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This time of year was always so frustrating. It was -- it wasn't even that it was all that bad? But Chrysocolla had never had anyone to even do Valentine's Day with. Not as her, not in truth. All those other kinds of intimacy had never run into reciprocated romance, it'd always been her nursing her stupid little crushes in her stupid little heart and making do with whatever she got - from Schorl, mostly, who'd given her something she wanted there, but from anyone she'd ever chased after the heels of - and last year had been --

She didn't want to think about it. It hadn't been real. None of that had been real. Even if she'd really felt something, felt a little something, because she wasn't a good enough actor to pretend to be falling in love in any way that would be convincing - it had ben a mission, and it hadn't been Chrysocolla who was loved, there. It'd been an idea of Poppy. It hadn't been real, so it didn't matter, and she wasn't going to think about it.

Valentine's made people sloppy. Valentine's made people go out in flocks, just like any other holiday. That meant, just like any other holiday, it was so easy to drain in groups and then drain to death, and then steal the starseed right before life left their eyes. And she was going out all the time, these days, fervent-frantic for something to do, because there wasn't enough -- it didn't matter. Not really.

What mattered was bodies on the ground, tucked behind a screen, where they might've been assumed to have taken things a little too far and passed out. What mattered was setting her own quota and surpassing it, and thinking, maybe Hessonite will look twice at me, if I'm dutiful like this.

What probably also mattered was the aura coming up behind her, but it was a Super, and those usually weren't anything special. Chrysocolla was well-rested, she'd actually gotten reasonable sleep, and she hadn't gotten into any fights today -- one stupid little Super Senshi was fine. If they didn't run, she could haul them in for corruption, anyway.

Chrysocolla kept pulling on that energy right up until the new aura spoke, at which point she flicked her hand to vanish her haul elsewhere; it'd just get in the way if this turned into a scrap. Something about that voice sounded familiar, but it was familiar in a hard-to-place way - maybe visuals would help --

"Hold on a minute," she mumbled, not concerned about an incoming attack just yet, "wait, I know you; you're -- Cybele, right? It's been years. And you haven't gotten any stronger since then...? Tough luck, I guess?" The transformation that came over her face was something interesting, desaturated eyes sparkling glitter-gold and spring-green in traces that flooded the normal greyish-blue, crystalline facets of light that eyes shouldn't have - she looked interested, now; and excited, too, fairly certain she'd gotten the name right.

"What does -- what does it look like I'm doing? I'm draining." Chrysocolla shrugged, and the glitter-bloom of the colors in her eyes subsided to something less fantastical, hazeled spots of orange - annoyance, irritation, shift-in-thought. "And some other stuff. It's not, um, really your business? I was just getting done, anyway..."

In comparison to Cybele's hiss, Chrysocolla was casual; she was unhurried, a little irritated, a little annoyed. She'd been excited at her own memory for a second, but that'd faded like smoke; it was a funny little bit of trivia. Not that she could really remember what she'd talked about with Cybele all that time back then, even - it'd been so long ago, or it felt like so long ago, in the scheme of her memories that only stretched back to age fifteen.

"You were one of us and I missed it?"

It was a leap, maybe, but it wasn't an unknown quantity. Persephone, marked down in the Database, having lost all her rank and afflicted with starseed pains. Cybele, hard-eyed, accusatory with the way she held her facts. The connection wasn't impossible.

Chrysocolla looked -- dismayed, mostly, and childishly petulant, like she was about to scuff her boots across the ground and whine. "I bet you were pretty in black," she said, frowning, "so I hope there's photos." While she talked, though, she held one hand to her chest, almost over her heart; the orb of shimmering energy that coalesced between those fingers had black at its heart, swirling with iridescent color. "But I'm not going anywhere." Her weight shifted, more balanced than she'd been a moment prior. "You wouldn't remember me, then, I guess. But -- you were so sad the last time we talked. You wanted me to come back to you."

Then Chrysocolla smiled, insincere. Her eyes were glitter-silver, devoid of real color; the look on her face all connected into something pitying, something false.

"Tough luck."

In a blink, she was gone, flickering into existence behind Cybele with intent for an opening strike; this one wouldn't hurt so badly, but it was important to start things in the right way. Get Cybele off-balance with magic first, and then go in to hit hard, hit right. This was going to be fun.

"You're part of why she's so upset?!" It came out stuttery and high-pitched, in one breath; avoiding Cybele's half-hearted attack was easy, but Chrysocolla stepped back and kept her distance, trying to recenter herself before she moved recklessly and left herself open.

It -- shouldn't have made her so angry, so proxied-wild in Sylvite's defense. On some level, some half-conscious level, she knew it wasn't the concern you had for someone who was just a friend -- but Chrysocolla didn't exactly have a long history of actual friends anyway, so what did she know? The mood wasn't important, as long as she worked with it, through it, past it.

When she lunged in again, it was with a harsh punch, aimed at center of mass. Face was less fun. People started running when she went for the face, started crying, started pleading. But this was an option with less immediate fleeing attached.

There was a flicker of horrid rage on Chrysocolla's face, eyes neon-red, ruby-red, red as anything she'd ever known; she pulled back for just a second when the bow appeared in Cybele's hand, uncertain in the face of unknown magic, but when it didn't seem as if it was immediately dangerous she went in for another punch.

This one threw more of her weight behind it -- she was a heavy girl, and she wanted the advantage at any cost, and right now the advantage she wanted was Cybele on the ground - or off-balance, either would work, anything would work, she'd get her blood eventually.

It was easy to want. Easier to carry through with some of it. Even if Cybele got away, Chrysocolla wanted to have the satisfaction she'd managed to break something, managed to leave wounds that would hurt for days and maybe weeks. Playing cat-and-mouse was almost more fun when it was two cats, and no mice to be seen.

That wasn't acceptable. It wasn't enough. Sometimes, some days, Chrysocolla wished and wanted that she'd been given magic that hurt - that cut and bled and bruised and drew bright pain through the minds of her enemies - because even as much as she knew how to work with what she had, how it gave her a specific niche nobody duplicated, she wanted blood. She didn't get what she wanted in that sense, most of the time, not unless she sent her opponents through windows (cardigans for work had turned out to be a godsend, when she needed to cover up scrapes) -- and that wasn't going to happen, here.

She worked with what she had. She wasn't supposed to keep thinking about what she wanted, not in a fight; she was being sloppy. All that time civilian had slowed her skills, maybe.

Protect the face. Easy thought. Easier said than done, but manageable to do. Chrysocolla took a hasty backstep, finding her balance again, holding herself - not still, but tense, ready. How long did she have left before her magic wore off? It couldn't be that long. She was running out of time. She dragged an energy orb out of subspace and bit down, just for that extra buzz, focused, focused--

And she was behind Cybele again, lashing out with a kick. Chaining teleportation was hard, harder than she wanted to let on, but she was good at it - she was good at it, it was something she could do - and every advantage deserved merciless use.

That was disappointing. It was good that Cybele was running, if Chrysocolla thought about it; she'd started sloppy, pushed into acting unwisely by knowing the other woman had been cruel to Sylvite, and she hadn't exactly recovered the right equilibrium to fight like this. But she'd been hoping to crush cartilage, break a nose, cause more than just bruises, really hurt someone --

It didn't matter what she'd been hoping for. Cybele was leaving, and Chrysocolla didn't chase her after the first few steps, coming to a halt and watching her enemy go.