Welcome to Gaia! ::

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The message and GPS marker came through the pen/tablet clearly, if pedestrian in content. The Broom had gotten itself manhandled by a Lady's Maid instead of the scullery and whined of breakage. Delivery wanting, but the situation must be examined and handled. No weak links will come from our team. We keep our own sutures.

The walking pillow would be required to cover the retreat, in case of pursuit or necessaries of counter-tracking, obliging a teleport home and then out in series, and a swallowed starseed to make up the difference. A sprint and the edges of what must be hers hazed along street or skyline of auras. Schörl knew the neighborhood they were in well enough to visual a place that should lie between their auras, closer to his for wound, risk of pursuit, and rank of speed. She lifted the pen and its button to broadcast to Faustite susurrant soft, “In few block you’ll come to the larger South Wickham Street. Take it right, two blocks, and find Controversy, an upscale club. Parking garage next to it, duck in there. Not traffic now, just parked cars. Stay on the ground floor.”

Parking garages had lots of visual noise, echoes and an alien, repetitive architecture disoriented unfamiliar users. And latent City detritus, stains and smells to cover some for wound and mess. To the Mauvian on shoulder, in a sudden quiet of a leap between buildings, “Don’t block aura for another minute, so that he can feel me. Then we must all disappear. Your part is critical to first aid. “

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Schörl spoke into the communication pen (and tablet!) and Tiberius’s claws dug into fabric and fur to better secure his perch; his job was easy - do what the boss Lady said, when she said. No problem. The General carried them swiftly from building to building, causing Tiberius’ balance to shift and slide down Barbary’s slick fur before he managed to resettle once more. “You got it.” And, because he was ever a cat, he shoved his head against her chin in a wordless request for affection that had been repeated oft enough to warrant fingers in fur, distracted though she may have been in the waiting for Faustite.

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His collar throbbed beneath his vest, and each peek taken confirmed a growing, angry knot beneath his skin. Faustite gritted his teeth against the ceaseless ebbs and flows of pain. He pinned his arm against his side, hesitant to disturb it, and all steps taken from the scene favored his shoulder in breadth or lightness. He hated injury. And he abhorred it all the more when injury chased him to the likes of Schörl, to the unfeeling Negaverse and its grievous treatment of wounds.

But he had no precious glamour to spend, and no hospital would process him in the short three hours granted to him.

Her voice came slight and difficult to hear through the communicator. Faustite heard little over the blood beating through his ears, his breath coming in thick gasps. Warily he peered into the auric landscape for signs of the knight. None came back to him. He kept walking, searching slicked signs for familiar names. South Worthington? No, Wickham… Faustite struggled to anchor the directions in mind. Her words were precise, embedded as they were in saccharine static. Pink noise, they called it. He tried to focus. He jerked at the first signs of headlights and his collar cut him deeply. South Wickham. Go.

Faustite followed direction against growing pain. Through streets unfamiliar, he cut a quick jog. She mentioned a parking garage. He saw two, three spread across a short distance in the heart of the city. A general's mile-wide aura pointed only to one. He ducked inside, beneath the flickering neon light proclaiming its vacancies, with his hand cradling an incapacitated arm. Thought slipped from him in droves. Shock cursed him in its steady encroach. Interest and abhorrence rent him in half. Upon finding one of the many concrete pillars, Faustite stood near it, neither prepared to lean shoulder against it nor grind metal-pierced flesh against it.

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Feet had a sound, breath had a rhythm, aura had a mental scream. The General leapt down from the top on feeling the figure approach, following up her waltzing mouse as he stopped at a pillar in regard. Four to eight weeks for adults in a figure-of-eight splint, or a general sling to immobilize was the usual prescription for collarbone fracture. There was a chance it was only bruised, and that other damage had been done in an altercation. His look was paling. Schörl gave a succinct nod and hummed sound to signal Tiberius.

How with us are you, pet.

“Recite to me The Pledge of Allegiance.” She walked around him, between the pillar and his face, shifting to look at his eyes more closely. Her hands busied pulling starseed brooch from cravat, then ravelling out the length of golden cloth to drape like a forgotten scarf over-shoulders-under-cat. “Then tell me shortly blows taken.”

