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Backdated to before Mirrorscape meta (~July).
Faustite hated the metal taste in his mouth. The way it cloyed his tongue, chasing out all other flavors until he could taste and smell nothing more. He hated its wetness as thin runnels of blood fled from a cut on his lip, from a nostril. But was it enough?
Schörl proved herself quite sharp in observation, stingingly so. She knew when he lacked conflict and when he needed Barbary as a babysitter. She suspected him after days like these, if too few or too many marks marred him. She weaponized questions, then assigned him further drivel. All the while he would taste anger in his mouth, sharp and bitter, so vastly unlike blood. He knew to swallow it if he wanted to keep surviving.
Faustite sat heavily on the retaining wall. Soreness bit into his back where he overexerted himself, doubly so around the fixture pipes that kept his youma side venting. He leaned forward to stretch them and met pained compliance. Even his bruised side joined the protest, especially over his cracked rib. His face throbbed, and a certain heaviness settled in his feet where one too many hastened footfalls caused them to swell. Training granted him no reprieve; it mattered little that his upbringing was so plush when the Negaverse demanded high performance of its officers. Idleness and frivolity shackled him to ineptitude, his groaning body reminded him.
Flecks of blood marred the square support shaft in hand. He turned it idly in his palms, looking over the vague swath of colors reflected by the steel. It glared dully back at the lamp behind him, where floodlight chased away shadows in the area. Where it peered through the smoke from his back, the storm from thought. The desperation of his actions wasn't lost on him; the vestiges of hope still lingered. Burning away all the black of his body sounded promising.
But just as well, it sounded too clean. Faustite readied the pipe in hand to continue his work, hesitation staying him slightly, until he outright abandoned it. Someone intruded.
Someone Dark Mirror by feel; the subtle darkness in it simmered, warm and muggy. Such auric energy peered through corners and wafted about buildings with the same lazy pathways of smoke, of haze, until he could feel nothing beyond it. They encroached on a Negaverse officer of greaterl standing. And what did they want? Favors? A truce? Some misbegotten investigation? Faustite tossed the squared bar to the dusty ground and waited for it to introduce itself.
I hate interruptions, he thought as he dusted his hands.
For Sinope, it had just been another outing discovering the most efficient, useful, and entertaining ways to collect energy. There were his school bullies playing basketball, the families watching movies, children chasing ice cream trucks, students reading at the library, couples taking strolls in the park, and the myriad of other people too absorbed in their lives to notice the mirrorwraiths. How Negaverse agents managed without the inconspicuous little monsters, he didn't know, except that they had their own, more volatile, dangerous ones. He wondered vaguely why the Negaverse seemed to need so much more energy than the Dark Mirror Court other than to merely gain the upper hand in their war against the White Moon. Perhaps he could ask an agent sometime if they knew. Not that he came across all that many, but perhaps that was a good thing if they were anything like the one he had last encountered.
Evidently one didn't even have to speak of the devil but to merely think of him for said devil to appear. The senshi halted his saunter to study the nature of the energy signature and recoiled almost instantly, the strength in his legs wavering. It was him, alright. He was fairly certain he couldn't have forgotten the unique, forbidden vibe emanating from the chaotic aura if he'd tried. Sinope had to find him before he was found first. He took several deep, slow breaths to keep from hyperventilating, astonished at the physical reaction in his body triggered by the mere presence of the being before he'd even seen him.
He had to stay calm or he wouldn't have been able to focus on locating the source of his fear. If only he could spot him, he could determine if the other had noticed his own energy signature yet. Even if he had, there was a chance he might have ignored it, right? After all, he had no reason to recognize the aura as belonging to Sinope. The Senshi of Slyness was fairly certain his own wasn't as distinctive as the captain's, and for that he thanked his lucky stars.
How long had it been? A month? Two? Not long enough for him to have gotten over the most excruciating near-death experience of his short, teenage life; that was for sure. His tormentor's last words to him continued to chill as sharp and cold as carved ice: 'Stay out of my affairs. For both our sakes.' Sinope certainly had no intention of disobeying...but following orders wasn't in his nature, either. If he simply observed, he was technically still staying out of his affairs, whatever Elex thought.
