The battle had been fast paced. The senshi that had found him out looking for a source of energy hadn’t wasted time with idle chatter. Heliodor had barely noted the aura when the white form was practically on top of him with a fierceness that he barely had the energy to counter. Lack of real rest and constant training had taken its toll and a battle ensued with the corrupt quickly being battered by both physical and magical attacks. On the losing end of the situation, Heliodor had no choice but to call for assistance.
Two against one were odds that the senshi didn’t seem as confident with. Beating on a basic corrupt was more of her style as opposed to fighting someone on the same level she was. At least, that’s what it had appeared with her hasty back pedaling with Faustite’s arrival. Blows were exchanged, but the senshi found her escape route and took it.
Helio bit at his lower lip in frustration. This routine that his commanding officer and General Schorl had him on were, in his mind, quite literally putting him at risk. Eyes slipped to the cement pavement he stood on and the thought of just collapsing then and there to sleep was the most appealing thing to cross his mind. But he resisted that urge with drooping eyes and slumped frame. “She barely gave me a chance to breathe in that fight.”
"She knew what she was doing." Faustite's gaze fell on the senshi's retreating path while he silently rolled his wrist. The occasional pop and grind pierced the numbness that ran the better length of his arm. And judging by how Heliodor reacted to combing his hair back, Faustite was not the only injured party.
"When to retreat is something you'll learn." The captain turned, unbidden, toward his charge; he sized up what remained of his previously proud senshi in few moments. The twinge unmissed, he looked for signs of injury — redness, swelling, the taut stretch of fabric. Bloodstains. Discolorations from newly blooming bruises. But Heliodor's fuku looked largely empty, largely bereft of the usual signs. Only his shoulder betrayed much for how he twitched so vehemently against simple movement. At least he knows better than to hide injury. Or he's too tired to consider hiding it.
Boot heels ground into dusted pavement as he shifted on the balls of his feet. The rooftop felt clear, as did the surrounding mile of their circumstances — nothing but the clear blue of new spring sprawled over the area. No beady auras murmured into the otherwise muted landscape, where a few scanty rooftop bushes might obscure a whole person. No, with only low parapets to frame all the equal-height buildings around their apartment complex perch, they maintained clear view of their surroundings. Likewise, their surroundings maintained clear view of them. Faustite knew they could not linger. A fighter of such nature would recall their position and Heliodor's trajectory; a better fighter would lead company their way.
But he needed Heliodor's assessment foremost. "Lift your arms above your head." He did not wait for Heliodor to obey before stepping close to the senshi. Bodily they were not their own, and Schörl would have taught him by then; Faustite felt certain of it.
Unlike Faustite, Heliodor hadn’t taken notice to the Captains own injury. Besides the rolling of a wrist, which could easily be chalked up to nothing more than stretching it out after the battle, Helio saw no other signs of distress. “I don’t know if I could have gotten away even if I tried.” He remarked at the comment about learning to get away. In truth, Helio would have much rather had fled but the opportunity never presented itself. To think someone could be so vicious and persistent with their attacks… She certainly had been well trained and fresh to the field.
The command came and Helio responded. The uninjured, non-dominant hand reached towards the sky with simple ease. His right had him flinching away from the movement as pain shot from shoulder down his upper arm. He stopped mid lift both unwilling and unable to lift it further than he did. Did I dislocate it? No surely he wouldn’t be able to move it if that had been the case. But what? And when did it happen? He tried to surmise when the injury took place but mentally running through the battle was nothing something he had the capacity for doing.
“A bit of rest and I am sure I’ll be fine.” He remarked casually. The pain, while piercing, only presented itself in movement. Perhaps an overused muscle? Something benign and unimportant. So, he stood there, facing Faustite, as the young man assessed him for injury.
Faustite snorted. An ironic smile took root when he spoke. "A bit of rest," he echoed knowingly. "How convenient." Faustite knew the bone-deep exhaustion — he knew how it pulled his muscle toward the ground, how it sank its heavy hands into his every movement. Raising his arms in such a simple command as the one he gave was a few seconds of respite, a moment where he would think nothing of the hunger ravening at his stomach or the weary wires of sleeplessness holding him back. Food, drink, and sleep consumed all thought otherwise. And when he was bidden to speak, to provide something more than a 'yes ma'am', he tripped and choked on words that otherwise came to mind with ease. He couldn't think. Couldn't feel. Couldn't muster anything beyond rote reaction.