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The Mauvian watched curiously while Faustite made way closer, his eyes taking in more detail in the gloom than the General he treated as transport; it was only natural. He was beast, she was…other beast. Faustite was wounded, Tiberius’ pupil constricted with passing headlights; Schörl hummed and he allowed his dampening powers to unfold around them like a many-sided blanket unfurling. It was almost thoughtless, reflexive - like breathing once he’d decided he wanted it done; the Mauvian made no sound to signal completion, there was no need, she would feel it and know. Faustite may not realize it immediate, but the knowledge would come soon enough to him as well.

Tiberius hunkered, elbows up in great fluffy peaks, tail curling around Schörl’s throat as if to replace brooch or to make even with the cravat. His part was now mostly to wait, to listen, a silent attendant. He was fine with this, if his Mistress needed him further, she’d let him know.

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The garage spun and spun and spun, with Faustite ever at its epicenter. Motion was the new idle. Vision tunneled with a smattering of stars encircling it, constricting it, choking it. He heard the drop of cane stuttering footsteps, staccato and purposeful, almost alone by feel. Almost. A faint second aura -- Barbary? No. Breath quickened with the thudding of his heart.

She gave orders before her aura fell away. Faustite searched for her then, found the devil in green and her impish shoulder-mounted cat. Who was the cat? Why did she have a cat? What did she plan to do? She reached for her brooch, its pin unhooking --

Faustite stole his gaze away to empty cars in the vacant cavern. To concrete stalagmites meeting the ceiling. A whooshing emptiness echoed back to them as new tires screeched over epoxied floor. He breathed as best he could of the smog-tainted air, licked paling lips. His collar ached and ached and ached -- a twitch of shoulder gnawed pain deep into his chest and he groaned against it. She asked him a question. What was it? The pledge of Allegiance. What sort of test was this?

With a shaken sigh, he pulled words from memory. Not lyrical, only spoke: "O say can you see… By dawn's early light…" Was that --

No. Why can't I remember. His grip tightened on his elbow, squeezing a margin of pain from the joint to ease his collar. His face ached with hidden bruising. A cold sweat pulled his clothing to his body. He couldn't look at Schörl. "She…" A flash of green, like his generals' green, yet with flame hair and unchecked ire. "Hit my face. We both fell. She shouldered my collar but… That's not the right order."

The garage spun and spun and spun, with Faustite ever at its epicenter. Motion was the new idle.

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Partial Youmafication in agents provided panoply wide enough to perplex any medical symptoms listing. For Faustite, he was practically never going to be cool unless as a corpse, pupils were a thing of the past, he was ashen pale naturally, and breathing was radically altered. Dizziness, pulse, vomiting, weakness, and confusion were left the classic determiners. Lack of focus present. He’s tracking the walls, and floor, and garage, not engaging or hiding from me directly. Mistaken response. Sweat breaking out.

“The arm and collar will be stabilized with this. It will hurt less with the rush.” It was enough, considering the boy’s penchant in presentation for staid appearances. The gold was pulled down to hand for use as a sling with a hissing swish and ruffle of Tib puffs. She held starseed out, “Eat.”

And the level of damage will see if the starseed full heals it, or leaves it with too much give. There will be other injuries that may draw on...

“Was this knight following you, that you know?” There’d been no immediate feel of close follow, but that didn’t mean a delay tactic and calling friends.

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Faustite’s recitation made the Mauvian’s eyes narrow - it was clear not all faculties were functioning properly. Supposing, of course, that the human part of the half-youma had been educated in America. Most were, but some not so much. This kid is screwed, wonder who he tangled with? Some angry dame, from the sound of it. Women could be...delightful, but also hellish and terrifying.

Like the one presently being used as conveyance and observing Faustite with a sort of clinical detachment that Tiberius felt ought to be reserved for corpses or really neat fungi found in the back of the fridge. Not his place, not his party, so he kept mum and shuffled a bit while the gold cloth slid out from under him, disturbing fluff as it went. “Is he always this articulate, or should we worry about a concussion too?” Would he even have realized if he’d been followed?

Not that it would matter now, things would go well with the General there.

