      a curious habit of silence pervades him, brows furrowing to knit together as a hand ( or rather, his only, ) rises from within the depths of his trench pocket enveloped within its silken casket to brush rogue tresses of ivory behind his ear with a juvenile huff. itâs unusual for the air to be bitter, cold, even. perhaps it were the nature of events unfolding before his own eyes â and one would assume he were jaded, unfeeling, uncaring enough to dismiss the girlâs plight entirely, but itâs an all too familiar kind of situation â in the sense that somewhere, deep within the vast expanses of his knowledge burdened mind, resided memories that blended with books heâd arduously read and experiences of his own childhood.
     so itâs perhaps not odd at all in the manner that he, with broad strides upon svelte muscle, instigates intervention; steel capped toes nary disturbing earthen marl, even with the brevity of their gait. and for a brief moment does he linger, porous gaze boring finite depth against his crown; and he does not need a second longer to analyse, because to a hive mind that is constantly working, turning with laborious cogs and wheels; a plan is too safe, too boring, too trivial. and that just wonât do at all. and chaos is too fun to pass up.
     lips purse, drawing oxygen into aching lungs for an inevitable, dry, sardonic chuckle, harsh upon his venomous tongue. vacant gape remains stoic save for the rising corners of something akin to a psychotic grimace, starless orbs empty, hollow of emotive context.
   âwhatâs this? i was unaware that i was invited to a party! oh boo. had i known,    i wouldâve prepared! ââ ah, so terribly sorry ⌠am i interrupting something?â
          Shame fills her up from her toes to the very tip of her head. Being caught in a situation where she has made a mistake because of her far too gentle nature. Worse of all, in front of one of her former Wards. She's suppose to appear strong for them, for him. But they hold her too tightly, gripping her arms to her sides. There is likely to be a print of finger tips in shades of a violent violet and blue later. Her strengths have never lied in her physical being.Â
          Of course, not trying gets no one anywhere.
          Inhaling a deep breath, she presses her foot against the van to keep herself as far away from the door as she can. "Go! I can handle myself!" she hisses, her pride getting to her as she, herself, becomes difficult. Thrashing within the grips she's held in place with.Â
          There's something pressed to her head, and she stops. Inside her chest, her heart is beating wildly, as though it is trying to escape from the cage of ribs. It's only distantly she realizes her hands are trembling. The gruff laugh from a man sends a shiver up her spine.Â
          "Yes, you are. I suggest you go before we decide to rough her up a bit."
          She knows she'd be no use to them dead, so there's that, but...being injured would not be good. This isn't that world. It's reality, and perhaps not nearly as deadly.