Six weeks came and passed since Schörl first overwrote Faustite's training regimen, and now what stood before him was only the wraith of Heliodor. Even at his worst, when he laid in a hospital bed resigned to hate the world around him, he looked more hale and whole than now. Exhaustion hung about him like a pall, looping about his neck and dragging him down. He should have felt pity.
Faustite wanted to feel pity. But in the passing months since his corruption, Heliodor patiently and systematically stripped out the last vestiges of their ties together. Now Faustite looked at a pitiful man, not a pitiable one. And it was with that same distance that he spoke again. "You don't have time for rest. You need a starseed.
"Time to show off your training, Heliodor. Find yourself a starseed. Impress me with what you know. Earn another hour of sleep to your poor schedule." He folded his arms over the tenderness in his solar plexus. "Show me what Schörl taught you while I was gone. Show me that I shouldn't starseed you for trying to bench yourself. For trying to weasel out of your training." Strange that you respond so much better to cruelties than to kindnesses when you want only love and care. How human we become when we suffer.
A brisk nod toward the parapet was Heliodor's instruction to start. "Before someone else spots us."
Heliodor opened his mouth to respond but stopped. Pressing lips together he turned to look out over the distance as an anxiety began to bloom in the pit of his stomach. His choice of words had been taken wrongly and he had only himself to blame for that. Surely there had been a better way to phrase...it didn’t matter now.
Moving helped ease pains and worry. It helped keep him from curling up on the cold, hard rooftop and passing out. Moving gave him purpose despite the end goal that made him feel a heavy, painful lump in his stomach. With a learned mental map, Heliodor navigated across rooftops to the streets below. It took them out of easy line-of-sight of enemies and also put them in closer proximity to the prey they hunted. Not that it was hard to hunt. Civilians could be found anywhere, and the specific spot Heliodor had chosen was no different. Here though, a part of the city bordering on the lower-middle class to poorer areas, the corrupt had found it was easier to steal energy without being seen.
But, I am stealing more than just that. Eyes shut for a moment as he willed the thought away.
Here, hiding in the dark of a convenience store and an apartment complex, the buildings showed their wear and tear. Bricks were damaged, moss grew in places that were usually kept clean, litter was more pronounced, and the few people who milled about, most leaving the store, looked more weary and tired. Likely, many had just gotten home from or going to work. Working long hours to make ends meet took their toll.
Heliodor could relate.
Suddenly he balked at the idea of what he was about to do. Even with Schorl, taking starseeds had been an issue. There was just something so innately wrong about it.
Heliodor's mental mapping came with disadvantages that Faustite came to expect. In depriving his recruit, in inviting him to use the mind he'd been neglecting, he faced sharp gaps in their travels where crowds strayed into plain view. Heliodor slipped through unnoticed and unknown, his violet hair demanding a show where his pseudo-Japanese regalia faded into muted agreement with the bricks surrounding them. Faustite chose the rooftops then.
But when streets were crossed and woven into their own blacktop pattern, when they neared the sparse afternoon hours of late errands and late lunches, Heliodor halted. And when he halted so abruptly, Faustite froze only inches from his back. Like a curse, his hand rose with palm outward and flatted against the first curve of Heliodor's spine. Below it, he knew, his starseed worked diligently to pump life into his beleaguered body. Infused in it was the sour promise of Metallia — that of power, that of servitude — and with every breath spent in idleness, his senshi swore against that promise. With every moment spent hesitating in this narrow alley with its unheeded moss-laden bricks and the sharp cut of shadows across its battered concrete floor, he wasted time. Proved his own inefficiencies. Beckoned Schörl's initial judgment.
Faustite's hand remained as a reminder and a promise — a wordless encouragement to keep seeking, keep moving, keep doing. To stand not in this brief and flagrant pause, but to act in great and bold certainty.
Beyond laid Heliodor's set of choices, each absorbed into the story of themselves: a teen with headphones in his ears and a phone before his eyes, a middle-aged woman carrying groceries back to her apartment with bags swinging like prodigious counterweights at her side, and another closer to Faustite's age that fiddled raucously with a skateboard. Each had lives, stories, hopes, goals, dreams, expectations, friends, families. Each had everything that Heliodor lost at his final supper — on the day his white outfit bled black. They held what he coveted, they took the lot of it for granted, but would he wrench it away in abject jealousy? He felt Heliodor's resistance to spreading suffering by the falter under his skin.