Nose quivering to draw in scents that were too fine for the humans, enhanced though they may have been, Tiberius caught only the heavy scents of the garage, the wounded agent before them, and the more subtle scents that enveloped his posh ride.

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The cat spoke, matching Schörl's usual condescension. He never met him before. Seldom had he wanted to know the other company kept by the green general. Friends, acquaintances, subordinates, it didn't matter. She touched the lot of them, and they would rot. This cat would rot. She would wither him into a husk, looking hale but knowing no healthy thought in his head.

And she would do the same to Faustite. She urged it now, with palm aglitter with soul.

The thought of its taste tantalized. The sum total of the victim's pleasant memories promised a heady experience, a rush that sung to the black depths of his bones. A taste that promised a measure more of black across knuckles. Another crack in his imperfect fusion. Another promise of sampling brilliance on his tongue, of sampling wholesome family memories. But the seed would rot him, he knew, with damage imperceptible to others. Schörl would not -- could not -- feel the heat of the rush. Neither could her shoulder-mounted mink ruff. And even if she could, she would laugh about it.

Faustite hesitated at the brandished starseed. Looked to it as a weapon. His gaze strayed to Schörl, seeing-unseeing, then to her furry companion. He felt the weight of want settle arrogantly in his chest.

But the sanctity of his Self ruled him. "I can't," he offered in little more than a breath. Smoke enveloped him as he stepped back, flush against the pillar with a stinging pain in his back, then vanished.

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The General clicked her tongue to teeth once with an accompanying grin. There was a sort of bravado in directly disobeying a superior officer when knowingly in the throes of shock. What sort of back up plan—looking to crawl into a hole and let death be an end of it, finding his family or ******** and begging for help, actually walking into a hospital—Faustite was formulating had it's own entertainment value. Likewise with the persistent resistance to learning the lesson of listening for when she was or wasn't asking a question. Or forgetting to answer when she was. "He’s never been good at paying attention, but articulate and acerbic that tongue is. That mouth needs another lesson, eating and questions. Tiberius, have you eaten recently?"

Hazel eyes slid to the golden, shining starseed light that slowly winked out between fist-closing fingers. Her will and chaos pumped out into the aether. I summon you, Faustite.

" We do not keep our ships ever to port. "

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Disappearing act complete, Schörl seemed merely amused rather than bothered, as though Faustite were a disobedient but well loved child - something to be indulged, but only so far. Smoke and brimstone and softly spoken sigh, Tiberius' ears flicked and listened as Schörl spoke direct, then question as to whether or not he’d eaten recently.

Odd thing to ask, but what do I know about the inner workings of a woman's mind? It felt as though the answer wanted was yes, which was just as well for he had eaten recently enough - scavenging with his favorite companion a kingly meal behind a strip mall that had a slew of delightful, middling priced 'family' restaurants for humans to choose from. Chinese, Thai, 'Homestyle'. All-You-Can-Eat. Buffet.

Words that meant much went to the bins after, where industrious felines might dine at their delight - perhaps alongside one or more of Destiny City's homeless. Tiberius was careful to not return to his mistress smelling of refuse, but that didn't mean he wouldn't happily engage in some dumpster diving to fill his belly between sumptuous meals. He was a Mauvian opportunist, after all.

“I have.” The cat cocked it’s head curiously, tail tip twitching against Schörl’s neck as they awaited the return of the errant half-youma and Tiberius’ agile mind parsed the meaning as to why she’d inquired about the state of his digestion. “Went out with Bob, earlier.”

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There has to be someone, he thought, energy ebbing violently. The captain stumbled over spindly legs while the earth cocked in a half-smile. Walls rolled under his fingers. Sweat touched the floor like steaming pearls. Arsenopyrite --

But the world

said

no

it cocked

and weaved

and wrote

unsound features

through interstices broken
and

malformed

He breathed in all the lines

until

at last

the ground made sense again.