Elex. Pipes. Sinope wasn't even sure how to think of him anymore. How much of him had changed and how much hadn't? He supposed he hadn't really known all that much about Elex Yorke as a civilian to begin with so there wasn’t much of a way for him to tell. When they'd first met, he could have been a Negaverse agent even then. Just not...whatever else he additionally was now. It was a shame he hadn't gotten to understand Elex before enough to compare him to his current self. However, that didn't make the mystery of who and what he was now any less intriguing. Was he still human, or wasn't he? Was whatever else he had become also prone to emotions the same as humans were? Was it the Negaverse's chaotic grip on him that had driven him to nearly kill Sinope, the inhuman part, or simply a desire of the original Elex himself?
The Dark Mirror Senshi was pretty certain he valued his own survival too much to attempt untangling that ball of yarn. For now it would have been sufficient to find out where the captain was so he could avoid him as best he could. He followed the energy aura to a junkyard and peered behind one of the hundreds of metallic heaps to catch sight of the being he sought. Before he laid eyes on him, the toxic perfume of smoke simultaneously assured him once and for all that he had been right about the signature’s owner and caused Sinope to involuntarily shudder. But when he did catch sight of the teen, what he saw flabbergasted him and his lips parted slightly in surprise. It was Elex, without a doubt, but why was he in such bad shape?
Had it been the White Moon Court with their knights and senshi? Could it have possibly even been another Negaverse agent like a superior officer? There didn’t seem to be any other energy signature nearby, but as Sinope had discovered first-hand, at least some in their faction could teleport instantaneously. The redhead had sustained enough physical damage both as a civilian and a senshi to know how fresh injuries were when he saw them. The amount of blood flowing and clotted, the hue and saturation of the bruises forming...everything seemed to indicate that the wounds had just been inflicted. But by whom and for what reason?
There it was, gnawing at him again; that awful, destruction-bringing urge known as curiosity. Try as he might to fend it off, it only bit into him deeper. Its poison was already inducing his mind to believe that he was cautious and clever enough to ascertain the answers he craved without having to pay as steep a price as his previous gamble with Pipes had cost him.
How hurt was he? Unhurt enough to attack like he had during their last skirmish? Sinope might not have known what to expect before, but this time, for better or for worse, he had a better idea of what Pipes was capable of. It was always possible that the captain had other tricks up his sleeve, but either way, the sailor scout intended to make this another valuable learning experience. At the first sign of trouble, he was more prepared to flee, especially because he knew the surrounding area this time and knew a few places he could flee to.
The senshi also knew to remain out of Pipes' reach to avoid being teleported like he had been from the couple's condo. He wasn't sure if physical contact was required to have his energy stolen from him, but at least by staying away, he could eliminate that hypothesis if it happened to him anyway. If necessary, he always had his mirrorwraith to steal energy and weaken his opponent in retaliation.
Careful to keep his distance from Pipes in mind, the younger teenager kicked off the ground to leapt onto the heap of various abandoned appliances, furniture, and other objects. From the lack of other sounds, he figured that the junkyard's other occupant had become aware of his signature and was listening for him. Sinope didn't bother attempting to keep his noise down as he scaled the small, cluttered hill of forsaken rubbish and scraps of all kinds tumbled down the slope in his wake. When he reached the summit, he knew he wouldn't have been able to stand and keep his balance with how wobbly his legs had become in combination with the unsteadiness of the junk pile, so he settling for crouching instead.
He summoned a broad grin to stretch his face. "Hey, look what we have here! Long time no see, Elex." Nope, crouching wasn't going to work. His knees had become too weak and his heart hammered so hard in his chest that he almost feared the momentum would knock him over. He sat himself down hard on his butt, making an effort to have the behavior seem like a casual choice by subsequently resting his elbows on his knees. Noticing the bloodied support shaft, he added, "I hope I wasn't imposing."
Faustite loosed a slow sigh at the first sight of his interloper. Sinope again. Here to goad me twice? Was it not enough to choke you last time? His boyish clamor up the hill of detritus was punctuated by a sudden plop. He looked jovial; a grin taunted Faustite from afar.
