#;starter

Susan had been assigned to a gentleman, former Sergeant Oron Eaton, as to offer resources on behalf of the B.P.E.A. A non-descript calling card was left for the man to find and act upon if he was so inclined, which would lead to a building tucked away on the dead-end street of a long forgotten industry area. Secluded, and very purposely unmonitored by local authorities. She checked her folder again. All still in order.

"Multiverse anomalies," she murmured aloud as she shifted where she stood outside the 'office' door. "No wonder they got us involved... I wonder how he did it?"

W ith a subtle twist-like motion of his aching wrist, a diminutive gesture seldom caught, and an ensuing yet fleeting sound of a prompt click, an inkling that the utilized key he seized between his thumb and forefinger had successfully unlocked the apartment door of the white-haired man he's come to exclusively pay a visitation to after School hours. - He jerks it back, gradually opening it ajar, and unhesitatingly enters thereafter, closing it once he has wholly been inside the residence. He is greeted by stillness, a quietude that speaks of a momentary absence. His definite subject of interest, the singular individual, out of those he repetitiously converses with in hallways, who unfailingly heats the flesh of his anatomy and subjugates the isolating barricades of his heart, was still amidst his duties amongst the never-resting streets of the municipality, he thinks, for naught more had encompassed him presently. - His feet were liberated from shoes as he set them by the entrance's grungy mat. ----- A bag of groceries held within the captivity of his other extremity, dangling loosely at his flank as he stepped forward, with fingers tightly curled around its looped handle, he explicitly directed himself towards the Kitchen, arranging it gingerly atop the counter. Cobalt-hued eyes then peer at the hung clock, observing its duo-pointer's steady motions, pinpointing the time." I'll begin on dinner's preparations. "

W hap. A tightly structured fist, loaded with a violent, tempestuous irritability, forthwith descends and unmercifully assaults the nose of a hapless adolescent without any sliver of hesitation behind its distribution. -- Whap, and another is then provided. -- Sequential punches, their force in impact augmenting with each implementation, besmirching their outward features with splotches of crimson whilst fracturing bones, suffusing them with sensations of discomforting pain intended to penalize, to insert within these pieces of trash a reminder that failure was unquestionably a nonacceptance in Tenjiku. ----- Izana, the ambiguous pillar that commands it beneath his aspiring reign, yearned to rid himself of the tiresome boredom weighing down atop his shoulders, thus personally selected to locate and punish the now-unconscious kept beneath him for causing a commissioning exchange to swerve into a rancid direction and therefore had been unsuccessful. The abrupt sound of footsteps, heeled talons, upon asphalt had ceased another incoming swing of his appendage, however, refraining it wholly from contacting flesh anew. Lips, semi- simpering from roused adrenaline, purses in thought. - A quietude surrounds him momentarily, akin to the passing zephyr brushing through his white locks of hair, as an individual gradually commenced to emerge from the intersection of the alleyway where he and his pest were idling at. -- The sight of blonde hair stirs a recollection, a childhood promise that slipped through once innocent fingers many years ago. He drops the other and pivots, the faint jingles of earrings pursuing his movements whilst violet eyes align with opposing iluminescent golds. He greets not the girl, however, wiping the blood off his cheek in its stead, evidently apathetic in engaging with forgotten ghosts of the past.

" Look! ----- No one asked you to actually show up here! " Chagrin, an habitual reaction forthwith anticipated from the budding adolescent, subjugates composure, substituting it with irritability, as it repetitiously does, amidst societal circumstances ---- Exchanging dialogue, his innermost thoughts, with other individuals were still something he's yet to have wholly developed in being accustommed to ---- particularly when he, himself, had inquired for it, reached out for through texts with momentous intentions, but he treks on and doggedly endeavors regardless of how roseate his cheeks turn into or how tight his chest tend to become with wroughts of anxiety --- of trepidations of nonacceptance, turned away akin to mere scraps - of recieving malicious comments from observations. Duo-hued eyes peer leftward, at the empty picnic table, away from the older student. He hoped to speak to Kaji, someone he's once had confided in, about a matter concerning his progress. -- Albeit, never once had he envisioned them showing up on the rooftops. " Q-Quit looking at me like that, Dammit! ----- You know what! This was dumb to ask you. Just forget it. I'm going home. " Extremities are shoved within pockets before he pivots.

Wanda knew that she shouldn't think it but Bleeker Street was boring. Half the artefacts hated her instinctively because she was a witch, and the other half were boring themselves. She had been trying to research this so-called prophecy about her in the library, but it was slow going with all the different languages.

The distinct clang of metal sung out into the cacophony of tavern chatter as a pair of battered hands lazily slung the door open. Stained and tarnishing armor gleamed in the candlelight, casting little wisps of yellowed light back into the dusk. The knightess removed her helm and secured it to her satchel, shaking sable tresses free of their mats as she clasped said helm in its place.

It is easy enough to obtain a drink from the barmaid; a not-young blonde woman who was plenty friendly but shifted a bit too much when she talked. Lyonette read this as erratic and anxious, and it put her somewhat on edge. Nothing was as disconcerting, though, as when she heard the familiar and coarse twang of a mishandled lute.

"No." She spoke aloud, recognizing immediately the tune that began to fill the room - a melody as crass and as uncreative as its author... a bard, for whom the knight felt a deep, visceral disdain.

Oh, she’s a delicate, whiny little royal pain Worshipping herself in the sunshine and the rain And standing right beside her, with a face as tight as wood

"I'm going to give you the opportunity to end it -" The music did not stop for her commentary. Instead, the bard now pointed at her and sang directly to her.

Is Sir Gallant-Rigid, misunderstood! Yes, she’s a princess in a panic, and she’s a knight without a smile Driving everyone around them just a little bit... vile.

" Oi, Kurosaki. -- What business brings you here to the Soul society? "