Fantasy The Old Gods

[Faraine]

The frigid brick at her back was the only thing keeping her strapped to the planet. Nightclub techno thumped from the structure behind them and all throughout her, neon pink and purple light flaring from the sign above, and she absorbed it all like cotton. A slick tongue on her neck, Elra was struck with exhilarated surprise, legs turned rubber. Today’s muse was strong and fired up and squirmy, and soft in all the nice places.

“You like that…?” The stranger whined against her throat. Elra could only exhale in reply, breath fogging in front of ample rose lips. This night had a chill, but her blood and skin were magma. The duality was delicious.

Yes. Yes, she did like that. Just as she’d liked every other Terra sensation she’d encountered: heightened and wild and chaotic. In her true form, sensations could be dampened with sheer willpower to keep the distractions down, to keep her focus.

But try as she might, she couldn’t dampen anything in this body. And regrettably - no, fascinatingly, excruciatingly - Elra loved it.

Terras were so complex.

More complex than Elra could have imagined. It was knowledge which would elude her were it not for her predicament: the impossibility impracticality of what had happened. The cursed event, she’d come to refer to it as, when her consciousness ripped free from one prison straight into another. Three full moon cycles had passed since then, when she’d been liberated from her mechanical hell, when she’d slid along the copper wire river of Styx and ended up here, inside of a Terra’s body.

This Terra who had a name, and her name was Aren Gold.

Elra had no clue why Aren had been there, at the cursed event. The pieces were shards of pottery that didn’t seem to connect together in a way that created a full vase. The memories of this body told a story that wouldn’t have led Aren to the mechanical wasteland. Aren hadn’t been a scientist or machinist, as the others had been when she’d awakened. Aren had been a glass-blower with butter hands, smooth and latte brown, never battled a day in her twenty-three terra-years, and she had friends and a dear brother and a passion for craft, for manifesting ideas to exhibit to the world, who liked smiles and the occasional cocktail, and her insufferable boyfriend - this boyfriend who wouldn’t leave Elra the fuck alone, who couldn’t marry this new idea of Aren abandoning the luxuries of her stability for a life on the streets, of constant self-destructive, witless tendencies.

Aren was gentle. Too gentle for Elra Trur’els, who had been sculpted as if from volcanic rock in her Talron form, fashioned to be a warrior for the hive.

Remembering her roots, Elra fisted the back of the hooker’s hair, tearing her tongue and teeth from her neck, needing the control - no, she needed relief from an onslaught of fiery bolts ripping through every inch of her, stripping her of dignity, of focus -

The stranger was relentless and shoved out of the grip, lips against lips, infecting her with soft dulcet wetness…

…and something that tasted like sugar -

Elra tucked away with a roll along the alley wall. She hunched into herself, thin, bare arms snaked around her leather-clad torso, her breathing suddenly shallow and fast. Her sharp cerulean eyes flung open in surprise, cat pupils dilating at the curved toe of her cobalt boots.

It was fresh hell; this new sensation.

It was everything, but times one thousand.

The winter was no longer slight and manageable, it permeated every inch of her, gnashed at her button nose, her fingers and toes. The blaring horns and rush of traffic in an adjacent street shattered her sensitive hearing. Someone somewhere coughed and it ricocheted, a bullet to the brain. Sweat dewed her brow and she even felt that, irritating, and it itched, she raked her nails against the side of her face, digging hard and leaving a rash of pink.

The city was now hyper and real, and surely there was something stalking down the alleyway, surely the umbrage was alive and cackling, and the dumpster was brimming with squiggling maggots, and the black stain over there on the pavement was blood, that shadowed heap against the wall a body, and the smoky grey overcast would fall on top of her head.

Maybe she didn’t appreciate every terra sensation.

Through the hysteria which grew as an expanding bubble behind her chest, she rasped, her voice tinged soprano but deep and welling, “What did you give me?”

“Don’t be a prude,” a hand wrapped around her chin, urged her face up, “I just wanted to have a little fun - ”

Elra caught the thin wrist and twisted and, quick as an eye blink, cracked the Terra’s fingers against the brick wall. She may not have the power of her Talron body, but she had the wits, the decades of warrior training and skill. A shrill scream ripped from the woman’s red-painted mouth; the headache turned unbearable, stumbling Elra backwards, crashing her against the filthy ground and screwing her face while the pained yowls persisted before her.

“What the fucking FUCK, you asshole!”

“Stop!” Elra roared with a hand clutching her head and she scrambled, trying to be upright. Too loud, too loud, it hurts. A pointed heel staked against her bare shoulder and she was kicked to the ground, head bouncing against the firm ground and she felt it, all of it, too much of it, all at once. Twisting, she gripped the ground until her nails might rip off, and she snarled at the pave-stone, as if this was its fault.

But no, it was her fault. Of course it was. Again, she’d been careless and partook of too much excitement at the behest of Aren’s body. It was all too fun, too acute, and the freedom was more than she could bear, and it made it so easy to forget everything.

The war, the cursed event, the Talron who were no more, her family, her friends, her everything.

It was all gone. She was alone.

Elra laughed a bitter thing, but it morphed into a dry retch. She needed to be rid of this substance, whatever it was. It was making her weaker than she already was, and she knew (even in this godawful state), that until whatever it was was gone, she’d be a messy heap of undulating brown and gold-streaked messy hair, worthless as a puddle collected on the pavement.

Overhead was a commotion, the back alleyway door opening with cacophonous music spilling out, a whined complaint from her play-toy, and the hooker turned to three. Elra couldn’t tell if it was the paranoia or reality, but she sure as fuck fathomed when they were beating upon her. A foot slammed here, her ribcage exploding with fire, and before she could fall to the side, another strike to her cheek, her sight going white.

 

[Syntra]

It had all been a lie.

That had not surprised Phaedre the way it perhaps should have, likely because she understood that lies were something of a necessity when it came to... well, running things. Making sure it didn't all fall apart. For a machine to work smoothly, you had to oil it, and wasn't that the perfect analogy? That it was wet and sticky and gross was the entire point.

No, no real shock there.

What had surprised her somewhat was everything that followed, though Phaedre was, at least, willing to admit that that was pretty much on her. Truth, progress, understanding; all just buzzwords, all just smokes and mirrors. What was there to really grasp, when they were just rats in a maze?

Refusing to chase one's own tail was a sin.

And trying to leave the maze?

Blasphemy.

She hadn't gotten used to the silence, and likely never would. The darkness wasn't too pleasant, either; no longer the smooth reprieve that came every night, but a cold, metallic emptiness, perhaps courtesy of the helmet they'd all but fused to her throat. 'It's better that way, Doc,' a tall, lanky assistant, just a few years younger than her, had claimed. Something about him struck her as... childlike, almost. Innocent. In another world, they could have been friends; in another world, he wouldn't have reached for one of the crueler-looking instruments, just a touch apologetic as he did so. The shrug said more than a thousand words, yet he chose to speak, still: 'Eyes are something of a liability, down here. Not like you'd see anything important.'

And, the thing was, he was right. That had no idea how much he was right was the one saving grace in this entire clusterfuck, and Phaedre couldn't help but let her lips curve in a little smile.

Indeed, eyes were a liability. The default, and so also the easiest, way of perceiving things. The most basic one, helpful when watching out for predators and such, though not in many other cases.

Many key cases, as it was.

That night, the whirring of the chip in her head sounded sweeter than ever before.

~***~

"Is she awake?"

Yes.

"I dunno, mate, the brainwaves read... a lil' off. I guess she could be, but I also don't think she is? Or maybe she's just losing it."

"Would that be so weird, though? It's been three months, mate. Three months in Charon's Pit! Ya think she even remembers her own name?"

They laughed a terrible laugh, and in that moment, Phaedre wished nothing more than to strangle them both. Of course, it was a good thing that this particular wish didn't come true; she did need them, or at least one of them, alive.

For now.

'Alive' could also be a technicality, in the sense that all that was really required was breathing. Breathing, the heart doing its usual thing, and... that was it, really. The mechanical stuff. Brain death would be a bonus, rather than an obstacle. Not that there would be much of a difference for the likes of those two, of course.

Heh! At least sarcasm was still there for her. Sarcasm, and the burning fucking hatred.

Most said hatred was bad, but Phaedre had long since learned that most people were full of shit. Most were also perfectly hate-able, which made for a pretty epic conflict of interest. No, hatred was... good. An anchor. Something to hold on, even if everything else had withered away. A focusing glass, if you knew just where to direct it.

Did she know?

Soon enough, the truth would be revealed.

Funny, considering the truth had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

"But it's interesting, actually," the first man replied, once the initial glee wore off, "The boss seems to think so. She hasn't said it outright, but the frequency of those tests... Almost looks like she's fishing for something specific."

"Hmm?"

The exasperation was palpable, even if she couldn't see his features, "Don't ask me. Does it look like I'm stupid enough to dig around for that kinda info?"

"Heh. No, I suppose not."

"Okay, so can you bring the logs from the past two weeks? Sam said she wanted to see them, and you know how she gets when--"

Phaedre couldn't hear the rest, mainly

An opportunity!

And a rare one, too. They usually watched her in pairs, not because they were aware of the risks but because the protocol demanded it, and the protocol was sacred. Something had to be; that people had nothing to pray to didn't mean the reasons for it, also, disappeared. The instinct was still there, like a coffee stain that wouldn't fucking go away.

But, no matter!

You know what the funny thing about souls was?

That it was a signature, and signatures could be rewritten. Erased, as well. Replaced with something else, if you were desperate enough.

Phaedre was definitely both, although the fact that she'd been studying the brain wavelengths of her jailers specifically, also, helped. She focused on the gentle pulsing of the chip, going tap, tap, tap in her head, and--

~***~

It was hard to tell what she disliked the most about this; whether it was the neon lights, the music so loud that it was hard to hear her own thoughts, or the people, who had somehow found a way to enjoy it all. All three were pretty good candidates, which was why Phaedre decided, in the end, that her heart was actually big enough not to favor one over the others. She was perfectly capable of--

"Hey, hot stuff!" The stranger's arm ended up looped over her shoulders, and immediately, Phaedre found she had to change her answer. Her most hatred element? This fucking guy, specifically.

(Most fucking guys, to be honest.)

"I don't have the time for this," she muttered, before freeing herself from his grasp, "Hands off."

"Aw c'mon, don't be like this. What can be so important that you're busy on this lovely night? Not looking for some fun?"

Looking for god, actually. The god, if she wanted to be pedantic about this, which she, absolutely, did. At this point, 'pedantic' might as well have been Phaedre's second name. 'Stupid,' wasn't, though, and so she only gave a non-committal shrug before disappearing into the anonymous crowd, looking at her wristwatch as she did so.

She was close. She, or he, or they, or whatever pronouns they preferred -- Phaedre could only judge from the name, which wasn't a good metric when it very likely didn't follow any earthly conventions.

What am I even doing? A good question, and just like with most of those, there was no good answer. Even imagining what she was going to say felt like something of a stretch; like one of scenarios running on pure dream logic, except that waking up wouldn't save her this time.

'Hello, god. Wanna destroy the world together? Since I'm a bit salty about everything, and have no idea what to do with my life.'

Striking, perhaps, but a little too unhinged. Phaedre didn't know if she was quite this unhinged, and also wasn't sure if this was the best way of making friends.

'Can I study you?'

