Welcome to Gaia! ::

He felt like he'd made all the proper first introductions, all the good-boy greetings, and still? Diasporite didn't quite know what he was looking at as he stared up at the queen-of-carnival Senshi's standing before him. Only that he felt infantile in her presence.

Oh-so-very-lacking---

In the department of makeup, hair, flair! It almost wasn't fair! And if he looked like he wanted to pout about it? The emotion that strayed over his features as he followed in her skirted wake, while he oh so briefly pursed his lips and sucked on his own sour thoughts quietly. He thought he could be jealous of her later, could pry her secrets from between her gloved fingers with his own.

After!!

After they'd completed the mission Rak had suggested he go on, with Pan, of all people? Supposedly she was good at what she did. Whatever that was. He was meant to branch out, after all, to make friends and catch his bearings after having been gone a year solid. Especially after the way the outer-space adventure had gone down! So it made sense to go out with her and fight -- what had it been again? Dia's brain ran a whole stream of blanks. All the swirls of rumors awash in the city proper, ever since the festival had ended. Ever since those nasty bugs that reeked of alien movies gone wrong and B-rated had been supposedly 'destroyed'....

Except he knew they hadn't. There had been a death. Two. Whether via rouge agent, alien enemy, or insect? Possibly some nastily feral youma half-starved for 'prey' that held no sway over it. It seemed indeterminate. What mattered was that it was handled, that it was handled smartly, and that meant running this particular patrol while paired up with.

"Pan, is it-- Sorry, but remind me what exactly it is your magic does again?" and it was hard to sound genuinely apologetic for nearly forgetting someone's name while scaling low-hung rooftops and with the wind catching his every other breath. "Not that I'm not dying to find out, oh, mid-fight? You know, once we've already run into something that will leave us both rather 'dead'," and he was used to teasing, to being playfully sarcastic, batting his lashes and flaunting his play-plastic nails. "But..."

Being called 'honey' in such a syrup-sweet tone put his hackles up, left his neck hairs standing like porcupine quills. The way he turned to her with put-upon politeness and a forced smile that read 'this b***h'; as if the words that lay unspoken had been stained into of the whites of his teeth instead. Because he didn't like being called 'honey', not by anyone, certainly not a stranger! Especially since he didn't like the threat that sat like jagged, ruinous sediment beneath the layers held in the word she wielded so sweetly.

If only he'd known what was coming next? He wouldn't've stopped long enough to face her at all, to look down his nose at her with indignance! He absolutely wouldn't've stood there like some docile sow with his neck out and bejeweled throat bared--

But he had---leveled her a look and opened his pert little mouth as if to say something back---

"Ho-neee--!!" the word became a cats yowl, a shocked little strangle of a yelp, punched out like stolen air as he felt her heft hit him! Felt himself flail, and his back hit the roof proper. It's nasty hardness and dirty-grit marring up his backside. He could've cursed her for that alone, getting his uniform dirty...

Attacking him when they had a job to do!! Psychotic, mardi gras painted, who--

"Clownassbitch!" the words became a single syllabled hiss, his useless costume-jewelry-tipped nails his only defense. He wasn't a fighter -- he never had been -- but if he could land even a single scratch on her? Oh, there was a vicious desire for that now! Certainly he tried, a futile stun of panicked scrabbling out with naught but his own petulant anger to guide him.

The gasp that followed being hauled over the edge, dangled like a scruffed dog, and realizing his utter lack of height in this s**t-luck scenario. It was almost comical, really. The way Dia’ kicked his feet uselessly, scraped air and the edge of poorly maintained roofing with the gold plated edges of his heels. He ceased his frantic clawing, and clutched instead at her blood-red, begloved wrists. As if changing his hold would somehow save him from plummeting below – or more humiliating yet? Save him from strangling on the ruffles that plumed around his neck. All the lace and flair puffing like a pissed off bird's featherage around his face, leaving him pink-cheeked and fuming. Only with nowhere to go, and nothing he could feasibly do about it. Mier even considered, for a brief, manic moment, the idea of deafening himself with his own pretty-as-a-princess' nails. To do so in order to blessedly escape the slow drawl of truthfulness crawling out of her throat and off her lips—

Such nasty little slugs, her words. And her calmness, a slap in the face. All her strength? Too sour to swallow, acidic as bile, his snarl for that a pathetic thing framed by the narrowed pink jewels of his gaze, brimming over with embarrassment for his own predicament. Because she was just a painted doll, wasn’t she? A space freak hollowed out and filled with magic for them—

To serve *them* with.

