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He stood in wrapped silence as they appeared in the space of the Negaverse. If he had been in uniform, the Chaos would have been overbearing and nauseating, but as a civilian it was simply anxiety and anticipation that made his stomach turn. It had been what felt like ages since he stood underneath the crystal ceiling of the Negaverse Headquarters, and he was still awestruck in the otherworldliness of it all, and now even more in how nothing seemed changed. The flickering torch-lights still bloomed near motion casting long shadows on the dark stone walls. Here even the faintest footfalls echoed. If left unattended and free to roam, he was sure he could navigate it as easily as he would a old family home he hadn't seen since childhood - or he would have if he could see where he exactly was now.

Standing close to Faustite, he moved and kept up with his pace until they went stopped. The tone of voice was official, commanding, and curt. Business. Duty. A simple statement." Traitor Wolframite. It made his heart race in having it announced and he felt as if hell would open to swallow him whole. It took him a moment to steel himself again, knowing he had to face whatever would arrive from that announcement.

Still, he couldn't help but squeeze the hand holding his.

"Oh." Stunned into quietude, Faustite realized in short order who answered eir call. Quickly was Toren's hand neglected as Faustite bent like a mechanical thing, like a wind-up doll, locked into inflexibility by metal cage and surrounding glass corset. The gesture was brief, albeit certain.

Never had Faustite met her before, but all were made to know her name, her appearance, her rule. "Queen Laurelite." Party to that auric flux, then, was a burgeoning apprehension. First it felt like an itch, hardly noteworthy, hardly worth addressing until it grew into almost a thought, where it tugged against eir mind, then traveled down to fester in eir gut like a fire too hot, and on it grew until Faustite expected with pervasive certainty that her arrival heralded a catastrophic mistake on eir part as a General. A mistake no longer shielded by Schörl by virtue of their rank equivalency. Now, whichever missteps Faustite might've made in the past were directly eir own and communicated from the General-Sovereigns directly. An obvious, albeit overlooked, conclusion owing to rank.

Worse yet was that Faustite hadn't grasped that unforgivable failure. Was it that ey brought a civilian? That ey brought a traitor to their den? Or had Wolframite erred so egregiously outside his posted record that his crimes were borne in part by those who came into contact with him?

All these thoughts condensed inside a second, two seconds, spared between the Queen herself and the wan civilian at eir side.

"He's blind, or close enough." Explaining to Toren their third party would wait. What muscles showed in eir neck and jaw corded, thin like piano wire, like they would sing a song if so asked by fingers. "I think that he learned the costs of lex talionis — that he'll abandon his skirmish with the Dark Mirror Court. I think we can fix his sight for the price of indefinite servitude." Fingers latticed beneath the cusp of eir furnace.

Faustite's chin dipped, hesitation a lingering breath, an almost not-thought, before spoken into being: "And I think absence makes worshippers of the feral."

For a long moment, Laurelite simply watched them. She maintained the unearthly smile that always graced her face. She had been doing this for so long, it was almost impossible to tell what she was thinking. She had no tells, no breaks, no mistakes.

Simply, a smile.

It was not that she ignored Faustite; instead, she inclined her head slightly--acknowledging his words without interrupting Toren's speech. When he had finished, she maintained her silence, perhaps enjoying him kneeling before her, or perhaps waiting to see if h would falter.

He didn't, though, and so she approached with slow, deliberate steps. She wasn't one for melodrama, but this was not a decision she was keen to make so suddenly.

"Wolframite," she said, not to him, but simply into the air. She let the name roll from her tongue and sampled it, as if it were some wine to test.

"You've put a lot of thought into this. But then. Aside from your quarrel with the Dark Mirror Court, I don't know that I ever thought you to be foolish. Oh, but look at you now." She sighed, and crouched before him. At his eye level, she placed her hand beneath his chin and lifted it up. She was searching his eyes, though it was impossible to tell if she thought she might find something there or if she was simply just curious.

"Tell me," she insisted. "If I let you live, what do I gain?"

Laurelite waited patiently for him to formulate an answer and then, after it, waited a moment longer to speak again. The smile on her face lingered, the same as it always had. She didn't know if he could see it, but it was there. Only, now it seemed a bit more earnest.

She was pleased with this answer.

"I remember," she said softly, wistfully. "The agent you used to be. I remember thinking of all your potential. It was devastating to lose you. I was furious. I always thought you'd go far. Farther than most. To see you fall," a sigh, like it drained her just to recall. "It was a dark day."

He fingers remained under his chin, though she moved her thumb to stroke her cheek.

"I remember the agent you used to be. I remember how hard you worked. We'd have been lucky to have more agents like you. We might have succeeded back then, if we'd had more like you. Now, the Senshi, the Knights, they continue to grow. The thread increases. I would be a fool to deny you into the Negaverse knowing how skilled you are."

