#indig0g0

"How about you go shove that rod somewhere it'll really entertain you, asshole?" Milo scoffed, stroking the cheek fur of both his cranky cats. His weight on the one underneath him seemed to be enough to keep her calm, even without his powers.

"Big words coming from the little man inside a big cage!" Jeltik teased, sticking his fingers through the bars. To both of their surprise, the tiger on top of Milo growled. Jeltik's eyes narrowed, that nasty smile of his faltering.

"I didn't make her do that." Milo said quickly, relaxing her. The cat's eyes stayed fixed on the clown outside her cage, but her posture remained calm. Until Jeltik banged the bars again, this time with an even louder CLANK.

"I don't care. Out." He turned the key left in the lock and let it drop to the floor. Milo felt his stomach lurch, and not for the reason it should have. His hands moved his tiger's paws off of him. Not of his own volition. His body jerked awkwardly as Jeltik forced his muscles to move him toward the door.

"His again?" Milo asked through gritted teeth, apparently not allowed to speak this time.

"He's asleep." Jeltik said, some humor returning to him as he watched- no forced Amillo to trip over himself as he exited. "What's he doing with them, hm? I need them more." He dropped that rod with another angry metallic noise, using both hands to pull Milo back up. Almost too up, seating him just enough on the balls of his feet to be uncomfortable standing.

Milo could just let go of the tigers- say it was an accident. Let them do as they would with him, if anything at all. Sure he'd still get the full blame for it despite... this. He should, he wanted to, and both girls- rapt at attention- wanted him to as well. Something in the back of their heads almost demanded it. He could feel it. But he knew his ringleader, and she would make him watch whatever they did to them first. There would be no way that he could make it through that.

It would have to be this, being at the restless mercy of the clown that'd taken a shining to him, until the next wave of violent takeover took the Nameless Province again.

Amillo's hand's flopped loosely over his head, and he pushed higher on his toes.

That being said, it wouldn’t kill him not to fly 15 feet up in the air, where the only one who could fight properly was him. Even he could admit things might get boring in that case, no matter how much the General loved playing a little dirty.

As the two men step up to take their opposing spots in the ring, their eyes meet. Seifer shakes his head slightly to knock his poof of a ponytail over his shoulder to rest against his back, then brings both of his weapons up in a readied stance.

Meanwhile, Otavah puts out both of his arms straight in front of him, rotating them in a swift motion so they cross over each other, hands now gripping an apparated pole blade and untwisting with a flourish to be in a more battle-ready position. It was hard to deny that despite how extra he was in everything he did, it was rather impressive to watch.

Seifer's mind wasn’t particularly focused on that aspect of things, although that didn’t stop Leiere, a member of his own squad, from cheering out, “Woohoo! Go, General! Kick his ass!” with all four of his arms fist pumping in the air for added emphasis.

Seeing the pleased and smug look that came over Otavah’s face was enough to make Seifer playfully roll his eyes. “Thanks for the damn vote of confidence, Lee! The support is noted!”

In that brief moment of distraction, Otavah already starts to play. Large, shimmering wings flit in small movements to aid in his languid approach. Seifer only has a moment to react to the pole blade curving up for his jaw, his arm twitching into a reaction to parry with his dagger. The metal clashes loudly, and several of the crew members around hoot and holler at the clutch counter.

There’s a brief pause where ringed violet eyes meet bronze crescents and General Minera laughs. Though the two of them are holding against each other in a seemingly effortless display, both are exerting enough strength to keep their strifes pressed together with a slight tremble on both sides.

“Already playing dirty, Otavah? I expected better.” Seifer says through a smile.

“Did you now? Your mistake, then, Celeste.” he retorts, a matching smile set on his own features.

In their brief back and forth, Seifer had moved his other hand slowly up, only to then bring it down in a swift move to try and slice into his combatant's shoulder. Otavah doesn’t even look toward the incoming threat as his wings flutter, allowing him to shift his shoulder back and away from harm. Without pause, he follows the movement up with a rotation of his blade to the left, forcing the sword into the ground.

“Shit-” is all Seifer has time to say before he has to make an evasive maneuver of his own, bending back at the waist to try and dodge the pole as it comes back for the upswing to the right. His reaction is only a fraction too late, but it’s enough that the weapon draws a small cut into his jaw, letting neon violet drops fly into the air.

At the first draw of blood, there are wide eyes and even more cheers from the onlookers. Things continue this way for a while, easily for over twenty minutes, as the two narrowly dodge each other's well-timed movements- or they seemingly fail to account for something, and they acquire a knick from one of the various weapons at play.

Moments occur where Seifer can feel the haze of magic buzzing around certain movements, but he keeps his mouth shut and allows himself moments of pride when his skills seem to keep him level with the mild fuckery afoot. Those continued moments of added confidence eventually become Seifer’s downfall, however, as his eyes track a repeated movement that the General had been using to go for a chest hit.

Seifer moves to parry it as he had in previous times, but the blade never actually makes contact with his dagger, and he notices the change too late.

Using a dancer's step, Otavah suddenly pivots in a spin to Seifer’s left, letting his right leg slide along the floor to bring him down low where his pole blade then sweeps behind his Lieutenants legs and knocks him down onto his back with a resounding thud. As the air comes back to Seifer’s lungs, he sees the tip of his opponent's blade hovering over his chest.

Several voices let out ‘ooh’s’ of sympathy, and a couple of others suck in air through their teeth at the sound. Just as many others also offer up a round of cheers or applause for the performance that the two of them gave.

“I believe you’ve lost, my dearest lieutenant.”