"You were imposing." He stood, smoothing his trouser legs out of habit. Blood fell from his chin in slow, languid droplets. A part of him wondered if agents were ever supplied with kerchiefs. Perhaps they were to wear their wounds with pride - to embellish them as well-earned from terrific feats in battle, so that pests like Sinope might retreat from their wake. Even as he turned toward the boy, however, no such reaction came. No fear, no anger, no alarm rang out in his eyes. He looked at ease. Comfortable, even.
That won't do. He drew to a stop at the foot of the trash heap. Looking upward, he took in the carefree figure crowning the pile. "You're sitting on the throne of your accomplishments tonight.
"Don't get comfortable, Sinope. You won't be staying long." His gaze etched the picture into his mind - the way elbows and knees came together, how his head cocked, how his hood fell just so with gravitic weight pulling it off-kilter. He noted the breadth of the old computer monitor on which he sat and the pizza box, half-crushed, beneath it. Bags and bags, once white, cluttered the monument to human consumption. Broken beer bottles teased the edge of Sinope's overlay. And the jaundiced, flickering light from their nearest lamp cast deep, jagged shadows over the youth's face.
He turned from his adversary and measured a couple paces. Hands reached his back, fingers laced in a simple display. He wondered, then - just how precocious was his memory?
The being’s approach caused Sinope’s body to involuntarily seize up where he sat, but he found he preferred that to shaking so hard that he disturbed the debris he rested on. The comments directed his way seemed to demand a reaction of some sort from him, however, so he did his best to comply by offering a carefully-adjusted one. Even if the captain could have done without a response at all, the senshi thought it pertinent to keeping up the image of himself that he wanted the agent to know.
“Was I really?” he laughed as if astonished that the fact that he had been imposing was confirmed. “On what? Because whatever it was, doesn’t look like it was going very well for you. So shouldn’t you be thanking me for having interrupting it instead of already trying to run me off? Rude.”
He thought he could have afforded to ignore the insult regarding his accomplishments. It wasn’t as if he would have really denied the claim even if it hadn’t been such a struggle to converse. Sinope’s tongue felt like it was being petrified into stone with as difficult as it had become to keep it moving the way he wanted. He had to work harder at the wellspring of his voice to pour out decently-enunciated, free-flowing words, but he feared they would soon run dry and hoarse.
The senshi’s pulse accelerated as he watched the captain turn away from him. The assurance that he wouldn’t be staying long already warned him to get his a** up and moving, but he didn’t want to bolt prematurely. He wasn’t sure he could, come to think of it, which was becoming increasingly alarming. Perhaps an actual, tangible sign of danger rather than an ominous, indirect threat would jumpstart his leg muscles into working again.
“It wouldn’t matter if I told your family you’re dead, would it?” He glanced down at his gloved hands. “Since they’re probably not going to see you again as the Elex they know and love. I just feel like it’d be cruel to keep them waiting forever, never knowing what had happened to you.”
"How assumptive." That's twice now. You're making a habit of this on purpose, aren't you? I can answer habit with habit.
Faustite let Sinope spout comments unhindered. The senshi showed a certain preference for it; he vied desperately to get a rise out of others. Whether due to his inhumanity or his once-upon-a-time existence as Elex Yorke, Faustite couldn't say. He wanted to wager the latter due to Sinope's sudden antagonism after Faustite's reveal; seldom had Sinope reacted in this manner otherwise. Why hold his fate against him? Elex counted few among his friends. Elex was a figment urged into reality by his parents - a backup plan to his brother that itself backfired. Why, then, was Sinope so incensed?
Faustite admitted begrudgingly that Sinope had a lot of gall. To challenge someone exceeding his rank implied little interest in self-preservation, but to repeatedly antagonize someone who demonstrated their strength against him… Was he looking to die? If so, Faustite could grant him that.
The last redirect to his family halted Faustite's slow meander. "It would matter." He mused his thoughts away from Sinope, relying on the junkyard to reflect his thoughts back to their recipient. "It would matter quite a lot to them. It'd mean the end of sleepless nights, of wondering where I'd gone. It'd mean the end of looking for me. Of night spent late with search parties. Of money spent on billboard signs and flyers. They'd have their grim reprieve. My father would cry, my mother would thank you and send you on your way with a little money in your pocket. My brother would ask more questions.