Faustite simply looked to him, expectant, his mouth creased into a thin frown of concentration.
The press of a hand over the most vital portion of him was a very stimulating gesture. Like a hot brand, the corrupt leaned away onto toes followed by short, quiet steps. Eyes flickered over the few civilians spattered about but he didn’t want to be choosy; didn’t want to weigh one’s life against another so instead he opted for the one closest to him. Let it fall upon bad lucks fault.
It was easy enough. All he needed to watch out for was the swinging of a bag, but the woman was taken by surprise by swift movements. Groceries fell from her hands, spilling onto the street unnoticed by the kid and the teen who were both too engrossed in their own things. Heliodor bodily pulled the woman from the afternoon sunllight and into the shadows of the alley. All the while he pulled energy from her as a hand clamped over her mouth to keep any screams dampened.
It had been easy. Too easy. As the woman slumped in his arms, Heliodor took care to let her slide safely to the ground.
The pit in his stomach grew. He swore it was going to each him alive as black holes were said to do to things around them. Again he hesitated all the while feeling the cold black stare of is Captain upon him. A sweat broke anew as he looked away from the woman’s prone form and backed against the stone brick apartment building, supporting himself with it’s solid frame. “I’ll heal on my own.” He said softly, not looking to either the woman or Faustite. Perhaps it was his defense to try to avoid what was being commanded of him, but if he didn’t look at Faustite, maybe this would all just end here and he could continue on with his regiment as it was and let this poor woman go.
Faustite waited, counted the seconds, cast his gaze about his entrapments in the alleyway. Took stock of how his smoke rose, blackened, toward the sky. Spring pressed its vibrance into branches earlier in the week, eliciting pops of new green among otherwise dull brown landscapes. With it came spring coats, tenable temperatures, and Faustite's burgeoning misery as a furnace in his own right.
Halted now, waiting, he felt it. He felt the way his neck sweated under the collar, desperate for a breeze. How his hair yearned to mat against his head. He ran a hand across his forehead. Moored there in the alley, he felt his impatience simmering up with sweat. He didn't want to watch these people milling around, retracing the same footprint patterns that they yoked themselves to years prior. Ever eager to give their lives over, they chose very little to whom they gifted themselves. The skateboarder to brands, the walker to GAFA, the aging woman to longstanding capitalist traditions. They chose what he did not — could not. And Heliodor would be the agent to catalyze a change there.
The minute passed before Faustite fully tired of waiting, and Heliodor returned with a body and spirit at his back. With defiance written over his tongue, brooking the gate before Faustite eked out a command. The youthful captain only smiled. "Is it insubordination if you speak first?"
I know what you'll do. "Fine," he responded with a toss of his head. He looked grimly to Heliodor, his sallow face wrinkling with displeasure. "Pull hers or I'll pull yours." Stepping forward, his hands unfolding from their place over his chest, Faustite would answer no further inquiries. He would entertain no belligerence from an already long-tired recruit. If Heliodor so wanted to prove his impotence in his new life role, then he would earn the rewards for his labor that afternoon. He would trade his life for someone he never met. Faustite's pace quickened into a brisk walk.
In the distance, where oranges rolled from her abandoned groceries, the skateboarder discovered organic obstacles. Bright citruses just shy of ripeness rolled into the alcoved parking lot.
Where words didn’t punch through action did. Faustite’s quick movements and stark reply was a cinch to the black hole slowly eating away at Heliodor. A decision made weeks ago. A conviction and realisation that life was important and losing it was not a true desire, Heliodor began moving before he fully realized it himself. Self interest taking the forefront he forced himself to kneel beside the woman’s prone form.
Eyes fixated on that place he knew her life sat. Unsteady fingers reached forward and into that cavity. Inside he found the prize sought after. The prize his Captain so wanted him to retrieve. Curling fingers around the starseed, Heliodor carefully pulled it from the woman’s chest as if it were a precious gem ready to break at any moment. The slight tremor of his hand never ceased as he stared at the starseed.
How many had he eaten up until now? Six...maybe seven in total. All had been pulled beforehand. Not once had he had to put a face to the seed that he was going to ingest.