The ground made sense again. Faustite touched the wall with its blessedly flat plane, the pockmarks reminiscent of concrete --

Concrete? Eyes refocused, stuttering through fragments of concentration to find the wall -- the pillar. The pillar, supporting the concrete ceiling. Connected to the concrete floor. Lines brushed out in bright paint from the corners. And on them, boots too intimately familiar. No --

No energy swam in his bones for another departure. He felt parched, exhausted, overwrought, dizzy, stricken. She spoke of ships. Inanities. Code words and singsongs and bitter shanties that required parsing and mental process that he couldn't afford. He looked to her, to her beast. His frame hunched under the weight of his own injuries, under his impending punishment. The conversation had made no sense. He lost his grip of sense. The world became an amorphous soup with tides stirred by pain.

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Given the captain’s floundering, necessity demanded stabilization regardless of how tempting it was to allow his stupidity in running from help to take it’s natural course. It was hard to find even moderately clever pairs of hands in their organization, and his were clever enough on some ground. For the sake of lessons it was important that where Faustite didn’t follow necessary orders appropriate responses were given. “Always looking down, Faustite, fearing the devils in and out and underground. Abashed you stand, but Look Up-”

She moved to wrench right hand into the black mop at the top of his head and pull his gaze and mouth to sky, ceiling and the aid of gravity. “-And feel how awful goodness is.”

Left-hand ring and pinky curled and held fast the starseed so that thumb and forefinger were free at need to force open his mouth. The drop could be made smoothly and then the same hand slam it shut on the seed to prevent spitting. “I wasn’t asking. Since you think you deserve a choice unto bald insubordination: your order of operations in swallowing is yours to determine of Tiberius’ vittles or the starseed.”

“Tiberius, if you would be so kind to provide on the hood of that Chevy.” Schörl gave a quick motion of indication with her chin to the vehicle nearest them.

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Faustite was reeled back like a very unsteady fish, gaping about much like a cod out of water while Tiberius watched him lurch. Their General took pity and gave succor as only she could, catching him by hair so that he wouldn’t fall - so thoughtful! Like a mother cat scruffing her kitten, only on humans the nape had not enough to grasp, the top of the head was best, sometimes the ear would work in a pinch; neither location appealed to the Mauvian but he was not on the receiving end of Schörl’s tender mercies.

No, he was support, and glad of it. A lesson being taught, Faustite would lose a pound of flesh or the equivalent in another way - his sins against his Mistress too great to allow to go unanswered.

He hopped carefully from Schörl’s shoulders to the Chevy hood, weight causing a solid thunk as the metal indented temporarily. Vomiting wasn’t the most glamorous of things he could manage on cue, but since it was what the boss wanted, he’d make it happen. First the swallowing of air to displace stomach contents, the rumbling belch, the “chnnngnnng chnnngnnng” sound that any cat owner would know and recognize - a call to alarm. It would happen in under a minute, start to finish, really. Tiberius hoovering his great fluffy head back and forth across the Chevy’s hood as he backed his hindquarters up, then a stream of vomitus thick viscous with some liquid streaming out across the metal like the most unpleasant of fountains aimed away from Schörl but splashing a bit of foam up onto the glass. Tiberius finished it with a wretched chewing-horking sound and huffed, then moved away from the mess he’d left, sat primly and began grooming his paws and face as though he had not just provided the remains of several dumpsters worth of food refuse to horrify the palette.

“Pardon.” Now it was up to Faustite and Schörl. Man, he could go for a beer...oh cool, that was definitely a half digested Chow Fun noodle!

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The overhead lights blared terribly at him as she foisted his head up, his own body movements surrendered to her will. His focus unsteady, it strayed from her too-sharp gaze to the surrounding construction before lurching toward the sound of horking. Schörl anchored his head. Breaths came short, sharp, cutting through the noise in his mind. He took in all the straight lines and coughed out his incredulity. Aches spread like wildfire.

Order of operations. The starseed sung sweetly against his throat. It beckoned of a thousand brilliant nerve endings, of memories not experienced and celebrated all the same. He could be well again. He could be whole again. He could stoke the fire in his chest, ever burning as it was, and know freedom from pain.

The way her wicked smile loomed down at him -- familiar, ferocious -- grew too comfortable. Nearly sought.