Honest, though there was also such a thing as being too honest. Somehow, she just... didn't think that would go over too well, given that research was likely a bit of a sore spot for the Talron.

'Do you want to...?'

What, actually? It would have helped immensely had Phaedre, herself, had the faintest idea of what she actually planned to do, but... well, maybe she had forgotten who she was. Forgotten, and was now running on autopilot; and since Doctor Phaedre García.exe sought information, that was what she still did, because there was nothing else for someone like her to do.

Even now. Even with everything crumbling. Even with everyone's time apparently being borrowed, and the debt collectors knocking on the door.

Another, hysterical option popped into her head: 'Will you please give me your autograph?' And Phaedre chuckled, because dammit, this was funny and she was funny, occasionally.

Of course, the laughter died down somewhat when the signal finally led her outside, behind one of the seedier bars, only for her to witness... something she didn't want to be seeing. In fact, it was quite possibly what she wanted to be seeing the least.

"Ehm, ehm," Phaedre coughed. "Am I interrupting something?"

She knew she wasn't impressing anyone, what with her short frame, girlish features, and a voice that seemed to be permanently stuck in what she liked to call 'customer support mode.' A few heads turned, and they did freeze for a bit, though they seemed to be confused more than anything else. Dammit, who was that chick that didn't know when to stay away?!

To their endless misfortune, 'that chick' was also someone who knew how to get the necessary level of respect. In her case, this was usually accomplished by pulling out a big enough gun, and so that was exactly what she did.

"Scram," Phaedre said, "Before I call the Enforcers. Do I have to repeat myself?"

And she didn't, mostly because firearms were the most convincing argument in the world. Apparently, the woman they were beating the shit out of wasn't worth that much to them -- a funny contrast, given that she could be worth everything to Phaedre.

Or nothing, alternatively. That still remained to be seen.

She walked over to her, the shaking heap of misery that she was, and extended her hand. "Are you okay?" A stupid question, to be sure, but there were worse ways to open this conversation. Such as: "For a god, you do look a little pathetic."

 

[Faraine]

Elra was… what did the Terras call it?

Ah yes, she was ‘fucked’.

She’d determined in her three full moons of sharing a Terra brain that there were multiple ways in which one could be ‘fucked’. Through many firsthand accounts, she’d come to recognize this as one of less desirable ways.

But, still, it was odd… Elra entertained the scope of just how odd while curled up like a roadkill rodent in the alley, grunting while each assailant had a turn delivering a blow, and she’d hiss at the stomps, the kicks, the punches, and she’d smile, because it was insanity that she loved even this helplessness, this weird agony that twisted her nerve endings into knots.

To feel things was intoxicating, mind-numbing bliss.

And it was torture.

The Talron could desensitize themselves and they needed to, because of their heightened senses. She’d made it over to this terra body with the senses, the night vision, even, but without the incredibly helpful skill to turn them off.

What a twisted sense of humor the Fates had...

Elra could hardly understand or even care why the assault was over - she was a castaway in a wasteland of drink, drug, and overabundant sensation - but the blows did indeed cease and the air around her breezed and she came to the eventual realization that she was alone. Flipping over onto her back, arms outstretched and palms facing the heavens, she absorbed sound, sight, hearing and feeling. The ash grey sky still bore upon her and the shadows were closing in, the freeze munching on her extremities, the roar of passing vehicles rumbling her skull, but she was well-accustomed to terror and everything was losing its prominence. The sugar substance was already ebbing like molasses from her bloodstream…

Oh, she wasn’t alone.

“Are you okay?”

It was a silly question but one commonly asked, followed by a few coin flipped at her toes. Most of the time, the question was asked by the goddamned boyfriend of Aren’s (who hadn’t called in a couple days, now that she thought of it). Mindlessly, lithe fingers reached up to touch the device he’d use to pester her with: the metallic plate beneath the surface of skin which etched the cheekbone in a line of fluorescent turquoise. The flesh edges of the bright blue light were harsh pink rimmed and oil-slick bruise, from when she’d tried to rip it out before discovering it was connected to her brain (ripping out your own brain was inadvisable even to a Talron).

Initially, the boy wouldn’t go five minutes between each outreach attempt. It tapered off eventually, and now he only called once, sometimes twice a day…

Was this sadness she was feeling? Perhaps a little regret? She snorted. Highly unlikely… although it had felt nice to have some regularity to her wild, unexplained existence.

After much deliberation, the outstretched hand came into focus. The terra was still standing over her, apparently. Elra grunted over onto her side, then clambered up onto her feet. When she got there, she wobbled a step towards the stranger - a female, it seemed, and just below her eye level - before pulling herself into as upright of a posture that she could manage (unfortunately for her, it wasn’t very upright).

“Yes,” she managed through the smarting pain in her eye and sides, and gave her a look-over. Nice curves, short, girly. The woman was equipped, which the fighter in Elra admired. She was sure to express her admiration with a two-fingered planted touch to her brow - a Talron salute - and she moved to step around her… because she was still hovering around…

Why was she still hovering around?

“I’ve had enough fun for the evening,” Elra deduced. She eyed the stranger sidelong, a cat considering a mouse, as she wavered past, “tomorrow, maybe..."

 

[Syntra]

The Talron. The gods.

Not many used that title for them anymore, mostly because they preferred to keep their tongues. New times demanded new names, and so they'd all collectively switched to Liars, and Deceivers, and whatever lingo the Elders happened to favor that particular day, all too happy to forget their not-so-glorious past. Slaves no longer! Marching towards the happy tomorrows, now!

Still, the idea lingered. A thought was not so easily killed, and what were the creatures that had once trampled them to dust, if not divine? If not gods?

Fucking disasters.

Fancy batteries, too, but 'disaster' was the first word that came to Phaedre's mind as she watched Elra, Elra the Powerful, Elra the Ineffable, try and get back to her feet. 'Try', of course, being the key word. Pathetic. Well, this... wasn't what she'd expected. Not at all. Had Phaedre spent a little less of her time studying the latest developments in the field of nanoscience, and a little more of it browsing memes, perhaps she might have made a reference to one of those 'what you order from Zish versus what you get' jokes.

Except, maybe not? Because it wasn't fucking funny.

What she had ordered was a nightmare. A divine flame. Someone to give her a sense of direction when she herself didn't know where to go, perhaps for the first time in her life, because it'd turned out that everything she'd ever chased was a mirage. And, hey! Maybe destruction wasn't the answer; maybe nothing was, as it so often happened to be the case. Phaedre had... kind of stopped believing in solutions, if only because they were rarely more than a different set of questions in disguise.

If x is true, does y apply?

Doesn't this debunk most of my previous research?

How the FUCK do I get the next grant?

That sort of thing.

The answer to this question would at least be something, though, and in that moment, Phaedre would happily take it over the... weird sensation of watching the train get closer, and not being able to get off the rails. Of not really caring to do it, since there was little point.

Now, or ten seconds later -- what did it matter?

But Elra wasn't any of that. Phaedre could admit, as she watched her through narrowed eyes, that she was definitely something, though whether that was a good or bad thing remained somewhat ambiguous.

Above their heads, the stars shone brightly. The cicadas, or something like them, sang their sweet song.

"Tomorrow?" Phaedre tilted her head aside, both shocked and not, "Give me one reason to go along with that, Elra. And it better be a good one, because you're turning me into an atheist all over again." The namedrop should be enough to get her to realize that, no, she wasn't one of her hook ups, even if she wasn't all that bad-looking herself, and wouldn't fucking a god be the highlight of her resume?

Definitely not. Phaedre's resume actually was impressive, thank you for asking -- although, with the kind of brain damage she must have incurred for that unfortunate thought to even be conceived in the first place, that likely no longer mattered. Sigh.

"Don't just stare at me," she snapped. "I figured you wanted to do something with your life now that you're free, instead of... getting fucked up behind a bar? I have to say, I'm disappointed. Heartbroken. I know that you can do better, Elra."

Giving a pep talk to a drunken god that had just tried to pick her up wasn't how Phaedre had imagined her night to go, but wasn't there a queer symmetry in that? Because she also hadn't imagined that the rest of her life would devolve into such a fucking shitshow.

 

[Faraine]

There was crick in her jaw that didn’t seem to want to be corrected. Elra held her chin in her hand and pulled it around a bit, but chomping down still felt like an overbite, or side bite… disaligned, awkward. It’d probably solve itself, but if it didn’t, well… that was unfortunate. But at least this body wasn’t hers.

…Never mind that this body was her only option.

She thought she’d been clear about her intentions, but the stranger kept at it.

“Tomorrow?”

A sweep of the back of her hand across her lips showed a streak of blood. Not silver Talron blood, crimson, and metallic instead of sweet. Yet another reminder that this life, this body, hell, even this species wasn’t hers. She was a disease…A parasite. A worm.

Was she even Talron anymore? Elra spat the horrible taste, hoping some of the self-deprecation would also leave, while the terra persisted.

“Give me one reason to go along with that, Elra. And it better -“

Elra zapped to a stop, instantly very sober.

“- be a good one, because you’re turning me into an atheist all over again.”

Elra.

Elra… not Aren.

Too fast, she flipped a stare over her shoulder, jade beams blaring inquisitive into the stranger.

What? Or, who - or how, or everything, really, all the questions, all at once, stumbling over each other at the tip of her tongue, eager for their moment to air. Elra spent at least five seconds sifting through which one to ask first, but also trying to peel apart the glorious mess of confusion, despair, terror that had become her insides.

And elation.

Someone knew who she was. Someone knew she existed. This was comforting, in a way. And offensive. She’d never heard the name “Elra” on terra lips, as a matter of fact, and she almost laughed (okay, she did a bit, a little scoffy thing), because it sounded too soft in their language. To the Talron - more specifically, in her dialect - the name derived from Eil-ROC which meant bitter adversary. In the terra language, well… she sounded like a cartoon princess.

Elra was still marveling over the way the two syllables had tumbled off the stranger’s lips, sight zoned there, when she realized more words were coming:

"Don't just stare at me.”

Elra stared.

”I figured you wanted to do something with your life now that you're free, instead of... getting fucked up behind a bar? I have to say, I'm disappointed. Heartbroken. I know that you can do better, Elra."

A switch flipped. The distance between them vanished and her hands squashed the sides of the woman’s head. “Who are you?” She blasted at her face. “Are you Talron? Where -?” and then some Talron words excitedly tumbled behind her teeth before stopping succinctly when it was clear there were certain maneuvers a human tongue couldn’t manage.

Shit, how irritating… Grimacing, she grasped the woman’s wrist and tugged in a direction.

Whether or not the terra followed, Elra dropped her grip and took off at a quick (albeit wobbly) gait, spilling from the alleyway onto the adjacent street. It was bustling, loud, techno jacking up the cadence of her pulse, and streaks of vehicles roared past. It was a cesspool of humanity, the worst of it, living it up in the Midnight District.

Elra sidestepped a puddle, and over a person passed out on the pavement, and turned her face to try again, “Are you… matre’?” She flit her eyes ahead to focus on squishing through two bargoers, “… caretaker? Mother?”

It only made sense - the woman seemed quite concerned over her wellbeing and only a matre’ would have this personality.

 

[Syntra]

Perhaps Phaedre should have thought this through better.

That little ‘perhaps’ would have been a ‘definitely’ under literally any other circumstance, but with the apocalypse supposedly knocking on the door, she found it somewhat difficult to care. What, was she supposed to have actual plans? In this economy?