She was certainly serving alright. Dia thought maybe it was his pride that had rebelled before, an overabundance of ego. The way that logic had left the building of his mind via rope out the window, and stupidly tied said rope into a noose instead of a ladder. That he needed this lesson too. Being called out so blatantly, so ruthlessly, and Oh— did he want her to be wrong! But hadn’t he beerattledn beaten like this before? By giant owls, and alien robots, and freaks that looked like fish and Senshi that lived on worlds slathered in icy snow! Enemies one and all – Senshi one and all – and maybe, even if he disliked it with every fiber of his befrilled being – he needed this lesson this exact way–

“Yes, Mam..” the manner-minded words seethed from between his clenched teeth in answer when he couldn't bear to keep her gaze anymore, when the shame of being so easily rattled won out and he had to finally look away from her and all her composed mirth.

Because ******** her joy at his expense — and ******** her sexy boots too!!

“You could—” because he certainly couldn’t teleport, tucking the wince at the thought of being a concrete pancake, surviving that messily, and having to explain – oh – any of it to anyone. No. The idea rubbed him just as wrong as her hold on him did. “but then I’d just be uselessly-dead, instead of pretty-useless, wouldn’t I?” aiming his quivering words towards placating, trying so hard to appease whatever parts of her he’d offended; especially now that the ground seemed to loom up at him like a warning from below. It sure as s**t didn’t look soft down there, not even a little bit. Looked like it wanted to break his bones and ruin his good hair day all at once.

He wanted an open casket funeral at least! Weeping masses, some grand floral design, not a roadside roadshow and a boring cremation to follow it…

“And–it's very hard to teach a corpse anything! Where’s–ah–where's the fun in that? There isn’t any! And I promise–Icanlearn–” the trail of his words messy, fast, flung out with some semblance of hope. He didn’t doubt she would somehow find fun in it. Imagined, even, that she would’ve probably found fun in picking the wings off of baby angels, or butterflies – if she even let caterpillars live long enough to dream of one day having wings? “I can listen, too. Will–I will listen–very clearly. Pan, please?” his words ending on a whimper that was nearly a scream for the lurch of feelings as she dropped him. He was so sure there was going to be nothing below!! But there was roof---

Rough, gritty, dirty roof---

His a** stinging and eyes wide and the way he looked at her with utter, gaping, incredulity. If this was how it was going to be?This whiplash! He almost fancied asking for the quick death instead -- to be spared the cat and mouse games that would only lead to heart attacks -- but then he'd never prove her wrong, would he? Then the one part he'd liked about her speech...

That tiny part that felt like gold stars, and bright praise, that hooked deeper than all the rest. Because, yes -- he did have the attitude for this, a big bark to go with his petite size -- and yes -- He could find a way to be pretty and deadly all at once! To murder with side-eye and sass alone! But mostly because once, at the beginning of it all, his General had told him -- point blank -- bluntly as Pan -- that he wouldn't've bothered with him at all if he didn't believe he could do it. If he hadn't believed he could be useful, somehow. And maybe the way towards that looked like this? Like getting back up off his knees and only briefly dusting himself off.

Not for a second taking his eyes off of who was -- apparently -- his newest mentor for the evening. At least if he fainted on her? No...best not to entertain that thought at all, actually.....

Dia’ sucked it up, stills rubbing his sore behind, his face scrunched for her softer than the ground below sass. It could’ve been worse! There were mentions of splatters—

“Woooh—-we’ve saved the city a whole penny. Not having to scrape me off the street,” flat, false cheer and as he straightened he finally did stretch that last bit of tension out of his limbs. Eyeing her with wariness, like a babe did a new, fickle god. One with sharp pointy teeth who changed on a whim. Dia thought she had some nerve, asking if he could make a fist!

His cheeks puffed, his frown severe— there were words held on his tongue. Filed down to dullness because a backhanded compliment was a compliment nonetheless!!

“Awh, thank you. And of course I can make a-ah—

eldritch stardust