Takes place in mid-December.
Cymophane Word Count: 1323
Perdita Word Count: 1161
Since the park seemed to yield satisfactory results, Cymophane took to frequenting the location with more regularity. Sometimes he sat upon one of the swings, drifting slowly back and forth. Sometimes he wandered up and down the pathways, ignoring the cold breezes that nipped at his exposed flesh. Sometimes he took a seat on the frosty grass, drew his knees up to his chest, and looked up to what few stars glimmered through the city lights.
He met more senshi, more knights. One Super senshi in green knew nothing about any Princess, but encouraged him along the path to purification all the same. A Squire of Pluto knew of Ganymede, and Castor, and another one (Polaris?), but had nothing more for Cymophane than a friendly smile and “good vibes.”
Cymophane was patient. He offered his name, he repeated sad little stories about his time in the Negaverse, and he gathered what intel he could.
A night close to the middle of the month found him in the park again, making his way down a path through the trees. The shadows stretched far but the moon was almost full, throwing silver beams of light through the branches.
There was an aura heading in his direction — a match for him in strength, but sickly sweet.
Perdita didn’t make a habit of wandering the city alone, but then she didn’t make much of a habit of wandering the city at all. If she wasn’t at the iceplex, she was in class, and if she wasn’t in class, she was at the library. If none of those places could boast her presence, she was home at her apartment or hanging out with Peter.
She was not the most active Senshi — never had been, but when she did make the effort, she liked to think her heart was in the right place. Just this year, at long last, she’d shed the handicaps of a Chibi senshi. More recently, she’d advanced to Super. Slow as it might have been, progress was still progress.
Tonight, she had a rare moment of free time. Training was over for the day, and her end of term exams were behind her. When she sensed the aura of a Corrupt Senshi, she didn’t follow it with the intention of looking for trouble, but out of curiosity. She hadn’t encountered many of them in her time, though she knew their numbers were greater than before.
A figure appeared through the darkness, clothed in black, with long blond hair and a big purple bow. Perdita came to a stop and watched him, waiting, her phone already clutched in her hand in case he should prove hostile.
“Hello,” she said, offering peace.
“Hi,” Cymophane said, accepting it. He gave her a small, dismal little smile and a weak wave of the hand.
This Senshi was taller than him, or maybe she benefited from higher heels. With a capelet for a collar and a little gingham dress, hair bound into a neat braid, she looked wholesome. Cymophane wondered what her magic did, where her power came from, but thought asking might rouse suspicions, or tempt her toward a fight.
“I’m Cymophane,” he introduced himself. Then, “I like your bow.”
“Perdita,” she offered in kind. Then, “I like yours.”
He seemed small, diminutive, with large, earnest eyes and a sweet face — a dangerous combination, maybe, but he gave no signs that he wished to harm her. Perdita thought his outfit might be more revealing than her own, in more ways than one. The spots seemed a pretty obvious clue as to what his power might be.
She examined him, took her time sizing him up, before her gaze came to rest upon the crack in his chest.
“Is that painful?” she asked.
“No,” Cymophane said.
He brought a hand to his chest, over the hole that tempted so many toward his starseed. It didn’t trouble him much, except when there were youma around, when he was made more aware of his vulnerabilities. Otherwise, he only noticed when someone drew attention to it.
It seemed to fascinate and horrify the White Moon in equal measure.
“But it hurt when it happened,” he admitted. “I should’ve expected that. You know, someone sticks their hand in your chest, obviously it’s going to hurt. I guess I thought, since it was magic, maybe it would be easy.”
“Was it forced on you?” Perdita wondered.
Some might think it an incredibly personal thing to ask, given how passionately some of those involved tended to feel about the war, but Perdita didn’t see a point in skirting around the question. To be corrupted, either someone went willingly, or they were forced; those were the only two options she was aware of.
Cymophane let his smile fall, let a moment of silence wash over them, staring off at a point beyond Perdita’s shoulder like he was suddenly lost in thought.