Oh, please. The number of calories burned on producing a single coherent thought wasn’t worth it, considering that she was supposed to save it for, like… death match gladiator battles. There likely would be those; humanity was rarely at their best when the shit hit the fan, and since the shit was about to hit the fan in a pretty spectacular way, Phaedre could only assume that the collective freak-out would be spectacular as well.

And of course she was unequipped for that.

Of fucking course.

Just her luck, wasn’t it?

Fuck her for actually having dreams for the future when future was out of stock!

For daring to live like she wasn’t a disaster movie protagonist!

There was a premonition, or something like it; this little warning voice somewhere in the back of her head, suggesting that, hey, maybe she should start paying attention now. You know, just in case she wanted to survive? But Phaedre García, who had spent the better part of her life ignoring anything that wasn’t strictly rational thought, was too consumed by trying to get this stupid god to see reason.

She had to… save her?

Okay, perhaps ‘rationality’ wasn’t the best way to describe her current state of mind, but Phaedre also felt she had earned the right to be a little bit unhinged.

Apparently, the Talron didn’t agree. It looked like she disagreed with Phaedre’s right to exist in general, which struck her as the majority opinion these days. ‘Burn the witch’ was ever the popular slogan, really.

“Let go!” she demanded, the attempt to wrestle herself from her grip purely symbolic, “I don’t like this,” as if that wasn’t the entire point, “That’s not how you earn friends around here.”

Or anywhere.

Phaedre thought so, anyway.

Warrior culture or not, grabbing people against their will tended to be somewhat frowned upon.

So, in other words, I’m fucked, right? And not even because of what the Talron was doing, but because any situation in which she, Phaedre García, got to play the role of the etiquette expert seemed doomed by definition.

This fact was then proved true all over again, solely because she a) couldn’t fucking help herself, b) didn’t know when to shut up: “Yes,” Phaedre deadpanned, “Your mother. Glad to see you after all those years, Elra, but I didn’t raise you to be like this. Manners, anyone?”

There was a limit to everything, though; even to Phaedre’s audacity. Usually, the limit was the sky itself, but a long-forgotten survival instinct told her to stop fucking around, right now. “No, I’m not anyone’s mother. The name’s Phaedre. I’m a…” the word ‘scientist’ might land her in trouble, so it would probably be better to avoid it, “…someone whose job is to know things. Therefore, I know about you, but,” she raised her hands, “I am not about to sell you out. I could have done that without speaking a single word to you. I just wanted to…”

A disappointed sigh left her lips, because what she did or didn’t want still seemed a confused mess, “Talk to you. Figure out what to do. Help you, in case you also planned to do things other than destroy yourself. You do know you’re basically living on self-destruction mode, right?” She leaned against the wall, gesturing vaguely towards the body collapsed on the concrete, “Overdo it, and you’ll end up like this. Organ harvesters are one of the nicer sorts you can meet that way.”

 

[Faraine]

“Yes, your mother. Glad to see you after all those years, Elra, but I didn’t raise you to be like this. Manners, anyone?”

Elra glanced over her shoulder at the strange girl, an eyebrow curved up. Her words said one thing, but her tone said another - and Aren Gold's wisdom with this terra manner of behavior bled into her own limited understanding: this was sarcasm.

A small shrivel of hope still clung for dear life, however, even though she knew it couldn’t be true. Talron weren’t raised by the mother, they were raised in a kindle of other kittens by a designated prosia, whose only delegation was to keep most of them alive, and to do so without getting attached for they would leave for a life of violence and many would not survive.

A flood of warm recollections from her kindle invaded her brain. Not necessarily sight memories, but feeling: the belonging, the heat and luster of her kin’s black skin against hers, a kin’s rough tongue on her cheek.

Again, she rattled her head in hopes to empty it. The urban racket certainly helped to do so, the blaring neon lights, the stench of smoke, piss and popcorn.

“No, I’m not anyone’s mother. The name’s Phaedre. I’m a…” she hesitated, and Elra fell into step with this Phaedre, now, sight zoned on her face, “…someone whose job is to know things. Therefore I know about you, but,” her hands raised, and Elra flinched, “I am not about to sell you out. I could have done that without speaking a single word to you. I just wanted to…”

Elra halted in the middle of the busy sidewalk so sudden, a biker nearly mowed them over (swearing wildly), but she blinked at Phaedre while she explained. There was a level of desperation in the girl’s voice. Want. Yes, it was clear she wanted something of Elra, but not the usual thing most terras seemed to want from from her. There was no carnality there, no batted lashes; instead, there was a hope for unity, for help, for partnership.

It was strikingly familiar.

Elra’s gaze lingered on the crumpled body they had passed over. “Organ harvesting is a revered profession,” came her cryptic reply.

She turned toward the booth they’d stopped in front of, and she nodded at the bulky man sitting there.

“Aren,” He raised his metal brows at Phaedre, the whole top of his head from the eyes up mechanical. Glowing crimson eyes scanned the newcomer, up and down, “…and friend.” He mashed a button and the door to the building released, Elra slipping through.

Ascending the dank stairwell, Elra strolled oblivious to the many figures scattered here and there, some entangled in an act of debauchery, some giggling to themselves, one rocking back and forth on haunches and muttering, one was simply motionless and sprawled across an entire flight. She stayed silent in her ascent even after they were at a doorway, where she allowed the palm scanner to grant them access.

Inside, the flat was bleak, grey, and the blueprint was a meager square. Cement floor, a kitchen off to the side, a bed and living room combo situated in front of a smeared glass patio door. A purple jacket was cast away on the only other furniture, a chair, and there was still the odor from the city, but it was tinged in something else - a clove spice scent. Everything was at least tidy, with the exception of a popped open pack of freeze-dried ravioli sitting half-eaten next to the sink.

The food was slid over by Elra’s hand, over to her guest. “You hungry?”

“So,” She continued, tipping her head a bit. “Phaedre. It doesn’t sound Talron.”

Without warning nor preamble, Elra tugged the chest zipper of her leather top down, unveiling a bra that covered a decent set of breasts and a small stomach. A very typical woman’s body, save for the brand.

It was about the size of a quarter, in the direct center of her bosom, and it flared the same bright blue as her eyes. It swirled like wall-climbing ivy to form a Talron letter.

“Guessing you don’t have one of these, then,” Elra pointed to the mark, searching Phaedre’s face. The mark was the only physical thing aside from the feline shape of her pupils and turquoise eyes that had made it over into Aren Gold’s body. “It’s the mark of a Talron,” She explained. “All of us are branded at birth with our designation.”

 

[Syntra]

Is she going to kill me?

A stray thought, albeit one that should have come much earlier. The Talron killed, both because they wanted to and because they they could, and Phaedre was silly for ever assuming this one would... do what, actually?

She didn't know, still.

The truth was that she'd never really known anything; chasing absolutes in a world of probabilities was a fool's errand, and Phaedre did not like to think of herself as a fool.

...And yet, what else was she? Given that, when the Talron turned around and headed somewhere, Phaedre's only response was to follow. Or, well, not quite: "Is it? In my mind, it's a slightly more fucked-up equivalent of pickpocketing." Bodypocketing? Fleshpocketing? Why the fuck was she thinking about the etymology of that, anyway?

(Likely because not being able to turn her brain off was Phaedre García's One Problem. Oh sure, she did have more of those; enough to drown in, enough to. Most of them, however, could be traced back to the unfortunate tendency to keep asking 'why' when she really should have shut up, instead.)

I still can't believe I'm doing this. With her eyes glued on Elra's back, Phaedre tried to determine whether there was anything divine about it. Mostly, it... just looked like back. Human back. The back of a young woman, not too muscular but also not stick-thin, with pleasant enough curves. The kind of girl you might invite for a coffee, once or twice, and make her laugh for a bit, before inevitably coming to the conclusion that going further would just trigger all those not so fun abandonment issues ehm, that she was boring, actually. Right.

No, nothing too divine about her.

But there was nothing particularly divine about Phaedre, either, and so she felt that blaming Elra for that would be a little hypocritical. "Hey," she waved at the man at the entrance, "A nice night, eh?" It was still strange, participating in smalltalk like that. Always had been, in a way; people seemed to be born with some kind of software for social situations that she, personally, lacked, and the absence of that compatibility was felt keenly. Charon's Pit had... deepened it. Made the distance feel wider.

What was there left to say? She could become a not-so-old woman yelling at clouds, or she could make them fucking pay.

Phaedre preferred the latter.

She paid little attention to the couples, believing that they, in turn, would pay little attention to her, and entered what passed for Elra's home. The expression on her face was not impressed, "This feels like the beginning of one of those state-sponsored videos. You know the one?" Of course she didn't. "Don't be a passer-by," Phaedre mimicked, an octave higher than usual, "If you know someone who might suffer from the symptoms of depression, refer them to the closest mental health specialist ASAP. There is no shame in seeking help."

And there wasn't, though Phaedre had this creeping suspicion that what bothered the Elders about the current mental health crisis had more to do with the lowered productivity than anything else. That a form of lobotomy was one of the more common treatments also spoke volumes.

"No," she said, "And no. I think it's Greek. My parents wanted to name me Andromeda," the pretentious fools, "But someone told them it would be bad optics. The whole princess thing was... unfortunate."

Phaedre had half a mind to protest Elra's actions, torn between being like 'hey, what the fuck' and 'too soon, much?' but the complaint froze on her tongue when the tattoo revealed itself. It all but shimmered on her skin, both metallic and not; a memory of a distant age.

Something new.

Something interesting.

Ever too impulsive for her own good, Phaedre knelt next to the other woman and touched the pictograph, somehow surprised by the warmth blooming underneath her hands. (Okay, maybe this was divine. A little bit.) "So this got transferred from your previous body?" she looked up to meet Elra's gaze, locks of copper hair falling aside, "Interesting. Any other souvenirs like that? And what does it mean, that designation of yours?" Then, after a beat: "What does it feel like? Your... condition."

Not being herself. Living in the body of another. Everything about it, really.

 

[Faraine]

So, Phaedre wasn’t Talron.

After her absurd tirade regarding mothers raising their own kits, Elra had assumed this was the case, but there was still the hope. Hope that perhaps it had been a ruse, part of the ‘disguise’. Though, Phaedre appeared quite comfortable in her terra flesh… but the logistics of this “trapped in a terra skin suit” were likely not very fleshed out…

Aren would have chirped: ‘no pun intended.’ Elra wondered vaguely what a pun was.

If her yearning was a flower, a petal peeled off and drifted, but before it could touch the floor -

Elra flinched at the woman’s movement. Her sight crisp clear in the dim light, she saw everything: the step she took towards her, the kneeling down, the way this girl’s hair fell around her face, the shape of her nose, and before she was finished picking apart the aesthetic of it all…

The touch. Elra’s nose flared, eyes fluttering shut, and her posture softened. It was gentle, unexpected pressure. But not unwarranted - hell no, who wouldn’t want this? And warm. It sent a current of heat from the point of contact through her nerves and it fucked around with her brain until she forgot the basics for survival, including how to breathe.

Phaedre was talking, and she could even feel her breath on her skin, although she wasn't even that close: “So this got transferred from your previous body?” Elra forced her eyes open to meet hers and nodded once, too stern.

“Interesting. Any other souvenirs like that? And what does it mean, that designation of yours?”