Which was more important? Himself? Her? She’s already dead, right?
Faustite stopped short of pulling Heliodor's starseed outright, though he lingered only a foot from where the senshi knelt. He looked on impassively, expression esoteric as he reflected on the the heartbeat tremor lacing his subordinate's hands.
Faustite crouched, his hand snaking for the blackened star on his subordinate's chest. His voice issued command with quiet neutrality: "Eat or be eaten." Daggered fingers searched that star.
Strange how it's so simple. You know this now. There's no crunch. No mess. No bile. No wet tearing. No bloody paroxysms. It's like taking a crumpled piece of paper out of a wastebasket. Reach in, pull out. Now there's a life in your hands, abstract from all death's messy representations. Laying next to you is a carcass, but you'd never think of it that way. Never compare it to the half-rotted filth lying out for the buzzards. Only the soul dies — not the body. It lies there waiting, unhurried, unaware. It waits for its soul to return by the grace of some misguided savior.
We are what's wrong, Heliodor. But you still don't accept it.
Eat or be eaten.
Such a basic philosophy that, until one is quite literally in a position to be devoured, the phrase held a less crucial meaning to it. It had less poignancy. Just a sentence used to put a fire under someone. To force them to step up to the plate. But not in this instance. In this instance it was quite true, word for word.
Faustite was so close. So terribly close. One of his blackened hands searched for the subspace within Heliodor’s chest. Within a moment, like the woman at his feet, Heliodor could be lying prone and lifeless. His very life nothing more than a power boost or healing instrument.
His hand rose. The dull ache of his shoulder going unnoticed as he hesitated with the seed inches from his lips. His command stood. He knew what Faustite wanted. It would make his life less miserable if he didn’t fight it. Just accept it.
Teeth clasped down on the seed. The crunch of a soul, of a life being extinguished sounded heavy in his internal ears.
His eyes shifted from the darkness of Faustite’s eyes to the open lifeless ones of the woman.
Absent of any gains, his hand fell away. Only under extreme duress did Heliodor finally take action himself — finally push the sum total of this woman's life into his mouth. As one of the Negaverse's most potent hurdles, Faustite understood that hesitance. That longing to avert destruction. Worse yet was the rush of brilliance chasing away all remorse for eating someone's soul, as if between his teeth lay the splinters of every happiness had. As if they tasted all the joys someone experienced in their lifetime, right in that crucial second, and swallowed them down like a meaningless meal.
In most cases, they did. Eating starseeds became its own second nature in their officers. The ones who could not take the task, the ones who stood vehemently against it in a flagrant misunderstanding of their own morals, meant nothing. Commanded nothing. They would only ever serve as cattle to drive forth until they were only good for their meat. Heliodor's vehemence pinned him into that category. If he chose to remain there, then he chose forgettable mediocrity as the placebo for his cerebral pains.
Faustite straightened slowly. He looked down at his charge, then at the woman whose breaths invariably stopped. "Good. I expect you to eat a starseed whenever your injuries prevent mobility." He expected his subordinate to conveniently forget his ruling.
After dusting his hands, they fit together at the small of his back. Coupled with the shift in demeanor was a shift in his attention, focused not on the prone figure at Heliodor's side but the vibrancy beyond the mouth of the alley. Beyond them, the skateboarder conducted an increasingly urgent search for the person whose car door was ajar, whose groceries spilled so haphazardly onto the ground. And while the alley would protect the agents for a time, Faustite expected the youth to wander in their direction imminently. A sidestep placed him further into the alley's shadow. It would buy them short time, if any.
But youthful curiosity was its own opportunity for them. "How is your quota?"
The rush that followed the last vestment of the starseed down to his gullet was always exhilarating. Each time it was as incredible as the last. To think that a life, a human being's soul could produce such sensations well….it was unsurprising that so many fell to the allure that the starseeds gave. And their unique abilities to heal...the pain in his shoulder lessened until nothing but a small stiffness remained.
Eyes and head snapped up to the Captain. “I am still short.” He answered instantly without thought as he rode that strange euphoria that the starseed brought but the connection was quickly made as his own eyes followed the direction Faustite’s were focused. Standing, and turning on heels, Heliodor caught sight of the youth focused upon the spilled bags on the ground. A few sparse groceries, mainly pieces of round produce, had been kicked in the minute struggle towards their small hidden alleyway. As if sensing the chance of being discovered Faustite pressed himself deeper into the shadows, leaving Heliodor standing next to the corpse by his lonesome.