“I don’t know,” he said. He lowered his gaze to the ground. “At the time it seemed like the decision was my own, but… when they already know who you are, does that give you much of a choice?”
“Were you a Senshi before?” Perdita asked.
She maintained her distance, but lowered her guard just so. There was something sort of sad and lonely about this boy, like he’d been lost for quite a long time. So many questions raced through her mind. When was he corrupted? How long had he known about the war? Did he regret his decision at all? Did he wish he made a different choice?
“No,” Cymophane said. “I was recruited as a civilian, met a General while I was out one night, and… he thought I had potential.”
Briefly, he let a smile flicker back onto his face, like he thought he should be proud of that, but wasn’t.
What Perdita lacked in expressiveness, she made up for with a quiet, kind voice. Her suspicions were easing as curiosity took hold. She responded well to melancholy. Most of them did; they wanted to give Cymophane hope, wanted to offer him something to believe in.
Cymophane took small pieces of it at a time.
“It seemed like a good idea,” he continued. “Maybe it was back then. Now, I…” He paused, bit his lip, huffed out a sigh. “They tempt you with power and magic. They give you a place to belong. They tell you the Earth is in danger, that there are forces trying to destroy us. They offer you protection. They offer your family protection, and if you don’t have one of those, they offer you a chance to become one.”
“It’s all a lie,” Perdita told him. When Cymophane looked up, brow furrowed with confusion, she explained, “We’re not a danger to the Earth. We were all born here, just like you.”
“You have your own worlds,” Cymophane argued, but his voice lacked heat.
“So do you,” Perdita said. “What makes you so different from me?”
“I made the right choice,” Cymophane told her, like someone repeating a line he was told far too often.
“Do you really believe that?”
Cymophane took his time considering the question, or he pretended to. The silence that fell over them might seem heavy to someone who had no hand in orchestrating the conversation. Cymophane hoped it seemed heavy to Perdita, hoped she saw confusion in him, and pain.
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” he said when the silence stretched too long. “We were always told we’re fighting a celestial army, that you want Earth’s resources. You know, like an alien invasion. Only now…”
Cymophane sighed again. He put another frown onto his face, making a show at being deeply troubled. “Only now there are aliens here, and we’ve just… let them come…”
Perdita watched him, scrutinized him, took in what details she could in the moonlight. His entire demeanor spoke to his indecision; he was teetering on the edge between loyalty and defection. He was not the first to find disappointment in the Negaverse, and he would not be the last. Any organization that lied to its members, that pitted them against people just like them, was doomed to fail.
That was what she told herself when the war became overwhelming, when it seemed as if it would never end. The Negavserse might have the advantage now, but time was a weakness, and their own arrogance would be their downfall.
Slowly, Perdita said, “You don’t have to stay with them.”
Cymophane responded with a short, bitter laugh. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
Some of them offered him a way out — names to follow, people to track down, but only one of them got him anywhere close to Ganymede. It was a shame he hadn’t run into a certain Squire of Venus yet. Maybe he should have had Constantinople contact her after all.
“You’ve spoken to others,” Perdita observed, pleased, but cautious, too. If he hadn’t been convinced yet, she had to tread carefully, lest she scare him off.
“Here and there, every once in a while,” Cymophane admitted, voice dipping into a whisper, like he was scared to admit it, or ashamed. “They all offer the same solution, but… it’s not really so easy, is it?”
Gently, Perdita said, “It could be.”
Maybe the decision itself was hard. Maybe there were people he cared for in the Negaverse, or others he was afraid of, people who made leaving less of a simple thing. But the purification itself was wonderfully uncomplicated. It was light and hope, life and freedom.
“Have you ever seen someone get purified?”
Perdita shook her head. “No, but I know people who have, who’ve helped others like you. They’d be happy to help you, too.”
“Who?” Cymophane asked, with a miserable catch in his voice, like he didn’t believe there was anyone who could possibly help him.
“Ganymede.”