Elra’s lips peeled apart to reply -

“What does it feel like? Your…condition?”

“It means ‘warrior’,” Elra replied, robotic. “It was only the mark and my eyes that transferred over.”

“And,” She snatched the woman’s hand and pulled away from the touch, “it feels good.” Elra tugged her up onto her feet, and closer, before elaborating, “Too good. The Talron sense things at a much higher level than terras, but they have a dampening capability. A valuable skill in battle, should one get wounded. I would be able to turn off the pain, so I could concentrate. I can’t do it as a terra.”

Elra scowled, dropping her grip. “I feel everything. See, hear, smell and taste everything. And a lot of it. It’s annoying.” Never mind the fact it had the potential for absolute chaotic pleasure. She decided against sharing the information with a stranger, but gave her a lingering glance before stepping around her and shrugging the rest of her shirt off, dropping it onto the chair. It had become her “laundry chair” (Aren had one of these at the apartment she’d shared with the boyfriend).

“And the girl who truly belongs to this body… Aren Gold. She’s still here, in some limited capacity. But she’s weak.” It had meant to come across as an insult, but something deep within her wept at the concept of stealing this girl’s life. The potential for growth. Not for the first time, flashes pulsed through her brain: of fondness, of happiness, of despair.

Aren’s emotions and ambitions, not hers. She’d stolen it.

She’d wanted to open her own art studio, someday.

Elra found herself in front of the mirror, just above her sink. She absorbed the foreign sight of herself standing there, marveled at how it was starting to become her, but it wasn't her. She compared the soft edges of her cheeks to the harsh lines that had been her Talron form. The nose was different, too rounded. Talron noses were more alike to a cat’s. She had had glistening jet-black hair, shaved on the sides and braided on the top - a common hairstyle for the warriors, but Aren's was much more… typical. Normal-looking, girly, and gentle. Her hair was flipped to one side, long, chestnut brown and swirled in gold streaks, a thick dread on the side of her head wrapped in honeyed thread.

She looked artsy and cute. Elra’s lips turned down at the words that would have never described her in her Talron body. She supposed it could be worse... she knew she was ‘cute’, as far as terra standards went, because of the attention. Elra was never hard-pressed in finding a good time, which she’d learned was both a blessing and a curse.

The sink handle cranked, letting loose a fizzy stream of water. Elra cupped it in her palms and scooped it onto her face, cleaning the blood that had escaped the side of her mouth after the beating. There would probably be a bruise under the eye later… terras were so fragile.

“Your turn,” Elra straightened and used a towel to dry off, eyes finding Phaedre in the mirror’s reflection. “How did you find me?”

 

[Syntra]

Warrior. Elra didn't really look like one, but Phaedre knew that semblances could be somewhat misleading; after all, she probably didn't look like she could find her way out of a paper box, much less locate the one surviving Talron. There was a... strange symmetry in that, really. A catastrophic, not at all calming kind of symmetry that suggested that, hey, maybe they were both kind of fucked? Unequipped for what was to come?

Phaedre ignored it.

Phaedre had gotten very good at ignoring things.

So good that she almost hadn't noticed the way her life had shrunk to nothing, in between all the learning and teaching and pretending that this was fine, actually.

That it was an 'almost' was the main problem, here.

"Interesting," she quipped, "So it's death you deal in? Blood, pain, terror?" For the topic being discussed, her voice sounded far too calm; if not for the words themselves, you might have guessed she was talking about weather, or the latest episode of that silly reality show where the contestants had to eat all kinds of weird bugs. The softness of her touch was in stark contrast with everything, too. "I assume that that is a revered profession, too. Or perhaps not anymore? The last time you conquered something, it wasn't too good for you guys."

Heh, 'not too good.'

The understatement of the century, really. 'Not too good' was usually used to describe a slightly awkward date, or maybe a recipe that led to something a little funky-tasting, not for an event that had resulted in... hmm, what, even? Everyone's souls being trapped in metallic prisons? A simplistic account, but not untrue one.

But Elra continued to talk, and Phaedre, naturally, continued to crave answers. "Can you talk to her?" Cold, clinical, "Does it feel like having a not-so-imaginary friend?" A strange way to speak about a fellow human, and she could at least acknowledge it. What a horrible fate, to be trapped inside one's body!

Except they all fucking were, in one way or another.

That, and Phaedre also might have vivisected one too many people to feel overly misty-eyed about what had happened to the poor girl. Very sad; too bad. Totally shedding the obligatory tear. Now, how about moving to the fascinating parts of the whole tragedy...?

Which, spoiler alert, was everything.

"I wonder why you were drawn to her," she said, "Out of the millions and millions. A chance? Predestination? Her being in the wrong place, at the wrong time?" Could be, but: "Perhaps there's some kind of link between you two. An astral chain, binding you together." Was it a crackhead theory? Absolutely, but Phaedre also believed that crazy times demanded crazy thoughts. Crazy everything, really. Perhaps that was why another one of those popped into her head: 'We look good together,' as she watched her own reflection standing near that of Elra's, the sharpness of her own features somehow even more striking next to... well, whatever she was.

Phaedre knew a few terms.

'Cutie' came to mind.

'Party girl' as well.

Phaedre shrugged, "I was looking for you," as if that explained anything, "Thought that was obvious enough." But the Talron had been honest with her, and she could at least return the favor. Tis for tat. The microcosm of their society, mirrored in one single interaction!

Not at all depressing. Why do you ask?

"But to shed more light on it," she ran her hand through her hair, and walked closer to the other woman, "You Talron have a... very particular energy footprint, and I devised a way to target it. It really isn't that hard when you know what you're doing, which is, of course, the part that most struggle with. You should be grateful for that, Elra. Had anyone but me found out, Enforcers would be knocking on your door already."

Was it wise, to walk this line between sort-of-affection and vague threats?

No.

Fuck wise choices, though.

The silence that followed was brief, if only because Phaedre had way too many questions.

"Do you know?" she asked. "That we're both on a sinking ship. Seems like we relied on our gods too much, but forgot to say our prayers."

 

[Faraine]

Blood, pain, terror.

Death.

A corner of Elra's mouth twitched. In amusement, a bit, but more so a grimace at Phaedre's connotation that the Talron soldiers had failed in their latest battle. Slaughtered, the whole of them. Flashes of the last frontier ripped through her brain and she blinked a few times at her reflection. Defeated, and then darkness...

Blood, pain, terror were not so hilarious when it pertained to her own people.

She couldn't remember everything, not really, but she recalled the hug of wires and heat and oddly the smell... oil, chains, smoke.

And then, of course, the cursed event. Elra's mind whirred, gears spinning in a way that was wretchedly familiar. Suddenly, she was freed - sprang from a behemoth vessel to be captured by flesh. Much smaller. Much less durable.

Why this one? Why this body? Why Aren Gold, the little glassblower? Elra hadn't given it much thought, too wrapped up, offended at the disaster that was her soul, brain and ego. She'd been caught up in why not her body, her species - the one that towered tall and capable, polished black stone, swirled in silver veins. No... instead she was here. In a tan little lithe human, left with nothing but terra moodiness and snippets of memories: running along a salt-tanged waterfront, and then a hurricane of color: crimson, black and grey.

Tears, agony, despair.

Elra wasn't susceptible to such things... but Aren was. Something wet and ugly happened inside her ribcage. She felt a sting blossoming behind her eyes and rubbed the towel over her face again.

"You Talron have a... very particular energy footprint," Elra refocused on the terra's face through the mirror and cast the towel aside, "and I devised a way to target it. It really isn't that hard when you know what you're doing, which is, of course, the part that most struggle with. You should be grateful for that, Elra. Had anyone but me found out, Enforcers would be knocking on your door already."

A slash of a smile. Enforcers... She'd encountered a couple of those in the past three months. They liked to crawl around in the pits of the Midnight District, grabbing at the warm figures that strutted around. They were a little rough, but she supposed it was a nice change of pace from the too-soft terras.

"Do you know?"

Elra's smile wilted.

"That we're both on a sinking ship. Seems like we relied on our gods too much, but forgot to say our prayers."

Shoving away from the sink, Elra wandered over to the closet and rummaged around, sniffed quickly through a couple of the shirts and coughed at the scent of old liquor, stale perfume and concentrated city. She muttered under her breath, "You terras and your gods and prayers," before speaking up: "Yes, if this has to do with the machines running out of fuel," her nose wrinkled at the word and lips spat it out, "then of course I do. I was your precious fuel, after all. I felt my spirit and power diminishing. Felt the power of the others leaving, too, in case you were interested."

Mindlessly, her thumbs rubbed the slick silk fabric of the shirt that she held. "We were connected, in the machines... an underground network of wires and gears, grinding and squealing and thrashing together. Little slaves in your wristwatches. It's running low, isn't it? We're running low? And we were keeping all you terras alive, weren't we? I'm not sure why you're here Phaedre, but If your intention was to enlist my help, to help save this gods-forsaken place - ?"

She laughed, then, throwing her head back, the shirt clutched to her heart. Abruptly, the glee ceased and eyes glinted at Phaedre like a panther in the shadows. "That's going to be a no from me. Your precious little terra planet can rot."

 

[Syntra]

"You terras and your gods and prayers."

It was all too obvious just what this Elra thought of her former worshipers, and wasn't that funny?

Not really.

Not at all.

Granted, the whole thing was a joke -- except the joke was also told by someone who had forgotten the point, and when you finally did make it to the punchline somehow, it was still about dead children. Hardly something to laugh at. Most would rather weep, but Phaedre García, who had never really known how to cry, did smile right then.

Well, if you wanted to be generous enough to call it that. It was a smile, in that her lips moved in the appropriate way; it wasn't one, in that it was sharp enough to cut. Something about it resembled a death mask, and that something may have had a lot to do with how she didn't look like herself in that moment, "What, don't like the title?" Phaedre tilted her head aside, "Should have thought of that before you named yourselves gods, then. That did sort of create the impression that you enjoyed it." That, and the myriads of other things. The statues erected in their honor, now all destroyed; the punishments for not believing fervently enough; the stories, brought from their home planet. All pieces of a mosaic, pointing out that, hey, the Elders probably hadn't lied about that. A nice change of pace, given all the things they had lied about! "But it's not like that, is it? You did enjoy it back then. Being something more. Something divine."

Wondering idly just how bad of an idea it was, Phaedre walked closer to the Talron. She could almost feel the heat radiating off her skin; the cheap perfume Aren Gold had used, too. Did Elra like it as well? Possibly, but it could have been some kind of... subconscious compulsion on the body's part, acquired back when the girl had belonged to herself. A habit. "There's a difference between a king and a god, though. A king ought to rule, and a god ought to provide salvation. How did you not realize? For what it's worth, the Elders just made you hold up your end of the deal."

A heartbeat passed, then another. The silence stretched, like an awkward first date that refused to fucking end, but before Elra could decide tearing her spine out actually sounded like a good plan, Phaedre laughed. "You're lucky, though," she pointed out, "I'm not really a believer. I don't think there is salvation," no, there wasn't, because that made too much sense and the universe hated tying up its loose ends, "So I don't want you to save the world."

What she did want, though, was for Elra to save her. To give her a purpose. To play the fiddle, so that Phaedre could dance while Rome burned.

Some atheist she was, eh?

Clinging to a god, pathetic though she was.