Her voice hardened. "But," she said coolly, and then returned to her soft, airy self. "You must understand that traitors bare a heavy burden. Your words are sweet and fill my heart with hope, but you are a traitor all the same. I don't know that I can trust you."

She stroked his cheek again, contemplatively.

Silence, either as she considered, or out of a desire to see him squirm.

"I will grant you your request, Wolframite. But you return to us with no authority, no merit, no leniency. If you stray but once, I'll have no choice but to see you put down. I expect you to work harder than anyone here to prove to me the legitimacy of your intent. I expect the world from you. Promise me, once more, that you will spend the rest of your life fighting for our cause." Softer, more gently, she brushed her thumb across his cheek. "For me."

"Oh, my dear." She smiled her sweet, soft little smile. Not the one she usually wore when keeping appearances, but the one she reserved for moments of true happiness.

"A very good answer. We will make you into something great again. I trust that you remember corruption. I trust you remember promotions. Make sure your tongue is safe and grit your teeth, please. Brace yourself."

It was as much of a warning as she would give; she had no doubt in her mind that he would accept this as a part of the punishment--as part of his redemption.

Chaos was not an easy thing to manage. It was not pleasant, it was not comfortable. It was a burden to accept but a joy to wield.

This was the first step in a new journey.

Her hand slipped from his face and trailed down to his chest. It was better that he was already on the ground; she didn't have to worry about him passing out or losing his footing and hurting himself.

With skill and grace, she began to push the Chaos into his starseed.

More chaos than usual. More than most needed. But then, he didn't want to be a human anymore.

Laurelite would oblige.

How fascinating. No sound came from the general during their private exchange, intruding as ey was. Stood back and privy as a lamp to a lover's quarrel, Faustite watched vows become verdicts. The sentence handed down by the prim Queen's hand. Servitude unto eternity. How hale he would be reclaimed and in their care.

Further still their discussion grew, ever exchanged between each other, the lantern so much a point of scenery, and Faustite paced out those harrowed moments with the black crackle catching ozone in the air. Copper and salt and moondust were only an afterthought to the smell of raw chaos, to the wet dog mixed with iron-sharp of blood and bone reformation. That scent caught sight where none was spared before and Faustite witnessed a routine corruption turn peculiar. Extraordinary, even, as eir shoulders drew back and brows hiked in abject fascination. Never had ey seen how the body breaks for youmafication.

And break it did. Gone were those narrow fingers, even smaller than eirs. Gone were the unseeing eyes. Gone were the simple clothes. What grew and shifted and churned were violet roils of hair, echoing Tanzanite, echoing every Rift crystal studded over these walls, echoing the bleeding sky staring with its bullet eye down at the Rift.

Gevaudan was youma now. Wolframite was youma now. Dressed in a new violets, Faustite found him unrecognizable. Now he laid like an overworked pup. Like the lieutenant Faustite once was, so taxed by chaos, so unaccustomed to the way it buzzed and bled and beat itself into the skulls of all who walked this weary place, where youma lived their restlessness, where the walls breathed proper with all their stolen energy. Ey remembered how it drained em so forcefully dry in only moments passed as a civilian, and Faustite hadn't a corruption to contend with in that span of moments. Not like their new lieutenant. "Convincing, isn't he." Faustite's gaze fell to Laurelite, muted.

"What a peculiar skill, my Queen, to bring out the monster from the man. To dog the obedience into him." Applause, singular and steady, roused the empty hall.

Words were sharp and pierced into the soft, melted putty of his mind. The crystal and torch light of the place swirled like hot mist and then flared like headlights in and out as his eyes adjusted to their new construction, newborn fresh and tender to the hashness of merciless reality. The hand upon his back grounded him to the present, and he breathed out.

"..thank you, my queen."

Bending limbs caused a grunt in his throat but he rose with her and upon seeing his dangling arms, made a effort to step to her side and remain standing on his own power, a pointless effort of will but one he made nonetheless out of not wanting to burden him more with her assistance or show he couldn't handle the gift she gave him.

While they spoke, muddled talk turning about him like loud, shreiking children, he stared out to the fine details of shape. Of uniform buttons on Faustite's chest to the glow of firelight on Laurelite's hair. Clean and aggressively clear, saturated then dull as his eyes flexed focus. While he left the rest of his body prickle and burn with raw ached, he suppressed the heat building in his eyes that wanted to release and break down at such a beautiful thing.

How the impossible was possible. How magic was real and breathing. How mercy came to even the lowest of them all. Not forgiven but alive. Yes, still there. Able again. A dog given new fangs in exchange for leashed loyalty. He wouldn't bite the hand again. Not even no.

Teetering, he stared to turn his palms up, staring focused but mind distant, and licked the salt from his lips as his skin moistened with a sheen of sweat. Whatever he was, he was here and given something too precious to let go.