Young eyes followed the trail to the alleyway, squinting into the darkness as the youth approached with skateboard under arm.
Instantly Heliodor froze in his spot. A child by right, the boy could easily have been this woman’s waiting for her to join him after buying their food for the week. Or, perhaps they weren’t related, but he was about the witness his first corpse. That wasn’t something a child should endure.
Add to the fact that Heliodor was acutely aware he was standing next to the woman and… “I can’t.” The words were mumbled at first. “No. I can’t. Not right now.” He backed up as if trying to force himself away from the scene, but all coherent thought and movement had left him. Growing louder and more distressed, the corrupt shook his head as he practically clawed his way along the brick wall, eyes wide as he sought safety away from prying eyes. “Can’t we just let them go? Just this once? I did...I did what you asked already!” Tears began to shed themselves from golden eyes as the distress grew.
And that phone call is for the police, Faustite realized as he eyed the other man. They hadn't the cause for spectacle here — not after encountering a senshi. With a coordinated effort, they could each take a target with little trouble. Faustite on the youth for his ability to teleport, and Heliodor on the cell phone user for his better potential for improv —
Whinging shocked him out of strategy. Heliodor pled the safety of a kid he never met, festering as he was with the guilt of a stranger's death at his hands. As if he never understood their motives, their methods, their mission. As if the taste of brilliance on his tongue supercharged his morals. As if he finally, inexplicably, stopped caring about himself above all things. But now wasn't the time to grow a conscience, not with awareness coming down on them at the fore and a busy street at their hind.
"Quiet," he muttered. A word normally kept for his victims meant nothing to Heliodor, however. He scrabbled and scraped across the wall, fear alight in his eyes and singing through his joints. Dominating him. Subsuming him. Metallia came second to fright in enslaving him. Faustite bit back a snarl.
He reached for his subordinate as steps echoed near the dumpster. One hand found his charge's mouth, the other his nape, and hurried imaginings of dank and gaping corridors flickered mechanistic in his mind. They would not stay. They would not be seen by the skateboarder, who only now entered the alleyway, who only now discovered the cost of a torn rotator cuff. And they would not hear the resultant cry of shock, of mourning, of fear. They would not see the investigation in the minutes following. They would not see the victim's family ravel out with their matriarch newly dead.
They would see the crumbling vestibule in the bowels of the Citadel, where a blackened door with its rusty knob formed a modicum of privacy. Blank walls tainted by the passage of time stood around them with no pictures, no knickknacks, no features. Only a single cork board hung, standing guard over a desk that was shoved carelessly against the wall. Near the corner, facing the door, was a simple single bed with a nondescript black cover. The rest of the room remained lifeless but for its pair of intruders.
Faustite released Heliodor, suddenly weary. Fisting his hands into his subordinate's outfit, he forced them both toward the near wall. "Why does it matter?" He breathed, his question laden with promises. Fists tightened against his gathered exhaustion, only half-purposeful in cornering his subordinate.
When Faustite approached him so swiftly Heliodor was sure the Captain was going for his starseed but he had nowhere to go with his back pressed against the brick building, hands scraping along the uneven, unkempt brick that bit into the flesh of his palms. A hand over his mouth. One at his neck. The sudden sensation of being transported barely registered in the flight of fear.
The darkness of the room overrode the brightness of the outdoors. Even a shadowed alleyway couldn’t help Heliodor’s eyes adjust any faster to the sudden change of brightness. He felt blind upon first arrival, chest heaving as he frantically tried to suck breath in between Faustite’s clamped hand. It was suffocating! He tried to breath deeper as the room came into focus. The wall, no two walls, a corner, pressed into his shoulders and Heliodor still expected to feel that knowing, intrusive pain of his starseed being removed.
Suddenly crisp, cool air entered his lungs unhindered and he sucked it in like a fish in water. He was still alive. There was no pain. No hand seeking his starseed. Instead, Faustite clung to the front of his fuku, fists anchored in the material like a lifeline.