Looking at her not with reverence, but with a demand in her eyes: 'make me something more, too.'

And, yeah, all of that could have been a very interesting subject of a psychological analysis, but Phaedre didn't actually believe in soft, bullshit sciences like that, either.

Fuck the hacks trying to dissect her mind.

Fuck most things. Maybe even everything, but Phaedre hadn't decided yet.

"You've got it all backwards, because I've actually come to help you. Don't tell me you have nothing to do, after all those years stuck in that machine?" she arched an eyebrow, "No axe to grind?" But perhaps some explanation was in order, "I lost what I was, too. My job was to know things, but what I discovered was too much, and it turns out they don't forgive that too easily. And since there's nothing for me to return to," Phaedre shrugged, "I figured I'd find... some other way to be useful."

To you, if you'll have me.

Hm. Yeah, not saying that aloud. The self-respect that still remained to her may not have been much, but it was still something, and Phaedre did intend to keep it.

 

[Faraine]

The girl’s mouth rearranged into a most dastardly thing, not that Elra was paying any attention to her lips... Maniacal looked good on her.

“What, don’t like the title? Should have thought of that before you named yourselves gods, then. That did sort of create the impression that you enjoyed it."

No, Elra didn’t enjoy it. She expected it. But, before her sentiment could eke from her throat, the little devil was upon her.

And close. The pulse of Phaedre's blood (and her own) rumbled in Elra's ears, the fan of her hot breath against her throat and face when she spoke:

“There's a difference between a king and a god, though. A king ought to rule, and a god ought to provide salvation. How did you not realize? For what it's worth, the Elders just made you hold up your end of the deal."

A quip, maybe. A casual remark, and it ripped a howling void, set loose a raging dark tempest in her soul. The reminder of the machine, the gears mashed together, the fight of her kin. And she felt them and she was them, and they slaved away, these unintentional saviors, forced to be the reason for the air in humanity's lungs.

Fuck them. Fuck them all, but especially fuck this one.

Phaedre did indeed tread a dangerous line, but Elra's rage was paltry, encased in fragility. The only evidence of displeasure was a divot between her brow, and she allowed the mystery to persist. Perhaps this terra knew her futility? Or maybe didn't care if she could rip her to ribbons? The Talron cocked her head to the side, matching the terra's curious gesture, and she invited the silence.

The sudden laugh rabbited Elra's pulse. "...I don't want you to save the world."

Heh... what?

She'd had it wrong... apparently. Flipped around, inside out, upside down, what have it. Elra listened to the explanation, some sob story about being unforgiven and losing stuff and things (she made a valiant attempt at remaining indifferent), but she couldn't help the chuckle that rumbled past her grinning teeth.

"You want to be my sharpened steel, then?" Elra's gaze widened a bit, then wandered, to the hair that didn't seem to want to stay behind the girl's ear. There was an instinctive urge to do something about it. So, she did do something about it, or maybe Aren was the one that reached up and swept it into its rightful place. "You are a weird terra."

"But," She stepped closer to pass by, while doing so giving the girl a once over, taking stock, "if you're so adamant about being used by me, then fine. I'll bite." There was, after all, a perilous hope here, now, and it blossomed like a flower from the pile of shit that was her existence. Elra entertained the notion... because what in the fuck else was there to do but entertain notions?

Besides, this was her pile of shit. And the little flower was pretty.

"You say 'you know things'. 'Too much', even." Elra dropped the silk shirt she'd been holding onto the laundry chair and opted for the burgundy leather jacket draped there. It had been determined as the only article of clean clothing remaining, since Elra despised doing the laundry. It hadn't been a favorite chore of Aren's, either, and therefore the laundry pile could get fucked. She shrugged her jacket on over the bra, and used the back of her hand to flip her hair from behind the collar. Her voice slipped into a low timbre. "What do you know? Why would I want to keep you around? Aside from the obvious recourse of having fun."

A sliver of her mourned the demise of that option.

"Let's just pretend that I do have a scheme..." She turned on a heel to look at her guest, lifting an eyebrow, "why should I need or even want you, Phaedre?"

 

[Syntra]

Phaedre didn't know what to expect, and so she chose not to expect anything at all. It was better that way; safer, much like it was safer to put on your gloves when dealing with... well, most chemicals.

Also with most corpses. Dissecting her dreams ought to count, so she didn't even have to feel too bad about using a metaphor this fucking pretentious.

"You want to be my sharpened steel, then?"

Yeah, definitely no need to feel bad. Phadre wanted to laugh, and would have laughed, because there were few things funnier than imagining herself as a weapon, but the touch, brief as it was, made her breath catch in her throat.

Why, you ask?

Nobody touched her like that. Not in the past, and certainly not now, simply because she was Phaedre and everyone knew you didn't touch Phaedre, unless you wanted to be a) really disappointed, b) insulted in three different languages, c) some combination of both.

Of course, Elra wasn't everyone.

Elra was perhaps the biggest exception from that word, given all the things she was and wasn't.

So, no wonder?

No wonder, indeed, but--

"How are you so sure?" Phaedre challenged, feeling some type of way about a Talron of all creatures calling her weird. She also felt some type of way about feeling some type of way, mostly because she'd thought she didn't really do feelings anymore. Anger, sure; also frustration, its younger cousin. Hunger, if you wanted to be generous about your definition of feelings. This... was probably agitation? Also a good, Phaedre-approved emotion! Because it wasn't soft, and things that weren't soft couldn't be hurt. "Your sample size can't be that big. For all you know, we're all actually like this." They weren't, "If I wanted to, I could name at least ten separate things that would be way weirder than me offering help. Maybe twenty, if I really put my mind to it." And she couldn't. In truth, Phaedre would be hard-pressed to name three; a big part of her was still rather surprised she was actually there, instead of drinking herself to death in some shady bar and questioning the life choices that had led her to this very moment.

Then again, an even bigger part was still shocked she'd escaped from the Pit in the first place.

That made it pretty obvious that Phaedre couldn't actually trust Phaedre; her track record just wasn't very good.

"And I'm not steel. If I had to compare myself to anything, I'd go with GPS." Not too poetic, but accurate enough. GPS also knew things; it told you where to go, and what the best route was, provided you had a goal in the first place.

A big fucking if.

In the ideal world, Elra would say yes; they'd skip all those awkward parts, and get straight to the juicy ones, so that Phaedre could finally do all the things she'd sorely regret. Goodbye, self-restraint! Embracing chaos now!

But it couldn't be that simple, because of course it couldn't.

Phaedre giggled, a mad glint in her blue eyes, "What, you ask me that? Do I have to remind you I found you getting fucked up behind a bar, Elra? Hardly divine. I should be the one wondering how useful you can actually be," and that she wasn't spoke volumes about her mental health, "But, alright. I can bite, too."

What would catch the Talron's attention, though?

Many things, hopefully, though Phaedre had to pick one. In the end, what felt the most obvious was: "i did find you. I can find others like you, and I know enough about how the planet works to make your existence... significantly easier. You may know how to handle a sword, but I know where it should be aimed." A cheeky smile graced her lips, "Do you still remember how to handle the sword, though? What can you do, stuck in a body that isn't even yours?"

A legitimate question. If the Talron in Aren's body was but a glorified memory, then Phaedre really was wasting her time here.

 

[Faraine]

What was Elra even doing here, entertaining this conversation...?

An expression that could only be characterized as shrewd fixed upon her face, directed at the prattling of this Phaedre character, who was hilariously insistent that she wasn't weird. But, perhaps she was right. Maybe Elra's "sample size" was too small. Perhaps all or most terras would sync up with a deity at the risk of their planet's ruin.

Phaedre certainly appeared to be the type... whatever the type was.

The word manic came to mind.

Batshit, Aren would have chimed. Elra conceded to the ruling.

Also thanks to Aren's brain, the word "GPS" was defined. As far as maps went, Phaedre was one of the more compelling ones Elra had encountered.

And that precious little laugh was cathartic, considering the words that followed: "What, you ask me that? Do I have to remind you I found you getting fucked up behind a bar, Elra? Hardly divine. I should be the one wondering how useful you can actually be."

Elra's eyes went dead as asphalt, a daze whiting out her brain. What was so wrong with getting "fucked up" behind a bar? Was that bad? Perhaps Aren - in all her shirtless and battered glory - appeared to be a woman of principle, but terra standards were completely incomprehensible. Why wouldn't she get "fucked up behind a bar"? It was fun. Was there something wrong with fun? Aside from the potential to become a target for these "organ harvesters", but even then, she could always chrome up if she wanted to and get a replacement. There were options if things devolved into getting her organs getting pinched, if she didn't first die of blood loss.

And besides, what was so wrong with death?

The absence of life sounded refreshing. Although, Elra did now wonder if a Talron could truly die. When it happened the first time, her spirit had gritted its teeth and carried on existing, evidence of the fact standing right here.

Anyways, Phaedre brought up a good point: "I did find you. I can find others like you, and I know enough about how the planet works to make your existence... significantly easier. You may know how to handle a sword, but I know where it should be aimed." Elra was honored to be the recipient of another soul-catching grin.

"Do you still remember how to handle the sword, though? What can you do, stuck in a body that isn't even yours?"

"I can do a lot of things with this body," Elra offered her own saucy smile, "want a demonstration?" She had the faintest desire to show her one of many impressive things she could do: brandish her longest finger, then leave, but in doing so she'd have to leave her apartment. And she was tired, and the apartment was hers.

Instead, she shoved out an exhale and continued, "I don't have the want nor need to prove myself, but sure. I can wield a sword, or a gun, or a metal pipe, what have you. I can also see pretty fucking well, and in the dark, and hear things, sense things.

"For example, those Enforcers outside," Elra hesitated, listening for a moment before peering in the direction of the balcony, "the ones chatting with my buddy down by the front door. Were you followed?"

 

[Syntra]

Someone other than Phaedre might have noticed the innuendo, but Phaedre was still very much, well, Phaedre. Therefore: "Yes, actually," she said, genuine interest flashing in her eyes, "A demonstration would be helpful. I have been wondering if you can push that girl's body beyond its natural limits somehow, so if you give me enough time to come up with proper testing methods, I think I can..."

Uhh, Earth to Phaedre? I don't think that's what she meant.

Oh. Oh.

The moment she realized must have been pretty blatant, if only because it shut her up mid-rant. An unprecedented event! Ten fucking points for the Talron. Another ten points for the way scarlet somehow found its way into her cheeks, "For the last time," Phaedre began, "You're going to have to try harder than that. If you want to demonstrate anything of that nature, you will court me first. No kisses before you learn what my favorite flower is."

What? Deep down, she was a romantic.

Okay, maybe not.

She didn't even have a favorite flower, because there was no point to liking one specific conglomeration of petals over the rest of them. Mostly, Phaedre had said it to a) get Elra off her case, b) to have the last word. The last word, she felt, was of immense importance in this fucked up economy.

So, what you're saying is, you DON'T actually have much to offer. The sword thing? That had been a test. Bait, and one Elra had readily taken.

"Look at me! I'm a big, scary warrior! I can fuck people up!" Yes, very nice. You know what else could fuck people up, though? Other people. Animals, if they were strong enough. Bad weather, occasionally, as well as untreated mental illness. It just wasn't special. Between the two of them, Phaedre was clearly the more useful part of their little tea--

God dammit, do I think of us as a team already?

And, unfortunately for her, the answer was 'fucking duh.'

