blood: my muse draws blood from your muse
Aggressive & Violent Starters.
SHE IS GROWING WEAK. He can feel it each time slimdigits coil around a juvenile arm; he notices the way it grows limp, no longerable to support her own weight. This, of course, is anticipated during trials suchas these; every body ( yes, twowords ) has its limits, and Eri’stends to be rather shorter than most. She is young, after all; so small andstill frail, and sometimes even he is surprised by her delicate configuration ( how on Earth can one cursed, damnedchild be so weak of body, weak of mind; how can a girl with such a terrifying, monstrousQuirk be so breakable? ); it only really proved to be a smallvexation for Overhaul, he of whom holds death’s touch, he of whom could alwaysjust remold her.
And sothose slim digits hold firmly upon her weakened arm and he says, very lowly toher, “This won’t last much longer.” It does not hold any sympathy,however; in fact, it is so utterly apathetic that one would anticipate him not human, but of human; superhuman; celestial. Betwixthis opposite hand rests a thick needle anticipating its brief resting-home,such a familiar phenomena with the young girl. Collections of blood iscommonplace; it is natural, for this is what this girl was made to do.
And so theneedle presses against her arm, finding a vein lurking just beneath the scarredlimb ( truly no matter the blemishesmade; once she’s remodeled, she’ll be as good as new ) and pushes through her flesh; metal seeks blood; metal retrievesblood. He has, in fact, a number of filled utensils all consisting of black-redmuck inside. He is unsure how long he has been extracting her today; he thinksan hour he has been inside of the laboratory, perhaps a little longer. It is aslow, gradual process; her fighting spirit and tears tend to cease once enoughis removed; her soft pleas and babbles are cut off, thankfully, quickly enough.She has learned it’s best not to fight it; girls who resist get punished; she does not want to get punished.
It is acold room. It is desolate and violent; the noises are artificial, and the lightis, too. The sun does not peek in; the light will not find a soul within thesewalls. And yet, oddly enough, Overhaul feels most comfortable within this sterile area; perhaps it is the act of extraction which eases his mind, the knowledgethat the cure is slowly, surely being reaped from this abomination of a child;he is helping guide the blind and lost into clarity. He finds comfort in suchan isolation; he finds comfort in such a powerful process; he finds comfort inhis own ability, his own virtuous beings. Yes,he will end this sickness; yes, hewill turn back time; yes, he will setthings right and perch upon the throne hecrafted himself, out of his own hard work and diligence; out of his own skill;out of his own glorious, glorious purpose.
( It is aburden only his shoulders may support. )
“There we are.”A needle slides out from skin like butter; it is removed; the blood-bag is preserved.Yet he does not choose to bandage her up, no; he lets the small bead of blooddrip from her newfound wound as multiple packages of ichor isorganized and labelled. Chronostasis, ever-present and ever-helpful, takes overas Overhaul tilts his head towards the girl’s chair. And such a wicked chair; such aruthless chair; such a familiar chair, that of which defines her, that of whichprovides the only possible purpose she has, and the only possible purpose she ever will have.
Hoodedgaze locks upon her. Slow, heedful; studying her slumped figure, the way herlegs dangle ( and he wonders howlong it will take for her to grow into the seat provided ). “Such a fragilething.” Hand raising to slowly peel offlatex gloves; his second skin – “Perhapsone day you’ll grow stronger. For now, though, you can always be reset.“We’ve still got unfinished business to take care of.”