"But they'd each ask for proof. Proof that you aren't some malicious teen looking to make a buck off someone's misery, and you have none. There's no body, no evidence of my disappearance. Nobody believes in turning into monsters anymore. Not like this. You can't expect to gain anything by telling them." His hands knotted into fists with knuckles intertwined in one another. Together, they formed their own mosaic against the backdrop of vest and bare skin.
He closed his eyes, dredged up fading refuse memoirs, played at their cloying scents. "I told you once already -- you won't be staying long." But you're not going to accept that, are you?
Sinope managed a brief, stiff shrug. "Even if assumptions aren't true, they can often draw the truth out." He entertained a fleeting thought to maybe slip back behind the pile of junk again, but his gaze refused to disconnect from the captain's figure for an instant. His cheeks ached from being stabbed into by the corners of his mouth, but the majority of muscles in his face felt paralyzed. It was a wonder he could still even get himself to talk with how rigid his jaw felt. Perhaps the more he used it, the more workable it would become again. His tongue seemed to be one of the very few things that was still managing to function as it should have for him anyway.
"For example, you made the assumption that I was referring to your family when I asked if it wouldn't matter." Or maybe you decided to direct the conversation that way intentionally. "You seem to have given your family's reaction a lot of thought or else know them well enough to predict it on short notice with little effort. Going off of that, the fact that you showed up at a party they were scheduled to attend, and the way you acted when you spoke about your mother upon my mentioning manners before...I daresay that's enough information to theorize that you currently still love or at least care about your family.” He paused thoughtfully. “Some might say only humans are capable of that.”
While the Negaverse agent had his back to Sinope, the redhead wondered if he could get his incapacitated body to budge at least a little. His legs were still too shaky to properly support his weight, though, so he remained seated. He wondered if the fear crippling him would subside over time or exposure to its cause. It was horrifying to feel so physically helpless, but he couldn’t have said he was a stranger to the sensation, even if not generally the fear-induced kind. His frequent reliance on his words during times like these was so heavy that he was pretty certain that was the only reason his mouth was still running while the most of the rest of him was not. Whether what he said turned out to be helpful or detrimental to him, however, was another matter entirely.
"Then there’s the assumption that I would go to your family as a civilian. That’s interesting. I guess that would make the most sense if you thought I expected monetary gain, but disregarding that assumption, there are a lot of other methods that would be much more practical for my goals. I could just drop in on them as I am now, tell them you’re dead, and leave. Maybe they’d want proof, but if I wasn’t necessarily looking to make certain they were convinced, I wouldn’t feel obligated to give it to them.”
Not that he really had any. Despite the bruises that had formed on his neck, and remained for about a week after Elex had strangled him, there was nothing. His mother had demanded to find out who had done such a thing and had suspected the boys who had often tormented him at school, but he had assured her that it hadn’t had anything to do with them or anyone at Romano’s. With the information he did give her, she had concluded that someone else had attacked him while he was out on his own one night looking for the missing acquaintance of his and had almost done him in before getting scared off.
Jack had absolutely refused to get a check up at the doctors for fear of the internal damage they would find to his respiratory system and the questions that would follow. Though his mom had wanted to see if they could identify his assailant by the fingerprint impressions left on her son’s throat, he had done his research. He was quick to let her know her that such impressions remained only up to 15 minutes after they had been made. It had taken him longer than that to recover from his encounter and make it home. Thus, unless he took a picture or perhaps got some sort of valid DNA sample, he really had no proof at all that the youngest Yorke still existed in any way, shape, or form.
“Alternatively, I could just send them an anonymous note to avoid telling them in person. It wouldn’t matter how many questions they asked then if they didn’t know who to ask. It'd be a delicious irony considering how many questions I asked them about you that night.” He made another effort to raise his shoulders enough to be distinguishable as a shrug; not so much for the benefit of the being whose back was shown to him, but to test once more just how willing his limbs were to obey. "Sure, it might not be as convincing, but it would be enough to plant the notion. Hmm...how would they take that message, do you think? Would it also be enough to cease their searching and force them to confront grief? Or might it spur them on more avidly than ever to learn your fate?"
