#x starter

A few months after Jorvek was allowed to kill his abuser , Jorvek felt an ease he hasn't felt on his shoulders in a long while. He still tensed at certain times and Great Machine forbid, had a flashback at the worse moments but he survived. He made it to Baron. And he was an expert at interrogation.

Perhaps that was why his Kell decided to promote him. Of course he was confused as fuck but accepted it after some grumbling.

Which finds him here, leading the Winters Archon to where there Servitors were. It wasn't the best location but it was something. "Tavek, I'll find you later. " He mumbled to the vandal who was trailing next to him since Xariks showed up. "I'll be alright."

"...Better be, Miishma." The young vandal grumbles at his mother. He gives Xariks another glance before he slips away leaving the Archon and stealth Baron alone.

"Sorry about him. " He grunts out giving the Archon a glance. His helmet prevented Xariks from seeing the scars across his face for the time being.

        Nimble fingers wrap around and grip the hilt of her sword, color draining from knuckles as feet spread and shoulders square off upon taking a defensive stance. Another swing, another grunt leaving constricted lungs as the flat part of the blade connects with the chin of another to knock them back from the ground that they’re persistent of getting up from. It’s like her strength means absolutely nothing, it’s like the god-killer doesn’t wield the correct type of power to strike down this particular foe. Her challenger is a domino that she keeps knocking down but they’re relentless to keep getting back up. 

        There’s a brief moment of uncertainty, it’s fog rolling in, clouding her thoughts and leaves her second guessing her own faith she’s established for herself. It’s crumbling her confidence, tearing down the walls she’s built brick by brick that she thought were immovable. And yet, here she was, doubt seeping in through the cracks in the form of darkness that engulfs the rays of light. 

        Diana, Princess of Themyscira, the undefeated Amazon warrior, finally meeting her match. 

        Distance. It wasn’t only mandatory but preferred. Putting as many miles away from civilization was more so a preference than a law. When the noise of cars and voices (both internal and external) were replaced by the symphonies of cricket-frogs and cicadas, that’s when it’s confirmed, there was enough-- Distance. 

        She both loves and loathes this next part. Feeding into her animalistic nature was a thrill with an aftermath of destitution that lingered much too long. But she’s quick, blink and you’d miss it. She’d sympathized with that blameless doe caught between her jaws. 

        However, instead of retreating back to the new world, her eye catches something, a flicker of a light in the vast darkness and thick moss. She takes her time approaching the anomaly, ears perked and focused. There’s a shuffle, an unmistakable sound from a rustle. Footsteps? One set. But no voice to accompany it? No shrill shriek of anxiety or malarky ranting. Another immortal? No, the scent doesn’t match. Her curiosity is peaked, it’s been a handful of years since it last was. A cabin comes into view, there was the source. And the closer she gets, the stronger that smell gets. It’s too familiar. It’s a feeling more than it’s an actual scent. Guilt. An overwhelming waft of remorse laced with denial. Death. 

        She’s quiet, unheard and undetected by blind (human) ears. The shadows were her cloak, she’ll remain unnoticed until she wants you to notice her. It was hardly an effort to peer in through one of the cracks that split rotted wood from-- more rotted wood. But it wasn’t enough, seeing was only partial to believing. Perhaps a more direct approach. A fraction of a second is all it takes to put her in front of the one and only door. Then there’s a reach out, then there’s pale knuckles wrapping splinters with a soft but audible knock. 

        Booted feet stamp and stomp against the paved balcony of the tower, the actual structure of the building quivering, vibrating with every dramatic clamber, warping with each exasperated huff of hot air. ‘Mad’ was too disesteemed. Angry? Is there another word for something that exceeds ‘angry?’ Enraged, maybe? That was a word, right? Rooted from rage? English was failing her, even in thought. 

        “They had no right--!” Eyes glow an unnatural green, two bottomless pits of neon that devour pupils and irises completely, threatening to shoot beams. It’s in the palms of her hands, as well. She could feel it, the enormous bouts of energy perched beneath fingernails. “They don’t even know you--!” Not like she does. “They are my friends and they betrayed my trust right in front of me by ignoring what I had to say about you.” --Oh. Perhaps why the edges of the entry wound their words had created in her chest felt raw. But the hole itself? Something else entirely, a type of pain she’d never felt before. 

        “If they could just see what I see, I tried to explain it but--” A frustrated sigh leaves a heavy heart first and lips second in a vehement groan. “They were acting like a bunch of--” She turns on a heel, then the other, head whipping left then right as if the words she’s desperately searching for were writ in thin air. “--like a bunch of--!” Deep inhale, “--klorbag varblernelks !!” 

        A shoulder rolls and there’s an inward wince, silent but visible on her face. Pulled muscles and various kinks, probably a galaxy of bruises underneath the thin fabric of her shirt, a black circle almost definitely already forming around her left eye. 

        Boots lightly scuff hardwood floors as she crosses through the threshold and into the next room over. Fred’s room. It’s become a nightly habit. Every time after a rough n’ tumble. She seeks solace, comfort, a safe space to lick her wounds. And Fred doesn’t judge. 

        Except Fred’s asleep. And there’s a silent sigh. And then there’s a limp forward, followed by a shrug to shimmy free from her jacket before discarding it on the floor. 

        Wordlessly, she takes a seat on the edge of the mattress then carefully lies down beside the other on top of the comforter, curling up against, letting her forehead press into the arm of the physicist while her own arms cross and knees slightly bend. 

        She doesn’t trust the light. Eyes open or close, it doesn’t matter. It’s bright and it’s sharp and it doesn’t validate a pulse. For someone who’s spent most of her life in the dark, it’s ironic how often she’s been blinded by the light. 

        Eyelids peel apart then flutter, blinking rapidly. Her right hand goes to lift, to shield herself from the florescences that sting and burn retinas but there’s an uncomfortable pull, a small snag, a tiny tug of veins. It’s her left hand that reaches over to yank the i.v free from vital blues and greens before she’s rolling over and off of the examination table. 

        “You are from this world. But you are... otherworldly.” Something resembling close to a smile graces symmetrical features. A soft brush stroke of a thing. Warm, inviting, it’s a natural magnetism.