It wasn't like Phaedre could choose from a long, long list of co-conspirators. That it was either Elra or nobody at all had been obvious from the very beginning, and she still preferred having some companion to the usual crushing loneliness. To the inevitable descent into madness, too.

Heh, 'descent.'

As if she wasn't halfway there already.

But, all of that aside, Elra was simply interesting. The last god. A remnant of a long-dead era. The Talron didn't really have to be useful; she just had to be.

Something those Enforcers could potentially mess with.

Phaedre glanced from the window, looking everything but pleased. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath, "And yeah, sure, I was followed. I know because I asked one of those guys: 'Are you following me?' to which he responded: 'Ya bet we are, Miss. Don't ruin it for us.' So I continued on my merry way, because what else was there to do? Given he was so polite."

Yes, Phaedre might have been something of an asshole, but she had also never claimed otherwise.

"Maybe they aren't here because of us." No, they didn't have to be. Enforcers were called Enforcers because they enforced shit, not because they sat on their asses and waited for order to assert itself. That usually involved a) going places, b) doing things. They could have come to crack down on the local junkies? The place did look like it attracted junkies, and--

One of the men looked up, locking his eyes with hers. He couldn't have seen much from the street, if anything at all, but Phaedre still took an instinctive step back. Suddenly, her heart was drumming a wild staccato in her chest, "Listen, I... may or may not be on the Wanted list." Translation: she absolutely was on it, and pretty high up there, too.

Tier A, meant for especially dangerous criminals.

The ones that threatened the state.

"So if they are are here because of us, it's probably just because of... me."

Was it a good time for honesty? Definitely not, but honesty was also what Phaedre's brain defaulted to whenever things got heated. 'Phaedre, Phaedre,' her old neuroscience professor had said once, with laughter in his voice, 'Just a friendly recommendation, okay? Don't even think of trying to become a politician.'

'Criminal' was likely included in that piece of advice, if only because the two went hand in hand.

"So really, I would appreciate it if..."

Thud, thud, thud.

The footsteps were heavy enough to belong to several people, and of course, of fucking course, that they stopped before the door leading to Elra's apartment. Where else? That they proceeded to knock couldn't possibly surprise Phaedre less.

"Miss Aren Gold?" a calm, neutral sounding voice called out. Judging by its depth, the man it belonged to could have been anywhere on that oh so ambiguous scale between thirty and forty, "Enforcers of the Fifth District. Open the door." The 'if you know what's good for you' part remained unspoken, as it didn't actually have to be said. "This is just a routine inspection," blatant lies, "So there's no need to make it more dramatic than it has to be."

 

[Faraine]

Distant conversation gargled, mouthwash in the swishing swirling sounds of city noises, but Elra knew Pitch (beefy guard by the front door) was talking to Enforcers. There was a conceited metal stamping which portrayed authority. A no-bullshit tone. Also, the combative garble which ripped from Pitch's mouth at their request, the resonance of spittle being flung, the ensuing kerfuffle before the yield...

Yes, all the evidence checked out.

There were far more pressing matters at hand (namely, the matters that would soon be pounding at her door), but Elra's focus was at severe disadvantage considering the wild evening she'd had: intoxication, exhaustion, bruised ribs and face, and this stranger who was blushing and being offensive in an oddly appealing combo.

"Fuck," Elra appreciated the way the girl's mouth formed the word... then hurried over to the window and peered over the ledge. One of the Enforcers glanced up, and she leaned away from view in sync with Phaedre.

"Maybe they aren't here because of us."

"Maybe," Elra doubted.

"Listen, I... may or may not be on the Wanted list."

Elra fixed her with a withering look. Alright... alright, great. She was housing a convict. Not that she was innocent of any wrongdoing, but at least until this unfortunate moment she'd stayed under the radar with her "Aren" face on. She'd even managed to do so in her conversations with the boyfriend, and the friends and the colleagues and the brother. But no, the ruse would all come crashing down because this maniac dropped into her lap.

Yes, she'd invited the pestilence in... but in her defense, she'd hoped Phaedre was Talron. Elra would have cackled if the sentiment aligned, but this wasn't funny. Fuck the universe, or the Fates, or whoever was to blame, because instead of kinship she got... this.

Could she work with this?

"So if they are here because of us, it's probably just because of... me."

Elra had already started looking for the upper-hand, the weaknesses, the pressure points on the girl's physique. Perhaps a swift strike to the nose would suffice. If she could manage to knock her out, she could chuck the girl to the sharks and go on with her not-a-life. It was the best option. The most logical one.

"So, really I would appreciate it if..."

The stomps, the knocks, the thudding of hers and Phaedre's pulse in her skull -

"Miss Aren Gold? Enforcers of the Fifth District..."

Elra rolled her eyes. She mouthed to the little felon: "Hide," and headed for the door.

"...This is just a routine inspection. So there's no need to make it more dramatic than it needs to be."

Maybe it was too much to ask that the time she'd allotted - a mere five seconds - was enough of a chance for Phaedre to comply with her suggestion. Or maybe too much to ask that she comply at all to anything that she suggested. Nevertheless, Elra popped open the door a crack. She pinched her eyebrows together at the small smattering standing in the stairwell.

"...Evening," She greeted.

There were three, and one stood further ahead of the others. He was the most broad-shouldered of the pack and packing heat like the rest, though he wasn't the most intimidating. That title belonged to the tall woman flanking his right side, with one of her arms cyber-fitted as a saber. It had the potential for violence, but at least it wasn't on... a small relief. Elra took stock.

The third one wasn't worthy of any attention, but he pressed to the front like he wanted some: "Are you Aren Gold?"

"Maybe," She noticed the roving eyes and smirked at him, relished the blood that pooled into his face. "Who's asking?"

"Er, I am," He rubbed his blonde shaved head. "Name's Gene."

"Nice name."

"Thanks - "

"Keep it in your pants, kid," Hefty-guy hauled Gene back by the collar and shoved through the door, nearly bowling Elra over. She managed to step out of the way in time and shuffled back when the Enforcers entered. "Excuse the intrusion, little lady, but a bird told us there's been some affiliatin' with the wrong crowd. Got anything to share with us?" There were now too many figures squished inside her studio flat, but Elra came around the back of them and closed the door, anyways.

She didn't want witnesses, after all.

"What would be your definition of the wrong crowd?" Elra leaned into the kitchen counter and picked up her fork before adding, "Sir." The ravioli had been out for a while, but it was freeze-dried and hopefully safe enough, so she popped a bite into her mouth. She gestured to the air. "Have you seen the place? Wrong is all the affiliating that happens around here."

Big guy flopped into the chair and made himself comfortable while the other two snooped around her paltry possessions. Elra fought to keep her attention off of them and chewed.

 

[Syntra]

Hide.

Fucking where, though?

Phaedre sincerely doubted they would glance inside, come to the conclusion that their precious little prisoner wasn't there after all, and apologize to Elra for wasting her time. Nope, not how this shit worked. They would be looking for her. 'Looking', as in 'inspecting all the obvious hiding places.' And wasn't that just peachy, given that obvious hiding places were just about all Phaedre had?

Spoiler alert: it fucking wasn't.

Am I seriously considering the wardrobe?

The answer to that was a resounding no, mostly because Phaedre didn't actually have the luxury to consider anything. Considerations took the time she didn't fucking have, as well as braincells that weren't too busy dying in a fit of panic. So, before she could consciously realize what it was that she was doing, Phaedre did slip inside -- only to regret the decision almost immediately, since it turned out Elra had never heard of a lil' something called 'the washing machine.'

Awesome, she thought, My epitaph will be a banger.

"Phaedre García. Died the same way she lived: surrounded by filth."

And that was actually the optimistic scenario, because, hey, at least she got to have an epitaph!

An unmarked grave seemed much more likely.

That, or the Pit.

I'm not going back. Indeed, Phaedre's life was riddled with maybes; always searching for possibilities, for new routes, and never quite saying never outright, because that was the death of thought. Intellectual suicide. But, despite all that, there was one thing she did know with 100% certainty. I'd rather die.

Convenient that she had the chance to do exactly that! Surrounded by Enforcers, and at the mercy of a god who couldn't even like her that much, considering she'd rejected her advances at least twice now.

You should have kissed her, some part of her argued.

Good thing that you didn't, an edgier part countered.

But it probably was a good thing, if it meant she could keep a hint of self-respect.

"I'm not talking the usual kind of wrong," the man chuckled. Judging by the sounds, Phaedre guessed he and his pals must have been moving around; opening the doors, looking inside rooms. So far, so good. That ought to change soon, but at least she had enough time to take a deep breath, and wrap her fingers around the gun. C'mon, you can do this.

Could she, or did she have to?

Small difference.

The illusion of choice had never been more transparent when not doing it was as good as pressing the barrel against her own forehead.

"The one we're looking for is real bad news," Gene continued, "There's quite a bit of bounty on her head, too. Tragic case, really -- seemed set for life, with a fancy career and everything. Probably could have retired in a few years, but who knows what's going on in the heads of people like that?"

Thoughts, Phaedre had to bite the inside of her mouth to not say that aloud, They're called thoughts, you fucking troglodyte.

It was probably a blessing in disguise, this Gene and his sheer fucking ignorance, because having to listen to this drivel meant her blood pressure was soaring into new heights. Which, great! Anger was good; anger was her safe space. It wasn't fear, with its weird paralyzing tendencies, nor was it sorrow, with its vain attempts to make her feel her feelings. Phaedre gripped the gun tighter, and--

"Surprise, motherfucker!"

Nobody could argue with that, mainly because most people didn't expect to get vaporized the second they opened a random wardrobe. Gene couldn't really claim he'd called it either, on account of being on the wrong end of the vaporizer-vaporizee spectrum.

"What the fuck!" the Enforcer woman cried out, but Phaedre was already stumbling out of the wardrobe, her thoughts nothing but a constant stream of 'shit, shit, shit.' Somehow, she ended up behind the Talron, and decided to roll with it on a whim. Why not? It wasn't like her life had any semblance of normalcy left to it, "Okay!" Phaedre exclaimed, in a tone that she sure as fuck hoped was threatening, "I guess I got myself a hostage. What now?"

 

[Faraine]

"It's not the usual kind of wrong."'

The wad of carbs in Elra's mouth was dry, gummy, tasted like plastic packaging and it took massive effort to swallow down. Or maybe it was the nerves, cinching her esophagus. She could hear and even feel the swell and fall of breath from every one in the group... and then the additional swell and fall. It came from her closet. Elra pushed around the rest of the pastas with her fork and cast a surreptitious glance at the colossal figure sitting in her chair.

He was already surveying her, interest alight in his blues. Elra was too wrapped up in the situation to know what kind of interest. For once, she hoped it was the kind she'd become accustomed to.

"The one we're looking for is real bad news," the youngest of the group, Gene, was saying while he grew warmer and warmer towards his target, "There's quite a bit of bounty on her head, too. Tragic case, really -- seemed set for life, with a fancy career and everything. Probably could have retired in a few years, but who knows what's going on in the heads of people like that?"

...Bounty? Elra beseeched her brain for a definition, but too many things were happening at once, and Gene flung open the wardrobe, and Elra pulled the kitchen drawer open, and in turn, the massive fellow sprang to his feet -

"Surprise, motherfucker!"