I wonder what would happen if I could toss something into one of those pipes. I doubt they're just for show. Maybe I can block them...if I can get myself to move again, that is. "You like to watch them. Wouldn't it be fascinating to see their faces upon reading a note like that? Their very initial reactions and then whatever guards they put up to cope with their emotions; finding out if they'd get stuck on denial or make it to depression; learning how quickly or sluggishly they might move from one stage of grief to the next...the list goes on and on." Sinope compressed his lungs to push out a laugh. "And you said I can't expect to gain anything by telling them. I wouldn't be the only one to gain, either, if you are as intent on observing them as you seem to be."
Perspiration drenched the crown of the hooded senshi's head, matting his tri-colored hair against his skull while his clammy palms dropped in temperature despite their gloves. Goosebumps stippled his flesh and he had trouble swallowing once he caught sight of Elex's hands tightening together behind his back. The sudden dryness of his throat and mouth made it all too easy to recollect the traumatizing experiences of simultaneous suffocating, burning, and drowning that the captain had forced him to endure. It could all happen again at any time unless he got himself to move.
He tried shifting his weight to check if he could at least readjust his legs and knees to crouch again. No...still not strong enough. All he accomplished was sending a car's wing mirror, a rust-stained door handle, and an aluminum rim tumbling down the junk hill and it was only by some minor miracle that he didn't roll along down after them. Sinope leered at the dirt-speckled wing mirror. If only that'd been bigger.
"Is that what happened to Elex Yorke?" Sinope asked. His voice came out a bit raspy and he had to clear his throat before continuing. "He turned into a monster?" The scout tilted his head a few degrees. "What do you mean by 'not like this'? If you don't want me making assumptions, you're going to have to give me more information."
His throbbing face muscles finally fell slack. At the reiterated threat, he didn’t have the courage to keep up his grin any longer, but he endeavored to pass off his lack of nerve as a lack of concern. “Why are you repeating yourself? I’m still here. Are you performing some sort of magic trick where if you say the words enough, I’m suddenly going to vanish? Because I thought I’d already been subjected to your entire repertoire.” Why the can’t I stop talking?! “Just how long is ‘long’, anyway?”
"You weren't referring to anyone else in your question." Faustite kept his voice low, his concerns smothered through the senshi's long-winded and self-important grandstanding. That he chose to meander at length in his arguments exemplified his own high perception of his intelligence, and assumed his worthiness of an audience's listening ear. Faustite found no patience for such individuals, yet found his choice in the matter inexplicably bound; as Sinope prattled on, he burned with the urge to throttle him. Yet by that same notion, his hands felt inexorably frozen to his back - worthless and helpless to end the situation.
The boyish voice at his six posited that, in all of Faustite's due diligence, he loved his family. Again, he bit tongue from answer. His black gaze roved the stark piles of scrap marring the horizon, the broken visages of buildings that rose up defiantly against their poor lots. Sinope spoke of human capacity for love, and Faustite reiterated to himself the human capacity for violence. He looked to the dead powerlines lacing themselves between empty structures, old machinery. He smelled industrial decay, a unique stench in this pit of human abandonment.
I knew he was here to screw with me, but to hear him say it in so many words… Faustite bowed his head, smirking. The smells of fermenting trash and motor oil mingled on the night air. The more familiar scents of copper, moondust, and ocean salt remained lost to him now - like his own footprint on the world lost itself in the mottled landscape. Like he was so easily overshadowed by Sinope's endless dissertation.
By his assertions that he could do more against Faustite than Faustite could do to him.
By his insinuations that Faustite is impotent in the grand scheme of action and consequence.
Was this the allure of Negaverse power? He knew the feel of a man's skin when it parted around his hand, whole and unbroken. He knew the feel of hands gripping his wrist. He knew the look of bewilderment, of fright, of impending panic. As an agent of the Negaverse, he knew the power to wrench agency from others. He could move them through space against their will. He could penetrate their bodies with his hands and harm the souls within. He could steal away energy, the most basic currency for life, by touch alone - and now even without touch. So why, then, was he so powerless to stop Sinope from hearing himself talk? He was no greater agent like Schörl.
'Is that what happened to Elex Yorke? He turned into a monster?'