To wash his mouth out with a soul, or with vomit? Which was worse? Which was moral? Which was practical? The options overlapped and conflated and cut their corners into his mind. Feeling became his basic choice. The aftertaste of a human life or the aftertaste of a cat's history of poor choices. He struggled in her grip to look at her second choice. To look at Tiberius, his haunches low and his tail swishing haltingly across the hood. He leapt down and sat and washed, leaving his mess exposed. Faustite's coming dinner. Already he felt the bile rise, and he hadn't yet smelled it.

"Fine," he managed through staccato breaths. He swallowed heavy against the heel of her hand. "The starseed comes last."

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‘Last’
“Better.” Finally learning to listen, with stern reminder. A hot stallion or mare having to learn to wait at the signal for Hold Hard on grey mornings paraded with full pinks while the whippers-in sorted themselves out. The General caressed his hair affectionately once before giving him a nudge in his leaning at the hood of the car. If he tried to buck it again, his face would manually appreciate the paint job.

“Ware splash, Tiberius. He’s more volume than you by half. Don’t keep us waiting, dear. ”

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Balls. Of. Steel.

Quite possibly literally, for all Tiberius knew. After all, Faustite had those honkin' big exhaust pipes rising out of his back like he was a missing portion of Satan's favorite parlor organ - there really was no telling what other sorts of 'augmentation' the youmafication process had inflicted upon the General's pet project.

Idly, Tiberius wondered if starseeds tasted delicious; Faustite swallowed, throat working against the General's pale and manicured hand.

"Good point." The Mauvian hopped atop the vehicle's roof, a better vantage point by far anyway and one that should give him plenty of protection should the human-pet's body violently reject his 'gracious' offering - or at least enough time to made an escape from projectile. His new vantage also showed off something that might have been a hunk of partially digested bread - or sponge, depending on how careful he and Bob had been. Delicious.

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He wished her gesture went unnoticed.

Walking with her, Faustite felt the same insurmountable difficulty and humiliation press into him. Dealing with Schörl felt like ink-stained fingers pushing their way into his mouth, where every bite against their slippery skin proved ineffective. They took and took and took and took and took until he wore all their blacks, right down to the too-tight hand gripping his jaw. Faustite balked at the bleached bile searching for its o-mouthed exit, its freedom from her staining influence.

It did not come. Even as he stared down the mucosal orgy of lines, the perfect pinstripe straight of the car hood under jagged-edged splotches, he felt the gateway of his throat swing shut over his revulsion. No one called the shot. The race did not start. The horse shifted its nervous hooves over too-dry dirt.

She held him the way a mother might hold a gun. Her fingers toyed the trigger with unwanted caresses. He looked upon his supper, and its rancid heat raped his nostrils. He leaned the way a woman would bend before a man. His clammy hands, half-stricken with an old and mouldering pan, framed the perfect mess. Breath came staccato short and broke its even tempo. The gates bulged. The horse looked wild-eyed at the track splayed ahead.

Faustite tasted with his tongue the bile-sweet, broken lines of the secondhand stew. But his tongue reviled it, and the horse beat itself against the gate. She would not stop, he knew. Her fingers sat over his trigger, waiting. Again his tongue darted out and tasted roadside flecks on pristine paint, tasted the color of cold perfection, then cut into his dinner's messy outskirts. Like licking up two too-long legs. He choked on the saccharine salt. The sponge touched his tongue. His whole body tensed and heaved itself into a curve, undisciplined, and Faustite retched against the retch.

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Pearlescent spoke to luster; luster to sheen, or reflection, and further to soft glow. The grin of teeth was not one or pearlescent luster, but radiant and ugly in it’s cut lines through cheeks, matching crinkly to nose, and beamed, perfect teeth too white for the scent of pipe that clung to cloth and hair. What frabjous delights this boy had wrought with his form and fouls. “Oh, you suffer beautifully.”

“Come now, you’re mixing your pottage. It’s the meat of the matter which you must swallow. Get a bit in there.. A solid one. “

Not the liquid, though that had been grand. Fingers ran in something-like-unlike comfort on his back. Circles round the pipes with light, massage like insistence to feel the paroxysms within. Here was the twitch skin beneath the flies of the fine steeplechaser. Hazel gaze flicked to Tiberius, measuring as much as the they did the boy. “Before you can leave the table.”