“Yeah, well,” A grunt as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, “I’d say I did pretty good given the integrity of my opponent, wouldn’t you?”

Another rich chuckle escapes his superior at that. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were insulting me, Seifer.”

Otavah pulls his blade away and vanishes it off to gods only knows where before reaching out an olive branch of assistance: offering to help Seifer up. The violet reaches up to take it before it suddenly gets pulled away from reach. Another roll of Seifer's eyes, “You’re such an asshole, you know that?”

The Generals eyes glitter in amusement before reextending his hand. “Only messing with you my friend, no tricks this time.”

A skeptical look levels itself at Otavah for a long moment before Seifer, once again, reaches out to take their hand, and this time he makes contact, smacking their hands together audibly as he’s pulled to his feet.

“Alright, I’m gonna go take one hell of a power nap, if you don’t mind, General.” With that comment, Seifer begins to take his leave, followed quickly by Leiere- who was about to start chatting him up, before a voice calls after them both.

“By all means, Lieutenant,” they shrug, relaxed as always, “but don’t forget that your group is scheduled for a scouting mission at o-800 sharp!”

Your eyes jolt open with a start, hands hitting the wooden table with an audible thud as you begin to gasp for air. The wooden chair you’d likely been sitting in lies a few feet behind you, tipped over. It takes you a few seconds more to realize where you are, looking around to see that you were not in fact on an alien battlefield, but rather in your own abode. Safe and alive.

What had felt like blood flooding through your fingers was in fact only spilled ink from when you’d apparently knocked over the inkwell.

What did you do?

You needed to wash up. To breathe some air. Fuck, what you really need was a hefty glass of wine. Yeah, that would calm your nerves, surely. You’d have to finish your letter later.

Walking wearily out of your back room and into the kitchen area, you pour yourself some wine. It’s a full glass, threatening to spill over and into your hands to wash them clean of what filled you with such deep remorse.

You halt a moment at the thought, losing all interest in having a drink and dropping the glass to the floor where you stand. It shatters, of course, sending shards and wine cascading across the floorboards. You can’t do this right now, you’ll clean it up later.

You list over to the couch nearby and fall upon it, putting your head into your hands. You owe them your regret, you know this, but why did it have to be like this? Well, you know why, you could never forget it.

Refusing to waste any more time once the thought hits you, you turn away from the outside sights and bolt towards the stairway leading down. You know you saw a familiar silhouette running away from your hive as you turned away, but chose not to take your time to linger on the thought, for now.

Your heavy steps echo mutely through the stairwell and your labored breathing is also near silent in comparison to the chaotic flurry of sounds around you now. There are tears welling in your eyes and you don’t know what to attribute them to. 

The smoke? The guilt? The fear?

The column of smoke rises up from the center of the spiral staircase, growing darker and darker as you descend. You’re almost to the bottom and into the next floor when a chunk of rubble from one of the weakened support beams above falls down towards you. You move to jump away, but it catches you on the jaw, gashing you open and knocking you into the stone wall for a moment. If not for the adrenaline, you would collapse from the fear and the pain you were now in.

Still, you manage to push yourself off the wall and stagger down the last few stairs and onto the landing of your first floor. The heat of the flames near consuming your hive rages on in your living room, the front door that used to stand directly across from you has fallen from its hinges and was now charring on the ground.

The only thing between you and freedom was running through the flames.

Run. Just run through the fire. Run through the fire, Julius.

You start and stop almost immediately, taking one step forward before losing your nerve.

Run or Die.

Your thoughts cease, your mind shutting down, and with a jolt your legs force you into a sprint through the flames, the searing heat clawing at your skin and the smoke laughing in your ears. What felt like 20, 30, 40 minutes was only one as you burst from the destroyed entry of your hive, sending you tumbling into the muddy grass and leaving you crawling desperately away from it, hoping to escape any more falling rubble.

When you’ve made it a safe distance away, you roll onto your back, letting the now pouring rain put out the embers caught on the edges of your coat and wash away the soot staining your face. 

“I know you are passionate, it is something I admire about you--”

Its fins come forward a bit and a tinge of color hits its face at the praise.

“However,” Pinned back they go once more, “You know you should only kill at my behest when it is in everyone's best interest or if I am in danger.”

There’s a glint of purple in their eyes as they reply, “I know.”

You lay an almost affectionate touch to their cheek as you gaze down at them, so kindly, so pleasantly. You know they are weak to their pale affections for you and you have no qualms with abusing it, either.

“You want to grovel and beg for my forgiveness, don’t you?”

The purple glint still strong in their eyes they reply promptly, “For a chance.”

You smirk, you can’t help it really, but in moments like this a glimmer of your more genuine emotion shines through. If you have any that belong to a real you, that is.

You let your hand fall from his face, feeling the leather of your gloves catch faintly on his tough skin. There’s no reaction on his part, of course, because he is completely entranced by you at this point.

“You may leave Satrne, remember my generosity in forgiving you and the guilt that you feel. You may behave as normal when you shut the door behind you on your way out.”

Like a stiff soldier having received their orders, he turns, hefty reptilian tail dragging limply behind him, and exits the room. As instructed, once the door shuts you feel your mental leash on him relax. Through the wood, you hear a miserable-sounding curse in a language you don’t know. Context alone tells you that he was likely cursing himself for disappointing you.

Before long you hear a set of steps grow quieter when he walks away from you until there is only silence left in the wake of your chat.

Alone in your office, you muse thoughtfully to yourself, face as blank as stone, with a dull tone of voice to match, “If what I seek constitutes a cult, then I may as well be the empress.”