"No," he muttered under his breath. Only the junkyard heard his answer. You really want to know the tragedy about Elex Yorke? It isn't that he turned into a monster. Or that he disappeared one day. It has nothing to do with the family left to grieve for him. But you wouldn't know that. You weren't looking for that in how all those socialites responded that day. Did you grasp that when I sent you looking? I doubt it. You only thought I was toying with you.
The real tragedy of Elex Yorke is that he found himself. Not in crab rangoon and italian sunsets and self-important dinner parties, but in his disappearance. That's your real answer.
But my input doesn't matter. You'll make those assumptions on your own. It's what you do, Dark Mirror Sailor Sinope. You make weightless, inept assumptions. You play with half-measures.
That's not who I want to be.
In a breath drawn, he recalled the junkheap on which Sinope sat. He knew the contours of it foremost, then the particulars of the detritus resolved themselves - the old computer monitor, the pizza box, the endless white bags. He recalled the way the light reflected off the ubiquitous, slimy sheen. He remembered how the youth squatted atop that monitor, how he tossed out his flippant rationale from atop an assortment of car parts. And as he loosed that breath, Faustite vanished from where he stood.
But displacement's effects still clutched him tightly; Faustite struggled at first to retain footing on the precarious heap behind his uninvited visitor. He wasted little time on the balancing act, however - a hand reached for Sinope's back acted as a third point of spatial reference. That flatted hand violated the barrier of cloth, skin, and bone - a fundamental intrusion into the starseed cavity. He felt the warmth of the boy around his hand, the absence of impeding flesh, the lack of force to dissuade this vulgar practice. He reached, and smooth gemstone touched his fingers. Warm, fragile, helpless.
He crouched over the figure with his hand in place, the movement slow and deliberate. A landslide of trash would dislodge starseed from chest through no fault of their own; he exercised utmost care in the face of such a chance.
When he spoke, his voice came sharp and measured. "You like to play with assumptions. I'll indulge you -- you must abhor being alive. And I say you must because you flagrantly dismissed my hints to leave. But you make these jabs -- these slights, however little -- because you want to test boundaries. You hear my threats. You ask yourself if they hold value. You ask me if they're empty through your repertoire of insults and logic leaps. You shape an imperfect picture of me because you don't want to ask the necessary questions. It wouldn't be fun for you. Did you think the consequences never applied to you?
"'If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.' I was foolish to let you live. I can correct that." He finished, his hold on the gem tightening. "Is that what you want, Sinope? How does it define your picture of me now?
"Is this Elex Yorke the one you really wanted to find? Or were you just looking for the version that my family sought?"
His eyes had started to get as dry as his throat with how rarely he allowed himself to blink, determined not to let the pipe-pierced back of the captain leave his sight. Sinope hadn’t anticipated, however, that Elex might have used his teleportation, with how much he’d seen it exhausted him, for as minor a reason as catching the senshi off-guard. At least, he’d thought it’d been minor to him. Perhaps not.
He knew better than to think that the agent had left the premises because of the assurance that he, and not Elex, wouldn’t have been staying long. In the split second his fear spiked enough to finally power proper articulation of his limbs, the ability was rendered pointless. Despite feeling the other re-materialize behind him, he didn’t even have the time to shift his weight enough for gravity’s invisible arms to tug him down the trash mound.
Sinope’s breath caught as an excruciating sensation ripped through him, so entirely different from anything he’d ever physically felt that his body instinctively seized up once again; partly to attempt to locate the source of the pain and partly to avoid aggravating it.
His chest; Elex was reaching into his back and into his chest. His black hand must have been thrust into the pocket dimension Sinope had heard starseeds were housed. He’d had no idea it would have hurt so much to have one’s seed merely grabbed, though. I forgot you had that one other trick up your sleeve I hadn’t experienced yet.
He let out an unbridled scream before clamping down on it as if that act itself would have suppressed the pain. His vision became blurry with the development of tears and shut his eyes against their creation. Elex was speaking. Sinope knew he must have been coming off as pathetic, but he forced himself to disregard his lack of dignity in favor of listening to and comprehending what the captain had to say.
Why? the younger teen wanted to know, whimpering at the tightened hold on his starseed. ...Why is he asking me these things if he’s going to kill me?