Cymophane let his eyes widen. It would be foolish to pretend he didn’t know the name.
“You know her?” he asked.
“Indirectly,” Perdita said. “I know Oberon, and Oberon knows Ganymede.”
“Oberon…” The name was unfamiliar. “Is that another Senshi?”
Perdita smiled. Out here in the dark, to a boy who was little more than a stranger, she was able to admit something she might never say in Oberon’s presence.
“One of the best.”
If that was true, why hadn’t Cymophane ever heard of him? There was no Oberon in the database.
It must be sentimentality, then. She thought highly of this Oberon, and she had no qualms against letting Cymophane know it.
“And I could… talk to Oberon?” he asked, halting, nervous, creeping closer to his goal.
If Oberon was a direct line to Ganymede, he was worth meeting — worth reporting, too.
“I can call him right now,” Perdita offered.
She showed Cymophane her phone, clutched loosely in her hand now that she had relaxed into the conversation. Oberon would come at a moment’s notice. She was sure of that. Even if he knew of no surefire way to convince a scared Senshi onto a better path, the lure of a Corrupt Senshi would intrigue him. He would have questions, and encouragement. He would offer support.
Cymophane took a startled step back, wide eyes fixed onto Perdita’s phone.
Close as he was now, there was some benefit in taking his time. If he was too eager, he might lose what little trust he’d managed to build. Let them think him indecisive. Let them think he had reason to fear. Let them work for it, so when he finally made his way to Ganymede, it was their own doing as much as his.
Let their hope lead them to destruction.
Perdita raised her other hand to calm him, lowering her phone.
Cymophane was unprepared. If she went too quickly, if she pushed too hard, she might lose him.
“I can let him know about you,” she offered instead, slow and careful still, like she was talking Cymophane down from a ledge. “I can have him hang around here when he has the time, so if you decide you’d like to talk to him, you should be able to find him.”
Cymophane let another moment of silence descend while he considered her offer. When enough time had passed to account for his purported indecision, he dropped his gaze to the ground and nodded an agreement.
Perdita didn’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet, but her posture softened. Her smile never grew wide, never gained an edge of confidence; it remained small, companionable, and receptive. Hard as it was, the choice to leave the Negaverse was a decision Cymophane had to make for himself. All she could do was offer him what tools she had available.
She wished there was more, something she could say, or do, some advice she could offer. Her experiences in this war were so limited. If she had the right words of encouragement, perhaps she would be better equipped to help him, but she knew of nothing that would make this task any easier. All she had was her interest in his well-being, and her curiosity in what he was, in what he would become.
This was enough for now, Cymophane decided. Again, the park offered him satisfying results. His name would be passed along. From here, perhaps it would make its way to Ganymede.
“I should go,” he said, eyes flicking around the area, searching for signs that they’d been seen, or heard.
There were none, of course. The park was empty of any auras but their own.
Perdita frowned. She hated to see him leave, to watch him return to an organization that could not care for him, no matter the promises it made.
“Do you know your star name?” she asked, before he could turn away.
Somewhere in the depths of space, there was a whole world just for him.
Cymophane might not have expected the question at that exact moment, but he came prepared with an answer.
“Plisetskaya,” he said.
A cat told him so, all those months ago when he first joined, when Jet took him to retrieve the pen that would allow him to transform on his own. At the time, the name had been briefly amusing, but ultimately useless. It reminded him of the past and thus meant nothing to him.
He offered it to Perdita in a timid voice, as if he longed to use it, but didn’t dare.
“Plisetskaya,” Perdita said, testing it out.
“Don’t ask me if I’ve ever seen Yuri on Ice,” Cymophane grumbled.
Perdita laughed, but the sound was commiserating more than amused. “I would never.”
She showed him another soft smile, and hoped it was enough to earn even a shred of his trust. “I hope we meet again, Plisetskaya.”
Cymophane swallowed. He nodded, then quirked his mouth into a nervous smile of his own.
Jet would be pleased.