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One thing he'd definitely noticed about Schörl was that she used language that was kind of stuffy but in the most entertaining manner, like - she expected you to understand what she was saying and if you didn't? It was a cut to you for being an utter moron. Tiberius loved it.

Faustite balked in horror at his meal, tasting slowly and in a manner that suggested he might prefer death to what he was being offered. While being offended did cross the Mauvian's mind, he decided it wasn't worth it - only dogs enjoyed eating second-hand food...or really stupid cats. The sort that might as well have been dogs themselves. He'd known a few like that - the ones that obviously had something wrong with them and would fall upon the regurgitated offerings with delight and glee as the finest Fancy Feast.

Tiberius was not one of these. Faustite seemed to not be either. "There's starvin' kids in Africa, Smokestack." It was something that he'd heard human mothers say to their spawn often with a sort of smug superiority that implied they were baiting the children as much as encouraging them to ingest whatever barely palatable item had been presented them that was causing such distress. The perfect phrase to use, he believed.

Once more the Mauvian settled on grooming, chewing at the thick fur between his toes as though he weren't absolutely riveted by the drama of Faustite's gag reflex versus Schörl's iron will, thickly plumed tail curving around to hide his back feet neatly.

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Faustite shuddered out another rack of convulsions, the painful paroxysms lacing hot fingers through his clavicle. Even as he grit his teeth and coughed against the pain, it never abated. The sewer-taste in his mouth swam down his throat. Every dripping word from his general's mouth coaxed the bile back out.

He drooled into a mess of vomit, garbage, and poor choices. Fingers tickled his back, brandishing their false sense of intimacy. He hated how she stood behind him. She crooned her pretty phrases at him — drowned him in her candor. The cat sat nearby, waiting with indifference. He added his own mocking banter to the conversation, spoken with the same drawling flair as a bored socialite. Schörl expected him to swallow a pece down. His collarbone expected that he hurry. His mouth, drowned in a bitter sea, expected him to relent.

But he made a decision.

He made, at last, a decision.

His nose plugged, Faustite leaned on tremoring limbs for his next attempt. His tongue furled out, hesitant, and his upper teeth just touched a mottled lump of sponge. His will ended there. Another violent retch, and a gush of sour wetness added to the pile. Pain clawed its way to a marvelous high, peaking over his mind, and the boy dropped to dead weight in Schörl's grasp.

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Staccato, hissing soft, the rhythm of laugh started, grew and echoed for the length of an amused shake of the limp puppet clawed nails caught before they could slump onto the hood. Like a puppet, bones grinding inside, Schörl shook him. His hands made wiggles in the gall, with single accompanying stomp of her heel. Alas for want of a swazzle, falsetto served, "That's the way to do it!"

Mirth abated, he was flopped back, caught in the crook of her arm as a beloved corpse, and the starseed administered. The unconscious could not be trusted to mash their jaws, so it was more like giving a pill to a corpse with manual mastication. “Waste not, want not. I’ve better tools to stabilize the limb and monitor how much of him is damaged available in the Dark Kingdom. At the least, fluids.”

“Come, Tiberius.”

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He watched, because he was expected to, because it was fascinating, and because the entertainment provided was magnificent. Tiberius loved people, but he was a cat and thoroughly enjoyed watching others suffer too, it was well inborn that his prey suffer and Faustite sufficed in lieu of actual prey.

The Mauvian yanked at his foot, spitting a knot of fluff and whatever else had gnarled up there down onto the hood of the car where Faustite retched, adding sour upon sour, the heavy scent of bile rushing to fill Tiberius' sensitive nose. Unfortunate. He fainted and she laughed, setting some of Tiberius' fur on end until he realized she hadn't actually lost her s**t. No, his Mistress was simply enjoying the chaos she'd wrought, the pain and anguish she'd bought with his stomach contents. "Hope this guy's got insurance, what a mess. Hmph."

Better you than me, kid. Called to move, Tibs wasted no time to hop down and skirt the mess, returning to his perch on Schörl's shoulders with an ease born from innate grace and much practice. "Ready when you are."

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