good start according to the rules.

“You are Faustite?” Cane clicking to three-stroke rhythm with the heels of boots, she came along his side to take measure and stance with both hands rested on the Dragon Wings at the head of the device. Young of face, brought in before the dark of beard to color his chin. Growing stature slight, without girth to match the weed-height of life’s spring, but all the marks of health and easy access to food, shelter and everything else wanted. Once.

“Chrysocolla has laid claim to you, and sought transfer to me. Your files assigned you to General Umber.” It was easy enough to lampshade the inconsistencies of the corrupted eternal’s perception of reality. And fish for how this officer felt about them. “How do you weigh the situation?”

Faustite smiled faintly at her observation. Being late would look awfully deliberate, wouldn't it?

Such a green was not a color often spied on Negaverse soldiers, and caught his eye in the steady furl of her coat. Well-dressed she was, even in such an antique fashion. Briefly he wondered when ascots would make a grandstanding return to the fashion fore. She would find herself at the head of parties and parlors alike. And with hair so pale as her features, scrutinizing eyes, and an impeccable disposition, she looked the epitome of the life he left for… This.

Whatever this was.

She needed no assent to her initial question, as she dispensed with brief social tradition and broached the reason for their meeting. Faustite kept his hands folded loosely behind his back, his posture rehearsed, though with the slight flippancy of youth. "I'm being asked for my opinion? How interesting." As an altered grunt in the Negaverse machine, he expected no great consideration for any thought behind his eyes - that such matters were better reserved for those who proved their worth. Schörl could just as easily demand that he follow her rules and keep to his better, silent nature.

"Umber disappeared. No one can contact him. He just… Evaporated." A hand withdrew from his back, coal fingers blooming open like a curl of smoke. "He introduced me to Chrysocolla once, but assigned Arsenopyrite to me for training. She must've overruled Arsenopyrite with her rank." The hand retreated from his sight. "I don't like that -- but I find them both wanting."

Chrysocolla is broken. The way she stammers and stutters and scrambles for control over herself, she doesn't look fit to hold command over her own body. And Arsenopyrite struggles to justify his own actions to himself like a dimwitted, impulsive child. He paints a careful portrait of morality with all the wrong colors, then asks others to follow it without question. As someone without a civilian life, I should have every right to ask for a better commanding officer.

"Chrysocolla is too unstable to lead. Arsenopyrite is too inexperienced. If you plan on salvaging this violated chain of command, I need to know you're more competent than them."

The right corner of her mouth curled, pulling lips taut to line by the hook of a smile. “One inquiry does not impart the weight of significance. What have you done, yourself, that makes you worth more than the Generals that have had you?”

“Metallia has more than one front, and more than one need of kind and kine. You have the bearing of someone used to substance, but also the seeming desire to standardized sizing of soldiers as a Target’s apparel department. You have no civilian life, and freedom from the full constraint of banal humanity. A freeing up of much time, which should show just how special and innovative you are. But…”

“That isn’t the case, really, is it? Your quota have reflected no initiative. Nor recruitments, information, notches to your proverbial rifle...your baseline seems to be complaints, deflection, and an ability to lose your humanity. We will find your new use, bespoke soldier. It may be you have more to lose. Or more to earn. Let us start. Regularity will be a good starting place, a schedule and new habits. You will make me a set of drafts after researching military bootcamp structures. You will need to observe times for rest, times for study magical and mundane and how you think you can manage it, your plan for branch of focus within the Negaverse, for direct martial training with myself and my team, and a proposal for sustenance. And we will review this.”

If Arsenopyrite wishes to dispute the transfer, they are welcome to try. If they’re even aware they have a command of any sort. Or attachment to this one. Umber’s case is a curious one. Not the first, no, and oft such creatures turn up later and warped, as Obsidian. Or turn up purified. Or Dead. Which for he...

Her first question of him stirred a burgeoning derision - a harsh recoil that she would question him so. This should not upset him, he knew; her ability to retort simply meant that she could think. She did not bend with the same misplaced guilt that haunted the other officers. She didn't stammer, apologize, and undercut her own professionalism like Chrysocolla. She didn't relent, make excuses, and contrive a lopsided moral system like Arsenopyrite. And she didn't try to break his hand like Umber, either.

Instead, she challenged his right to evaluate others - others who have proven themselves, time and again, as inept and wanting. Tiresome. Hopeless.

His mood soured as she continued. Citing a lack of drive, of initiative. A lack of special accomplishments. Expectations unreachable for an officer juggled like a hackey sack by mediocre, uncoordinated kids. She wanted exceptional ability out of training half-finished, out of resolve still unformed. She placed expectations like he did. Perhaps that was what irked him all the more.

Finally his expression curdled. Caught between surprise and repugnance, Faustite sought to find words for a reply. He crossed arms over chest in disagreement. "Just like that? I'm supposed to direct myself because no one else can be effective at it? Shouldn't that be your job?" Students are given teachers, not independent study exercises. I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't be surprised at all.

This is the same organization that promoted Chrysocolla to one of their highest ranks.

“Oh? “ A dark ash eyebrow ratcheted up, towing the halfsmile away to obscurity. “I don’t remember saying that this task was to be the sum of your expected basic training. ‘Drafts’, ‘starting place’, ‘proposal’ and ‘review,’ are all key listening words you could have interpreted. You were assigned to Chysocolla because you are likewise maladroit and Need demands your hand held once given a directive in how to carry it out?”

