Faustite set the reassignment papers atop eir desk. Ey drummed long fingernails across it, creating divots where they repeated the same indentations, while eir free hand curled into a fist beneath eir chin. Alexhelios, a basic Negaverse senshi newly assigned to eir care. Eir care, as if ey inherited Schörl's burdensome task of straightening out the Lysol abortions that called themselves agents in this time. Or, as Schörl said, every agent is a new punishment to remind emself of how much ey cost to retrain into something resembling useful.
'Your quota have reflected no initiative. Nor recruitments, information, notches to your proverbial rifle... your baseline seems to be complaints, deflection, and an ability to lose your humanity.'
Eir stool rattled against the floor as ey stood, eir fire casting all the office into an uncharacteristic warmth. The space was populated only by a cluttered desk, loaded with papers and pens and eir iPhone and teacups and tea-stained ringlets and notes to emself and journals; a bookshelf laden with now-dusty books but for a few frequently referenced volumes, a glass bistro table flanked by two chairs, and a square plate where food once sat many months ago. This was eir workspace, the place in which ey would welcome a new recruit and introduce him to Faustite's command.
Ey stepped outside, walked the hall, wound up the long corridor to where the grander portions of the Negaspace Citadel implied old european notions of power and loyalty. Where the ceilings vaulted higher and higher until stalactites pressed through intricately painted stonework. Ey walked further, and further, and further still until the spaces grandeur quieted, until architectural complexities died away but for the still-nameless patterns and filigree surrounding the entrance to the Hall of Shadows.
It was there that Faustite pulled through dark and distance for the one named Alexhelios. Ey beckoned to the long hall twenty feet away, beckoned to its nothing. Show me what a deviant looks like, Axinite.
amitotic