An ashy, incinerating distraction. The big Enforcer whipped his gun at the more immediate threat and fired a wild shot, just missing Phaedre's head, with the tall blonde woman screeching, and then, well, then -

A presence behind her. It should have felt more threatening: having the stranger at her back after she'd just vaporized a guy.

"Okay! I guess I got myself a hostage. What now?"

Elra's hand was thrust into the drawer like a kid in a candy jar, and she suddenly had the spotlight. Hostage, brain whirring, Hostage... She'd seen movies about this; or no, Aren had seen movies. Calculating blues flicked to stare down the barrels of two guns, and at the tall Enforcer's bladed arm now crackling with blue electricity.

Elra inched her arms up into the air.

But one of her hands held a steak knife, and the other, brass knuckles.

"Oh no," She tried. "Help...?"

Slow motion peripherals. The large one moved first, but Elra was faster, chucking the utensil. It lodged into his firing hand. Again, a wild shot whizzed over their heads, this time with an accompanying yelp. Elra covered the distance quick as a blink, scrambled over the kitchen island, and pounced.

They crashed to the ground, a tangle of aggression. Pinning his chest, Elra managed a few metal-covered punches, his nose springing a leak, before he grasped her hair to fling her off of him.

Or, he tried to. With a feral yell, she grabbed the aggressing arm and slammed it into the floor twice, crunched down, sank blunt teeth into his bicep.

"Agh! FUCKIN what the hell - !?"

Awareness cascaded. Time slowed. Her muscles tense, the taste of violence on her tongue, sensations everywhere bleeding into everything. It was a tornado trapped in her bones. Adrenaline coursed, her breath hyper and fast -

Too fast. Too wild.

No. No, she couldn't. She needed to control herself. She couldn't lose it. Not here.

And she didn't need to lose it, she realized in the next millisecond. Widened wild oceans fathomed the steak knife still wedged between two of his fingers. She tore it out with a fist, sat up, and crammed it into his throat.

 

[Syntra]

How Phaedre survived any of that, she didn't quite know.

Was it coincidence? Stubbornness? Pure spite? All pretty valid explanations, but, as another shot missed her ear by about a centimeter, Phaedre García figured that this was not the time to be thinking about this.

No, this was time for... what, actually?

Getting the fuck out of here seemed to be the correct answer, as with many life's dilemmas. The 'can't run away from your problems' brigade apparently just hadn't tried to run fast enough, because Phaedre knew it worked. It really, really did!

Except not here, and not now. Mainly, the reason behind that was that her legs refused to cooperate.

Something, something, my fault; something, something, can't leave her here.

Discovering that she did, in fact, have a semblance of conscience was something of a shock, though Phaedre also felt a little stupid for wasting it on the likes of Elra. Elra, who she had known for about five seconds. Elra, whose hobbies included getting fucked up behind a bar. Elra, who... thought it was a good idea to bite a motherfucker?

'She's crazy,' was her first thought. 'That's kind of hot' followed, though, and had Phaedre had a hint of self-awareness, it would have looped right back to 'Huh, I may be crazy.'

A big fucking if.

Feeling a bit feverish, Phaedre grabbed the gun tighter. It was hot enough to burn her fingers, and it kind of did, though it barely registered to her mind. Come on, she shook the weapon, Work, you stupid piece of shit!

It fucking better, because the other Enforcer decided to try her luck with her. Not that Phaedre really blamed her for not wanting to stand in Elra's way, but dammit, couldn't she at least wait for the cooldown period to be over?

Apparently not.

Oh, gods.

The blade sizzled with electricity, and Phaedre managed to step aside not with anything resembling elegance, but with that 'oh shit' kind of precision that only ever emerged when you were well and truly fucked. She did so just in time for the weapon to get lodged in Elra's couch -- which, an opportunity! Her time to shine!

Maybe?

Unsure of what she should do, but also unwilling to let the woman regain the control of the situation, Phaedre grabbed a chair. "Bet you're really regretting your career choices now, huh?" And if not, she would be soon! If her cognitive processes were still a thing after Phaedre whacked her over the head.

Hmm, probably not.

After all, it was hard to regret things when you were out of it. It was even harder when you were dead, which was what the impact very well might have done.

Phaedre took a deep breath, in part to steady her shaking hands. This was good; this was fine. Everything was going according to plan,
mainly because she was making it up as she went.

The look she gave Elra was a little sheepish, "I don't suppose you know a fun, risk-free way to get rid of corpses?" And to erase everyone's memory while they were at it, because there was no way everyone in thirty kilometer radius hadn't heard. Soon enough, the place would be crawling with more Enforcers.

"Alright," Phaedre sighed, "We have to bolt. Now. Get your things, we can spend the night at... well, anywhere but here. Though I have to say," no, she couldn't help herself, nor did she really want to, "That was amazing." The glint in her eye may have been more than just slightly maniacal, "Does it make you feel more like yourself?"

 

[Faraine]

A hot cherry torrent seeped over her weapon and fingers, and it was beautiful.

It really was, when it came out like this. The gushing deep richness of it, life draining from a face whitening, mouth gasping. It was different when it was this amount of it. It was meaningful, sacred. Elra knew his life was leaving. His hands clawed weaker and weaker at the wound, trying to correct the wrong, but he couldn't. This was inevitable death, and she knew it well, but she hadn't seen it like this. Not through these eyes, and through this lens - through a terra brain with terra sentiment.

Soon, he lost his ability to think, to exist, and it was... Stunning. But terrifying.

But sad.

A racket behind her stirred awareness. A quick glance over her shoulder clued her in: Phaedre was standing there with a chair in her hand over the crumpled form of the last Enforcer. If Elra had half a mind, she might have given the girl a Talron salute for a job well done, however, the breaths still came rapid through her nostrils, muscles stone, the adrenaline flowed, and it took intentional effort to keep the spree from continuing, and continuing on this girl. This girl she'd inadvertently helped.

Which was...odd.

"I don't suppose you know of a fun, risk-free way to get rid of a corpse?" The stranger was joking, in what she now recognized as true-Phaedre fashion. Her stranger now, apparently. Elra was now undoubtedly affiliated with her.

...Shit.

Elra was already spinning through their potential options when Phaedre spoke, "Alright, we have to bolt. Now. Get your things, we can spend the night at... well anywhere but here."

Double shit. She knew where she had to go. It was the last place she wanted to go, but it was the only place she could go. Rising to her feet, Elra stepped over her victim's body and tapped awake the comm device at her cheekbone. Walking over to Phaedre, she sifted through the piles of typescript info that appeared just in front of her vision. Aren's personal data... contact info, stats, finance account information. Of course, she already knew what it would say.

The parents (AKA the assholes) had frozen her accounts when she'd "gone off the deep-end." Elra didn't have copious amounts of education on how parents should parent a child, but she severely rebelled against this method.

"Though I have to say," Phaedre was saying, "that was amazing. Does it make you feel more like yourself?"

Elra paused within an arm graze of her stranger and offered a judicious glance. After brief restraint, she couldn't help a crazed grin. Blood-stained teeth. "No...it feels better."

With bloodied hand, she grabbed Phaedre by the crook of the arm, "Let's go, I don't need any of this shit."

The stairwell, fortunately for them, was dependably full of the strung-out druggies and only a couple of the twisted up couples even seemed aware of their existence. There was one curious gentleman who had drifted down from an upper floor, but he spoke in a different language, and they brushed by him and his wild gesticulations with ease. Down the stairs, Elra banged out the front door, leaving a string of Pitch's questions in their wake (who was babying a swollen lip), but she eventually put enough distance between them and the crime scene to ease up on the speed...

Once in a quieter part of the Midnight District, bordering the outskirts of the trashy part of town, Elra tucked into a shadowed alleyway, intent on a certain direction...

A direction she'd told herself she'd never go. And yet, here she was.

...And why?

Elra spun quick, and, in a fluid move, grasped Phaedre by the lapels of her coat and thrust her against the wall. She snarled into her face, "What the fucking hell are you? Why are they after you? How much is the bounty?"

And, of course, the most important question...

She brought her nose within inches of hers, "Where is my family?"

 

[Syntra]

"No... It feels better."

Not for the first time that night, Phaedre realized she should have been afraid. Maybe even terrified, depending on how hard you wanted to clutch your pearls. Murder was supposed to be scary! A reality check from... well, reality, that you, too, were mortal, and that it wasn't so hard to make you face the fact. It wouldn't be hard for Elra, anyway.

'They were murder machines,' Elder Sarina had said to her once, a million years ago. 'Beasts in human skin. I don't get why you're so interested, Phaedre. What else is there to say?'

Nothing.

Nothing, and yet everything.

Phaedre had known then, but she knew with an even fiercer conviction now, as she stared at the woman with something akin to hunger in her almond-shaped eyes. Beasts in human skin? Oh, that was the best part. "Crimson looks good on you," she allowed, "You might want to wear it more often."

Blah blah blah, 'weird,' blah blah blah, 'fucked in the head.' What did it matter what names others had for her when it was all so damn interesting? Excuse her for not fucking crying when there was still shit to do.

Shit to see.

Shit to understand, before it all imploded under its own weight.

But wasn't that beautiful, too? A once-in-a-lifetime event, like the birth of a new star.

Death was just the other side of the coin.

Giggling to herself a bit, Phaedre followed in Elra's footsteps. The sound was as inappropriate as it was girlish, and her therapist would have given her one of those looks for it, but, you know what? Fuck her. Samantha had always thought she was so much better than her, just because she was so in touch with her feelings. Her not being a murderer was likely yet another point in her favor, though only if you happened to be a) spineless, b) boring. Most people were both.

"So," Phaedre began, strangely breathless, "Do you know where we are going, or are you just--?"

But she didn't get to finish the sentence, because Elra proceeded to pin her against the wall. This was yet another moment that should have scared her, and maybe it even did -- maybe being the key word, though, since Phaedre couldn't quite tell what it was that made her heart race. Fear? Thrill? Some weird combination of both?

Hm. Not knowing for certain was nice.

Phaedre stared Elra in the eyes, never once flinching, "I told you. I'm Phaedre, and I know too much. Do you think the Elders appreciated me learning all those secrets they spent so much time burying?" True enough, even if somewhat vague, "I guess they also didn't like me escaping from their precious little prison. After all, it does undermine the whole 'inescapable' shtick."

The last question, though not unexpected, made her roll her eyes, "I don't know yet, Elra. Their energy readings are weak," likely due to them dying, though Phaedre knew when to keep her mouth shut for once, "But if you help me out, I can probably find them. Free them, too." A beat, and then a sweet smile spread all over her lips, "Would you like that, Elra?"

And really, wasn't that a fun question? Because there was no way Elra wouldn't like it. Wasn't, and couldn't be. Talron or not, family was family; of course she wanted it back.

That Phaedre was the only one who could make that happen was just a... pleasant bonus.

The realization hit her, and with that, a glint that wasn't quite nice appeared in her eyes, "Say 'please' and I will do it for you."

Phaedre, having a death wish? Pfft!

 

[Faraine]

Elra was quite familiar with this sentiment - self-classified as 'world-ending wrath' - however having it directed at a simple girl was odd.

And yet, there it was. A wild blue fire raged in her blood. It twisted her fingers into Phaedre’s rough coat fabric, rattled her bones, ground her teeth together. The fact that this terra stared her down (her - Elra Trur’els - a thousands year old deity) without an ounce of terror, as if she were her equal, made matters exponentially worse.