“Pedagogy has limitations and expectations of students that are high school aged: you should know how to use a library and the internet, how to pool resources and make social connections to get a ride or teleportation to someplace, to borrow electronics if they are not owned. Montessori thrives on a question given and the student then finds the best course of problem solving. Waldorf at your age would be stressing exactly this sort of social responsibility training to create and use your network of peers. We will have to step back then? You persist as abyss of creativity, listening or personhood? “

“Earn with your own two hands and brain. Whether they grasp another’s, or a sword, or a pen, or any thought at all. Objects are given, placed, directed. Faustite is an Object, given its first seven days - daily 3 mile runs at 0500 with the goal of 16 minutes or less, 2 minutes abdominal crunches, 2 minutes push ups, Sit-and-Reach flexibility tests, and a weekly 300-yard course that combines battle-related challenges in the Rift including crawls, resupply, throwing accuracy, agility running, and carrying of another officer. 0730 will be your first meal. 0800 you will meditate and learn discipline through hand-to-hand training. 0930 you will begin study and training in military history, Land Nav, basic first aid. 1300 you can have earned a second meal. 1330 Another meditation. 1400, 500 yard swim, 5 minute water tread. 1500 to 1900 work for your GED. Regular second meal at 1900. Patrol, energy gathering, and live combat practice in the field until 2200. Clean your space with bleach and water, shower, laundry. ”


“The Recruit will be placed in appropriate closet for safekeeping, with packing for temperature regulation during rest. And appropriate guard through the night. After a week, operational reevaluation can be seen to. While I appreciate being proven correct, better it were less in estimations of ineptitude. “


"I know how to do all of those," Faustite answered sharply. "I don't need my hand held. I'm not Chrysocolla." I'd rather be youmafied than be her.

Fautite eyed her, uncertain. Creases formed in his face where expression wanted to shift toward animosity, toward irritation. She spoke very unlike the rest of the Negaverse - educated and clever, succinct to a bleeding point. Even speaking with her, he felt like he was on edge in a fencing match. She'd soon gouge him mercilessly if he let her. But his speed mattered little in mobilizing his tongue, for while he sifted for answers in the cloudy mess of his mind, Schörl retaliated with a dehumanizing daily docket. All his time parsed from wake to sleep, all spent wound up in the rathole of the Negaverse with no time remaining to thrive, to grow, to want life. She sentenced him to intellectual death in the span of a paragraph. Point to chest, match won.

"No." He wanted to laugh. "If that's your idea of a training day, I'd rather be youmafied. That sounds better suited to Chrysocolla." He could imagine it easily - her head of mussed curls hunched over a desk, perhaps too small for her liking, perhaps eating into her thighs uncomfortably as if to hurry her. And her pencil would wag desperately across a dirtied notepad, chronicling old military tactics and renowned strategies that helped clinch a decisive victory. Beads of sweat building up on her skin like filthy pearls as she panicked over a coming discipline. Her psyche wouldn't handle it, of course. She'd break, and break, and break, and finally the Negaverse would have enough paper trail backing its own decision to convert her into a monster. She'd gain effectiveness and Negaverse morale would remain as it were, knowing that she earned such a fate on her own.

"I get your point," he admitted reluctantly. He frowned, swallowed down the ire of being proven wrong. Movies showing boot camp scenes weren't true to supernatural paramilitary life, it seemed. While disappointing that such knowledge meant nothing to him, he wanted the autonomy promised by this divergence. "But you're not storing me in a closet, General. I'm not a youma… yet.

"I'll write the proposal like you asked. I'll give it to you tonight." Happy now? Or are you going to be petty about it?

Bargaining? At this juncture? He offered obedience after sentencing, like capitulation would ignore the wrong- it was a ploy and play of power dynamics. "Qui parcit virgae suae odit filium suum qui autem diligit illum instanter erudit."


"Was I Asking, anymore?” He would ‘rather be youmafied’ indeed, in petulance, citing it in ‘rathers’ became it’s own Dare and attempted call of a Bluff, for most Parents and Guardians. How many had bluffed him before, or given in to let him determine when he was to be punished for his transgressions, and when he was to be pardoned? And as though that Bluff were the final end, the only available outcome as an event horizon of Suffering. Consequences. Creativity. He got the point, but used it in the wrong understanding, didn’t grasp the full ramifications and expectations. That was usual for rookies in boot camps. It took a week or two for the idea of reconditioning to wholly echo in every pore as surely as the aches and fatigue of Basic Training. “No, though spirits be enthralling, this entertainment stalls with uncalled scalding. Aren't there worse things after all: things banal. And Brooms bore more than than the mentored who deplore the inevitable that they must pay for, look for, listen before and shall not encore the abhorred. "

"It is transferred. The review is set for a week, when the Recruit will be much better at Listen & Respond. "

"What." Faustite blinked at the mention of latin, furrowed brow, and dismissed it as unimportant.

And while she continued into the nonsensical with rhyme, tone and rhetoric gave a clear answer. She rebuked his compliance despite the misunderstanding; this general held no concept of leniency for younger officers. Clearly she intended to pain him and dog him on any path to success. He frowned once more, fidgeted restlessly with the hem of his vest. Who would possibly fit her standards with only a single try? They never spoke previously. He knew of no one who would tolerate roundabout rhymes and rhetoric in communication, either. It simply wasn't done.

Faustite swallowed against his ire. You're still not putting me in a closet, General. I'm not a broom and I'm not an idiot. No one in the Negaverse would sanction that kind of treatment to one of their own.

It's just a bluff, isn't it?

"Whatever you want, General." Faustite huffed petulantly through his teeth. Crossed arms uncrossed and he saw himself out at the implied dismissal. Perhaps there was time yet to find another General -- one of his own choosing. Not Chrysocolla or Schörl or Arsenopyrite or any of the other abject failures employed in this shoddy faction.