“I...I don’t know.” Barely audible, even to Faustite, the answer came when beckoned. “I just...I…It was...too much I couldn’t...” The question was too vague, Heliodor too tired, or he plainly had no real answer to give to the question. All he knew in that instant was that he was utterly worn down and the floor looked like the most wonderful location to rest as his legs began to give way to slowly slide the young man, and his Captain to the floor in a pitiful heap.
Heliodor carried them down toward the ground with fear and denial still arresting his faculties. Frothing out from him were useless vagueries and excuses. "You don't know," he echoed with a loft of brows. "It was too much. What isn't too much for you?"
His fists slackened, too tired for a needless show of force, but he kept a hand pressed flush against Heliodor's black star. With only inches between them, he bored into too-bright gold. His free hand captured Heliodor's jaw in a promising grip.
You won't be my burden anymore. Your pomp ends tonight. It ends in seconds.
He spoke slowly. "Answer me. Be clear." Faustite paused long, stretching their gap of silence to discomfort. He searched for those promised signs of soul in the darkness at the center of Heliodor's eyes, and found nothing but reflection of their mediocre surroundings. He found the ghost of a face staring back, eyeless, impassive, unfeeling. He found only what Heliodor saw in him, and all its endless emptiness.
Faustite pressed on. "What are you?"
The first question, whether rhetorical or not went unanswered as the press of a to-warm hand against the void on his chest became far too apparent. There was no turning away though. No way to avoid those endless, black eyes with grip held tight to his jaw. Instead he was forced to face Faustite down. Face down the fear and miserable excuse that he was in those reflective dark pools.
A command this time. Answer me. Be Clear. Something simple and easy to obey brought a wave of exhausted relief that reflected in tightened shoulders hunching. But wait? What did he want an answer to? Helio had given him the only answer he had and…
The question came and the response was almost instantaneous. “I am a soldier for Metallia. Nothing more.”
Expectation fell through. Faustite worked his jaw, mulling over the answer. Then, "What's your purpose?"
Another easy question. “To serve Metallia wholly.”
Gold bore into black certain of the answers he gave.
Answers given rote were supplanted with new questions just as quickly. Pressure promised no time to think — only to act.
"How do you serve?"
“Procuring energy. Pulling starseeds. Obeying superiors. Promoting Metallia. Destroying the senshi who oppose our Queen.” His response was long winded and eyebrows rose slightly at the realization he may be punished for it.
"Was 'thinking' in that list? Was 'having a moral quandary' in that list?" Faustite gave enough pause to hear his answer.
"Repeat after me: I am property. I am meat. I am actions." Faustite raised a finger for every statement made, ensuring that Heliodor would grasp that he only expected three of seven short memory holdings.
A pained look crossed Heliodor’s face before his response to the posed question. “No.”
A nibble on his lower lip, Helio responded in kind to Faustite’s demand. “I am property. I am meat. I am actions.” Eyes dropped downwards, the only escape they had from the piercing darkness that was Faustite’s gaze with chin held so tightly in dark fingers.
"Good." In weeks past, Heliodor would have balked at such a notion, spat in the face of the military, and asserted once more that he deserved love and care and devotion as a human right. He would have cursed Faustite for commanding such an act. And, perhaps, he would have once more stood himself before the long, cold hall that housed a thousand nameless wicked ones, a few of which Faustite surmised were once like Heliodor.
But now only obedience remained. The dullness persisted, the lack of awareness for nomenclature specifics and situational awareness persisted -- he knew little of his surroundings, of what a proper training drill was, and he could not still grasp Schörl's manner of speech. But a promising start it was, and another begrudging credit to Schörl's gruesome training regimen. Another reason to keep Heliodor breathless, starving, and tired.
"Do this and I will give you another hour of sleep. You will lose bathroom chores to accommodate." Faustite released Heliodor's chin as he straightened himself. A piteous twinge of moral complaint simmered until he swallowed it remorselessly. Now was not the time for his own rebellion.
Clothes shimmered and warped, gaining water's indefinite edge as color and shape warped. Beyond it, Faustite's paleness stretched over black fingers, subsuming them, and crawling over the blacks that were his eyes. Pipes flickered and altogether vanished with the smoke they sighed into the dark room. And when Faustite, now nameless, inspected himself, he found his usual mix of department store shirts with boutique jackets and shoes, with nails nearly french-tipped in their youthful vigor.
He looked to Heliodor once more. "Undress and get on the bed."
kolina