"I told you. I'm Phaedre-"

Elra growled, "I know your damned name -"

"-and I know too much. Do you think the Elders appreciated me learning all those secrets they spent so much time burying? I guess they also didn't like me escaping from their precious little prison. After all, it does undermine the whole 'inescapable' shtick."

Unfortunately, this puzzle was getting more and more intricate the more she maneuvered the pieces. It was a.. what did the terras call it? Rubix cube. Not only did this Phaedre know too much, she knew enough of something to be able to escape a prison. An inescapable one. Elra narrowed her eyes (if they could narrow any further) and opened her mouth to spit more venom, however the conniving little convict was moving onto the topic that mattered most.

Her family.

"I don't know yet, Elra. Their energy readings are weak. But if you help me out, I can probably find them. Free them, too."

A confectionary grin crept onto the girl’s expression, and it caught Elra off guard. Mainly because she couldn't decide if she wanted to smack the grin off her face or lick it off.

Not only could she find them…

She could free them, too?

Somehow, impossibly, this strange little terra held the answer. Perhaps even her answer, as to how she ended up inside Aren Gold’s body.

"Would you like that, Elra?"

Yes, of course she would. Wasn't that the whole point of this tentative alliance - this conversation? If conversation was an adequate word to describe what they were having. Something in the back of Elra's mind (probably Aren) reminded her that this was not a conventional manner in which terras hosted a discussion. Elra relaxed her grip a little, leaned away a smidge, and moved her mouth to reply -

"Say 'please' and I will do it for you."

Elra's grip cinched right back up. She blipped closer to the insufferable terra's face, nose-to-nose, in what was meant to be an unspoken threat… but the promise of danger may have fallen flat when her face softened, butter in a pan.

She smelt good... and looked good from two inches away.

She could see detail a normal terra could not because she wasn't normal - she was Talron. But she wasn’t that, either, was she? Because Talron didn't stop to admire a human. Not even a human that breathed fire and giggled at death. To admire something was to respect it. To respect something was to consider it important, and if Phaedre was important, it meant Elra needed her.

To need something, anything, was foolish and weak.

It’s not that deep, she reminded herself, you need her for what she knows. For the kin.

It was all the motivation she needed and she grinned something sharp and something dangerous. She brought her lips within a breath of hers and let her brazen “please” wisp over on an exhale. From here, she could taste the girl’s breath, so she lingered, enjoying herself. The next moment, she rid her grip of Phaedre and stepped backwards into the alleyway, with a shake of her head.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The wail of a siren cried out from the adjacent street. Elra whipped her face in its direction before slipping back into the shadows with Phaedre. The flash of lights lit them up for a brief moment and three Enforcers patrols roared past, in the direction of where they’d been five minutes earlier. Wordless, Elra started off where she’d been leading them in the first place.

Towards him. Instead of away from him.

Gods help her.

“You escaped a prison,” she spoke in a hushed tone when they made it out onto another street, this one edging on the more residential side with blue flaky townhomes and parked cars or motorbikes lining the curbs. Most of the windows were dark, it being just before the asscrack of dawn.

Elra grew even more exhausted at the thought.

“How?” She offered the terra a curious look, a look-over. “You don’t seem capable of such a thing.”

 

[Syntra]

It wasn't that Phaedre didn't know.

Oh, she did. She'd walked the same road for long enough to know that this was, what? Yet another step towards the abyss? Sure, if she wanted to be pretentious about it, and she did kind of want that.

When Rome burned, someone ought to play the fiddles.

When Titanic was sinking, people still needed their fun.

When... Ah, to hell with it.

The truth was, Phaedre didn't need to justify her impulses. Not to anyone. They may have been 'weird,' but given that the same people who would call them that would be dead in half a year, she found it somewhat difficult to care. What would they do from beyond the grave? Kill her again?

That the very angry-looking Talron might kill her now was admittedly something of a problem, but now a huge one. What did it matter if she was going to die now, or in a few weeks? If she can't even be polite about it, Phaedre decided, Then I don't want to do this.

Right! She still had standards.

Standards that were apparently shrinking by the second, because, as Phaedre stared in Elra's eyes, her thoughts were suddenly reduced to 'pretty.' And they were! She could at least admit that they were pretty enough eyes, according to most criteria. The lips were pretty enough as well, as far as those went. It just... wasn't that often that Phaedre noticed these things, and, with a barely noticeable gesture, she looked slightly away from Elra, as if that could erase the moment.

It couldn't.

It couldn't, and the movement wasn't invisible, either.

"Please."

The word might as well have been a dagger in her chest, and, in some sense, it likely was. Not one of the regular daggers that your friends inevitably backstabbed you with, but rather something akin to... well, a ritual one. A promise. Elra had asked, so now she had to help. It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

The silence felt heavy; full of words unspoken.

And out of all those words, burning at the tip of her tongue, Phaedre chose one: "Okay." Okay, and a nod of her head. A bit anticlimactic, wasn't it? But since they weren't saving the world, or doing anything foolish like that, it also felt right.

A simple 'yes,' to a simple quest.

Find Elra's family.

A family of dead gods, bound to their metallic prisons. How fun!

"You're lucky you're cute."

Not quite knowing what to say, Phaedre chuckled, "Well, I suppose I am. These things are mostly genetic." What do you mean, awkward? Her? Fucking never! "But I also could have ruined myself in many, many ways." She kind of had, "And so I deserve some credit."

The streets were never quiet, the same way a dying animal wasn't quiet. She could feel it in the air; the tension, the discontent, the quiet gasp, before it could turn into a full-fledged scream.

She ignored it all.

"Don't I?" Phaedre grinned a wolfish grin, before giving Elra a sideways glance, "I am here, so logic dictates I must have." Obviously! Though, as fun as teasing the Talron had been, she supposed she deserved some real answers, as well. After all, she had said 'please.'

"I hijacked one of the guards' bodies. A simple thing," maybe in Phaedre's book, "If you know what you're doing, and if the conditions are right." Translation: 'most don't, and often, they aren't.' "It actually relates to my research quite a bit, so you could say I was prepared." Ah, yes! Her precious research -- souls, souls and souls again, in spite of the metal the Elders believed in. In spite of everything, pretty much.

"Haven't you ever wanted to know why you are you, Elra? What makes you you?"

 

[Faraine]

"Don't I?" The fiendish shape Phaedre's lips took had Elra recalibrating her deduction, "I am here, so logic dictates I must have."

Elra fell into step with Phaedre and offered a glazed look in reply. Okay, so, it was established by now that the event had not been a lie. Her brazen 'please' was in danger of becoming an exasperated one, but thankfully, the cryptic Phaedre offered her more than just a morsel of an explanation...

Saying she had 'hijacked' a guard's body.

"Hijacked?" Elra's brows crashed together, and she mouthed the word a couple times to herself, eyes searching the ground at her progressing feet. She (or Aren, more specifically) had heard the word used in the context of airplanes, networks, even, but never a whole entire person. Was that even possible? Elra didn't dare ask, fearing yet another non-answer. With the amount of abuse she'd undergone that evening, she wasn't sure she'd be able to tolerate another one of those. Even despite their little entente.

"Haven't you ever wanted to know why you are you, Elra? What makes you you?"

An oncoming pedestrian gave them a wide berth - eyes wide and pointedly looking away - though Elra couldn't say she blamed the old lady. She was, however, suddenly self-aware of the mahogany now caked dry on her hands, so she stuck them into her jacket pockets while replying: "No. I haven't. I am me, because that's the way the Fates designed it." There was a light challenge there - a dare, even, and Elra faintly wondered if challenging this girl was effective in the slightest at getting the conclusions she desired.

It certainly hadn't resulted in much, to date.

"But…” She added as an afterthought, without really knowing why, “I do wonder why this damned terra." She pushed her lips together and looked ahead, then turned down a different street, a busier one with vehicles and motorbikes stacked up, some honking, at the District border. There were more pedestrians, too, even in the wee early morning hours, so she clung close to the building's shade. Thankfully (and also regrettably), they didn't have much further to go. Elra extended her hearing and discovered the Enforcer sirens stirred in with the other city spices, but they still seemed focused on the mess they'd left at her studio flat, now streets away.

Ah, her precious, simple studio flat. The only home she'd known since being marooned to this Aren-island. Her eyes slid a sharp glance to her "comrade" and her lips pressed into a thin line. For the sake of self-gratification, her comfort, her familiarity, fuck this entire situation.

Especially this particular one, she stopped before the blonde gatekeeper who sat in his box between the two Districts. He slid open the glass window without looking at his two customers. "Name and business," he smacked his gum, eyes shielded in VR goggles, and beat away at the keys of his computer. Preoccupied with a game, Elra guessed.

"Aren Gold," she recited, "and… guest. Going home."

"Well, go on. Do your thing."

She floated her dirty palm over the screen, hoping for the best. It worked its magic, thank the Fates, chiming green and in the affirmative and, without a second glance from the distracted keeper, they were pinged through. Aren strolled through the archway and into a different yet familiar environment.

This District, the Fourth, wasn’t in such stark contrast to the one they'd just left. There was less trash on the ground, sure, the pavement less scummy, a lesser amount of people rocking on their haunches in dark corners, but the vehicles, the sounds, the general mood was the same. Dismal, bleak and cold.

As a matter of fact, the only notable difference was the people. The chins tilted up a little higher, the dress less wrinkled and mucky, the missing fog from the eyes of who glanced their way. One man, who had been strolling their direction, lingered a look at them and Elra battled down the urge to display her displeasure. It would create a scene. More of one than the two of them naturally drew…

Minutes later, they ended their journey at the base of a brick building. There was a light on above the house numbers, but inside it was quiet. Light breathing from up on a higher floor. Elra ascended the few stairs and paused at the door… terror twisting her guts.

…Terror? Elra Trur’els, afraid? There was no way. This was Aren Gold’s emotions - always more prominent when it came to dealing with those she had cared about, prior to her soul-sharing existence with a Talron warmonger.

Whoever the emotion belonged to didn’t matter. Because, here it was. And she, Elra Trur-els, a god, was the maid left to scrub up the blood-splatter resulting from these engagements. Somehow, she struggled past it enough to ball her hand into a fist and knock it against the door. Once… pause. Then twice, thrice. The moment she finished, she whipped round to Phaedre and opened and closed her mouth, wordless, eyes two tumultuous seas.

Upstairs, he was jolting awake, crinkling out of bed, and then stumbling down the stairs.

“Look, just,” she hunted the girl’s face for a long, considerable moment before she sighed through her nose. In defeat? Vanity, maybe? Because her request would likely be made in vain. “Don’t… just don’t. Don’t be weird.”

The door flung open and there he was. Almost a full head taller than her, with just his boxers on, seeing as they’d awaken him at some gods-forbidden hour. His cheekbones were sharp and appealing, and he held a boyish charm, but it wasn’t anything extraordinary. He was the kind of worth that wasn’t immediate. Not like gold, but something which acquired its worth over time, like a dusty tome.

The boyfriend. Or, more specifically -

“Chance,” Despite the composure she’d thought she’d gathered, her heart flopped. A forced smile etched its way across her lips. “Hey.”

“Aren?” He shook his head once and rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. He squinted (more than his Asian features already were) at her, and then almost immediately to the figure at her side. “Uh, hi? What’s going on? Who’s this?”