Slowly, gradually, he managed to will open his jaws in order to attempt a reply. “If I had...asked the necessary...questions,” he gasped falteringly, “would you...have given me...the real answers? ...Just like that?”
Though Sinope’s face wasn’t visible to Faustite, the inflections in his latest question painted an entirely different picture than those he had been thoughtlessly spouting prior. These words, in contrast, were flavored with sincerity and a hint of shock.
Relief struck him at once. Relief that he would no longer suffer biting, winding diatribes. Relief that he could act on his own once more. Relief that Schörl had not yet confiscated his autonomy and thrown it to the youma. He silenced Sinope with a flick of his wrist — he enveloped the boy in a very real threat to his life. If Faustite so chose, he would abscond with another starseed to add to the Negaverse's growing stockpile. Another life lost to the starless night, much like his own. Here, he boasted power. He commanded attention. He stood above someone, for the first time in his life.
He felt power.
The feeling tasted delectable. A simple twitch of his fingers elicited a pained howl. He finally took a taste of the life Schörl led -- a life where all must bend knee or face dire consequence. 'It is much safer to be feared than loved because ...love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.' You're addicted to it, aren't you, General?
"Would I," he echoed faintly. His lips tasted the words, fresh and crisp. Each breath taken brought a certain vivacity that he couldn't place. Like starseeds, he thought at once. Like starseeds in their beautiful, terrible corruption of men. Like the first rush when you silence a man's soul at the back of your molars. What a waste. I could kill a man and eat him whole, but what would that do for the world? Who would trade a growing boy for a sated monster?
But we don't play two distinct roles, Sinope. Faustite wrenched his hand free, absent boon and bounty. He felt colder for it; the starseed's heat burned its indelible impression into his hand.
He half-turned from Sinope when he could, and the graveyard of half-finished projects and dismal dreams sated his attention. The ground lay aglitter with broken glass. Used plastics. Torn love. "I don't know." An honest, if vulnerable admission. "I don't -- … I don't know." He paused on the words with a sardonic laugh. "I thought the hardest parts of moving out were finding a place to live. Making new friends. Establishing bill cycles. Then I thought growing up apart from my family as… As this would have very different challenges. Learning to live with an ex-human side, or figuring out how to sleep on cheap mattresses. But they both share the same insurmountable task:
"Getting to know yourself. And I still don't know." He paused, and wicked away crusted blood with his sleeve. "It's hard to say who I am apart from an officer." Fingers groped at his narrow chin, searching for thought.
"I doubt you're any different, Sinope. You prod others to avoid yourself, don't you?"
Sinope barely managed to comprehend the two words uttered by his captor when the grip on the physical manifestation of his soul was released. He fell forward onto his palms; the random, awkwardly-protruding assortment of garbage biting into them and his knees as he supported himself on both. His heart continued to hammer away in his chest as he gasped for oxygen to power it, opening his eyes to refocus them on the rough decline of the rugged heap under him.
The captain was actually answering. The answer itself may have not been anything definite, but the intention to give as much of one as possible was genuine and direct. That was more than Sinope had ever expected to receive. He didn't know that he had the gall just then to try to ask for more, though, even as his questions continued to multiply. Why had Elex grabbed his starseed? Had Sinope really gotten to him to the point where he'd wanted to silence the babbling senshi that deeply? And if that was the case, why hadn't he pulled it out? Had he simply wanted to frighten him into submission? Or had asking an actual question rather than making an assumption appeased whatever aggravation fueled the action?
He could ponder that later. At the moment, he was just grateful to be alive and intact. The laugh, however grim, startled him; he twisted to get a glimpse of its owner. He was partially turned away from the senshi, elaborating upon his initial response. Sinope didn't allow a single syllable to escape his attention, sifting and distilling what information he could derive from Elex's own words. Even the dark-haired young agent had had aspirations of making new friends. Perhaps he still did.
But there was still no indication, not an iota, about how he had become what he was or why; only that he didn't consider himself human any longer. Though Sinope had had his suspicions, that notion confirmed to the senshi that Elex's apparent inhuman traits - his pipes, hands, eyes, and smoke - were not merely superficial or temporary. The real question was how much else of the Negaverse agent was inhuman. How much of him that couldn't be measured or seen had changed?
How ironic that Sinope had only wielded words and the captain had retaliated by nearly crushing his starseed, but it was the latter who appeared to be in worse shape. The teenager discreetly examined Elex's wounds now that he was close enough to do so and held his tongue until he was addressed by name.
"Getting to know yourself would be a daunting task regardless of who or what you are," the redhead stated matter-of-factly, sitting up again to preserve what dignity he had left. "People are always changing, so even if someone thought they had a pretty good grip on their self-concept, chances are it won't last." Then his brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth grew taut upon being doubted that he was any different, but his thoughts contradicted his expressed displeasure. He couldn’t help but feel elated in spite of himself. There. That’s the Elex who drew my attention, he noted. Still too sharp for comfort, though. Damn extrospective insight… As if he didn’t pose enough of a danger just as a Negaverse captain.
"Excuse me? I probably know myself better than most. It's other people I don't understand. Besides, it's much more entertaining and easy to get to know others because you can step back and see the big picture while marking their progress as they go.” And keep your distance at the same time. Sinope tested his legs again by trying to push himself up from his sitting position into a crouch. He required the assistance of a half-buried chair with a missing leg to graduate from crouching to standing ungainly. “Speaking of knowing oneself, though, I think I’ve learned my lesson for today.
“Evidently, the ‘verbally-assume-stupid-things-and-learn-from-the-reaction-when-you’re-told-you’re-wrong’ method doesn’t work on you, so unless I want to be threatened within an inch of my life, that’s over with,” Sinope decided with a dismissive gesture. “Seems like direct questions work better...so you can be sure I’ll be back with some. And who knows? Maybe you’ll benefit from them, too. Perhaps you’ll learn a little more about yourself...however human or inhuman you may be.”
Pushing off from the chair back, Sinope kept his legs straight as he half slid, half skidded down the mini mountain. He was eager to put as much distance as he could between himself and the captain for the moment, especially since he hadn’t quite shaken off the shock of having had his starseed groped. The farther away he got from Elex, he figured, the likelier his body’s functions would resume as normal and he could hightail it out of there. “Look, you were right - I’m not staying long. Happy?” He extended both arms out in either direction, palms facing skyward, as he gazed up at the agent from the foot of the accumulated mass.
Even a good grip would be better than what I have now. I never had to consider it. My parents laid my life out for me. Defined who I was. Now there's still more to ask. I don't know if I can still consider myself a person. The last thought echoed a sore point. Faustite sighed through his nose, his pipes heaving with his back muscles.
"So you're right for once," the captain conceded begrudgingly. Bloodied lips tried to stifle the phrase. Eyes ringed with bruises stared down at Sinope bitterly. For a last time, he staunched the trickle from his nose with the back of his sleeve. "You really think you can help me, even though you're no better off yourself. Fine. I guess I have no choice but to see you again."Be sure to ask yourself some of those direct questions, Sinope. An alternate identity only complicates matters. How far do you expect to get in your soul-searching before your guise as Sinope gets in the way?
No farther than a civilian running from a youma, I gather.
Rolling eyes (however ineffectual to the audience), Faustite shook his head at Sinope. His vantage point combined with the senshi's words spoke of victory. But it felt like no victory he ever knew -- there coursed no exhilaration in his veins, vigor in his bones, or pride beneath his skin. In fact, their meeting felt more like defeat. Confirmation that he was, at best, an ineffectual captain. His sole saving grace in such a fight was his ability to pull starseeds -- an ability any captain sported. Was he no more useful than a youma, then? Time leaned its pressure on him leisurely.
This isn't turning out how I wanted. It's all coming undone. All the things that defined me came apart as farces. How am I supposed to move forward like this?
How does he move forward? Faustite eyed Sinope's retreating figure with interest, considering, then turned away altogether. It doesn't matter. I have a report to make. Despite the sag in his shoulders, Faustite held head high. Past his throbbing headache, he recalled views of the office and its myriad papers. The decrepit desk, its decrepit chair, the ancient utensils, the meager lighting, the tacky dust. In a breath, he exchanged stench for staleness and moonlight for crystal hues.
Kitomyx
